White Blank Page

"A white blank page, and a swelling rage, you did not think when you sent me to the brink, you desired my attention, but denied my affections. So tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart"..."***



Well kids, it's been quite a while. I once was a Blogger, with a nice little following. Life certainly does get in the way sometimes. As someone who has never really considered herself a writer, that white blank page can sure be intimidating. The colorless abyss. It sort of just stares back at you and tricks your mind in to believing that you are back in middle school. Sitting in your second floor bedroom, with the rosebud wallpaper and the green shag rug, trying to write a paper for your least favorite class. It's a very important, grade defining project and it's due, like, today.


I have always had a love hate relationship with writing. I have never felt good enough (see the paragraph above where I started a sentence with the word "And"), and...as I have said before, I don't like to follow the rules of grammar and punctuation, although errors that others make in their writing jump off the page at me, I am the biggest offender as I am too impatient to review and edit. I sometimes struggle to find the fluidity with my written words, and I used to worry more about the method of delivery, than the actual message. So, I decided to just kind of make up my own rules as I went along. Being poetic ain't easy. So I don't try to be. I am not smooth. I am very raw and honest, yet shielding, and it sometimes feels like a clogged artery, or blocked system, or even better: a strong, hyperventilating emotion that can't make it's way out of my respitory tract. But, I absolutely know it has to come out. Or I will choke to death.

Call it what you want. I call it fracking frustrating. But necessary.

What needs to come out? Well, today on International Women's Day...alot.

This shit can get frustrating. Life. Relationships. Maintaining good mental health. Wants. Needs. Companionship. Aging. Being that aging woman and looking for a job or finding a new career. Holding together a marriage. Wanting to yell at the top of your lungs but knowing it won't change a damn thing. Aimlessly searching for something in your dreams and waking up in the quiet of 2am, glancing for the hallway light, as you realize that you have fallen asleep on the couch, yet again.

Things happen sometimes. Where we take a step back and look around and add up what is important in this life and what is not and it doesn't always match up with those that are closest to us or the people we love. It's kind of like a life inventory, and all of a sudden, being tolerant is not as easy as it use to be. Words snap like slingshots and thoughts and fears permeate and wear away at the filter between the brain and the mouth, giving the words momentum as they fall to the floor and seep into the cracks, forming a new foundation. One that we walk on with trepidation, like it will give way at any moment and swallow us up. But the floors definitely needed replacing. And the foundation is old, cracked, subpar, and crumbling from a lack of proper care.

So I seek out some form of Zen in order to deal. I want Zen. Zen I say, dammit, now! Unfortunately, what I have come to notice through my search for the elusive Zen by watching others who think they have it, is that no amount of internet born Buddha quotes or reading about how to be more Zen or even meditation is going to get you there if your life in unbalanced, unsettled or unfulfilling. And the more you try to promote Zen outwardly and publicly, the less Zen we actually are. Zen is quiet, not proud and boastful. If you think you are Zen and you talk Zen everyday like its for sale, then you ain't Zen. Be still. Be quiet. Breathe peacefully. I know that I am simply not there, and I probably never will be. I can't be alone with my own thoughts comfortably long enough to be truly Zen. It seems there is some sort of heavy work to do, and I can't rest.

What I am discovering is all of this adds up to one thing. Change. As a woman, who feels at times that if I complain I am a whiner and if I don't than I am not part of the much needed movement, it's hard to know where to hang my hopes and dreams. At one point, I was pretty certain I knew what they were. Boy, they certainly don't look the same as they use to.

I am an evolution. We all are. And evolving hurts. We (replace with "I" if needed as I hate to speak for others, but want to include you if you feel as I do-I'm a pleaser) are the women in the middle. The days between winter and spring, when life blooms, yet one incoming weather pattern can knock you right back to the frigid cold and it always seems to be some degree of muddy.

And sometimes that weather pattern comes in the form of a shaky, repelling, politician, or even a female politician who lies or sold herself out. Or in the form of what is happening to someone like Erin Andrews, a woman and public figure who was filmed naked in her hotel room without her permission by her stalker, and an official at the Marriot decided to show the video to some of his friends while they dined. Just so he could make a point and perhaps punish her in some way.

Many miles my good people, many miles. We are merely in the middle.

The middle is an awkward spot, right smack dab in the halfway point of what will be looked back upon as a long, ping-pongish, dabbling of female life, the plight of the chick, as it were. We like to think it's almost over, but we have barely just begun. Wanting to be wives, mothers, have a career, and still be there for the growth and emotional well being of our kids, take care of our loved ones or maybe to be just a raging hot mess. Drink, swear and have sex like a sailor, because that has value, too. For some strange reason, no matter what the approach, none of it ever seems to be truly validating on the outside, like just when we think we have it, the idea changes. Some degree of everything always feels like it's slightly off or needling you in the side, at your most vulnerable spot. We are the circus clowns of an unbalanced, balancing act. It may, at times seem hopeless but without doing it, the hope for the future of our daughters, well, it's less.

We still have words such as "throw like a girl", "take your skirt off", "boys will be boys". We still have the troublesome statistics of domestic violence. We still have unequal pay, and politicians deciding what a woman can and can not do with her body, and we still have genital mutilation in some countries. If it's an "International" Day, lets worry about all women, not just the ones you come in contact with. This list is a scratch on the glass surface. There are many things we need to change in how we view and treat women. If you don't know what they are, just ask one.

And through this life, the only one we are given, there are so many pitfalls. We study hard, all the while learning, practicing, implementing, drinking wine, eating chocolate, hurrying off to the gym, as we are so close to halfway between the dainty, gleaming, shiny, pure, pearls and what I will call, the plush, velvety, encasement that resembles armor, war, strength, resolve. That is how I envision that the new woman will emerge, and right now, we are the guppies, the little litmus tests...the flower girls.

We are the women that walked the aisle and hoped for more. Our mothers, in one generation, who burned their bras and pioneered sexual freedom, yet still seemed to fall under one set of rules, and then there's us, the new age, the ones who would make a difference. In so many ways the progress is undeniable, yet controlled by some external force. And how much progress can there truly be? How will we be remembered? And where will our daughters go next?

I often cry in the shower. Yup, there it is. I cry there, because my eyes get super puffy and the water helps prevent that crap. Less puffiness makes the day go smoother. I cry because I wake up and pretend there is more progress than there actually is. I don't see equality. There is still an inherent difference between now and what will be. And it's there, in my everyday life. I am a woman in the midst of change, with no road map, no lifeline, no sure path. But I know I want to take that road. I know walking it will feel lovely and scary and I will be anxious and unsure and not always confident, like I feel about writing. Yet, I know it will be worth the risk. I know that I am but a speck under the microscope, of what will be viewed in the future as my daughter recalls the story of her mother, and her grandmother, after we are gone, and hopefully somewhere down the line it will be viewed as progress. I have taught my daughter to not need to be rescued, to not let others speak for her, to use the money to buy a house and not a big sparkly, ridiculous, ring. I have taught her to respect herself and to let no one, NO ONE, disresepct her.

There is a woman, whose time of the month means nothing in relation to her mood, and it will not be acceptable to call her "crazy" when she is upset, (lest ye be ridiculed) and you won't think to even dare to gawk at her in a bathing suit, or dismiss her because of wrinkles, or her fat, or judge her because of her parenting style, or discuss her rate of pay and secretly skim a few dollars off the top. There is a woman who won't settle for anything less than a partnership. There is a time when calling someone a bitch will be a compliment perhaps, or when we don't view a woman's sexuality as a joke in a bar. There is a woman, I know she exists, that will not be abused, or veiled, or expected to clean up after dinner even though she also cooked the meal. This will be a woman that lives her life, one that she comandeers and plans out and quite possibly changes her mind and then gets back on track when she fails, and her limitations will be less noticeable. She will sit down and write a new story, one where she finds solace and understanding in the white blank page and all of it's endless possibilities.

Damn you white blank page. Damn you! There is so much left to be written. Thankfully, the pages that have come before us in this story are courageous, and loud and proud and prolific. Laced with wonderful, strong and incredibly ballsy women. Who would not take no for an answer. And along the way, there have been the men that loved them, who would never look at this filled up page and feel slighted or resentful or turn away from it. Thank God for the men who believed and the ones who still do. And thank you to those of you, male or female, who look at the pages and see glorious vibrant color and value.

And thank you to the white blank page, for you motivate me and others to fill it up. As frustrating as it can be to put down the words, the book, when it finally comes out, will be totally worth the read.





***One of my favorite Mumford & Sons songs. It's actually a really great song. If you haven't listened to it already, than do it if you have time.