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Half-Truths or The Actual Woman

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I didn’t grow up to be who I was supposed to be. I wasn’t supposed to have oily hair or a messy bun. But I’ve settled for it. I wasn’t supposed to have unemployment, compromised driving privileges, trust issues, or a dying cat – that’s some other woman.

I didn’t grow up to be tame-haired and golden. I didn’t grow up to be worshiped by a man, doted on, a traffic-stopper, a perfect-in-every-way kind of girl. I’ve never been that.

Not only have I been to therapy, but I’ve walked away from it (that’s worse, it means I haven’t been helped yet). But this story is full of half-truths. You know, maybe I did grow up to be who I was supposed to be (how could I not? I was in control the entire time) (even that’s a half-truth).

I was supposed to be a role-model, for one. All nice girls wish to be role models, that’s how you know you’re good. But I couldn’t even pull that off (half-truth). You know you’re fucking up when a child asks you, “Are you a kid too!?” Eye.

Things have gotten better since then. I feel in control (half-truth). I accept the messy bun. I let the teenage neighbor kids see my climbing-out-of-the-car-with-two-paper-bags-of-groceries-clumsiness. I wish sometimes the girl could look at me with that want-to-be-like-her-when-I-grow-up-awe. You know the awe. But I don’t think I am that woman. I’ve accidentally watered the flowers in a see-through gown, waving at the neighbors. I’ve fallen in a hole chasing after the dog. I am someone else, slightly off-set of that woman. The alternate. The sister story. The girl with the hair falling in her eyes, needing to be washed. The girl with the floor needing to be swept, scrubbed. The woman in the gray dented station-wagon. The woman with the budding, not blooming, flower garden. The woman with $4.50 in fines at the library. The woman who just signed up for the Adult Reading Program (because she hopes to win a tote-bag). The woman who used to work in retail and now works in manual labor. The woman with a college degree, who makes $11 an hour. The woman who would rather paint and write more than anything. The woman with a few pretty dresses that she never wears. The woman who has many friends over the age of fifty. The woman who is apprehensive of parties, but loves them once she gets there. The woman who thinks she knows herself so well (but has a lot to learn). The woman who writes personal stories on her porch in the sunshine. The woman who wishes for tan legs, but won’t pay for them, or sit still long enough for them. The woman who wishes for the luxury of travel, an open road, snacks, a band to follow, cold beer…a bunch of things that aren’t really her, but maybe…The woman who has a defrosted chicken for the crockpot. The woman whose man will be home soon. The woman with her dog barking and her cat purring. The woman with the messy bun, fresh face, bare feet, tall grass, summer sun. The woman, the actual woman, I was meant to become.

Inspiration, Poetry

On Transformation

If I am to change
I shall be the agent
of that change
Borders
and many of them
have still to be
crossed
I thirst for
the waters
that course through
my future person
quenching
my mind
my body
my spirit

When I am alone
and quiet
I can better move
through the landscape
that is being human
better scale the mountain
that is being me
the past is an avalanche
above and behind me
the trail in front
is forked
and broken
sadly, I see that
some paths lead to imagesUN7SIHNH
nowhere–and if that
be the case then
anywhere is somewhere
when you still have a
heart

My mind
slips and staggers
My impressions,
the ones that I give,
are not always kind
I do worry about
my mind

I must prepare
for battle
It’s as simple
as that
I must balance
out my person
I need to take
some sort
of chance

If I am to change
then I shall be the agent
of that change
I see Transformation
I’ve done it before
I see a makeover
of the soul
nothing outwardly
or flashy or faux
I see spelling-out a prayer
and later finding its been answered
I see asking some questions
for once
I see saying
no no thank you
to the many temptations
that just don’t suit me
I see blank pages
and getting more
writing done
I see stepping into
the shoes
of the woman I
want to become