She lives alone. She bathes in solitude, enveloped by a dark, thick inky shroud. Others mistake it for indifference or negativity. To her it is protection, a shield. From a vulnerability that threatens to suffocate and destroy. It is not sad. Though tears are often present. Outside a wild and beautiful thunderstorm rattles the window panes of her sanctuary. She is exhilarated, the goddess speaks to her through this howling wind. And she is safe, inside. She seeks to be nothing other than herself, her bohemian soul unfettered by the expectations of others. Dancing is solace, her remedy, her communion with her body and celebration of her uniqueness. She is the wild, untamed witch of the Middle Ages, mixing potions and spells, the priestess of Ancient Greece, the wise woman dedicated to her craft. She is self-possessed, highly intelligent, somber and understated in her quest. Her sensitivities are attuned to sensuality and her arts are as old as the earth herself, spontaneous offerings welling up from deep within her body. Freedom is her fulfilment though she has tried to fit inside the cage, thinking it was somehow more ‘feminine’ to do so. Only later does she see that her pathology is not in losing her femininity but in surrendering her independence. She is fascinated by the image of the courtesan and the hetaira, and wonders what happened to the considerable respect that she was once afforded by society. She longs to elevate her position now and is often sad and frustrated by how misunderstood her role has become, how unwanted she is on the external plane despite fulfilling much of the inner realm of fantasy and dreams.