Wrong side of bed

 For the past two days I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, as the saying goes.

Or, more accurately, I didn't really sleep at all, so I tossed and turned on the wrong side of bed, or something like that. But whatever you call it, I'm crabby.

It started with feeling behind at work, so overwhelmed that I barely know how to dig myself out of the hole. (Hint: writing this instead of grading might not help with that problem.) It continued with a sequence of irritating small things: tracking in leaves all over the house last night before I realized it, leaving their crunched up bits all over the floor; having to go to three grocery stores in order to find the necessary ingredients; deciding to treat myself at the taco truck (because after two grocery stores I went from hungry to REALLY hungry) only to realize that they didn't have vegetarian options; making myself a cup of tea and having the teabag burst open, leaving me with murky tea leaves in my "soothing" drink. I sent Tessa a package of holiday decor - lovingly chosen and boxed up so that she and her roommate could have a festive Christmas environment - and she didn't even bother to pick up the package or write me back.

None of it is the end of the world, and I know that. Maybe it's the fatigue from not being able to sleep? But whatever it is...

I'm crabby.

I'm fighting it, though.

I cleaned up my desk, recycling unneeded papers, getting my paperwork that needs to be dealt with in order. I went easy on myself for tomorrow's lessons, creating something that isn't too painful. I captured my holiday schedule in a single document (and realized that I HAVE A LOT GOING ON!). I told my morning besties chain (Susan and Carolyn) that I was crabby, and accepted their loving grace. I created a plan to tackle the grading, with goals for end of day that will make me feel better.

I wore a professional blazer over black slacks and blouse, with my witchy boots and earrings (sun/moon combos with quartz crystals, my favorite), and I'm calling it my power outfit. I have a stone from Lowman Beach in my pocket, and I'm going to go there after work before I settle in to baking, to breathe the sea and to return the stone and choose a new one. 

And then two kids sent me nice notes, unsolicited. That was nice.

I put up a poem that inspires me where I can see it near my desk.

I had a snack (dark chocolate covered pistachios).

Today I had no energy to make healthy lunch, but I freeze soup when I make it, and so I defrosted a jar of it, and I have a hot thermos of soup awaiting me for lunch, filled with veggie goodness, made on a day when I had more energy and had my act together. A pink lady apple will round it out.

And I'm being gentle with myself by coming here to breathe, to write it all out so that I can remember that sometimes it's okay to be crabby.

I wonder if some of it is the holidays upon us - my family is a source of pain for me, and it's a family season, so I can't help but notice it. Or maybe it's being single in a time when it's all Hallmark romance and friends with partners they can't wait to hang out with. Or maybe it's my class overage, or maybe it's the being thrown off kilter from the windstorm and all its disruptions, or maybe it's the dark side of menopause, or maybe I just need a nap.

But whatever it is, I'm going to push back... gently.

Power clothes.

Hot soup.

Tea.

Finishing some low hanging fruit at work.

Music.

And after work, I will go to the beach and remember to breathe with the waves. In, out; in, out. I can hear the gentle tumble of the pebbles in my mind now, breathe in the smell of salt and cedar.

I will make the cranberry bread that I love, in preparation to eat but also to share with the people that I love. I will write my daughter a welcome home note to leave on her pillow, in case she gets home tomorrow before I do, and remember how much I love her.

I'll drink lots of water (I don't think I did that yesterday!).

I'll read before bed, and I'll stay off the news.

It's not a REAL bad day - no death or disaster. I know the difference. And maybe it's in my power to change it, or maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and it will just feel different. I know that it will pass, and just thinking about that makes my shoulders fall a little.

In, out. In, out. I can't wait to be by the sea.

Power

I've been thinking about power a lot lately. Power structures, power outages, power dynamics, power plays, power games, power over, power beside, personal power, magical power, nature's power.

But I hid the main idea: I'm thinking about my own power.

Sometime last year I entered my crone phase. I don't know why this is true, only that it is. I've been in menopause since my cancer diagnosis and treatment in 2005, but I feel a shift in my body and wonder if I'm entering my natural menopause now. I feel different in my body, and I'm not talking about the changes that others can see (thickening middle, thinning hair - what strange balance there is there!), but about those I feel.

I feel powerful.

I care a lot less about other people's opinions than I once did, and I allow myself more opinions than I used to. I'm a lot better at saying "no" and meaning it. I care more about some things, and less about others. But through all of it, I feel a surge in my chest and belly and somewhere deeper, a building of energy that I've never felt before.

It's different than the energy of youth, when I pulled all nighters and maxed out the Stairmaster for 45 minutes; it's different than the burning thighs of twelve mile hikes with thousands of feet of elevation gain, or carrying a 45 pound pack (yes I did and yes that's crazy). It's different than working multiple jobs while going to school, and it's different than the drive I felt to put in twelve hour days at work without pain. It's very different than the life makeover that happened when I became a single working parent.

In some ways, it's quieter. I feel more introverted than I used to... because I enjoy my own company more. I've learned to still my mind a bit better, and so a house with no interruptions is a chance to dance with my own mind, to explore ideas, stillness, dreams, wonderment, without the clawing anxiety that I've lived with for most of my life.

I feel enough. Not better or worse, but enough, and this is more than I have ever felt before, and it's a type of quiet that I don't know how to explain but it's beautiful, like nighttime in the woods or being in a rowboat in the middle of a lake or finding a beach with nobody there. When I listen, there are all kinds of sounds (like the breeze through evergreen branches, or the waves on the shore) but most of all there is my own breathing, in, out, in, out.

Yesterday I saw the movie Wicked and walked away thinking about Elphaba's power. I'm sure that I'm not the only person to feel this way - I might be the ten millionth - but I related to her so incredibly deeply. I felt the pain of her family's rejection and their bad behavior; I felt the desire to be deeply good to others; I felt a pull to be sharp and smart to make up for other lacking traits. I felt deeply weird and green, just like her; I felt the humiliation of a "friend" who set me up to be mocked.

But most of all, I felt the relief of letting go of all of it and embracing the weird: of daring to dream of a place where the color of me is everyone's favorite, and, once realizing that such favoritism has limits, deciding that I know my internal compass and right from wrong, and fighting back simply by being my full self.

Defying Gravity, indeed.

The world has all kinds of rules for women like me - neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly, neither old nor young. I think the main rules are 1) Be everyone's helper and 2) When not helping, be invisible.

Fuck it.

I've been helping for a long time, and slowly it is dawning on me that the person I need to be helping is MYSELF and that if I ever gave myself the attention that I give to others, maybe I too could defy gravity. It's only when Elphalba stops caring for Nessie and is willing to walk away from Galinda that she figures out how to take care of herself, and that's when the magic happens.

My daughter is ready to defy gravity all on her own - connected by heartstrings forever, I hope, but also ready to fly untethered. She needs to take on her own dreams and responsibilities, to take risks and fly. I'm a place to land until my last breath, and my thrill at watching her become herself is beyond joy, and I hope that my faith in her fuels her faith in herself. She is a main character in my story, beloved and important, teacher and student both. If she needs me, I won't hesitate to fly to her - she is life, love, breath, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. But she's got her own power, and she's growing into it, and she doesn't need rescuing most of the time. She needs space to grow, supported by love but not strings.

But anything is possible as I come into my power, and she needs to witness it so she'll know it's awaiting her, too.

I'm ready to create an unconventional life for myself, reinventing myself as a writer in my mid-fifties. Somewhere along the way I noticed that I don't even want to date anymore, and that the men I meet bore me more than they excite me, and so many of them need caring that feels like ropes around my neck and wrists, tethering me to a life that belongs to them, not me. I see people in healthy, happy relationships and I don't think that this is all men or all relationships, but I think, more and more, that it is MY truth.

The liberation of not craving a partner is unexpected and joyful. All that energy is available for other things, now.

Writing stories that matter, allegories and metaphors and dreams, rage and love and hope and disappointment, friendship and mothers and daughters and the occasional lover,  love letters to the world, lanterns to guide the way for those who find themselves on my story roads.

Defying gravity.

My intuition is sharper than I knew was humanly possible - they could study me, I've predicted so many things. Power. This is going to happen, is happening, unfolding as it should.

I've started loving my body more than before, maybe more than ever before. I love how I walk faster than most people, filled with energy. I love that it takes me under the waves, the cold water that deters others drawing me in. I've grown to love the strange white stripe that is such a prominent feature of my hair these days. I love the curve of my hips, and I love that at 55 I do more yoga than ever (I did yoga the past two days - in my "yoga library" downstairs, a lovely clear area of bamboo flooring surrounded by bookcases). I love the painful pull of my chest as I stretch, a reminder of not the cancer but of the strength that got me through it. It's a body filled with power and potential, even after all these decades.

I'm applying that power in new ways, manifesting new versions of my life. I'm ready to defy gravity, to break every rule, to become the unconventional and outspoken old witch in the cottage, the subject of whispers and sought out by just as many as avoid her.

I'm ready to embrace my power.

It's about time.

Moon Magic

I've decided that whenever I can summon the energy to do so, I'm going to head to my local beach in the dark hours before I go to work, stand at the shore, and let the saltwater heal me.

My beach on Puget Sound is covered with driftwood and pebbles, and faces west. Today I went there at 6:15am, expecting rain but determined to go anyway, and I was rewarded with dry skies.

And the moon.

It was a full moon last night, and the moon was hanging low over the Olympic mountains, playing peekaboo with clouds passing over it. I stood at the edge of the shore, moving away from the killdeer shore birds, who screeched at me in the dark, scolding me when I walked near them.

The sea was gentle today, just the breath-rhythm of the waves - in, out, in, out - until I felt my own breath synching. When the water reaches the pebbles on the beach, the pebbles tumble against each other gently, a sound of stone and sea that soothes.

I stood under the moon, tried to capture it in photos, but my phone failed in the attempt.

Probably for the best that I stopped trying - put away my phone, so I can dip my fingers into the water, so that I can pick up various pebbles and feel their texture between my fingers, so that I can see the moon with my eyes and not through a screen.

In, out. In, out.

Full moons are a time of magic: there are those who practice spells to harness that magic.

My spell is to immerse myself at the edge of the sea, in line with the reflection of the full moon, and breathe. I could feel my heartrate slow, I could feel my shoulders release, and I could feel all of the potential and beauty of the world. If that's not magic, then I don't know what is.

My new ritual is to pick up a stone at the water's edge, and carry it in my pocket all day, a reminder of stone and sea, moon and magic. At work - sitting at my plasticky desk under fluorescent lights, a million demands upon my time, it's a touchstone to remember who I am. Moonlight and stardust, cedars and meadows, mountains and magic. Love and light are in that small stone that I picked up in the darkness.

Tomorrow I'll return the stone, and choose another, refreshing my intentions and giving myself the gift of the sea again.

In, out. In, out.

If I keep doing this, I feel more sure somehow that I will be okay, and that I will have the strength to do what needs to be done... and maybe that's the biggest magic of all.

Itty bitty tiny steps

Powerlessness is my least favorite feeling, and lately I feel powerless. I do not know how to be the change I wish to see in the world; I do not know how to feel about my future, seeking joy, or a lot of other things that I felt a bit more certain of a week ago.

So I'm focusing on the tiniest of steps.

I've decided to try to lower my personal carbon footprint in baby steps.

I was running out of shampoo and conditioner, and using a drugstore brand that has who-knows-what in it, so I decided that I'd do some research on what a more environmentally responsible choice would be. (I landed on Avalon Organics products, which don't break the bank, are widely available, and have the highest rating from The Environmental Working Group.) When I got into the shower this morning to wash my hair, I thought "I can't change the world, but I can change this..." as I lathered and rinsed.

My shampoo choice will, sadly, not save the planet. But... it's something. It's teeny tiny, so small as to be miniscule.

But it's something.

Right now, I don't know what to think of the world and my country, and I don't know how to make meaningful change.

So I'm going to focus on the smallest things.

Making conscious choices about products - maybe imperfectly (the contents of that bottle get a gold star, but what about the plastic container?), but better than before. 

I'm thinking that I really could buy less on mail order, and patronize my local stores more when I need something.

I'm thinking about how cold it's becoming, and going through my house to find blankets to donate to the local shelter.

I'm thinking about making something delicious to put in the break room at work, just because.

I sent a dozen Thanksgiving cards to people in my life, telling them how much I appreciate them.

It's not enough, clearly. It doesn't end racism and misogyny, for starters, and it doesn't improve the wealth gap. It doesn't end wars, or help starving children.

But it's something, and something is better than nothing.

Today I vow to find more tiny steps to do just a little bit better.

Blood, tears, and the sea

 Like a lot of Americans (although, apparently not the majority of Americans), I have been licking my wounds this week. I have gone inward most of the week: doing what had to be done at work, and then coming home and collapsing. I watched my first (and second) Christmas movies of the season - cheesy romances with no plots, but lots of pretty people and wonderful scenery and a guaranteed happy ending. 

By Saturday, I knew I couldn't do that long term, and I invited some of my dearest friends to come by for tea and conversation (and blue bracelet making, but since that whole thing blew up and was declared performative, not a sign of solidarity, we didn't do that after all...). My friends, true to form, showed up with beautiful food, arranged it on platters, and it ended up being a feast. At the last minute I put together a cheese board with fruit, nuts, olives, smoked salmon and three kinds of cheese, but I needn't have bothered, as we could have fed the neighborhood.

And so the healing began.

I printed out some of my favorite poems to gift, rolling them in scrolls tied with ribbon so that each person could take one. Perhaps someone else will find comfort in Maya Angelou, Wendall Berry, Naomi Shihab Nye, Mary Oliver. Just gathering the poems certainly helped me.

We looked each other in the eyes and talked about how wrong we felt, how wrong we were, how confused we were by America's choices. We hoped that there was something we were missing. We talked about understanding our neighbors near and fear. We talked about not feeling safe.

We talked about our children and those we love.

We ate. We drank herbal tea. We listened. Quiet women were unusually talkative, and noisy women were unusually silent. Everything felt turned upside down.

We talked about news fasts through the day; we talked about changing our news sources to get out of our blue bubbles. (I downloaded the Associated Press/AP app, as it's top and center of the Media Bias Chart by ad Fonte, factual and non-biased; I removed the NYT and Seattle Times from my phone, because checking them over, and over, and over is not good for my health.)

Most of all we talked about loving people: each other, our families, our neighbors, our communities. The weariness is palpable as we face whatever lies ahead: how will we find the energy to fight this, to help the world become a more just place?

Last time, I marched practically every weekend, I wrote postcards and called senators and hosted an ACLU meeting and donated to causes I believe in. (Those donations still come out of my bank account monthly, like clockwork.) I really tried hard to be a part of the solution. The mere thought of it makes me weary now, especially because last time I felt sure it was a four year problem, and this time the problem feels indefinite. I have no faith in the systems designed to protect us, their guardrails worn down by someone in charge who is methodically removing those guardrails.

I feel it in my blood, and in the tears that refuse to come, that refuse to give me relief.

So instead, I gathered up my people, checked in on text far too many times on those farther away... and spent a lot of time solo.

I've vowed to write every day, and I've upheld that vow to myself. I'm working on my book, I'm doing my morning pages like they are morning prayers that will save my soul (thank you, Julia Cameron and The Artist's Way." 

I've made a giant pot of lentil vegetable soup - good for the environment and good for my body and such good comfort food. I've got two quiches cooling on the counter, to eat and to share this week, with leeks and mushrooms as the base, the warm cream complimenting the eggs, thyme and parsley and sea salt seasoning them (and, served with a side salad, hopefully not too bad for me).

I'm regrouping.

This morning it was absolutely pouring down rain, the branches moving in the wind, the windows being pelted with large drops, the streets with small rivers running downhill to the drains, but I kept my promise to myself and laced up my shoes and headed in the car to the park - because I knew for this plan I'd need the car. I walked two and a half miles (shorter than usual, but still something) along the sea and through the forest, and found some small fallen cedar and fir branches to carry home so that I could remember the incredible, rich, soothing smell of the forest. I got back to my car...

And stripped down to my bikini, the old lady one with a sporty top and giant bottoms that come practically to my rib cage. I pulled on my Chaco sandals, and my old blue terrycloth bathrobe, grabbed my towel, and went into the sea. I walked without pausing, the gentle slope of the beach meaning that I had to get a good ways out in order to have the water meet my bra line. I took all of that grief, confusion, and fear, and I walked into the ocean and asked it to carry some of it for me. I dove under the water, seal like, and swam a few strokes fully submerged, eyes open and astounded at how bright the pebbles looked, how clear and green at good the water was. I felt my blood pressure fall, and if I cried I do not know because my face was covered in salt water, but suddenly I didn't feel like I was holding back tears anymore.

I felt victorious over some small part of myself, and truly cleansed by the sea. Not "everything is better now" (oh, if only there were such simple solutions!) but... like I had what it took to manage it.

Righting myself, I stood again, my hair streaming down water, my body strong in the water, my shoulders in the cold air. I looked up, and a bald eagle was riding the currents just north of me, above cedars and houses on the other side of the park. I smiled all the way back to my car, the short drive home, the immediate hot shower that awaited. A bit of that smile has stayed with me, and will get me through tomorrow.

I believe in signs, and on this gray, wet, salty day, I needed that. Just a bird, doing what I have seen birds do a thousand or more times in that location. But this time I was in the sea, and it felt bigger, better. By the time I walked back to shore, toweled off, and wrapped myself in that ugly but warm bathrobe, I could breathe a little easier. I can still remember that I need to breathe.

Today I've been writing for much of the day, listening to music, cooking, doing the chores that make the week go easier. I'm on my walking treadmill now, moving at a slow enough pace to keep typing and not sweat, but it's something, better than being in the fetal position.

I have been thinking about cold plunging for at least a month, called to do it, and I am a slow learner so I resisted and resisted, but today I remembered how it makes me feel alive, connected, strong.

I need to write. To walk in the forest. To plunge into the sea. To look for eagles (and whales, and sea lions, and kindred spirits, and good books). To touch the rough bark of big, old trees; to hold pebbles in my hand and feel their texture and weight. To feel salt on my face, whether it be tears or ocean water.

I am down, not out, and I'm starting to think of how I will live out my days again... not in the fetal position anymore, and so that's a start.

For the millionth time, I'm so grateful that my life placed me near the Salish Sea. That's not a small thing, and I'm going to hold onto it as fast as I can.

It's a start.

Grief Season: Might and Right

 To everything there is a season, and right now, a lot of us are finding ourselves in a season of grief.

Grief that the American people voted for a rapist, felon, liar. Grief that America fell for an angry man's taunts and lies, siding with power plays instead of truth. Grief that women and people of color and LGBTQIA+ are losing ground. Grief that a man who threatens to end democracy (this is not hyperbole, and the receipts are there) is now in charge of democracy.

He says he can "grab them by the pussy" (I will NEVER get over that) and that immigrants are "eating the dogs, eating the cats" and that if "beautiful Christians" vote for him, they'll "never need to vote again."

And that's old news, and so over the top that it feels unbelievable, and yet America chose this version of our future. When he won the first time, I thought "surely this is a mistake, a fluke of the electoral college, because most Americans do NOT want this!" But now, people voted this in, fair and square, and my grief is fourfold. America knows who he is, and they voted for him anyway.

***

When I was a girl, my parents disciplined* me through spankings. I remember one spanking in particular: the humiliation of being told to lay myself over my father's legs as he sat on the edge of the bed, and him pulling down my pants to hit my exposed bottom. I remember sobbing, more from the humiliation and rage of it than the pain, and saying "It's not fair! You're big, and I'm little, and it's not fair!" as one large hand repeatedly smacked me and the other held me down.

What was also unfair is that some of my spankings were for things I did not do: I was innocent of the crimes of which I was accused. But justice, fairness, and size didn't matter. In my house, might made right.

And that, to this day, is my biggest fear: that it is someone's power, not their truth or justice, that determines outcomes. It's my fear that those in charge get to distort natural laws of truth in their own favor, and redefine what is fair.

* "To discipline" is "to teach." What those spankings taught me was that the world was unfair, and that I could not trust the adults in my life. Those spanking did not make me want to be a better person, so I don't think that they were "discipline" at all. I never learned the intended lessons.

I feel like that again right now: the humiliation of being a part of a system designed not to make me grow into my own power of integrity, but a system designed to make me obey. I feel vulnerable and angry, humiliated and powerless.

And before someone says so: of course I know that I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm "just" a woman, but I am white, middle class, straight, in a blue bubble. I know that I'm lucky, just as I knew that I was lucky as a girl that my father didn't break my bones when he spanked me... but that it was still wrong. Not as wrong as some other things, but still wrong.

I feel grief and rage and pain, and still know how it could be worse.

***

When I was in cancer treatment I went to an online support group at YSC (Young Survival Coalition, for breast cancer survivors under the age of 40). One day a verbal fight broke out amongst the members, because a stage 1 woman was deeply grieving her diagnosis, and other people jumped in to say "you're so lucky! there are stage IV women here, you have nothing to complain about!" and I will never forget what happened next. One of those stage IV women chimed in; she was someone I admired, and her journey was awful (and she later died of the disease). 

She said, "Cut it out. This is not the Suffering Olympics, and there are no gold medals. We all take it differently, and who are we to judge each others' pain?! You have no idea what someone's mental health is, and the fear is real for all of us - we've seen stage IV women survive, and stage 0 women die. So cut it out! Suffering is suffering, and we ALL deserve our tears. Support each other!"

I have never forgotten her lesson. It doesn't mean that you get to have a pity party at the expense of someone else, but there is enough space for all of our grief. Sometimes I am one of the lucky ones with fewer problems; sometimes I am one of the unlucky ones who seem at greatest risk.

But every time, I think we are all allowed our grief, and in our grief, we can connect with each other.

Black and Brown women have it worse. LGBTQIA+ women have it worse. Women with poor mental health have it worse. Women in red states have it worse. Low income women have it worse. I know that, and I am trying to think of new ways to support those groups. I'm grieving, but I don't forget those women. I've been trying to support those groups in tangible ways for a long time, try to let my life serve to live these values that I hold so dear, about loving my neighbors and standing up for oppressed people and never, ever being a bystander.

All of those things are true, and also, I feel so wounded right now that I am breathless, the wind knocked out of me. I'm trying to catch my breath, gather my strength, and figure out what I need to do next.

And I don't want to participate in the Suffering Olympics. I want to give whatever I have to support other women, to acknowledge my privilege but allow my grief, and the grief of every person I meet. I want to give space to help people to be seen. If someone is hurting deeply, I want to stand up for them, even in my grief. There is space for all of us, and if we work together, we can hold each other up despite our injuries and pain.

***

I went to a workshop more than a dozen years ago where the facilitator gave the attendees an analogy. He said that it wasn't enough to be glass half full, that we needed to imagine that we were a teacup under a waterfall, and that the waterfall would keep our teacup so full that it would overflow into the saucer. He said to make sure we stayed under the waterfall enough to keep our teacup full, so that we would have a never ending supply of water in the saucer to give to anyone who needed it. I love this image: when we are filled, we have SO MUCH MORE TO GIVE.

Right now, I feel like there is a dirty puddle at the bottom of my teacup. I try to share that muddy water with my students, with the people in my pathway, but I am aware of how low my reserves are, and how close to breaking I have felt this week, and how my gifts are smaller than usual because I am so drained. When I feel like that, I am crabby, and I don't give the best of myself - I'm at danger of inflicting damage on others, rather than healing. I'm quicker to take offense, more likely to misinterpret, less likely to think before responding. I'm weary, and like every tired toddler, I'm more prone to tantrums when I need a nap.

My plan is to take that nap. Not a hibernation, but a true nap. I will try to refuel myself with the things that give me strength: gathering with my closest friends, reading poetry, listening to music, being in nature, eating soothing food, gentle exercise, more introvert time to read, crochet, make jewelry. I am gathering my strength. I will use this time to summon strength for myself, and for others.

***

Soon, I hope, I will feel strong enough to take more initiative, to help in new ways, to be a light in the world that is bright enough to share my light with others. Because one thing I know for sure is this: power gives the power to tell lies without penalty, but might does NOT make right. What is right, good, and true is a natural law, not manmade, and no amount of justifying or rule-changing can make it any other way.

Might is power, but it is not right.

I'm thinking about women who have come before me and made change in the world. I'm thinking of the influence of great authors like Mary Oliver or Maya Angelou who inspired us to be better; I'm thinking of activists like Angela Davis and Gloria Steinem who showed us new ways to gain our power; I'm thinking of trailblazers like Marie Curie or Amelia Earhart or Shirley Chisholm.

Shirley Chisholm never got to be President, but she showed us that we could do more than before.

Maya Angelou never got to see a world with racial justice, but she saw improvements.

Gloria Steinem is 90 years old and still fighting to end the gender pay gap and violence against women, but some of her work means that I can be a single divorced mother with my own mortgage, credit cards, and job.

The women who first fought for women's suffrage died before it came into being, (and they did it wrong too, because they left out too many women (people of color) in their efforts, and Black women couldn't vote for far too many years after white women gained that ability). 

Might pushed them down, but it still wasn't right, and the truth continued to break through. Eventually, justice started to catch up.

Sometimes might wins for a while. I got the spanking, Abigail Adams couldn't convince her founding father husband to "remember the ladies," and the gender pay gap continues, and it's much, much worse for Black and Brown women to this day.

But I do not believe that it makes right, and I don't believe that it will prevail.

Might is just... might. Strength is not leadership, nor goodness, nor intelligence. It's just power, and it's not right, even when it's pretending to be.

I'm still grieving. I have no idea how I'm going to edge the moral arc of the universe towards justice just yet. I walked in the rain and gray skies today, grateful that the weather reflected my mood, grateful for the damp cold seeping through my clothes and making me feel, even if that feel was an aching in my middle aged bones, because it's better than being numb, and I'm still feeling pretty numb.

But I know that after this season of grief, I will rise again. I will find ways to fight for what I believe in my soul is right. I will speak up for myself, and for anyone in harm's way, and I won't be a bystander.

I'm suffering, and I'm not getting any medals for that suffering. Waves of grief pass over my body, and sometimes I want to go into the fetal position; sometimes I want to scream. I'm trying not to do either.

We're in fight or flight now, but I'm going to tend and befriend, because fight or flight was never my style anyway.

I'm going to look for waterfalls to fill my cup, and I'm going to gather that strength and power and use it to help myself and anyone who I can. Shakespeare's line, "Though she be but little, she is fierce" is resonating. I'm one of the little people, but I am not without my own power, and as soon as I can get off the floor, I'm going to see if I can be a light.

So many mixed metaphors - light and Olympics, teacups and waterfalls and muddy puddles. My brain is a muddy mess like that right now. Let me just catch my breath a bit more, but I'll find a way towards clear water: I'm seeking waterfalls.

Let me know where you find waterfalls, and where you know ways to halt the destruction of those who believe that might makes right.