Dearest Readers,
You don’t know me, but we share affection or
love or trust or acquaintance with one Cathy Welker. As she is off enjoying
ocean breezes and following her bliss, (join me in a great sigh of joy and
appreciation of her fella!) I am here to serve as a sad substitute. I was a
student of Cathy’s in the late nineties and I can assure you with a sober face
that she saved my life in more than one way.
Dramatic? Yes. I was a drama kid. Sue me.
All hyperbole aside, I spent this week in
anticipatory throes of angst trying to decide what to blog about. I tossed
around a few ideas: Mothers – how I have many (6!) and the role they play in
the life of a woman. Children and education and how a super-liberal,
big-mouthed mother raising two boys in Texas is quite an adventure. I even
imagined just recycling from my own blog which you can find HERE if you’re interested after
today.
But then, yesterday, I had my 14 week
appointment with my midwife to finally hear the heart of my third and last bean
and behold…no heartbeat could be detected.
I shared this news with my dearest loved ones
through a combination of text and Facebook posting. And I was surprised at the
number of responses I got from people recounting their own miscarriages. For
the record: this is my second. My first was a few years after an abortion and I
had some very clear feelings of being struck down
by a less-than-merciful God.
Upon reading these stories of pain and loss
by so many of the women in my life for whom I have always carried a bit of awe,
I began to realize that I am most certainly not alone in this world or even
this particular experience. By which I mean – I have always viewed myself as an
outsider who experiences the world in a collection of emotions and responses
that no one else has ever felt in such a way. I live a hyperbolic existence. I
have always lived in the margins of the page. I am a footnote or an appendix or
a bit of fringe. I have never been the stuff found within the meat of the book.
In short, I have always been WEIRD. Other.
Especially these days in Texas.
So when I raced through these pages of text
from women for whom I hold the highest esteem – these poised and perfect
ladies. These perfect paragons of femininity and grace. When I knew that they
too had felt the hole punch open in their heart and abdomen where once
potential had lived…I was so grateful…
And then I got pretty pissed.
Because WHY AREN’T WE TALKING TO EACH
OTHER?!? Why aren’t we having more conversations about what matters. Sharing
war wounds and battle stories? Why aren’t we younger women seeking out mentors?
Why aren’t the older women sitting us whippersnappers down and FORCING us to
listen to what you have to say? Because we need it. Oh my GOD do we need you.
We need to know you felt what we feel. We need to know you loved the way we
love and lost the way we lose and that even if the hair and the skin showing
and the music is different: you were HERE. You lived the life we are living.
Because we will listen. Or at least I will. I
swear it.
We need you, ladies who are not our mothers
and grandmothers. We need you to help us not feel like Facebook and Tumblr and
Instagram are our only lifelines in this world. Because they are good ones,
they truly are. They’ve kept me and Cathy friends these many years past my time
as her pupil. They allow me to read her words of wisdom each week and remember how lucky
I am to have six mothers.
And younger women – the responsibility does
not fall just to the wiser of women. This responsibility also lands squarely on our shoulders as well. We must seek out women who
possess the best of what we long to have. We must seek out advice and
companionship and affection and even discipline. We cannot grow if we contain
ourselves inside vessels of friendship that offer no space for change and no
diversity of thought.
Your social media page is controlled by an
algorithm that streamlines your people, products, politics, and thoughts based
on WHAT YOU ALREADY KNOW. Do you really want to live your life exactly as you
are now? I don’t. I want to push and be pushed. Teach and be taught. Love and
be loved.
A hand reached across a linen tablecloth, a
clasp of fingers five on top of five…an embrace of new Chanel and old mingling
together…a ten minute tea on the front porch that turns into an evening…these
things…these are the things that will save us.
Thanks for your attention, dear reader, Cathy will return soon with adventures and tales and (I hope) a bit of euphoria from so many days in the surf.
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