soapboxdiner
Rites of passage
There are some women who say, "A woman is not a woman until she has a secret to carry." I suppose they mean a hurt they've beared... I don't know how much I ascribe to that philosophy. Maybe in a way it's true, but maybe it's just how you choose to view and interact with the world.
Maybe there is just an innocence that dwindles, or vanishes poof at the acquisition of your first hurt. Maybe with the diminution of innocence, more womanly traits take its place. I'm not so sure that hurt is the rite of passage into womanhood I would want for all young girls looking to evolve into women to have to experience.
I suppose they do anyway though, in their own ways and to their own extents.
I was talking with a friend today about a drum group she'd gone to this weekend. She spoke of powerful beats that left her tired and sore. But she loved it. I could see how that would be moving. Many cultures pound on drums for just such purposes. It, I am sure, is primal, instinctual. I can imagine it being a force that is intrinsically personal, if you let it.
It reminded me of a story my therapist told me years and years ago. I came to her with my own secret and my own hurt - I came to her pregnant with a child who would not have a father and a mother already stretched so taut her skin was glassy and brittle. In my head I ran mental after emotional after spiritual circle fighting guilt and wrenching tears and anguish. Inside my uterus, I could already at five weeks pregnant feel the difference inside me. I don't know what other women feel when pregnant but for me, it felt as if there were tiny little arms wrapped around my womb in a hug. I could feel the heart beat it seemed - if only instinctually. I knew. My body knew. And it was the greatest feeling of love I have ever felt.
And so, I sat in her reclining leather chair. It was sunset. Her office was filled with growing things and water and candles and sculpture, as it always was. The sun was just disappearing behind the trees on the opposing hill and shone off Lake Washington in fuchsias and reds and oranges. It was March.
She said, "Carla, I had a dream about you last night. I was sitting at the lodge with the elders (she's native), and we were sitting in the circle. We were beating our drums and chanting, and a mist encroached. On it was your baby, all grown. She said, 'don't worry,' and with those words I knew she meant, for every spirit that is, some come too early. Some arrive before they are ready. Some have to leave before we are ready for them to go. But when the time is right, they come back to us. Your baby will come back to you, Carla. When her time is right."
I don't know if the meaning of those words carry the same weight now, written for strangers who are not there in that spot of pain and torment. But for me, then... I don't have words.
I remember sitting in that chair. I remember the streams of silent tears that slid down my cheeks, dripping off my jaw line and pooling around my clavicles. Which in itself was powerful, because I don't cry in front of anyone. Crying hurt makes you weak in the eyes of others, or so the stubborn independent side of me says.
That night I went home and slept harder than I think I have ever slept before. And my baby came to me in my dreams, too. At first she stood at a distance. I couldn't see her, but I felt her there. I trembled before her. I felt the most heinous despair imaginable. I felt purely evil. I was going to kill this beautiful thing growing inside me who loved me and was a part of me. I was going to kill her with some sedatives and a vacuum extractor.
And then she held open her arms to me. She folded me into her embrace and she soothed me. She forgave me. And then she went away.
And I mourned.
Sometimes I feel that too much of me is composed and displayed in my moments and recollections of pain. I think, "Who wants to hear these things? Who wants to bear uncomfortable witness to sadness and grief?" And you know what? No one does.
But at the same time, these are the things that move us. They are what make us the same, in a way. They are the things that teach us compassion and understanding.
They should not rule us. And I wish they did not rule me as much as they do. When a happy tale of an evening out with friends, playing drums, would make me smile for her, rather than thinking about (and, despicably, talking about) a baby that will never be.
I don't necessarily want to forget, because to me, despite the vileness of the memory, it holds a certain beauty. She will come back to me. And I am different because of her. I don't want to forget my pains. But I do sometimes wish I didn't feel such a strong need to share. Or maybe I just wish it was okay to share them more, so their remembrance would be more easy, and their grip would relax from a clutch into a caress that could be there always, but just not as a conscious ache.
Does that make sense at all?
And later, after some thought...
That's not what I meant to say. Dammit. I wish words weren't so entirely inadequate. Here. Let me attempt simplicity.
Do you ever think about the things that people share with you, like when something has touched you and changed you - something really important to you. And then someone says something, or you read something, or you hear something you need to hear. And just that something is powerful enough to perhaps not "make right", but at least take the edge off the wrong. And then it's okay to talk about the bad thing because it isn't about the pain anymore, but about how 'healing' or 'hope-restoring' or 'whatever' sharing the experience is? Then you can talk about things like medicine circles and drums and dreams - wacky things that when taken out of context make you sound like a freak - but when told in their rightful places make you thankful because despite how really ugly these things are to think and talk about, they create a sense of bonding beyond getting together for martinis or shoe shopping or getting your hair done ever creates. And it is the bonding that is beautiful. It's how the ugliness can be held up and examined without pain, just a thing that is. And you look at it and it's just another bit of the experience of being human. And then after you've looked and talked and examined and shared and gained new perspective and given new perspective you can say, "Hmph. Okay. That was refreshing to get that off my chest. So, what about those new spring colors over at the cosmetic counter? Are they not to die for?!?" And you go about your day fuller in a way - but in another way, much much ligher.
8:18 pm - 06.09.03
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