I Don’t Want to Know This Much Is True
When I first read the book, A Woman’s Worth, by Marianne Williamson, in 1995, I was excited and hopeful for the future. I had finally found a book and an author that inspired me that I could accept and claim my power and truth. I savored every word, sitting with a cup of peppermint tea, and often an alfajor, basking in the thoughts of creating a new world where femininity wasn’t weakness and society had promise.
I read it numerous times during the 90’s, each time with fresh eyes and anticipation. Once Jeffrey graduated and we moved back to Florida, it was my dream that I could host small groups of women, creating a community where we would go out into our own worlds and exude love, kindness, feminine power, and change the world. I drew plans for what my facility would look like: an old house, full of rich fabrics and textures, a tree right in the middle, a room for art and creativity, another for yoga and massage, another for cooking fresh foods to be served, and walls full of books, with chairs thick and plush to sink into.
Unfortunately, my anxiety over feeling unsettled in our future led me to abandon Jeffrey and our dreams.
I picked up the book yet again a few years later, and the hope and excitement I once felt had vanished. With this new relationship, there was no inspiration for a future filled with equality and divine feminine rising. It was, instead, a life with doldrums and seemingly endless drama, this time not directly caused by me.
My creativity was squelched. My passion for others was mocked. My desire to build community was met with accusations and insecurity. I shelved the book, only to pick it up once or twice in the next twenty years.
As I write this, I’m now a little over two months post-divorce, and I have opened the book again. The inspiration has returned, only this time with a daunting feeling looming overhead. Where once I felt empowered that even just my participation in the movement toward the divine feminine would create a ripple effect, now I feel like the work ahead is formidable, like slogging through deep mud. The hope is still there, but it’s far off in the distance, and you can’t make out what it is.
Just this week, fourteen children in Texas were slaughtered. Without getting into the disgraceful job the police officers did to save those children, it’s excruciatingly painful to think of where we are as a society today. In 1995, we were still hopeful. In 2022, we are seemingly divided more than ever, and it feels like childbirth: a ripping open of our flaws as a country, as people; and it’s bloody as hell. I feel such guilt and shame for burying my head in the sand for two decades, and even today, I feel guilt for laughing while children are being murdered, political parties are churlish against each other, Roe vs Wade is being gutted, and we are still talking about racism.
I want to feel hopeful again, but it seems far-fetched. I want to chase dreams of building a community where there is love and a passion for life and learning. I want to create again: art and words and pottery. I want to dance, laugh from my belly, and stand in the grass with the sunshine beaming on my face. I want to stare at stars and hear the crickets chirping. I want to hold hands with friends and lovers, and believe that the energy created in those bonds makes a difference.
I want to want all of this with every cell in my body, but it’s impossible to recreate that stirring, knowing what I know. Knowing that there are people who don’t want the best for you, even the ones you marry. Knowing that there are people who prioritize profits over people. Knowing that religion isn’t about love or who Jesus really was. Knowing that there are men who don’t really like women, just the warm soft place in our center that provides comfort for a few minutes. Knowing that our country, who proclaims to be the Land of the Free, really only wants control and domination for the most powerful and rich. Knowing that women are simply adornments, and not valuable contributors to society if we could just be heard.
Knowing that I have a daughter who has to live through this and learn these things, too.