Lest anyone think I'm lounging around, enjoying freedom from punching-the-clock, let me lay it out for you:
I am navigating a dark night of the soul. I have gone through these before, but this time I simply lived to the edge of the limits I could bear. I couldn't take another step without a time-out to sift through the detritus of my wreckage, to cull the insights gained and archive the accumulated bullshit.
I hit a concrete wall, the likes of which I've encountered a couple of times in life, but those events were preceded by obvious triggers that would foreshadow a life-changing experience.
This time there was nothing but a slow starvation of estrogen that hijacked my mind, carved a canyon of insomnia 4 years-long through my sleep schedule, while my body morphed into a foreign entity. Also, there was that 8-week episode of possession by 12 year-old me that flagged a deeply buried injury in need of healing.
Wait. This is not a condition I could point to and say life-changing? See how the patriarchal poison slips into my perceptions? My weak-feminine cultural conditioning is revealed as my nascent fierce-feminine, smart and scrappy, fights back against a lifetime of toxic masculinity. This is what systemic abuse against my womanhood has wrought, that I couldn't see menopause as a legitimate reason for my breakdown. I remember I'm a witch now, still learning to see things differently.
I'm at the threshold of a freshly-infused woman-positive gestalt, and I'm thankful for my knitting and writing. Both serve to remind me what my personal truths and visions are. Time spent wrestling with words and yarn offers insight that might not otherwise arise. The pace of a handicraft is an inviting doorway to mindful presence. I tune in to my body and breath as I sink in to the rhythm of stitches.
I believe women are the metronomes of humankind. If we shift the rhythm of our beings, the world may eventually fall into step with us.
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