Moss Maiden : whispers of the Wild

Imagine living in the forests thousands of years ago, before cultures were carved into hierarchies, before the battles of patriarchy and matriarchy, before the burdens of clocks and empires. No walls, no borders—only wilderness. People roaming free, hunting, gathering, making love, dancing, surrendering to the great rhythm of earth, and returning again to her embrace.

In that time, everything was felt fully—the sting of hunger, the sweetness of berries, the ache of loss, the heat of passion. Rain was more than water; flowers were more than symbols. Nature herself was mother—she nurtured, she devoured, she birthed, she buried. All of life was woven with her, in participation, not isolation.

This is a remembering, a celebration of the sacred feminine as reflected in nature. Art, craft, and adornment grew from roots and rivers. Daily changes were not distractions but revelations, because each carried the weight of survival and the promise of renewal. Spirituality was not abstract but embodied: blood, soil, moonlight, and breath. Women were not shamed but revered, their cycles understood as portals of mystery, their wombs as the first altars.

The elemental forces guided the path of life and afterlife alike. Every act—gathering food, lighting fire, making love—was both survival and offering. The earth was mother, lover, and goddess, the first deity of humankind. Her womb and her flowing blood were not hidden but honoured as esoteric powers, gateways to continuity in a world that balanced between abundance and uncertainty.

Ten thousand years may seem distant, yet it is only a breath away. Then, each ripple of water was unpolluted, each sound clear, each breath unmediated. To live was to dance close to the rhythm of nature, to honor her with passion, to fight fiercely, to love deeply, to die with surrender. That was the way of the survivalist—the genuine one who met life face to face, without masks, without fear.

And she remains the same even now. Still carrying the cycle of the moon within her womb, still conjuring magic, still abundant in love. She whispers: are we ready to step aside from roles and illusions, to breathe the same air our ancestors breathed, to listen again to water, wind, and stars, to bathe in sunlight and moonlight without shame? She is the magician who connects us to what lies beyond ritual and dogma. She is the real one—Shakti and Shiva entwined.

This is the invitation: not to romanticize loss, but to honor remembrance. To slow down, to feel the sap in our veins, to accept the body as part of the forest. The moss maiden teaches both secrecy and surrender. Kneel if you must, then rise. Dance if you must, then fall into silence. The ancient hymns still live in us—quiet, insistent, true.

She waits in the green quiet between root and rotting leaf, patient as a tide. She is not antique nor myth alone but presence itself, breathing in our own skin. To touch her is to remember a language older than words: hands that gather, lips that bless, hips that remember moonlit harvests. The body once carried wisdom like a forest carries rain, open, unashamed, overflowing with song.

In the circle, old chants carried truth in simple lines. A forest murmur once said, “We are woven to her bones.” A village hearth replied, “She is the green altar where we lay our praises.” These were not ceremonies of decorum but of necessity—the erotic and the sacred braided together, inseparable. Lovers who entered the woods did not emerge the same; their rites were written not for gods above but for the soil beneath their feet.

There is a place where Shakti meets Shiva, where two rivers merge—one warm with desire, the other cool with stillness. There the world renews its language: desire becomes prayer, touch becomes scripture. In that secret temple, the body learns reverence—the hush of breath, the tilt of a head, the long, slow mapping of skin. As the Tantras whisper: “Between inhale and exhale, the Goddess meets the God.” Devotion is not elsewhere; it is muscle and moonlight, blood and silence, body and breath.

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Muse : K Raginee Yogesh

Words & Images : Yogesh Kardile

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