“I write like a girl. I write about my lady life experiences, and that usually comes out as unfiltered emotion, unrequited love, and eventual discussion of my vagina as metaphor.” ― Elissa Bassist
Women like Elissa Bassit have written things like the one I’ve quoted here that have let me know indisputably that my people do in fact exist in this lifetime. These women have freed me from the burden of over-explanations. My “whew! So I am not melodramatic then” sigh of relief came just in time. I had been fixing to cook up one of those awkward ‘don’t mistake me for …’ posts which skim a poor-me perimeter in order to get my missions across. But my belonging was gracefully reaffirmed. The teachings I’ve accepted have given me sturdier hands kind of to reach for, rip apart and sport like a monarch’s regalia my dear freedoms which have led me here.
This grace has also delivered me from being afraid of telling the truth about being afraid, being in my feelings, being a thing in the awareness of its being in what seems to be a stunning world, being alive, being sensitive, being hopeful, being whatever the hell it might be that possesses a soul to want to be better.
“… and believing that life loves the liver of it, I have dared to try many things, sometimes trembling, but daring, still.” ― Maya Angelou
Once so helplessly bound to what I now call voluntary hopefulness I once described myself as an aspiring writer of inspiring things. And this is the gist of it all, really.
“Acceptance is a small, quiet room.” ― Cheryl Strayed
It is not that complicated. I write about brokenness to mend it. I write about hope to birth it. And I write like this over and over, to love, to live, to learn, to mend and for rebirth- again and again and again. The themes which plague me lately are ingenuity and what I refer to as the getting off of one’s ass. I am realizing as I type this that my (our) becoming is not the kind of thing that I (we) can ease into. I (we) have to go at it steamrolling and merciless until it is well within me (us).
The thing I am shamefully beating about is this: It has taken me a while to accept that all the things I am interested in blogging about are valid and necessary. All the stories of our hearts are necessary. There is no right and neither is there wrong to it, only precision.