The last few days have been filled with rain.
Storms, in my world, are welcome. Lightning flashing through the blinds casts odd, sharp shadows across the walls as I huddle under the blankets of my bed -- my safe place. Since childhood, my bed has been "base," has been the one place in the world where nothing can get me, harm me, seek me, influence me. As I write, I've forsaken the convince of my desk for the comfort of my bed.
But the thunder is long gone, the lightning's job finished. Shadows have retreated to their own holes in the fabric of a subjective reality. The rain remains. It falls in sheets, pelting the windows in steady staccato, a cadence to the arrival of spring.
Rain brings with it pain. As pressure builds, joints ache, heads become squeezed, fingers shaky. It has been days of medicine and aching and tears -- my own rain, added to the mix. Perhaps we are all crying, in our own ways.
Staying in means inner exploration. And I wrote my Womanfesto.
A manifesto is a public declaration of the purpose, principles, or plan of action of a group or individual.
I have felt trapped by grammar. I am not a man, I would not label MY declaration as that made from a male perspective. I am a woman -- a strong, independent, caring woman of the Earth. That in itself is part of my declaration. I'd shout from the highest mountains if I could.
My journal is my Womanfesto. It is my purpose, it holds my internal debates, finds the truth, plans my life, seeks miracles, mends the soul. It is the place where I spill from a broken human body, where disease and pain don't exist. In my journal, color dances where the world is gray. Images bring meaning. Dreams are born from the fog of the unconscious.
Declare yourself. Be bold. Shout, cry, laugh. Discover who you are, who you want to be. Tell the world all those things you hold back because they might not be "right" or accepted. Say dangerous things. Confess secrets that are eating away at your soul. Be you.
Your journal is your friend, your companion, your guidebook on this journey known as life. I think it's time to stop treating them as places of art or thoughtful composition and be messy. Imagine yourself in the sands of India -- would your guidebook still be perfect, pristine, and "correct?" Or would you be using what you could find, letting the sand get stuck in the spine? No more expensive tools. Pre-made objects. Or any of that stuff. It's getting in the way.
Here is my Womanfesto. I used a Sharpie I found at work and some gel pens in my purse. And I feel as though it's one of the most powerful pages I've ever done.
