Pen's Blog - Posts Tagged "dreams"
Just a Woman
She’s just as beautiful in a ponytail and blue jeans as she is dressed to do the town.
She can stand on the brink of self-discovery, and she can pull herself back from the edge of self-destruction.
She is a survivor.
She is a child. She delights in rainbows and butterflies; horses and puppies; bubbles, balloons and snowflakes; the flight of a tern as it takes wing over the water of a still morning lake.
She can spend hours dreaming of the things she would like to do and be, but not one minute wishing away for a life that might have been.
She is strong. She is soft. Within her strength lies her tenderness and her softness harbors her determination.
She is a demon when something touches that spark within that ignites the flame of her sense of anger and injustice.
She is wild. She is untamed. She is infectious.
She can even be addictive.
It doesn’t matter how worldly or how knowledgeable she seems, in her innermost heart there lies the purity of innocence and her faith and belief in the basic good of other people. And that heart beats fiercely and passionately, driven by desire.
She is willful. She is stubborn. She is tender. She is shy.
Her dreams fly upon gossamer wings, knowing full well that dreams can be broken, but knowing just as well the beauty of the birth of new dreams.
She grieves for the state of the world, yet finds wonder in the world that surrounds her.
To look upon her face, to have those eyes turn, gazing in wonder and astonishment at the world around her, to look at you with that gaze; doesn’t that touch something within you in a place so deep that there is no name for it, no map that can charter it?
For all the praise that could be lavished upon her, she won’t be placed upon a pedestal. To be lovingly admired just isn’t her style. To be appreciated, yes. Spoiled, even. But she wants to know that she is real. Not a fragile, porcelain doll. More like Raggedy Ann; a doll made for holding and cuddling, made to withstand the rugged handling that love so richly bestows along with the tenderness that accompanies the handling.
And doesn’t it illicit a desire within you to touch her? To claim her? To reach her in a way and in a place where she’s never been reached before? That nameless place hidden somewhere within the very soul of her that she may not even be aware of its existence.
She expects respect and expects to earn it. Likewise, it is not something she gives freely.
Walk with her. Talk with her. Hold her hand. Touch her cheek. She is incredibly human.
Her love for life is astonishing in its simplicity.
Her love for you is even more astonishing in its complexity.
She is compelling. She is complicated.
But she prefers the term “multi-faceted.”
She is majestic. She is humble.
She makes no pretense to perfection. To expect perfection in an imperfect world is folly, but she strives to be the best she can be and expects no less from those she meets.
Those who underestimate her find themselves awestruck by her unexpectedness. Those who take her for granted are left behind in the dust of her victories.
Somewhere, somewhere between her childlike wonder, her innocence and her adult reasoning, there is a woman waiting to be discovered.
And there’s something there that is worth taking a lifetime to discover. To love a small part of her or only one aspect of her, is to deny the euphoria of knowing the woman as a whole in all of her unique diversities, in all of her triumphs and foibles, wisdoms, depths and knowledge.
All of these diverse qualities do not belong to just one woman. They are a part of all women. They are the strands of a cobweb; they are what make each woman unique and individual and beautiful and yet these strands are strong enough to bind us together as sisters.
So, when you ask her who she is, and she responds, “I’m just a woman,” what she is really saying is, “I am so much more.”
She can stand on the brink of self-discovery, and she can pull herself back from the edge of self-destruction.
She is a survivor.
She is a child. She delights in rainbows and butterflies; horses and puppies; bubbles, balloons and snowflakes; the flight of a tern as it takes wing over the water of a still morning lake.
She can spend hours dreaming of the things she would like to do and be, but not one minute wishing away for a life that might have been.
She is strong. She is soft. Within her strength lies her tenderness and her softness harbors her determination.
She is a demon when something touches that spark within that ignites the flame of her sense of anger and injustice.
She is wild. She is untamed. She is infectious.
She can even be addictive.
It doesn’t matter how worldly or how knowledgeable she seems, in her innermost heart there lies the purity of innocence and her faith and belief in the basic good of other people. And that heart beats fiercely and passionately, driven by desire.
She is willful. She is stubborn. She is tender. She is shy.
Her dreams fly upon gossamer wings, knowing full well that dreams can be broken, but knowing just as well the beauty of the birth of new dreams.
She grieves for the state of the world, yet finds wonder in the world that surrounds her.
To look upon her face, to have those eyes turn, gazing in wonder and astonishment at the world around her, to look at you with that gaze; doesn’t that touch something within you in a place so deep that there is no name for it, no map that can charter it?
For all the praise that could be lavished upon her, she won’t be placed upon a pedestal. To be lovingly admired just isn’t her style. To be appreciated, yes. Spoiled, even. But she wants to know that she is real. Not a fragile, porcelain doll. More like Raggedy Ann; a doll made for holding and cuddling, made to withstand the rugged handling that love so richly bestows along with the tenderness that accompanies the handling.
And doesn’t it illicit a desire within you to touch her? To claim her? To reach her in a way and in a place where she’s never been reached before? That nameless place hidden somewhere within the very soul of her that she may not even be aware of its existence.
She expects respect and expects to earn it. Likewise, it is not something she gives freely.
Walk with her. Talk with her. Hold her hand. Touch her cheek. She is incredibly human.
Her love for life is astonishing in its simplicity.
Her love for you is even more astonishing in its complexity.
She is compelling. She is complicated.
But she prefers the term “multi-faceted.”
She is majestic. She is humble.
She makes no pretense to perfection. To expect perfection in an imperfect world is folly, but she strives to be the best she can be and expects no less from those she meets.
Those who underestimate her find themselves awestruck by her unexpectedness. Those who take her for granted are left behind in the dust of her victories.
Somewhere, somewhere between her childlike wonder, her innocence and her adult reasoning, there is a woman waiting to be discovered.
And there’s something there that is worth taking a lifetime to discover. To love a small part of her or only one aspect of her, is to deny the euphoria of knowing the woman as a whole in all of her unique diversities, in all of her triumphs and foibles, wisdoms, depths and knowledge.
All of these diverse qualities do not belong to just one woman. They are a part of all women. They are the strands of a cobweb; they are what make each woman unique and individual and beautiful and yet these strands are strong enough to bind us together as sisters.
So, when you ask her who she is, and she responds, “I’m just a woman,” what she is really saying is, “I am so much more.”
Journalling the journey
A friend of mine recently asked me for advice. She has dreams and ambitions, but feels she has reached a place of stagnation. She feels she spins her wheels, but she is stuck in a rut she cannot break free from. Being in this position has her discouraged and depressed and she’s not certain what to do. She asked me if I had any suggestions.
“Journaling,” was the first word I uttered.
Journaling isn’t the only answer. It isn’t the ultimate answer. But it is a powerful tool any woman can carry throughout her journey. It is a safe space through which to vent anger and disappointment; express joy, triumph and sadness; plan, implement and celebrate accomplishments.
I, like most women, have faced numerous difficult situations in my life. Each time, keeping a journal has helped see me through those times. It has helped me to gain insight into myself and the things that I need and the things that I want — and to understand the difference between the two.
On the first page of my journal is a title: Letters to a Benevolent God. This is exactly how I use my journal. I write a letter to a kind, loving, forgiving God. I espouse everything from my wonder at being alive and aware to my aggravation with my job; my dreams and goals and the steps I must take to achieve them; even my disappointments in the people in my life. Then I leave it up to the authority of this Higher Power to show me what I must do and to help me in dealing with life’s challenges.
I suppose it’s a lot like praying except I put it down on paper.
You don’t have to give your journal a title. That is my own unique idiosyncrasy. Feel free to implement your own unique idiosyncrasy in the process.
As you journal, don’t hold anything back. Don’t be afraid to be angry, to vent your frustration, indignation or aggravation. Don’t be ashamed to cry. Don’t feel guilty about bragging. This journal is yours. This journal is YOU.
After you have journalled for awhile, go back and read what you have written. You may be surprised to find you have taken a great many steps since your initial entry. You may be disappointed to find you have taken a few steps back. However you feel and whatever you find, it is up to you to interpret it and then discover what it is you need to do with this knowledge.
There is always a discovery about oneself to be made. Sometimes, that discover can be life-altering, or eye-opening. Some discoveries can help you see your way clear of something. Some can put you into utter turmoil, but, most often, it is turmoil that must be faced and processed before one can move forward.
In a discussion of journaling with another friend of mine, she expressed concern over someone reading her journal once she is gone. It is a legitimate concern. After all, most of us do not wish to hurt people with our words, whether we are there to defend ourselves or not. I presented her with a solution to this dilemma. Entrust the location of your journal to at least one person whom you trust implicitly. Instruct this person to acquire and destroy your journal in the event anything should happen to you.
In all truth and honesty, though, I wouldn’t suggest having your journals destroyed. Who knows the value your journals may have for future generations? I’m not speaking in terms of financial value, but rather the intrinsic value of what a woman’s life was like at the turn of this century. Your individual insight may prove very poignant to future generations. Your unique journey may be inspirational to someone else.
Think of the correspondence between Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. The world may never have known how industrious or passionate these two women were about women’s rights to vote had that correspondence been destroyed.
Archeology is forever finding written communications which enlighten the rest of the world about what has come before us.
This is not to say your journal will make history. This is just to say that one never knows what actions you make today may make an impact a hundred years from now.
Now, please excuse me, I have a Letter to write.
“Journaling,” was the first word I uttered.
Journaling isn’t the only answer. It isn’t the ultimate answer. But it is a powerful tool any woman can carry throughout her journey. It is a safe space through which to vent anger and disappointment; express joy, triumph and sadness; plan, implement and celebrate accomplishments.
I, like most women, have faced numerous difficult situations in my life. Each time, keeping a journal has helped see me through those times. It has helped me to gain insight into myself and the things that I need and the things that I want — and to understand the difference between the two.
On the first page of my journal is a title: Letters to a Benevolent God. This is exactly how I use my journal. I write a letter to a kind, loving, forgiving God. I espouse everything from my wonder at being alive and aware to my aggravation with my job; my dreams and goals and the steps I must take to achieve them; even my disappointments in the people in my life. Then I leave it up to the authority of this Higher Power to show me what I must do and to help me in dealing with life’s challenges.
I suppose it’s a lot like praying except I put it down on paper.
You don’t have to give your journal a title. That is my own unique idiosyncrasy. Feel free to implement your own unique idiosyncrasy in the process.
As you journal, don’t hold anything back. Don’t be afraid to be angry, to vent your frustration, indignation or aggravation. Don’t be ashamed to cry. Don’t feel guilty about bragging. This journal is yours. This journal is YOU.
After you have journalled for awhile, go back and read what you have written. You may be surprised to find you have taken a great many steps since your initial entry. You may be disappointed to find you have taken a few steps back. However you feel and whatever you find, it is up to you to interpret it and then discover what it is you need to do with this knowledge.
There is always a discovery about oneself to be made. Sometimes, that discover can be life-altering, or eye-opening. Some discoveries can help you see your way clear of something. Some can put you into utter turmoil, but, most often, it is turmoil that must be faced and processed before one can move forward.
In a discussion of journaling with another friend of mine, she expressed concern over someone reading her journal once she is gone. It is a legitimate concern. After all, most of us do not wish to hurt people with our words, whether we are there to defend ourselves or not. I presented her with a solution to this dilemma. Entrust the location of your journal to at least one person whom you trust implicitly. Instruct this person to acquire and destroy your journal in the event anything should happen to you.
In all truth and honesty, though, I wouldn’t suggest having your journals destroyed. Who knows the value your journals may have for future generations? I’m not speaking in terms of financial value, but rather the intrinsic value of what a woman’s life was like at the turn of this century. Your individual insight may prove very poignant to future generations. Your unique journey may be inspirational to someone else.
Think of the correspondence between Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. The world may never have known how industrious or passionate these two women were about women’s rights to vote had that correspondence been destroyed.
Archeology is forever finding written communications which enlighten the rest of the world about what has come before us.
This is not to say your journal will make history. This is just to say that one never knows what actions you make today may make an impact a hundred years from now.
Now, please excuse me, I have a Letter to write.
