The Women’s Room

Never has the “Women” sign felt so welcoming. All my previous rage about separateness fades as the illusion of drama dissipates in the Truth of Death.

The Women’s Room. A safe haven to be Woman; Human.

I’m doing my best not to touch door handles and faucets with my fingers until I make it to the flowing water of

The Women’s Room, 

where in the sink I wash my hands soiled & blessed by flesh of Bird. Molina, she called herself to us. 

She called us to her from the Hampton Inn of of Interstate 70 in the middle of Kansas Plains, where she’d been drying in wind and sun.

Beautiful. Delicate. So gracefully laid out. She called to us from the gates of Womanhood. Smack dab in the middle of conversation about the purpose of life and “what are we doing here again anyway?,” Kat interjects:

-My yoni egg needs to come out.

While driving?


In our out of the car?


Next exit?


The exit passes.

-Not that one.

The next one. With a mostly vacant lot at the Hampton.

1000 E. Willow Drive, somewhere in the Great Plains, Kansas. Names harkening to the plants and people who once lived in this place, now occupied by plastic-bagged snacks to fuel the truckers. The native plants and people are unseen…gone…but not really.

The birds still fly. And die.

Kat is distracted by the trucks leaving the highway and a potential visual intrusion of our Prius safe haven for the yoni egg birth.

Looking at the trucks won’t keep them from coming, I say.

-Okay, will you watch them then?

Of course.  

I take my perch, scoping the parking lot entrance through our car-home’s back window. And in Shifting my Perspective, I see a gift; an answer to call sent earlier that day while traversing the open plains:

~Bird people, I ask for a wing. When I’m ready for that initiation, I ask you to send me a wing that’s ready to be given. I ask for a wing to help women heal; to help women feel–subtle sensations, the delicateness of feathers on their skin. To help us open. To help us trust. A wing to bring wind to the fire~

Kat, there’s a wing.


There’s a wing.


-The egg just came out.

We know what to do, even though we’ve never done this before.

We remember.

Eyes locked, Kat places the fluid-adorned egg in her mouth and imbibes the obsidian clean. 

The crystal egg speaks to us. When she is ready, and we are ready, to be reborn. We listen. With mothers and grandmothers guiding, we take tobacco and go to the wing.                  

And she is more than a wing. She is a delicately laid, dried bird. Her tail feathers sticking straight up. Her wing still catching the wind. 

We sing. We offer. We salt. We give thanks.

We’ve never done this before. But we remember.

Cedar and yarrow now lie in her place. As her wing and tail feathers preserve separately from the rest of her body, there’s no denying now that her presence on this Earth is forever shifted. We are with her in this new phase, and she with us as we drive her to a mountain resting place. 

The mundane and mystic co-exist as we obtain a plastic bag from the Inn and enter the gas station to wash our hands and blade. 

Thank you, thank you safe haven. The room for women to be women.

We’ve never done this before. And we remember How to Be.

Things are different now.

I see my reflection: wind wild hair, soft and strong sun-browned face, cacao stained forehead, barely there shirt, medicine pouch and grouse feather around my neck. 

Things are different now.

The girls who grew up in city & suburb learned to listen to something deeper than sock-covered feet padding across carpeted stairways to TV blaring rooms.

We listen to our wombs, who call us: Woman, Women, Remember.                                        

Things are different now.

As I release my urine into toilet-held water, I see the wooden door between me and the sink, where I washed away Bird flesh, and the rings of the wood move. I see them swirling; coming towards me; seeing the flat wood door for the round tree it once was; living. 

Is the harvested wing dead? As dead as bones. As dead as the plants and meat we eat. As dead as the rabbit-foot key chain for sale outside the safe haven amidst the plastic bagged snacks. Not as dead as a doornail. Are the guts dead, and the wing alive? Is a different creature now with us? Are we now different creatures than before? 

Things are different now. 

I remember, now, to see the life in all things. As I leave The Women’s Room, I see the plastic bottled life force and I remember why I am here and what I am doing and the purpose of it all. And I remember, now, humility and gratitude. Molina answered our call as we listened to hers. We listen to our bodies To Remember what it is to be Alive, Wild, Ever-Changing, and Whole in Brokenness. To Remember we can Fly Free. To Remember that we can–unlike so many of our ancestors–Sing, Dance, and Breathe liberated. 

Let our Womanhood guide. We’ve never done this before. We’ve always done this.

We remember. 


[Want to know more about crystal Yoni Eggs? Contact Jessica at for a 1-on-1 consultation and/or to purchase an egg. You can read (lots) more about them here: Yoni Egg: The Secret Feminine Weapon | Sofia Sundari]

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