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Then, now, the journey betwixt. 4-29-2021 |
Recognition of Self Sometimes I feel like a fraud; looking back to Plathian days when I never worried, or, even thought about what I couldn't do or women couldn't do. Never thought there was anything anyone couldn't do. Never bothered to ask. The all-girls finishing school college where debutants and deb-u-wanna-bies finessed their skills to keep erstwhile husbands entertained was a watering hole along the way to the highway my free-spirited soul yearned to travel, notebook in hand. Notebook, not some fussy journal like Smith or Bennington grads carried around in dainty bags that couldn't carry a sneeze. Wrote, always wrote, interpreted my world in reams of scribbled lines. Some flew like autumn leaves, some made acquaintance with typewriter keys. Some sent off to scent the possibilities of this award or that. Some merely smelled success from afar, the way a good steak gives aroma to Saturday evening barbeques. Others brought in the sweetness of carefully presented desserts: quickly devoured, quickly forgotten as I went on to the next. Yet having never delved into despondency, having never encountered that need, I never danced with suicide, nor spent time having my thoughts rearranged into acceptable patterns. I did my own thing, never worrying about whether the princess of the mountain would find her prince. Of course, I would. But then, it never dawned on me to think otherwise. I was in no hurry. You can'ts didn't register because I dd anyway. Learned being a wife wasn't something I excelled at: or perhaps it was all in the picking or accepting. Did better at the mother-thing but never won any awards for it. Husband now: the grand prize. Plath had so much angst fighting: throwing herself against the male-held castles, trying to break the mirrored glass ceilings whereas I just snuck in back doors, or played their games, by their rules, never caring, really, about bodies or rubbing someone the wrong, (or perhaps, right) way. Never worried about the alls in my world, more the going after my goals. Let the others worry about theirs. Probably should have died four or five times over, although that was never an intent. The free-spirited soul preferred to fly -- no matter if it broke the purpled-rope rules. I'll never be a 'Sylvia Plath' --and that is okay. Never terribly comfortable in my own skin, rarely stood out, just tried to fit in. Except for when I didn't and then, it was usually too late by the time I realized it. Also too late to bother worrying about the what-ever-it-was. Decided I'd do me and if that wasn't what the world wanted; the world could change. I would not. Walking down linoleumed college hallway, overhearing discussion of a poem in English class. The oft used, "What did the poet mean?" phrase overheard. A soft, hesitant answer, correct I might add, immediately stomped, firmly by the professor --who hadn't a clue. My work being discussed in college classes? My inner scribbler does cartwheels. So, perhaps, maybe not so much a fraud, after all. Just different. And, still alive. What good the shattering of ceilings if you can't stick your head out and enjoy the view from such rarified air? And yet, I've discovered the air's a lot clearer down on the ground. Perspectives on falling. Landings aren't so bad, but the falling is what is terrifying. Even the best wings need some rest. |