I am-have-been wearyboned.
The kind of weary-boned that feels like giving up.
Just now, the words came tumbling, and I ran to catch them and arrange them on paper.
I felt the heartsong. It's the song of the woman who came before me (and before me). The woman who tenderedcare to others and with grace, seemed to fade. Who felt little and alone and unseen. Who felt small and yet large at the same time. That woman (and before-her woman) who is still with us and when we shushlisten, we can hear her sing.
I've been thinking about what it means to be a woman. A woman who stands for other women, and feels the age old call to be a voice for the voiceless. Thinking about how my own expectations and sacrifices aren't the same as others. Thinking about the pain of knowing more than my heart wants to know and holding more than my heart seems capable of holding.
But I'm feeling more myself today. (Thank you Jenny for the hug). After hearing Laurie Halse Anderson speak yesterday about being broken open, about needing to shout the truth, it reminded me of Wordsworth: "The world is too much with us." The world's pain has been with me too much, too close, almost smothering me. I'm doing the only thing I know how to do when I break: I'm releasing the words.
If you have felt the world is too much with you, then this letter is also you.
A letter to myself and you, GirlWoman:
You, soft-scared, despair-destroyed, and heart-sad.
Walk with me (with me).
Dear girl.
You are soft.
The places where others
razors bite and you bleed,
You sidestep,
swipe,
move to the right.
Afraid.
You drop the light to hide.
Light subsides, slow,
like slurred words to ended speech.
Dear girl,
I (outside-in)
See-you: See-me
Where you
Hide in the dark.
Cornercrouched.
Beyondcloset.
Underbed.
Where you bury your uglycryface
away
from a world that
snarls
and hisses-
a world that is
Scratchfist and
poundloud with misplaced desires.
So you judgeblame,
expecting it to mimic the
silentlong sojournsacrifice
that resides in you.
Shushlisten.
You will not hide, now, child.
Up.
Get up.
Standshaky on those two feet.
Be willing.
Bewillingtoletlove
b r e a k you inward.
Throw you oPEn.
s t r e t ch you together.
Bend.
Bend and bend,
like the birch in your yard you swung on at 6,
at 8, at 10,
until at 12
It moment-sways,
supporting your weight,
you scratchknees,
you scrapetoes,
your inner thighs hugging trunk so tight,
Squeezedeyes shut,
waiting for butterfly belly flutters,
as you had once been lofted into the air and
catapulted.
But my girlchild,
you are growing.
That tree is no longer yours to climb.
It can no longer offer, under your weight, the joy of a younger you.
It bends and bends and breaks.
Snaps, cracks,
open boned,
bearing blood and you,
knucklewhite,
groundtossed,
where gravity sucks you
down and down.
And down.
You, headjarred,
you, heartjarred.
Up.
Damn you.
Girl,
get
UP.
Babywalk,
step.
StEp.
s t e p.
Let the tearfall
Let the ragefall
Let the bitterapple d i e.
S t e P.
You,
follower of moons
whose waters have surged and withdrawn,
follower of feetpounds and fleshsliced.
Girl,
You,
Woman.
The tree and
the forest, inyou
the sisters before
(and before) (and before)
Sang
handjoined,
heartwoven,
Shushlisten to your Sisters They sing Now,
proudloud,
beatheart,
You, sharedblood,
Girl, Shushlisten,
Your sisters proclaim:
Woman:
You
Will
RISE.
