Sometimes

People don’t always set out to become brave-sometimes people set out to be better, to get by, to survive with their souls intact. Sometimes people see things in themselves they don’t like and they set out to change that very thing- only that very thing becomes an onion, and under each layer lies more work. Sometimes people put their heads down and work and work and work, and then as the layers dissolve, they become a little easier to face, each one less and less intimidating- and sometimes people suddenly realize they have revealed something glorious, something wonderful and something brave in the core of their being.

My Femininity in Pink

For me, the color pink is fraught with judgement and self-loathing. Pink is everything I disrespect in me, everything I find weak in femininity. It is embarrassed cheeks, shame, vanity and shallowness. Pink is sugar and spice and everything nice. Pink is everything I loathe about being female.

Pink and I have been enemies from the beginning. Baby dolls and frills, not for me. These were the soft pursuits of my sister, my life-long adversary. My sister was pink; she played house quietly, cried easily, and tenderly cared for her dolls. My playthings were the great outdoors; I climbed trees, moved dirt with my Tonka trucks, and rode around on the back of my dog. My bike was blue, my room was blue, and there wasn’t a ‘girl’ thing to be found within my bits and bobs.

I was small and mighty, a tiny tyrant, a peanut-sized scrapper. Often, I was the star entertainment for the men at family dinners; I would wrestle any one of my male cousins to the ground, a ten count for five bucks. It was a killing for a killing.

Despite maturity, I continue to recoil at the first sign of femininity. It is my first reaction; a modicum of pride and vanity keeps me from a complete rejection of the tools of attraction. I tentatively apply small bits of paint to my eyes, Monday through Friday only, and polish my nails to a buff shine. I debate the energy-time- comfort ratio with every outfit selected. Sporty is a style, and it can be done well, thank you Athleta and REI. The Boomer generation labeled me a ‘Tomboy’, a category so delicately assigned to me just yesterday by a patient (even though I had a skirt, tights and clogs on). I can’t dress it up; but it seeps from my cells.

My rare femininity is quickly rationalized. My love for flowers, excused by my love for the wilderness. Flowers grow outside, enough said. Flowers are for everyone, again, enough said. Besides, orange flowers are my favorite, not pink – and roses, I don’t like roses, enough…..

Clearly my childhood messaging runs as deep as coal. Even in my middle years, I fight my own judgments and assertions. When spotting a woman of any age, especially over 30, clad in pink or sequins, I immediately exclaim, “God Help Us!” – knowing in my heart of hearts she is wrought with drama and vanity, dulled intellect and useless pursuits. Messaging, messaging, messaging of weakness and misogyny, this must stop.

It is time to end this adversarial relationship with pink. It is time to select a new reel, a new soundtrack for my life. It is time to make friends, or at least acquaintances, with my femininity. It is time to see femininity as strength and courage, as unity and oneness; to see all women as beautiful. It is time to find beauty in all that is feminine and all that is feminine in me. It is time to stand strong with women, pink hats, pink ribbons, pink hearts, and celebrate the beauty in all of us.

Making Friends

I am set on making friends with the South, a daunting task to bend my stubborn soul and to see beauty where I refuse to look. The trail, as always, is where I do my work, where I untangle the threads of disappointment, anger, trauma, and loss…The trail, as always, is where I weave a new story of hope, strength and courage.

The trail, here, in summer, is hostile and fierce, with its burning sun and air that tears open my lungs, with its biting insects and afternoon rain; it is an unlikely solace. This is my story, my truth, the yarn I use to convince myself to wait, a little longer. The real truth, the truth I am not yet ready to know- it is my anger burning, my mind searing and my heart biting. I am still bathing in my disappointment and grief, not ready or willing to leave it with the trail. I want to soak in it a little longer, use it to fuel scraping the deck and hacking weeds- I need the power of my anger to conquer the years of neglect my new home has suffered.

I tell myself the fall will be a good time to begin a new journey, a journey to shed this cloak of wrath. I promise myself cooler air, distant sun, glowing trees of orange and yellow, biting things to bed for the season, this will be the right time to ease my soul. Fall is the right time to put this wrath to sleep for the winter.

So, this is the day, I decide, out on my deck, oversized cup of coffee twice heated, cooling while I take in the fall of the South. This is the day, the last week of November, crisp air, sun warm on my back, lawnmower in the distance. This is the day, shuffling leaves, driven by a gentle breeze carrying hints of wood smoke and earth. This is the day, chattering squirrels, frantic in their final prospect to store acorns. This is the day, glorious trees, oh the trees, the magnificent trees, oranges, yellows, reds, radiant in the sun, glowing against the cobalt backdrop. This is the day I will begin my journey.

I know today, for the first time, that I will find peace in this land, in the stillness of this place where I can slow, write, walk, and settle, even in late November. I am suddenly grateful to be here, today, despite my struggle, despite the difficulties I have found in this land. Today I am grateful that my new-found solitude has, in return, offered me a chance to settle and find peace.

Struggling with the South

I am struggling, stewing in a pot of negativity. I am at odds, wrestling with the South, wrestling with what is and what is not here in this land called Tennessee.

Freshly arrived with the mountain scent of the North still deep in my lungs. Freshly arrived, yet here long enough to feel the prickle of heat, the friction from the differences. The beliefs in my soul, the values in my heart, grating like sandpaper against all that stands proud in the south.

Every exploration into this new world uncovering an assault to humanity- racism, disingenuous greetings, religiosity devoid of spirituality. The true assault comes from pride in these ways, the pride in the façade thinly veiling the ugliness. It all seems too much, too disappointing, too difficult to overcome.

So now I search; embark on a journey to make peace with the south. I must settle my soul and shake hands with the south. We must become friends before I am unable to emerge from this chasm. I must find the south I can embrace, or at the least, be present with positivity. I long to be my true self once again and shed the negativity I have cultivated in this unfamiliar land.

I have a history with this land; the south is not new to me. It has been a place to rest my weary soul. It has been a space to slow and re-center. I have taken refuge in the pace here, where hurry is an unwelcomed interruption in cadence of life.

I have rocked on a porch swing for hours, days, reading to my children, watching fireflies, listening to whippoorwills, going very still as deer enter the yard. I have delighted in dancing cardinals, bright pillows of cotton freshly popped in their bowls, and honeysuckle exploding from the ditches with its sweetness stirring me from daydreams. Respite from the hustle of life in the north, the south of my children’s childhood is the south I want again.

Now here to work, to grow and experience again this south, I am undone. This south proves to be weary of stranger and unhospitable behind the façade of hospitality. It is an ingenuine pretense of kindness without depth or generosity. Smiles veil hypocrisy and rhinestones dazzle to cover racial motivations. Civility drips off of tongues devoid of innocence humility or humanity. On every corner sits a church with large white doors sealed tightly to keep in the brotherly love.

So here I am, confounded and devastated, grappling, reaching and searching for peace. I must make a truce with this land of antagonistic gentility. I must make friends with this south, find beauty and peace, and perhaps grow to once again love this land.