Friday, February 12, 2016


I love/feel/adore this piece so much:

"I want a woman’s revolution like a lover.
I lust for it, I want so much this freedom,
this end to struggle and fear and lies
we all exhale, that I could die ju
with the passionate uttering of that desire.
Just once in this my only lifetime to dance
all alone and bare on a high cliff under cypress trees
with no fear of where I place my feet.
To even glimpse what I might have been and never never
will become, had I not had to “waste my life” fighting
for what my lack of freedom keeps me from glimpsing.
Those who abhor violence refuse to admit they are already
experiencing it, committing it.
Those who lie in the arms of the “individual solution,”
the “private odyssey,” the “personal growth,”
are the most conformist of all,
because to admit suffering is to begin
the creation of freedom.
Those who fear dying refuse to admit that they are already dead.
Well, I am dying, suffocating from this hopelessness tonight,
from this dead weight of struggling with
even those few men I love and care about

each day they kill me.
Do you understand? Dying. Going crazy.
Really. No poetic metaphor.
Hallucinating thin rainbow-colored nets
like cobwebs all over my skin
and dreaming more and more when I can sleep
of being killed or killing.
Sweet revolution, how I wish the female tears
rolling silently down my face this second were each a bullet,
each word I write, each character on my typewriter bullets
to kill whatever it is in men that builds this empire,
colonized my very body,
then named the colony Monster.
I am one of the “man-haters,” some have said.
I don’t have the time or patience here to say again why or how
I hate not men but what it is men do in this culture, or
how the system of sexism, power dominance, and competition
is the enemy, not people — but how men, still, created that system
and preserve it and reap concrete benefits from it.
Words and rhetoric that merely
gush from my arteries when grazed
by the razoredge of humanistic love. Enough.
I will say, however, that you, men, will have to be freed,
as well, though we women may have to kick and kill you
into freedom
since most of you will embrace death quite gladly
rather than give up your power to hold power."
-Robin Morgan, excerpt from "Monster"

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Looking back

Every once in awhile, I look closely at the stats on my blog to see what people are reading. Lately, someone has found past posts, like from 5 years ago, and I've been revisiting those too.
I have never considered myself a writer...more of a person who has taken up a writing practice in some form or another to clarify thoughts, explore ideas, and dig deeper. My writing practice has been rather inconsistent over the years, since I've written through the birth of a child, much making of things, and a divorce that re-ordered everything.
But it is still good to have it there. I look back at what I've written with the eyes I have now: the perspective of age and an extremely painful transformation. Sometimes I wince at what I've written and think, "Really? Why on EARTH would you write that? And put it out for others to see!" Other times I look with curiosity. Sometimes I actually like something I've written. There is still some of me that is very much the same person I was five years ago, and there is some of me that has drastically changed. Sometimes I've had my voice and sometimes I've written hundreds of words without saying anything.
My divorce was (and is an ongoing) trauma, as were many things in my marriage. I did not realize the depth of that trauma until I got myself educated about what the situation was. Trauma changes you in deep ways. Understanding trauma and coming out of denial has been huge. This hasn't been a "normal" divorce wound. I am trying very hard to not become cynical and embittered, to not be completely mistrustful of caring people who come into my life, and to not completely give up faith in people.
That seems strange to write, because I wonder if most people grapple with these questions, and if they have ever had people in their life who truly enjoyed causing drama and distress in a target person, and who truly do not care how their words or actions affect that person. Sometimes it is still difficult for me to completely grasp.
Luckily, there are so many others who "get" it who are on similar paths to growth and change, and who are committed to healing. This has been invaluable to me for learning to trust my own perception and keeping a grip on what is loving and normal.
Yes, trauma changes you, and it has changed my focus and the way I perceive and move in the world. Softness of heart has to be a choice now, and protecting that softness is a skill borne from all the dysfunctions I have been part of in my life. It's not pretty to look back, but there is hope waiting.
From one post of the past: "It hurts to illumine one's misguided humanity". This is still true for me today, and my hope is that I will continue to write through all of my humanity...misguided, divinely guided, other-guided, self-guided.
I am mostly shy about writing this blog. I don't want a lot of attention drawn to it (will I come across as neurotic? Will I be able to articulate anything meaningful? Will my insights resonate with others?), although I do have a few regular readers. I have blogs I love to read and "lurk" around and admire the writing.
So many of those writers say that writing has kept them sane and helped them through their divorces and life traumas. In turn, their expressions of their journeys has helped me feel not so alone.
All that to say, I'm glad I am still writing.