Waiting for October’s light, my priest in training, newly called to absolving indiscretions. How her red tassels would fall around his face, and how fiercely he would grope for fidelity.
Lately I am rolled like the sea – one minute surfacing in a weightless release – the next, brought ashore in a weedy pirouette of struggle. Days pass without a certain sense of grounding. Still: laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning, and neatly tying up the loose ends of a homemaker's fray.
And patriarchy . . . the rancid air that crushes breastplates and gags pretty little mouths. Being angry is supposed to matter. Speaking up is supposed to matter. This rigid dichotomy of gender roles is not built for intimacy. Or happiness. Why are perpetrators protected? And why are they so often women, too? Where is the remedial empathy?
Power. Consent. Privilege. We need to become whole. Air needs to become breathable, crisp, October-ish. Speak, participate, to be believed. Our predators have ravaged through the centuries unchecked. Why do I have to ask for respect? The weariness of contraction is a thief.
The nuthatch and the chickadee take turns at the small feeder on the dining room window. Another chickadee hovers in flight, waiting. Acorns still fall, all day, all night. Nature as distraction and as every thing.