Feminine And Fierce Quotes

They wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled, someone deep and rich as a field, a wide-hipped mother, awesome, immense, women like huge soft couches, mothers coursing with blood, mother's big enough, wide enough for us to hide in, to sink down to the bottom of of, mother's who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, who would fight for us, who would kill for us, die for us.

Sasha looked at his sister. He had never thought of her as girlish, but the last trace of softness was gone. The quick brain, the strong limbs were there: fiercely, almost defiantly present, though concealed beneath her encumbering dress. She was more feminine than she had ever been, and less. Witch. The word drifted across his mind. We call such women so, because we have no other name.

I wear a lot of pink cos' seeing pink activates endorphins and energizes my creativity. It is a colour of femininity and fierceness

imagine the desert mothers, with hair tangled tighter than their theology and breasts that flowed milk and mystic wisdom. they knew how to draw the singing sigils in the sand, how to dig rough and bitten fingers into desiccated dirt for water to wet the lips of their young. women of hips and heft, who learned how to burn beneath the wild and searing sun, who made loud love against the star-flecked threat of night, who knew that strength is not always a matter of muscle. imagine your ancestresses, the prophetesses of the arid lands, before these starched traditions and pews too hard to pray from, who bled true ritual and birthed their own fierce souls at creation's crowning --

Anger is an assertion of rights and worth. It is communication, equality, and knowledge. It is intimacy, acceptance, fearlessness, embodiment, revolt, and reconciliation. Anger is memory and rage. It is rational thought and irrational pain. Anger is freedom, independence, expansiveness, and entitlement. It is justice, passion, clarity, and motivation. Anger is instrumental, thoughtful, complicated, and resolved. In anger, whether you like it or not, there is truth. Anger is the demand of accountability, It is evaluation, judgment, and refutation. It is reflective, visionary, and participatory. It's a speech act, a social statement, an intention, and a purpose. It's a risk and a threat. A confirmation and a wish. It is both powerlessness and power, palliative and a provocation. In anger, you will find both ferocity and comfort, vulnerability and hurt. Anger is the expression of hope. How much anger is too much? Certainly not the anger that, for many of us, is a remembering of a self we learned to hide and quiet. It is willful and disobedient. It is survival, liberation, creativity, urgency, and vibrancy. It is a statement of need. An insistence of acknowledgment. Anger is a boundary. Anger is boundless. An opportunity for contemplation and self-awareness. It is commitment. Empathy. Self-love. Social responsibility. If it is poison, it is also the antidote. The anger we have as women is an act of radical imagination. Angry women burn brighter than the sun. In the coming years, we will hear, again, that anger is a destructive force, to be controlled. Watch carefully, because not everyone is asked to do this in equal measure. Women, especially, will be told to set our anger aside in favor of a kinder, gentler approach to change. This is a false juxtaposition. Reenvisioned, anger can be the most feminine of virtues: compassionate, fierce, wise, and powerful. The women I admire most—those who have looked to themselves and the limitations and adversities that come with our bodies and the expectations that come with them—have all found ways to transform their anger into meaningful change. In them, anger has moved from debilitation to liberation. Your anger is a gift you give to yourself and the world that is yours. In anger, I have lived more fully, freely, intensely, sensitively, and politically. If ever there was a time not to silence yourself, to channel your anger into healthy places and choices, this is it.

God has set within you a femininity that is powerful and tender, fierce and alluring.

Reenvisioned, anger can be the most feminine of virtues: compassionate, fierce, wise, and powerful. The women I admire most... have all found ways to transform their anger into meaningful change. In them, anger has moved from deliberation to liberation.

An ancient melody calls us To the awareness of who we are Infinite heart Infinite love Infinite peace Fierce compassion Ultimate power -I am a Magnificent Woman

There is a time to be gentle and a time to be fierce,

Those in the System, would like us to share their belief that all the changes [we are witnessing] are not connected: they are simply anomalies, isolated symptoms to be treated or preferably ignored, before the all-powerful Western capitalist patriarchal model goes on to ever greater heights and grander ejaculations. Most are numb to it, caught in fear, denial or resistance. But we, Burning Woman, know this process intimately. Amongst Burning Women and Men, there is a fierce, quiet knowing that these are both the death pangs of the old, and the birthing pangs of the new.

My letters seeking a job, though truthful, diminished the full truth. Face would blanch if the facts had been complete: "Dear Sir," I thought. "Do you have a position for a journeyman burglar, con man, forger and car thief; also with experience as armed robber, pimp, card cheat and several other things. I smoked marijuana at twelve (in the 40's) and shot heroin at sixteen. I have no experience with LSD and methedrine. They came to popularity since my imprisonment. I've buggered pretty young boys and feminine homosexuals (but only when locked up away from women). In the idiom of jails, prisons and gutters (some plush gutters) I'm a motherfucker! Not literally, for I don't remember my mother. In my world the term, used as I used it, is a boast of being hell on wheels, outrageously unpredictable, a virtuoso of crime. Of course by being a motherfucker in that world I'm a piece of garbage in yours. Do you have a job?

She pushed the hair away, then began uncoiling and recoiling the silky mass with an unconscious, natural grace. Against the crude background of the alley, she was startlingly feminine and delicate, and with every movement of her arms and hair, her scent wove around Cullen—flowers and freshness and the subtle earthy warmth of woman It sank into him and hardened him with a primitive fierceness he hadn’t experienced since his early teens.

Shabbat is about harmony. It’s about restoring balance—the balance between the masculine and feminine aspects of our own souls and the balance of power between women and men. It’s about building community and remembering our interdependence with each other and with the Earth herself, taking responsibility for our habits of consumption and allowing ourselves to rest and recharge. Shabbat is about forging a direct relationship with the Shekinah, the feminine face of God. It’s about taking refuge in her arms. Her time of exile is over now. We do not need to keep sending her away. We are called now to reinstate the feminine to her rightful place in our lives, in our relationships, and throughout creation. She belongs here and it’s time to celebrate her presence, draw on her strength, drink in her consolation, and let her guide us in repairing the world.

She is unconditionally loving, compassionate, wise, intuitive, infinitely creative, strong, sensual, serene, capable, fierce, gentle, reliable, a lover, and a queen.

May Sarton novel, The Reckoning, Ella writes to her friend Laura, “Do you suppose growing up always means diluting [our] fierce purpose for the sake of others?”4

To My Priestess Sisters To my priestess sisters: the keepers of mysteries, the medicine women, the story keepers and story tellers, the holy magicians, the wild warriors, the original ones, the ones who carry the ancients within the marrow of your bones, the ones forged in the fires, the ones who have bathed in thier own blood, the heroines who wear thier scars as stars, the ones who give birth to their visions and dreams, the ones who weep and howl upon the holy altars, the avatars, the mothers, maidens and crones, the mystics, the oracles, the artists, the musicians, the virgins, the sensual and sexual, the women of our world- I honor you. I stand for you and with you. I celebrate both your autonomy and our sisterhood of One. We are many. We are fierce. We are tender. We are the change agents and we are radically holding and clearing space for the bursting forth of the holy seeds of the collective conscience and consciousness. We are manifestors and flames of purification and transformation. We are living our lives in authenticity, vulnerability, transparency and unapologetically. We are committed to integrity, impeccability, accountability, responsibility and passionate love. We are here on purpose, with purpose and give no energy to conformity, acceptance or approval. We are the daughters of the earth and the courageous of the cosmos. Priestess, keep living your life passionately, raising the cosmic vibrations and lowering your standards for no one. You are brazenly blessed and a force of nature. Nurture yourself and one another. You are a crystalline bridge between realms and uniting heaven and earth. You are a priestess and you are divinely anointed, appointed and unstoppable.

A useful education served women best, More thought. To ‘learn how to grow old gracefully is perhaps one of the rarest and most valuable arts which can be taught to a woman.’ Yet, when beauty is all that is expected or desired in a woman, she is left with nothing in its absence. It ‘is a most severe trail for those women to be called to lay down beauty, who have nothing else to take up. It is for this sober season of life that education should lay up its rich resources,’ she argued.

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder, The wing trails like a banner in defeat, No more to use the sky forever but live with famine And pain a few days: cat nor coyote Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons. He stands under the oak-bush and waits The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it. He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse. The curs of the day come and torment him At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head, The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes. The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant. You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him; Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him; Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him. II I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail Had nothing left but unable misery From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved. We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom, He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death, Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising Before it was quite unsheathed from reality

  Such Pleasure took the Serpent to behold   This Flourie Plat, the sweet recess of EVE   Thus earlie, thus alone; her Heav'nly forme   Angelic, but more soft, and Feminine,   Her graceful Innocence, her every Aire   Of gesture or lest action overawd   His Malice, and with rapine sweet bereav'd   His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought:   That space the Evil one abstracted stood   From his own evil, and for the time remaind   Stupidly good, of enmitie disarm'd,   Of guile, of hate, of envie, of revenge;   But the hot Hell that alwayes in him burnes,   Though in mid Heav'n, soon ended his delight,   And tortures him now more, the more he sees   Of pleasure not for him ordain'd: then soon   Fierce hate he recollects, and all his thoughts   Of mischief, gratulating, thus excites.

One of the biggest battles that second-wave feminists of the seventies had with third wave feminists of the nineties was over the place of sex and beauty in feminism. Second wavers critiqued high heels and lipstick as oppressive expectations of the patriarchy. Third-wave white girls brought heels and fly red lips back into the mix. Black feminists gave the side eye to white girls and their feminist waves, because looking fierce and fly has always been a part of the Black-girl credo. (And also because Black feminism didn’t fit neatly within the historical trajectory of waves.) Our embrace of femininity was its own armor in a world where white women said that Black women should never be called ladies. If I have to pick a side, I’d say I’m third wave enough to affirm that beauty and the desire to be wanted still matter. When you go for months or years without a dude (or any love interest) ever noticing you, you can begin to feel invisible. And feminist principles about how the patriarchy has made us beholden to beauty culture do nothing to assuage the desire we all have to be seen and affirmed.

people had begun to look recognisably modern as strict gender codes began to blur. Men wore lounge suits and soft collars, while women’s mannish tailored suits with ties, shorter skirts and masculine hats were severe and practical, announcing fierce determination rather than acquiescent femininity.

If you require any evidence that femininity can be more fierce and dangerous than masculinity, all you need to do is ask the average man to hold your handbag or a bouquet of flowers for a minute, and watch how far away he holds it from his body. Or tell him that you would like to put your lipstick on him and watch how fast he runs off in the other direction. In a world where masculinity is respected and femininity is regularly dismissed, it takes an enormous amount of strength and confidence for any person, whether female- or male-bodied, to embrace their feminine self.

Your father and I both agree some of the world's realities are simply too harsh for a woman's mind." Perhaps because a woman's heart was fierce enough to fight them, Clara thought.

Philologically, the name Medusa means the “ruling one.” But by the time of the earliest Greek texts which contain myth, those of Homer, Medusa was not a ruler but a monster, associated with the land of Hades. In the poetry of Hesiod, Medusa became the only mortal among three Gorgon sisters. The adjective gorgos (γοργός) means “terrible,” “fierce,” and “frightful.” That is, she was considered to be monstrous. However, as we will learn from the Classical texts, it is important to see all facets of what male-centered cultures have labeled a “feminine monster.” Medusa was viewed very ambivalently, and she was very deeply faceted.

For most of my childhood in the 1980s, no one had even heard of Bangladesh. The erasure brought up an old feeling of being illegible. Invisible. Maps make borders real. On this map, Bangladesh didn’t matter. As if generations of our people—who lived as Indian, British, Pakistani—didn’t fight or die for India’s Independence. As if they had not labored to build India’s economy and wealth for centuries. As if this land where India’s rivers end can be separated from the rivers and dams that Roy has written so fiercely about. As if the women-led garment workforce and rural microfinancing have not shaped modern South Asia’s feminist future. As if the soil of East Bengal did not birth ways of divine feminine worship. As if we have not always been despised, maligned, and erased by upper-caste Brahmins as the mleccha, low caste, Dalit, Muslim, barbarians.

Nuage. Tinted the palest lavender, the inner petals nearly white, folded tightly, preserving their secrets. The outer petals a pinkish purple, delicately ruffled at the edges, offering up their gift of feminine sensuality. “Smell,” she said, and I bent and inhaled. A bit spicy, a bit sweet. Exactly right. Exactly Hope.

And you said I could trust you,” Mencheres interrupted softly. “So I am trusting you, Kira, and letting you go despite your knowledge.” She had no idea how difficult this was for him. When Kira offered herself willingly in exchange for healing her sister, Mencheres had almost seized on it. The chance to see her each day, learn more about her—and seduce her to his bed—had filled him with a primal, hungry purpose. He wanted to show Kira things she hadn’t even imagined, take her to places she’d only heard of, and lavish on her extravagances that would shame a queen. It made no sense; he barely knew Kira, yet something in her called to him in a way that almost overpowered him. The last time he’d felt this strongly about a woman, kingdoms had fallen in his wake. But the darkness of the underworld loomed before him, mocking him that his time was almost over. Kira had a future. He didn’t. He had to free her, both to let her live out her life and to let him finish what was left of his. She came toward him with that strong, fighter’s stride that was at odds with her feminine slenderness and grabbed him in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. This time, she kissed his throat, not his hand, and the brush of her soft, warm lips there almost broke his control. He had to leave. Now.

The feminine political voice is personal. It's intimate. It's caregiving and life enhancing. It's about bringing more love, caring and justice into the world. It's also fierce and determined.

Acrux," a voice spoke in my head which was soft and feminine and yet fierce and full of power too. "Descendent of the oath breaker. Harbinger of doom. The blood in your veins runs thick with lies and betrayal." The power surrounding me grew denser and more potent, immobilising me as I gasped for breath and the zaps of energy began to burn against my skin. "I see two paths before you, blood of the deceiver. Choose wisely." The power released me so suddenly that I fell to my knees, sucking in a shaky breath and my limbs trembled as I fought to regain my composure. "Told you you'd feel it," Gabriel said as he stood over me and I forced myself to my feet with a grunt of pain. "What the fuck was that?" I snarled. "Something far older than us," he supplied before turning and leading me on through the trees again.

Left now in a measure to themselves, the Mohicans, whose time had been so much devoted to the interests of others, seized the moment to devote some attention to themselves. Casting off, at once, the grave and austere demeanor of an Indian chief, Chingachgook commenced speaking to his son in the soft and playful tones of affection. Uncas gladly met the familiar air of his father; and before the hard breathing of the scout announced that he slept, a complete change was effected in the manner of his two associates. It is impossible to describe the music of their language, while thus engaged in laughter and endearments, in such a way as to render it intelligible to those whose ears have never listened to its melody. The compass of their voices, particularly that of the youth, was wonderful — extending from the deepest bass to tones that were even feminine in softness. The eyes of the father followed the plastic and ingenious movements of the son with open delight, and he never failed to smile in reply to the other’s contagious, but low laughter. While under the influence of these gentle and natural feelings, no trace of ferocity was to be seen in the softened features of the Sagamore. His figured panoply of death looked more like a disguise assumed in mockery, than a fierce annunciation of a desire to carry destruction in his footsteps. After an hour passed in the indulgence of their better feelings, Chingachgook abruptly announced his desire to sleep, by wrapping his head in his blanket, and stretching his form on the naked earth. The merriment of Uncas instantly ceased; and carefully raking the coals in such a manner that they should impart their warmth to his father’s feet, the youth sought his own pillow among the ruins of the place.

It’s not about stopping the ruckus,” she explained. “Our practice is not about transcendence. It’s about getting to know all the parts of ourselves, especially those we have ignored or abandoned.

Buddhist teaching uses the metaphor of a bird to describe the two wings needed to engage the spiritual path: one wing is wisdom—clearly seeing into the emptiness of all things; and the other wing is compassion—the ability to bring care and kindness to everything we see. Both wings are needed to fly.

True generosity is the willingness to be with ourselves, each other, and all of our experience without tinkering with it. It means that when we are sad or bored or disappointed, we allow ourselves be sad or bored or disappointed

When someone violates you sexually, it does not simply haunt and aggrieve you; it alters the very shape of your soul. And altered I was. Contrary to the mythology surrounding the unflinching nature of African-American women, we, too, experience trauma. Black women—our essence, our emotional intricacies, the indignities we carry in our bones—are the most deeply misunderstood human beings in history. Those who know nothing about us have had the audacity to try to introduce us to ourselves, in the unsteady strokes of caricature, on stages, in books, and through their distorted reflections of us. The resulting Fun House image, a haphazard depiction sketched beneath the dim light of ignorance, allows ample room for our strength, our rage and tenacity, to stand at center stage. When we express anger, the audience of the world applauds. That expression aligns with their portrait of us. As long as we play our various designated roles—as court jesters and as comic relief, as Aunt Jemimas and as Jezebels, as maids whisking aperitifs into drawing rooms, as shuckin’ and jivin’ half-wits serving up levity—we are worthy of recognition in their meta-narrative. We are obedient Negroes. We are dutiful and thus affirmable. But when we dare tiptoe outside the lines of those typecasts, when we put our full humanity on display, when we threaten the social constructs that keep others in comfortable superiority, we are often dismissed. There is no archetype on file in which a Black woman is simultaneously resolute and trembling, fierce and frightened, dominant and receding. My mother, a woman who, amid abuse, stuffed hope and a way out into the slit of a mattress, is the very face of fortitude. I am an heir to her remarkable grit. However, beneath that tough exterior, I’ve also inherited my mother’s tender femininity, that part of her spirit susceptible to bruising and bleeding, the doleful Dosha who sat by the window shelling peanuts, pondering how to carry on. The myth of the Strong Black Woman bears a kernel of truth, but it is only a half-seed. The other half is delicate and ailing, all the more so because it has been denied sunlight.

Bhalu looked like an unkempt, wild version of the most majestic dog I had ever laid eyes on – her name was Grace. My Grace. A German shepherd, a monster puppy who grew up to be a lady. Forever remembered fondly (by me) for taking regular puppy-sized dumps in Neha’s slippers and shoes, for being the reason Neha and I would have to figure innovative ways to save ourselves and run for cover if she were in the vicinity, for chewing up our toes like her life depended on it, for shredding curtains, socks, shoes and anything she could get a hold of with rare delight, for a bark so fierce yet feminine that people feared pressing the bell at our gates.

Thomas hitched his pants to keep the ironing crisp, and sat. Rose put creases in his shirtsleeves, too. Used starch. Even in dull clay-green work clothes, he looked respectable. His collar never flopped. But he wanted to flop. The chair was padded, comfortable. Too comfortable. Thomas opened his thermos. It was a top-of-the-line Stanley, a gift from his oldest daughters. They had given him this thermos to celebrate his salaried position. He poured a measure of black coffee into the steel cover that was also a cup. The warm metal, the gentle ridges, the rounded feminine base of the cap, were pleasant to hold. He allowed his eyelids a long and luxurious blink each time he drank. Nearly slipped over the edge. Jerked awake. Fiercely commanded the dregs in the cup to do their work

could have crawled into her skin and become her, I would have. She was fierce and ferocious and feminine all at the same time.

One of the most radical shifts we can make is from understanding waking up as an event to seeing awakened life as the expression of beneficial qualities - generosity, patience, virtue, honesty, wisdom, lovingkindness, enthusiasm, equanimity - cultivated in our relationships with other. Here, awakening is measured not by the depth of our insight but based on our behavior: how we act and interact with each other and the world.

One of the most radical shifts we can make is from understanding waking up as an event to seeing awakened life as the expression of beneficial qualities - generosity, patience, virtue, honesty, wisdom, lovingkindness, enthusiasm, equanimity - cultivated in our relationships with other. Here, awakening is measured not by the depth of our insight but based on our behavior: how we act and interact with each other and the world.

A freaking lady is female, feminine, and fierce. She models it for the women around her. Her way of being is a whole mood and a way of life. It is more than the reputation that precedes her. WHY do we care? Because confident women leave legacies.

A more feminine flavor of spiritual practice tilts toward embodiment and engagement in the world. It focuses on transformation rather than transcendence and on staying grounded, with our feet firmly planted on the earth. It is a process of learning to cultivate humility, to celebrate the wide, wild expression of humanity, and to love and care for our one shared home.

Hannah shook her head, exasperated. She did that a lot, I noticed. A fierce energy infused her every long-limbed movement, led her easily to frustration. Emmeline, by contrast, had the calculated posture of a doll come to life. Their features, similar when considered individually- two neat noses, two pairs of intense blue eyes, two pretty mouths- manifested themselves uniquely on each girl's face. Where Hannah gave the impression of a fairy queen- passionate, mysterious, compelling- Emmeline's was a more accessible beauty. Though still a child, there was something in the way her lips parted in repose that reminded me of a glamour photograph I had once seen when it fell from the pedlar's pocket.

The way our mumma treated herself is the way she treated us and this becomes how we think about ourselves deep in our core.

How do we love the fierce and unattractive sides of ourselves? The angers, the pettiness, the competitiveness? The laziness, the irresponsibility? The desires that run wild, the instability, the irritations? Accepting oneself is difficult, given even a moderate desire for self-improvement. How do we know what is to be improved, what accepted? Many goddesses have as one of their powers that of discernment. It takes much wisdom to know when to push yourself toward change and when to relax into self-acceptance. Too much self-acceptance is, for women in our society, given less support than excessive self-criticism, and yet both are equally damaging to the soul’s growth. Kali, with her steel weapons and her fierce combative nature, is a goddess who assists us toward discernment. We can trust her wisdom not only to determine what moves is toward growth, but to destroy what resists as well.

the statement that nothing exists is an expression of absolute truth looking through eyes of wisdom; the statement that everything is connected is an expression of absolute truth looking through eyes of love.

What do we want to do? Who do we want to become? As Suzuki Roshi used to ask his students, “What is your heart’s inmost request?

The world told you that you had to hide your pain, to be small and quiet, so you wouldn't rock the boat. And you believed. Then one day you saw the silent pain in the eyes of a small and quiet girl in a boat bound for nowhere. And a warrior awoke. You freed the girl from the silent shackles and told her that her story mattered, to tell it deep and wide and loud, to set the boat ablaze with every fierce and fiery word so all the world could hear and heal. And you believed.

she is a biological woman - closest to god because she is where life comes from. but i create my own life. i am no less than anything or anyone. because what i want to be is what i create of me. i have found the essence of being a woman within myself - empowered many like me and the generations after me. femininity is my most sensual weapon. i am someone who has found and created the woman in me. i am more woman than any other woman. so the next time you call me “chakka” on the streets my soul will ache because i have changed my life from being who i used to be to who i am now which is not an easy path. my womb will hurt because of all the echoes of my unborn children. and my ovaries would bleed because i will never have periods like a normal woman. i am no less than any other woman. when the red-hot- fierce lipstick hits my lips i could set a whole city on fire. - memoir of a transgender

The true feminine vibration or essence will always feel healing, loving, kind, non-hierarchical, wild. It will awaken your own power, rather than having power over you; it will inspire you with trust, not fear of negative consequences. Love will always be enveloped in a kind, nurturing Divine softness, even if it is delivering radical truth or fierce compassion or is wild with primordial passion. As a race we have hardened up; love invites us into softness again.

Read Tsultrim Allione, Feeding Your Demons Louise Hay, The Power Is Within You C.J. Johnson, Wombology Monica Sjoo and Barbara, Mor, The Great Cosmic Mother Marianne Williamson, A Woman’s Worth