Me being me, it would normally be my impulse, after several ultra-serious blog posts, to write rather lightheartedly today, just to be "nice" and not scare any readers off. Well, this doesn't seem to be that moment in history, does it? A small group of readers seems to stick with me no matter what, and I embrace all of you with warmth and appreciation. After three years, it still takes every ounce of courage to push "publish," but you help me to follow through.
So over the weekend, I was reeling from yet another slight, one of those subtle ones that I seem to specialize in that might have another explanation but which (after dozens and dozens over the years) hurts like crazy. I was trying to share a small success with an institution that I assumed would be interested, and it appears that they are not. This ties into a much longer story, of course; my life is a rabbit warren of longer stories that I have kept underground because I didn't want to get anyone in trouble, to make other people look bad. I was more willing to make myself look ridiculous and flighty, to burrow down and race in circles in the dark underground, than to speak openly and clearly out in the light. That impulse still hangs on for dear life, although the examples of dozens of brave women in the news are inspiring me to look at myself through a different lens.
Because of course, earlier in life, slights, rejections, condescension, erasure of any kind triggered enormous shame in me. Of course they rejected me, I was pathetic. I wasn't beautiful. I must not be qualified or interesting or worthy. With my skill set, I didn't deserve even to be visible or to take up room on the planet. The joy of 62, as I have noted in recent months, is waking up and almost overnight realizing how utterly absurd this is. I am beautiful, essentially good, outrageously intelligent and creative and musical and filled with every possible sort of inspiration. I am wise, observant, prophetic. I can walk into a room and almost immediately sense what is happening at a deep level and articulate that.
I finally realize that more than anything, it is that latter quality that has probably terrified some of the people and institutions I have interacted with over time. If they had reasons not to be "seen through," they knew instinctively to protect themselves from me because I literally saw them so clearly. Making me feel small worked -- until now. Making women generally feel small worked -- until now. As so many of us are turning ourselves inside out, bringing the content of those underground mole holes and rabbit warrens to the surface, the instinct to silence us may well grow even more. I cannot speak for others, but I know that I choose to persist, one step at a time, one day at a time. I am working on a self-portrait because it is the best way I can think of to say, "I choose now to be visible." To switch momentarily away from my usual water metaphors, I have crossed the threshold onto the topsoil. I am standing on Mother Earth, not burrowing through her, and I am beginning to feel the warmth of the sun directly on my face.
