Rescue me, sort of.
Okay, so let’s see if we can do this; clear something up, if you will. And to be extra clear, the only person demanding this clarification is myself. Haha. And, yes, I am giggling to myself as I write that; me, myself, and I are such entertainment to each other. I/we digress …
I write a lot, some might even offer ‘exclusively’, about women and the power I believe they have. True. However, let us not be witless enough to extend that observation to believe I wish the average man any harm at all. Hells no my beauties; for the love of all that is sacred, that would be horrid. No, no, my friends, I really love men. Let me try to explain.
I am exquisitely feminine, yes. I want fuchsia, I want perfume, I want glitter, I want all my senses involved in every experience, I write best when my nails are blood red and I have candles and roses, I cry equally easily in joy and pain, yes. And what else this means is that I want to be paired with the masculine. I crave its energy.
You remember that post about Outlander? Ya, I’m still watching it. Yes, I am. Don’t you dare judge me. But seriously, I think testosterone actually oozes out of the screen when you watch it. Oh dear lovelies, yes, dirt, sweat, battle, blood, strength, assertion, confidence, piercing lust; the primality of it all is sweet, sweet perfection, Please, sweep me up, and rescue me right the fuck away.
This may appear confusing, a paradox; an urgency to declare a woman’s power but also an obsession with a swift rescue in the arms of a man? Maybe. But, maybe not.
Of course, I can only speak for me and perhaps some of the others who I believe I’ve seen, but consider the life of a woman*, at least a great deal of the time. How often do we feel threat? It’s hard to know, but I think if we paid attention, it might be often. If you are a man, and you have a woman in your life, consider this: how good is she at sensing the surroundings compared to you? Who smells foul odours first? Who notices when something is decaying in the pantry? Who startles awake more often at night? Who seems to hear the kids cry before they even do? Who could close their eyes and tell you every detail of your living room and be immediately aware when the smallest of things is shifted? Her. She can.
We often laugh this off as the way of a woman or the way of a mother, but, could it be she is like this because she is on alert for danger instinctively and always? And, if so, what is unique about the danger she is trying to tune herself into? I think maybe it is to heart and soul at the very least, and sadly to more than that often.
So then, I also think that when I sit down to write, mostly ragey, pleading pieces escape from my fingertips because not only do I yearn to call my women to power, but I also ache to summon my men. I want to discern that my sides are faithfully flanked by my loyal Scottish clansmen as I stride forward in purpose. With their power beside me, I am more in my own. Now, luckily, I do have these men, of course I do. I do. I see you, I know you are there, I love that you are, thank you. Of course, I most certainly married the best of them. I wish this for all women who wish for the same.
As a man, if you’ve read this far and are intrigued, you might wonder, how do I join these admirable ranks? Honestly, if you are wondering this, hon, you’re likely already there, we thank you. But to be certain, here’s what I think the secret is: we women want to feel that if we were being threatened by some source of evil, you wouldn’t hesitate a bloody goddamn second to step up and maim that motherfucker. Ya, that’s right. But, that’s not it. What is it, is that you would do this, but not because you felt us weak. Not because you didn’t think we could slay that asshole ourselves. You would do this because when you completely and utterly revere something you are drawn to protect it, fiercely.
Indulge me in another pop culture example. The Queen’s Gambit. Now she goes through some shit, eh? There are some demons that writhe inside and need taming, yes? She’s obviously a goddamn goddess though, concur? Right. And she sorts it all out. Yup. But that scene where she is eye to eye with her greatest challenge and she has her sides flanked by those who love her and see her, that’s the nugget. That’s how we are to work together here. Getting it now?
Or have I confused you further? Again, most of you who are still reading are likely just nodding away and smiling knowingly, thank you.
So, let’s summarize. A newsreel celebrates a man who did something in history but also murdered a woman? Slay. Your daughter flexes her creative spirit but is told it’s not quite right by her teacher? Armour up. Your wife comes downstairs after another meeting that has left her empty and tired, dejected and angry? Push her up against the counter, look her in the eye, and ask what to put in your sight. Properly reinforce a woman and you’ll watch her step into her grace and power, in part, because of yours. The rewards will be rich for you both.
My last observation I’ll offer is that, those battlefields above will be the easy ones. Where you both may struggle more is on the field of intimacy. For one, if you find yourself lucky enough to be in any woman’s army, you must clearly know that that doesn’t mean she has any desire for you to be near her bed. If you have any hope of real intimacy with her you must understand this in your core. Once you do, however, well, lucky you. Now, if, however, you are the glorious Scotsman (see what I did there??) who gains entry to the lair, you will come to know that this is where you may be most called to fight. Because this terrain has a rich history, it is prone to hauntings and certainly has its fair share of land mines. It may very well be the last place she rises to exert her rule. Not a place for the faint of heart. You may come there in full enchantment, as does she, but don’t forget her senses can fool her. They can lapse briefly towards danger, they can loop back the wrong way around. Be wary of this, reassure them, draw her goddess forth. Remember she wants protection, not out of concern of weakness, out of reverence.
So, hopefully, there we have it. How women can demand power whilst also desiring protection. How men can provide protection whilst also servicing power. Easy peasy, yes?
xo
J
[*Ok, sidebar. I can only speak to my own twisted little thoughts. So, I’m mostly talking to ‘you’ as if you are a man. Which of course is a vast generality and not applicable to a beautiful ton of situations. However, this is where I’m at. Similarly, I can’t speak to how men feel. Duh. But let’s just agree to hear me out about this one sliver of the population who might know what it is to feel what I’m talking about and the other sliver of the population who reveres them.]
Photo by ActionVance on Unsplash
Things that totally worked this week – January 17 2021
1.
2.
https://www.daniellelaporte.com/read/light-work-friends-lovers-and-therapy
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4. From: Women Who Run with the Wolves ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes
“Developing a relationship with the wildish nature is an essential part of women’s individuation. In order to accomplish this, a woman must go into the dark, but at the same time she must not be irreparably trapped, captured, or killed on her way there or back.”
“When women open the doors of their own lives and survey the carnage there in those out-of-the-way places, they most often find they have been allowing summary assassinations of their most crucial dreams, goals, and hopes.”
“In Jungian psychology, this element has been named animus; a partly mortal, partly instinctual, partly cultural element of a woman’s psyche that shows up in fairy tales and in dream symbols as her son, husband, stranger, and/or lover …..
The stronger and more integrally vast the animus (think of the animus as a bridge) the more able, easily, and with style the woman manifests her ideas and her creative work in the outer world in a concrete way. …..
With them, in the end, several things occur: …. and third, a warrior to each side of her if she but calls for them.”
5.
On mastery and a woman’s reach.
Someone recently sent me a meme. It said: “Fear can show up as a perfectionist”. We were having a conversation about what I want. I said I had about 80% of what I wanted; thinking about my husband and kids, my career, my movement, my creativity, my time on, and my time off. It’s all rather beautiful. That never escapes me. Nonetheless, I reach for more. I know there’s still 20% out there that is dazzling and dizzying and all mine to grab.
Was the meme meant to imply that that reach was an attempt at perfection? And, thus, by extension, flawed? My conditioned response was to text back a “Hell, yes!” But the exchange sat in my mind for days. Neither the meme nor conversation felt freeing. I didn’t leave empowered; I left decidedly stifled.
The next day I ruminated on all the messaging out ‘there’ these days. By ‘there’ I mean this increasingly dumbass place where I seem to repeatedly scroll in hopes of inspiration and glee or, at the very least, solace, but in perpetuity leave empty handed, empty minded. It seems to tell us all to slow down, be kind to yourself, stop striving, be minimalist, be grateful, embody contentment, stop, slow, sit. Lord knows, I’ve uttered every single one of these decrees on these very pages and I often find my self robotically trying to soothe others around me with these pejorative head pats: there, there, dear one, just sit still, stop with that silly reach.
Jesus, what utter vomit.
What in the actual hell are we opening up and swallowing these days?
A few days later, while slogging hills in the woods, I listened to this:
I’ve listened to it twice since.
Drs Brown and Lewis offered these insightful definitions:
Perfection: an inhuman aim, motivated by a concern with how others view us
Mastery: commitment to constant pursuit, an endurance event, ever onward forward
Success: an event based trajectory based on a peak point
Dysfunctional persistence: repeating success after success whilst deadening the creative process
Grit: the ability to withstand distractions during a pursuit, over decades
They waxed poetic about how the trick of it all was to pursue your mastery with every ounce of grit that you had while protecting yourself from the talons of those that circle hawk-eyed around you. Those that want you to pursue success, perhaps so they can imbibe. Those that want you to focus on what they need from you and, never mind dear one, about all that other nonsense you are considering. Let that go, be kind to yourself, focus here. No, no, not there silly girl, here, here, on this thing over here.
A ha!
There’s why the meme convo felt like a punch in the stomach: my reach at mastery was being perceived as a fight for perfection.
Ya, no.
I couldn’t literally give two fucks about how others view me. I know that that’s the narrative that we’ve been trying to push down women’s throats for a while: we push and fight and strive and starve and run and bejewel because we want you to love us. Oh honestly, give me a break. No, we reach and strengthen and flex and seek and adorn because we don’t settle with 80%. We don’t care about success, neither ours and certainly not yours. We want that little piece of magic that you assume is out of reach. We have grit.
So what you perceive as burnout, as ‘overdoing it’, as sadness, is not the result of our tireless jaunt towards your castles of perfection. It’s not fatigue because we have been trying to do ‘it all’ and we should just understand that that is not possible, sit down, have a mug of tea and put on some fleece. No, it’s not that, it’s a twinge of resentment and a significant amount of displeasure that we let your talons dig in and pluck us from our march to mastery.
Please stop doing that.
You might consider, instead, joining us.
Because we are here to wayfind to our highest self and find power there. We may occasionally break stride and do your chores, you’ll know when we do, because the yearning and pacing will increase. But we will now get ourselves more swiftly back on track. There is now a new deal: you clean your room and we’ll take care of ours. Sometimes we’ll do it in stilettoes, sometimes on all fours, fuck it, maybe we will do it in fleece. Whatever. Point is, we’re going to focus on our work now. And, ya, we aren’t settling for good enough. We’ll stop when we reach glory and cosmos and things you’ve never even dared to think of. We’ll stop when we say so. And here’s the thing, we will never say so.
If you see fairies
Throw the blush
Betwixt between a lover’s kiss
Much indeed may go amiss
But if you wait, softly dear
Dark cosmic bliss does too appear
So tip toe lightly
Take great care
For you never know who’ll take you there
A cool night’s light
Wins over history’s might
Honest firm touch
That throws the blush
Don’t be silly
Take the great care
Yes, you know who’ll take you there
Photo by Aditya Chinchure on Unsplash
She has risen
She rises up She is everywhere now Your assemblies, your exchanges Your plans, your urges, your whims She occupies now She glows bright Her crystal white light no longer contained You bow deeply: powerlessness Let it be now, stand down She is commander now She is Her way Center alight with what you've squandered Love, story, intuition, strength, truth You will now be saved She has chosen now Dance in her light Or, hide in your dark Revere her magic Or, feign disbelief Be lead and healed Or, wither to small But know the only choices you have now Are simply those three, the rest are all hers For, she has risen Photo by Tomas Jasovsky on Unsplash
ROSES’s – 1
She pushes through the door, without having to think, reaches back and prevents the slam. A screen door is meant to slam says nanna, but her mom’s still asleep. Everyone is. Flowers bounds through the door after her. Slam. Somewhere nanna smiles broadly.
Out in the open the sun hits their faces. The dew wets their feet. Maeve natters on to Flowers and he bounces and weaves along her path as they make their way towards the garden. It’s the end of spring and everything is about to burst. Not the roses yet. The birds call each other. There’s a slight breeze. As they get closer, she sees them. There are five of them. There are always five. Three brown, two black, and one white. The white one is the smallest, in fact, Maeve wonders if it has grown at all this whole time. The two black ones are the biggest. Flowers is always the target of the brown ones’ torment.
Maeve takes her housecoat off, lays it on the ground, and sits cross legged on top. Flowers starts the usual reintroduction routine nuzzling each long ear to remind himself who is who. When he gets to the small white rabbit he lies as flat as he can on his stomach and sticks out his nose as long and as inviting as he can. With ears squished low to appear as small as possible he tries so hard to stop his long tail from wagging, but it can’t be contained and it vibrates behind him in excitement.
Maeve has no idea where the rabbits came from or where they go when she and Flowers aren’t there. She does remember the first time she saw them. It was the same morning caught mom dancing the first time. Every morning since then, they’ve been here, on the grass behind the garden.
Stretching out on her stomach, Maeve puts her chin in her hands and rubs noses with the brown trio. She giggles as the soft whiskers tickle her skin. How do they twitch their noses like that? Flowers tries to do the same but the bunnies torment him endlessly getting close then dashing away. He whimpers and bounces and begs and, after enough effort has been judged to be given, they finally let him make contact and he bounds straight up in the air with unbridled bliss. He looks like a mess of brown and white fur atop four rocketship paws that spurt him straight up into the air in joy.
What a great way to start the morning.
Maeve flops over on her back. Starts picking petals off a clover. Six heartbeats romp around her. She wonders if mom is up yet.
_____
Down in the kitchen, Rose looks out the window to see Maeve and Flowers in their usual spot. Maeve is on her stomach nuzzling the air and Flowers seems to jumping up and down in excitement at his own shadow, or something.
“You two certainly do love your own company,” she smiles to herself as she moves through her own morning ritual.
She pours herself a cool glass of water and slowly drinks it enjoying its freshness and simplicity. Warms her mug with water from the kettle and pours a long espresso with homemade mylk. As usual, she fill her mug right to the top and has to slurp the first little bit so she can pick it up and wander to the porch.
She steps onto the porch and sinks into their hanging chair. Sipping away she muses out on her youngest and her dog. The relaxation settles in and the pleasing view lets her cells start to expand. It was a long week and, by the end of it, the contraction and restraint were almost too much to bear. Moments like these start the release. She rocks gently and lets it all wash over.
Under her right thigh she feels a scratch and reaches down to investigate. She pulls up a crumpled piece of foolscap. About to put it in the pocket of her robe to throw out later, she notices writing. She unfolds the paper and reads:
pay my respects to grace and virtue send my condolences to good give my regards to soul and romance they always did the best they could and so long to devotion
“Hmmm.” She leans back, lines resting in her hand. Instinctively her eyes close and the sun hits her face and starts to warm. Her bare legs extend out under her soft pink robe and move the chair back and forth, back and forth.
Good.
“Ha. Send my condolences indeed.” she laughs to herself reveling in the very proposition.
Work was starting to weight heavy. Most days it was feeling like some mythical beast that seemed to flow and contort and reach in, repeatedly, to take a little bit more and a little bit more. Every week seemed to be ‘long’. There was never a destination that she wasn’t rushing to get to and arriving just enough late to complete that chunk of time and still be able to rush to the next. The calendar flip to a new month tried to promise relief but never delivered. She had a constant gnawing craving that she couldn’t satisfy. Meeting after meeting, conversation after conversation, she kept trying to be ‘good’ and it was taking its toll.
She looked up at Maeve and Flowers. Flowers had fallen asleep in the morning sun and Maeve seemed to deep into play, pretending to cradle something in her lap with one arm while pulling at clovers with the other. The way the sun shone on her young blonde hair she looked angelic. She was such a lover. What a gift.
That is ‘good’ thought Rose. Simple, peaceful, true good. The good that she kept trying to unearth at meetings and within the walls of her office seemed so far from that now. How much longer could she know this truth and keep trying? She had been circling this question for months and she was worrying at its ever present preoccupation in her mind.
Rose had been good at a lot of things growing up. Most sports she played she was north of average. Good enough to make the team, usually not the star though. She was also good at school. It didn’t require much effort to get her high marks, though there was never one subject that she felt the need to, or was encouraged to, devour and claim as her own. Friendships were good too, she had boyfriends when she was supposed to. She was even good at going to parties; could hold her own with a liquor bottle yet get herself together to continue on being good the next day.
Eventually Rose was so good she acquired the perfectly admirable career alongside a beautiful, happy, and healthy family. Good for you Rose, good girl. Looking back over your life Rose, we can definitely tally up the score and conclude that yes, indeed, you are without a doubt a good woman.
“So then”, staring out over the grass, she wondered, “why am I not convinced?” Why am I spending my every moment trying to convince everyone and myself of this goodness.
She closed her hand around the paper and placed it in her pocket. Slid her feet into her sandals and put her mug down. Wrapping her arms around herself to keep the breeze out, she wandered down the steps of the porch and out towards the garden. She had a strong urge to bury her nose in the top of her baby’s head and feel the warmth of Flowers leaning up against her leg.
Their backs were towards her, there seemed to be a deep conversation unfolding, but as she approached they both jerked backwards and turned around to look and see her walking towards them.
“Mom!! You scared them away!”
“Scared what hon?”
Maeve and Flowers stared briefly into the thicket along the property line then jumped up and wrapped themselves around their mom’s legs. Rose bent down and took a deep inhale of the top of Maeve’s head. Those cells expanded again. With her arm around Flowers she stared out at the thicket too. There was nothing there.
What my dreams are telling me: It’s not your responsibility and also, you got a credit card right?
I had the packing dream again.
In this dream I am usually somewhere, packing. In a hotel room, in an airport, sometimes, not often, at home. The surroundings change but the gist of the dream is always the same: I have to pack, because I am leaving soon, but there isn’t enough time and I can’t get the things organized. People check in on me from time to time, but they never help. Does no one else see we are late for the damn plane??!!
This dream is happening with increasing frequency and, honestly, it’s getting a bit old.
So, today, I decided to sort this shit out. I took to my journal.
Every morning since July, I’ve started the day by writing three pages of long hand. I was compelled (well, instructed) to do so as I worked my way through the Artist’s Way. I haven’t missed a day. Before call, before office, after being up all night, the pages always get done. It’s not a perfect practice, don’t get me wrong. Remember, I have kids and three jobs and somehow I am determined, in the midst of it all, to become ‘a creative’. When I first started, I’d get up early, light a candle, put on some gentle music, and write away without distraction. That lasted a full 48 hours. Now sometimes I need to braid hair, clean up cat puke, do the laundry, or just doom scroll my phone or the news for a bit before I start. Sometimes I rush out the pages in 30 minutes because I’m late for three things at once. Sometimes they take me three hours because I seek every distraction possible while I do them. But, hey, that’s life. The point is, they always get done and they must have worth as it’s been rare that it has been so easy to maintain a habit.
Anyway, this morning, the pages were for dream shit-sorting. What was it, precisely, that I was feeling and doing during these dreams that came night after night.?
The feeling was easy; I was feeling rushed, anxious, a little fearful, and a little resentment. Despite packing for a presumed journey, there was no excitement at all. And it’s COVID people!! All I want to do is TRAVEL!!
The details of what I was doing and where were more interesting. In none of the dreams was I ever packing my own things. They were always someone else’s things. Also, I never ever knew where I was rushing to get to. I never ever let the dream go long enough to find out what (or where), exactly, it was that I missed.
Not enough time. Missing something important. Unable to organize chaos. Doing the work of others instead of my own. Unknown destinations. Fear of the journey ahead. Anxiety and hurry …
Ya, ya, ya, I know, Jung and Freud could have a little field day couldn’t they?
So, what to do?
When I was a kid I used to have a recurring dream about being in a car in the driver’s seat. But, I was kid, I didn’t know how to drive. Help! Mayday!! One morning I woke up and said to myself, “Well, duh, just get out of the car. You don’t need to drive it.” Dreams stopped.
What’s the ‘get out of the car’ equivalent to my current dreamland conundrum? Could it be that it is not only up to me to make sure that others have the clothes they need wherever it is we are going? Could it be that I can just pick up my own bag and get on the damn plane? Could it be that I can just say “no, we are not leaving today folks, you need to get your shit together first”? Maybe if I just put the suitcase down, grab their hand, and calmly walk through the gate, I’ll get to see where it is I’m on a journey to?
I dunno Carl, what do you think?
He thinks I might be onto something.
xo J
Chaos / Vibrancy
On sitting up from Savasana I opened my eyes and saw outside. The mist was blowing up the mountain, the rain, light but dense, was falling the opposite way, down. Trees were swaying in the wind. The yellow tree had one side full and one side with all leaves lost. Hummingbirds were swirling around the feeders but not landing. I knew if I were to turn on the TV it would report a virus walking over countries, weather phenomena, and humans talking at each other trying to control the uncontrollable. There was somehow an elastic hanging off our crown molding.
The word came to mind again: Chaos. It had first come to mind a week ago, on this same mat. And since then I had been thinking about it. Thinking about me in it. Wondering if I could exist in it. Or do more than exist, thrive.
CHAOS: A state of total confusion with no order.
OR
CHAOS: Behavior so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions.
Before I was thinking about chaos I was thinking about another word, another want really. Vibrancy.
VIBRANCY: The quality of being bright and strong.
OR
VIBRANCY: The state of being full of energy and life.
As I sat longer with the wash of movement and contemplation still settling over me, I had another thought: could the vibrancy I seek already be here in the chaos?
What could be more full of energy and life than confusion and disorder? What could be more strong than unpredictable behaviour in response to small changes in conditions? What is more bright, fun and full of life than the unpredictable, the random, the changing?
How delicious. How sumptuous.
Chaos or vibrancy? You decide.