“Life does not accommodate you, it shatters you. It is meant to, and it couldn’t do it better. Every seed destroys its container or else there would be no fruition.”  ~Florida Scott-Maxwell.

and how has this life accommodated me? i think, well perhaps in some ways, but perhaps not at all.  i start to tell the pirate  “my heart says one thing but…” and before i can finish my sentence, he says, you can’t trust your heart, its been shattered in a million pieces, it is completely broken.  i open my mouth, i close it again.  how can he understand this when i have never told him?  i think he secretly reads my blog, or maybe that he loves me more than he is letting on, or maybe its just brutally obvious no matter how deep down i push it.  i tell him about the guy i dated once who informed me in a sanctimonious tone that he was so terribly peaceful that should someone ever try to rape me, and he observed it, he would feel hard pressed to intervene, the pirate says, if that happened i would go to jail because i would just shoot the guy, i would kill him.  i look at him, he looks at me, and neither of us say anything.

how has life accommodated me? someone posts a picture of my daughter’s father, as i once knew him, young, thin, smiling hippy.  who is that she asks me, it’s your father, i say.  no it isn’t.  yes it is.  no, it isn’t, yes it is.  the ensuing conversation comes around to, if i knew then what i know now, i wouldn’t change a thing because she is the most precious gift in my life.  it has not been easy.

i sometimes fight with people i care about alot, i have a right to my feelings, and my perceptions, and how i choose to express myself.  but it is not always easy to be a creative person in the social media world.  if i paint a picture and you see what you see, and it isn’t what i intended, should i repaint it?  the perceiver perceives, but does that mean the artist must work the canvas,or the page until it matches the insides and the out of all who read it?  should i just stop speaking?  put my foot in my mouth and turn myself inside out, creating a black hole of myself?  are my feelings and my perceptions so inconsequential that all others should supersede me?  isn’t this just the way our traditional culture wants its women, silent, uncomplaining, respectful and submissive?  are men and our fathers so weak that they cannot stand up to the brunt of a woman’s fierceness?  should we keep our fierceness, our poverty of spirit, our joy, our light, our fears, our tragedies, our trials hidden under a basket, so no one can see it?  does this make someone happy other than ourselves?  because when you hide it under the steel shell, and all it does is echo like a bell, you become shell shocked as the sound hits your brain and it reverberates inside of you.  what did i do?  what did i say?  should i have kept quiet?  i lift that steel casing off me and run naked and gleeful on the battlefield.  i am already shattered, you will not hold me down.

he texts me and tells me maybe we will see each other, he isn’t sure.  i text him back, now frustrated, thinking of my failed marriage. listen if you aren’t absolutely thrilled to spend time with me that is fine with me, call me when you cannot wait to see me.  an hour later, the phone rings.  see, little urchin, what happens when you stand up and throw off that shield and say, take me as i am, even when you don’t like it much or conversely, fuck off.  confidence is my only cloak.  it is brand new.  and it is sumptuous, have no worries, i know my life, it will not accommodate me, hubris is hiding in the shadows and it will surely reach out and trip me.  it always does.  but put me back under that bushel basket?  i think not.  try to blow out my light?  it may waver and sputter, but it won’t go out until god takes me.

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