whispers

I’m supposed to protect my magic.

But I want to godzilla the world.

The kind of woman about whom, when her feet hit the floor in the morning, the devil says Oh shit, she’s awake!

Quiet, serene.

Mrs. Hempstock.

Someone so secure in her power that she doesn’t have to rage and flail and shatter the earth.  Because she already knows she can.

The black sheep.  Living by my own lights.  In the movies those women always look happy and unconcerned.  In real life those women constantly hear the background chatter about how they don’t measure up, how they’re less.  They’re not living large, they’re a living disappointment.  Following your bliss only counts if you’re thin, pretty, have a tidy magazine quality house and your bliss means canning shit you grow in the organic garden when you’re out there tending your prizewinning zinnias because your husband just won the Nobel prize and your children are busy feeding the homeless for a school project.  Following your bliss only counts if you’re a success already. Following your bliss doesn’t count if your bliss means not following rules someone else set for you.  If your bliss means not following your mother’s rules, your husband’s rules, your family’s rules, society’s rule, your bliss is inauthentic and you are judged. (SELFISH) And you’ll either cave and crawl back under the bushel with your light, or you’ll shake them off and stand up and break your rules and go.  But the whispers will still follow you.  They’ll speak in your mother’s voice, in your ear, long after she’s dead and her disappointments with her.  You’ll smile, you’ll live, you’ll enjoy, you’ll fail, you’ll crawl, you’ll weep and break and heal and die and live again, but always you’ll hear her whispers.

About pacalaga

Wife, mother, cat-tolerator, dog-lover. Knitter, quilter, occasional spinner, random weaver. Reader, writer, eater, runner. Other assorted roles as necessary.
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