not you, too

All of those closest to me, and I imagine quite a few more that can not, for whatever reason, add their voices. Me too. Me too. Me too.

You too? Me too.

We shouldn’t require women to rip themselves open over and over again to give a shit. And yet, we do. Even worse, those who didn’t care before likely will not care any more now. It’s just a dance that we do. Please? Hello? Are you listening? Don’t be silly, you know the answer.

I spend a lot of time and energy examining the past and present. What did we do? What could we have done? What can we do now? Sometimes though, it feels a little too overwhelming, a little too hopeless. A little too fucking much. In those times I have to look to an imagined future, as fantastical as it may be. I have to look to my daughter.

Sweet(sour) girl, I must apologize. You will inherit this mess having had nothing to do with it’s creation – just as I did from my mother, just as she did from hers, and on and on it goes. You see, we are the granddaughters of the witches they could not burn and now we have the matches. I will do everything in my power to both protect and arm you – anything to prevent a, “Me too,” in your voice twenty years from now. It is nothing short of an incredible, suffocating honor to be the spark to your flame.

To those who offer you eggshells and unspoken rules, I hope you bark laughter in their faces and stomp it all to hell (both combat boots and high heels work well for this). Truthfully, it may not be the shushing fingers pulled to lips that sting but shrugged shoulders. I’m so sorry, baby. I haven’t figured out what to do about those yet. Let your mama know if you find out.

Know this: they will never stop trying to douse you out. I will be your kerosene. Burn them to the ground.

dear daughter: a letter to my wildfire child

Dear daughter, the world cannot and will not love you like I do. It is simply not possible. You see, your veins are continuations of mine. When I was growing in my mother’s womb I held you already inside of my own, matryoshka nesting dolls of women.

Dear daughter, you are golden like honey and also flame. People will try to consume you then pull away, scorched. Do not let them douse you to ashes. Do not let them have your sweetness and not your heat.

Dear daughter, you are not broken. At least, not any more so than the rest of us. You are not to be fixed. You are to be taken whole and loved entirely.

Dear daughter, I have patience enough for you and when my stores run low I will dig deep and find more. You are worthy of time and understanding and effort.

Dear daughter, know your flaws but neither justify nor apologize for them.

Dear daughter, listen to the voice in your belly when it prods you to speak louder. Understand that passion can scare people who are not ready for it. Get loud anyway.

Dear daughter, there is peace and goodness in silence, too. Understand that reserve can scare people who are not ready for it. Be still anyway.

Dear daughter, do not subscribe to the mistakes of the world. Intelligence is far superior to beauty. Pretty is not your purpose.

Dear daughter, do not subscribe to the mistakes of your mother. Kindness matters far more than intelligence. Superior is not your purpose.

Dear daughter, know that God is love and love is God’s work and above all, above all, above ALL it is what we are called to do. Your self, your family and friends, the man who cut you off in traffic, and the people you cut out for your own peace and health. Let love humble and restore you with the rise and set of the sun.

Dear daughter, balance is a facade. Behind its serene mask a toxic perfectionism is haunting. Let yourself bounce freely and at times wildly from one state to another. Label your days good or bad but never yourself. Allow yourself to be human – hung intentionally between animal and divine.

Dear daughter, remember wherever or however you wander there is a place for you by my side or in my arms. Come what may, I have always been and will always be a home.