(NOTE: This is a monologue of sorts. It feels as though it belongs in a play or a short story.)
"I'm sick again," She said.
What is ill health? Energy workers speak of blockages; places where we catch ourselves up and don't let go. I know now why we don't. It hurts to let go. It hurts. It hurts much more than the twisting pangs of holding on.
You know, the words are so simple yet they surrounded us throughout 2015....
Let it go!, she sings, Let it go!
Is this woman's power? Is this creation?
Then why is it I turn to charts and graphs and databases, which I have no idea how to originate? No linear mind, mine. And yet, I translate linear things easily. I rejoice in laying down the burden of creation by taking others' work and setting it into nice neat lines.
What is it that calls me to that work? It gnaws at me even as I settle safely into that acceptable level pain.
Interrupting that call, I hear the voices of a million people in my head each one working to be freed. They are the characters that people need that women need. Characters they rejoice in whom they connect with: the Edith bunkers; The Florence Jean Castleberries; the Miss Piggy's. Those voices emanate from me and escape into the ether as I choose to hold on.
The nameless faceless women who wait to be seen ache for these characters to speak.
These women, who wait to be validated. To be rescued.
No victim, she, this woman who waits. She is upholding the very fabric of our democracy. she edits and teaches. And does your taxes. Sells your homes. She manages your office. She coordinates your lives. She raises children and teaches workshops.
She isn't conscious of the waiting. She's been sold a set of rules to which she adheres without question. Without need for validation. The rules are what keep her together. They're what keep her safe. They take up her time so that she has no chance to stop and...
Let it go.