It’s been a while, I know. I got a new job (yes!) and have been working out the details of a book deal for my memoir (more yes!) and all of this, coupled with my processing, has resulted in a much needed pause from writing and social platforms. That being said, now that my memoir has found a home, I am working on my next project–a complicated compilation of anecdotes detailing my family’s history with suicide. As I work through this, I will be sharing many of my ideas here–there is a lot of tension between men and women, and violence and peace, and I will be processing that in real time on this platform. That’s my sort of trigger warning to readers. I’m happy to be back and exploring new ideas–please continue to offer your beautiful words and feedback if you so choose. And, if my words go in too dark a place for you, I understand. We all heal in our own time, at our own pace. Big love to each of you, as always. Now, onto words…
It is the secret swimming of the men around me. Their anger—how it ripples in the furrows of their brows. In the parentheses around their mouths—like the afterthought of unkind words. Lapping one another, fully clothed they drown in all the heaviness of sadness.
At the gym, the women walk around the locker room devoid of clothing. Fresh from the pool, the chlorine drips from the tips of their hair and down onto their breasts. Nipples alert, awake the skin it prickles at the chill of air. We have conversations with each other, in which we take in the angles of the bodies and the colors of the words—they are all soft and sweet, dripping with honey like warm fry bread.
We do not carry anger like the men do. In the water we glide weightless. We do not tread or pant we cut straight lines through the current with ease. Effortless. In the secret swimming of the women, we cry and we move on.
Of course, there are rages. They come hard and fast and quickly and we soak the anger up into our skin and in our air and then we breathe it out onto the surface of the water. It makes us buoyant. Little buoys in the surf. We swim on.
The anger runs its fingers through the tendrils of our souls—but the poor men, how the anger closes its firm fist around their throats. How it makes them gasp and scramble just beneath the surface for their air. The women at the lining of the pool with outstretched hands you’re almost there; I’ve got you.
All the men are dying for their anger, but it would make me proud to die for love.