A Hundred Bolts of Satin

All you

have to lose

is one

connection

and the mind   

uncouples

all the way back.   

It seems

to have been

a train.

There seems

to have been

a track.

The things

that you

unpack

from the

abandoned cars   

cannot sustain   

life: a crate of   

tractor axles,   

for example,

a dozen dozen   

clasp knives,   

a hundred   

bolts of satin—

perhaps you   

specialized   

more than   

you imagined.

Kay Ryan, “A Hundred Bolts of Satin” from Say Uncle. Copyright © 2000 by Kay Ryan. Reprinted with the permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

Telling our stories . . Changing our lives . .

All sorrows can be borne, if you put them into a story . . .Isak Dinesen

It's been a struggle lately.  I am just not certain about the woman who continues to peer back at me at the mirror.  She is at once an image of who I used to be . . and then she's not.  I see a resemblance, faint and fading . . and yet, I am once again, not certain whether I want to pull her back or push her away.  In those moments what I really want to do more than anything is to cry.  Big heaving sobs.  Over the loss . . no, I think not.  My guess is that I want to cry because I can no longer define her.  

She's shape-. . .literally and figuratively . . and what I once thought of as an absolute "I won't ever"  . .is now becoming real.  My hands look like my father's, my legs are those that stoutly ferried my grandmother up the stairs, into the kitchen, to her favorite recliner, and into my heart.  My lids droop  . . to say nothing of my boobs that are only secured by the corseted stays of an underwire . . although I know for certain that my eyes still "see" beauty and my heart can still "feel" the deepest desires and longs for time spent wasted in unknowing.

And so the story is not of the past, but of the future. . where I will go, who I will be . . unbridled freedom.  All it takes is a little bit of imagination and a willingness to put one foot in front of the other . . in the present.

Ashes

Today is Ash Wednesday.  Not much meaning for me as a semi-sort-of Catholic . . and who has had her share of "ashes" over the years.  Plus, as a pragmatist (ok, I'm a philosopher first, but I do live in reality most of the time) I'm just really tired of all these people "pretending" through ritual to care for others. . .for a day.  Have you really seen anyone spend 40 days graciously caring for anyone and everyone who crosses their path?

I haven't. . although I'd like to be one of them ~ only I'd like to be one of them every day. A supporter, an activist, a promoter of kindness and caring.

The ashes should symbolize our determination to put others before ourselves, to practice our moral integrity.  For women, though, it seems that ashes are just a reminder of fires we must continually put out . . of fire-y anger that strikes when we say the "wrong" thing . . .of the fire of hell that those of us with anxiety worry about when we swear or lash out because we've had enough.

Crosses to bear . . .ashes. 

Today, those ashes remind me of all the women and girls around the world who still suffer at the hands of misogyny and abuse.  And I can only pray that the ashes on all of those foreheads (placed by the hands of men) are reminders to the rest of us that in these next forty days (and hopefully then throughout the year) that we can keep them in our hearts and in our prayers. . .however we may "pray". . .
"
That we will "weep with those who weep" in solidarity and good consciousness.  That we will put our heads and our hearts together to be creative in our efforts, large and small . . to participate in the movement from ritual to everyday practice of caring and supporting each other throughout our lives. . .regardless of the color of our skin, the place where we were born, the "religion" of our ancestors . . .

May our actions replace our ashes as a symbol of being extraordinary, ordinary women.

What happened to the woman in the mirror?

Mirror, mirror on the wall
What has happened to the woman I used to see
What happened to the woman I used to be

Laughter seems a thing of the past
I try for patience
God help me, I am trying to outlast
This stretch of worry

Lines drawn through my forehead
Tears swallowed down
I can't help thinking
It was never like this before
I used to be the young one
Competent, supporting those around me
Who were down

Now where is my mirror
What has happened to me
I certainly don't feel the same
I am not the woman I want to be

Ordinary Secrets

If I don't tell anyone . . does it mean it didn't happen?  If I tell you . . will you think I'm crazy?

He told me that he loved me.  I wanted him and he wanted me.

So I thought.  Seems he told a lot of women the same story.

I bought it ~ hook, line, and sinker. Or sucker, I should say.

When I confronted him, he laughed.  Said he didn't do it.  Said it was just a pack of lies.

I wanted to believe him.  But I knew better than to take him at his word.

I had him followed.  To her house.

I didn't need to.  Have him followed.

She called me.  To brag.  Said it was too bad that he didn't love me the way he loved her.

I cried.  But it didn't help.  What I wanted was for him to tell me that he loved me.  That he was sorry.

And he will.  Just wait.

Expressions of My Identity

I have never quite "fit in". . although I am always trying.
I say please and thank you . . and isn't that nice, while smiling.
But what I really think usually stays inside. .
Or I should say it stays in my head. . .
And goes round and round and round.

When I try to say who I am or what I think . . I am tongue-tied.
I have practiced over and over the 15 second "sales pitch".
It sounds ridiculous.
It is not an expression of my identity.

My eyes are.
The kind of work I do is.
The way I bake coffee cake on Christmas . .
These are expressions of my identity.

You can tell who I am by asking me a question that requires the truth today
And again, the same question next week.  It will still be the truth.

Rather than creating a fictional persona who curtsies and prattles about . . . I am strong on most days, knowing what I want and what I don't want . . and yet, when my guard is down, when I am uncertain, I feel like an idiot .  .and so I hide. . .afraid of my own shadow.

I do not like the dark side of who I am (although I know she exists) . . and so I force her to be silent.
But the silence can be deafening.
It can keep me from hearing even my own inner voice.

And so I am on a mission to recover my shadow self. . to express who I really am.
However, first I must go within and find her.

Pardon My Chaos

I cannot find a place to stand on my own in the present.  I am so caught up in a death-grip from the past; old actions and reactions haunt my every move.  I reach behind me to release the catch and yet, almost as a wind-up toy that gets stuck in one position and can't be freed, I am ratcheted into a contorted stance.  I am definitely unbalanced.

When I am frazzled, my emotions are like raw nerve endings and everything around seems to be in CHAOS!  The counter is cluttered, all of my underwear are in the laundry, and I've got stacks of bills  to contend with . . mirroring the disrupted and unattended muck I seem to be unconsciously shuffling around.

I am constantly making excuses and explanations.  I've got a busy
schedule, I just cleaned (I have no idea how this happened), I'm going to get to it on Friday, the check is in the mail.

Friday has come and gone and I'm still a mess, inside and out.  I've tried to ignore it, but I can't find a place to hide.  Any ideas?