Adolescence doesn’t wear a smile in our old photo album – stares fixated on unseen lint – distracted, we three sisters, all reeling from the cold, unwell, immobilized…
What is absent is the photographer whose pointed directions critique each decision – a derisive repetition that eats at our souls, each girl wrestling with self-nurture vs self-annihilation, landing somewhere in between – mannequin targets for male abuse…
Oh, I tried to take up arms, rail against the dominance, the oppression, but only succeeded in settling for disconnection, while one sister turned tricks for attention, the other retreated into full dependency, her madness, out of date, nevertheless relevant – despite our tormenter’s death, the images are permanently recorded in that old photo album.
Autonomy: to feel that her decisions/wants/needs are not overshadowed by the dictates of another, or by a past that is forever looming.
Empowerment: to know, once and for all, that the victim is laid to rest, so that she can embrace her authentic self.
Inner peace: to live without guilt or the need for permission. To be able to forgive and self and other in order to be free. To trust, innately, her own inner resources, releasing fear’s hold.
Sacredness: to stand firmly upon the Earth, breathe freely, and engage with life. To make a difference.
Celebration: to live with anticipation, surprise, and ultimately joy.
Connection: to recognize in each living moment that none of the above is obtained in a bubble. I quest for true connection. The bravest quest of all.
(Reading through old posts I came across one from November, 2014 which inspired this write. Image my own.)
It’s time to resurrect our confidence, recapture the sensitivity of intuitive knowing, acknowledge the power of our resiliency
We are women – merciful companions, healers attending Divinity’s passage, peace-seekers directing life’s journey.
Too long have we equated self-esteem with patriarchal agendas, disappointed with our inability to meet media standards, blamed ourselves for divorce, disease, staying home to raise the children.
It’s time to honour our strength, restore feminine worth, align our resources
We are iron grace, mindful caregivers, mate with intention, our vulnerability, our sensuality, aspects of intrinisic wisdom; we are keepers of the dream, beings steeped in mystery –
It is time!
(Originally penned in 2017, It’s Time, Women deserved another look. Image my own)
In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
I’m being a good girl, Dad Staying out of sight Keeping my needs to a minimum Promise I don’t cry, Dad.
I’m being a good wife, Dad Cooking all his favourites Letting him walk ahead Never uttering a peep, Dad
I’m a perfect background wife, Dad Just like you taught me; just like Mom Only no one has to hit me to make me behave, Dad; I learned it good from you.
One Woman's Quest 