A letter

I found this while going through old writings. It touched me so much and reminded me of things I have occassionally forgotten.


How much of ourselves are just stories we tell ourselves in the heat of the night or the lull of the day? How much of the inward vision of ourselves is built from personal vows, as tears are wiped away from eyes or hurt words escape our lips and arms are flailing? How much of that inner image is comprised of childhood wounds, damage and disappointments? How much of our internal character derives from what we tell ourselves we should want? How much room do we allow for our real, private truth, desires and dreams? How much time is allotted for such things on a daily basis? Is there any? If there is time and space allowed for our inner truths it’s not near enough. Our inner child is fighting to get out and play and we keep them behind a solid fence, unable to see our current reality, incase they would cry and kick and scream over the unhappiness which is our lives.

It’s 4am. I only left you 3 hours ago and I miss you already. This deep yearning for another being surprises me. This longing is a scary reaction to your absence, scary because I never really wanted to need anyone. Or did I? The better I get to know you, the more about myself I learn. I have begun to realize that many aspects about myself, I thought to be true, were in fact fictional stories I told myself, to protect myself, to portray a façade of a harder person. But if I’m honest with myself, I never wanted to be that hard person, the person with an inpenetratable soul. I wanted to be open. I ached for the connection. I craved the opportunity to be vulnerable, despite my outwardly notions.

I always dreamed of you. I dreamed of such a bond as we share. I hungered for a worthy partner to spar with, laugh with, cry with and grow with. I always wanted to want someone that I couldn’t get enough of. I wanted to want that someone who couldn’t get enough of me. For a long time, I thought that I wanted too much, that I was being unreasonable. I told myself stories about the need to be happy with what I had. I shushed my nagging gut feelings that there was someone out there for me and sat myself down citing some wise relationship guru, “No relationship is perfect.” Of course, this is true. No relationship is perfect. But some relationships are worth the moon and the stars. That is the difference that escaped me before.

While really asking myself the difficult question, allowing my inner child to come out to play and kick and scream, I tried to understand my core, my personal truths. What is “real” is to me? Who am I really? What do I really want? This was no small task, I assure you. Some truths came more quickly than others. The initial one to pop into my head, “This world is unjust.” This is my first truth. Sad really, that the first idea that popped into my head about the reality, in which I live, is so gloomy. But this was the truth which was most apparent to me, after I closed my eyes and cleared my mind. Deep breath.
However, my second truth came shortly after. Deeper breath and then, “This world is beautiful”. This instantaneous yin and yang demonstrated to me the constant strive for balance I have, and the strive, I think, I share with the world, whatever “the world” may be.
Ok. I have to say, I was pretty impressed with those first two truths. They were solid. They were my inner truths that I based my life and existence on. What other inner truth did I have? I sat for a moment trying to clear my head completely so that my next truth would come to me freely. It wasn’t a moment before it came to me, and I was overwhelmed to tears. If there was anything in this world that was true, I knew it was you and I. Me and you. If everything else in the world came crashing down around my ankles and there was still me and you, you and I, then I would be happy. You are my truth, my touchstone, my reality check. You and I have something together that we could never even dream of apart. You and I share a deep-tissue, heart-wrenching kind of love that is written about in epic novels or passed down from generation to generation to remind people that such a connection can and will really happen. I think we both knew of our potential the first moment we ever met. I remember looking into your eyes and seeing behind them, into you. I remember feeling like you could really see me. I shied away at first. Then you shied away. We’ve both taken our turns in trying to withdrawal, but never really being able to do so. I think deep down we knew our truth. Our subconscious knew of our connection before we did. Somehow, we knew of the power and strength we could have together.

Words are just words. Often they mean nothing at all. If I thought that you didn’t understand or feel my truths, I wouldn’t bother letting writing this to you. However, it’s because you understand and feel my truths, it’s because I know you comprehend all this, even without these words, is why we have us. My truth, our truth. You and I. Me and you.




June 18, 2005

How feminist am I?

How feminist am I that while at my rehearsal of The Vagina Monologues, I am researching Abortifacient Herbs for an article for the online feminist Zine Empowerment4women.org
I’m trying to scrape up the information that was extracted and then denied to my foremothers.

I am very glad I was asked to read a monologue this year. This is my 4th year. The monologues have done so much for me (what can’t you do if you’ve made University admin scream “Vagina!” and “Cunt!” ?) that I wanted to give another woman a chance. I wanted to allow space for another woman to have space to grow and learn and become empowered.

However, since I am a female president of the Graduate Students’ Union and there is also a fellow female in the role of the undergraduate’s Students’ union- this being the first time where there was ever two women presidents- we were asked to read the spotlight monologue. I was flattered and secretly grateful I could participate again this year. I’ve never experienced anything like The Vagina Monologues. It’s wonderful. Sisterhood. Laughing, smiling, crying, healing, together.

Ok, hafta go back to writing…..

New Flickr account!

Hi!

I got a new FLICKR account everyone! I've put a few pics on already.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/46434665@N00/

People in Starbucks are so serious. Hands over-emphasizing each sentiment, statement and opinion. Three women, one in a fur coat, talk in arguing tones about friends in hospitals, waitlists and purchases. Everyone is uber professional. Ignoring the people at other tables since that is the courteous and proper thing to do whilst in a public, corporate coffee shop.

No one looks familiar here, even though this city feels so small sometimes. Everyone looks so important, or is trying to accomplish such. A women yells into her earpiece about the need to finish the report before her flight, completely oblivious to all those around her in seemingly equally important conversations. I do the rude thing and try to eavesdrop to try to understand what all these very important people are talking about in these very important conversations but I can’t piece together their plots or story lines. There are words floating around and I catch a few. Email. Information. Selling. Expertise. Process. Salary. Build. Manager. Hope. Finish.

How cosmopolitan of us. Wouldn’t know if I was in a New York Starbucks. I look around and realize my own part in this play. The lone girl, sitting at a table, typing away at her apple laptop.

Mente, sugar-free, non-fat Latte

Our culture, our lives summed up in a product, Fancy, over priced coffee.

And keith enters from his job interview. “I knocked that out if the park.” Oh, the confidence of the male sex. I wish I had been taught it was ok to exude such assurance. Alas, my femaleness and its training would frown on such a declaration. I try to quickly get over my own envy to return my full attention to my partner. He was glowing, grinning from ear to ear, his face red from the cold outside. “But, I have the worst pit stains, ever.” He shows me the round moist circle under his arm and I laugh out loud. Everyone sweats in interviews. The Fight or flight response to intense, potentially life changing stimuli. However, such an amount of perspiration I have only seen on the bodies of men, women maintaining a drier reality even in high stress situations. I smile at our differences and ask him to recite every word spoken in his interview. He takes a deep breath and begins....