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  • Writer's pictureChar Seawell

Women are dangerous


Throughout my life, I have struggled internally in the company of women.  I have known beautifully spirited women who were kind to me and dear to me in every way possible, but I have spent most of my seven decades waiting for the shoe to drop in pretty much every relationship.  The hidden agenda that will get revealed. The constant occupation of mistrust in every conversation.  The determined inner dialogue that promises rejection.


Part of that probably stems from messages I received in my home which were reinforced by the society around me. In our home, first and foremost, the job of a female was to serve the males in the family. My earliest memory was when one of my three brothers wanted another helping at dinner.  I believe when he turned towards me, I said he could get it himself.  My mother’s reply was swift and forceful.


As long as there is a woman in this house, he doesn’t have to.


As I grew older, I learned from my mother’s comments that not only were  men to be served but also that women were dangerous.  They were not to be trusted. They were manipulative. She made fun of them behind their backs, and she continued her pronouncements about the expected roles of men and women throughout my childhood.


In this perfect storm, I avoided female relationships and focused on serving men,  becoming. one of the now 81% of women who, in this current time,  have experienced sexual trauma. Repeatedly. And the sad thing is, with my skewed idea of what a woman’s true character was, I hid myself from the very tribe who could have been the one to aid in my healing and help me find my voice.


All of that is changing now in this desert wilderness.


Moving here, I gave away my former selves defined by my occupation and my upbringing like the clothing and possessions that went into the boxes to Goodwill.  I made an intentional decision to show up unadorned by previous expectations or cultural indoctrination.


I wanted to give just being myself a shot.


Somewhere in this journey, I ended up in a group of powerful, centered, compassionate, women writers.  On my first day in the group, I remember how deeply I felt all the old voices invading my spirit.  I was on edge, certain if I came with the “real me,” I would face rejection. I even tried quitting once, to no avail. The lure of their creativity and authenticity was too strong. So I kept those voices at bay and breathed deeply through that first class and the ones to come, determined to not succumb to presenting a false self in order to stay safe.


In the process of letting go of that old self, I found a tribe.  These writers, these women, these warriors, literally steal my breath when I hear their words, and I weep in gratitude at their presence in my life.  Ripped from the lies of my childhood, I embrace their femaleness, their raw courage, their strength in adversity and their innate capacity to hold a heart as gently as a newborn.  And over these many months, I have discovered something that has reshaped my thinking.

 

Women are dangerous., but not in the way my mother taught me.

 

We are dangerous when we find our voices and feast on ideas grown in metaphor and nurtured in soft light. We are dangerous when we help each other navigate the hazards of our own wilderness, taking special care to point out the hidden snares.


.And we are dangerous when we stand huddled together, tightly circled around the campfires of our shared healing Light.

 

Sister Wild Horse

By Jules Donnelly, Artist/Writer


Looks like change is swirling around us. 

I am all at sea and i don't know how to row. 

I will bring wooden spoons and you can bring a boat 

withthefullmoontiedtotheback. 

We would drift on liquid glass and count the shooting stars. 

We would pick ripe words from the overhanging branches and 

piece them together to make sentences brimming with honey and jalapeños. 

Then returning to land as all wild horses must.


Remembering. 


We are more than warriors. 

More than the 

grocery list

of surgeries 

between us. 


More than the axe chops we've taken.


We are more than what they said we'd be.

Gone farther than what they said we could. 

Beamed brighter than most imagined. So.

I feel the need to be clear. I should be perfectly clear.  

My Stepfather says I have a big mouth. 

I say my mouth has found its words.

I say i am brave. We are brave enough. 

We are not through. We are not finished. We are brave enough to live each day.

With all we've got. For as long as we've got.


We can be gloriously quiet or courageously loud. 

Either way is great.

I'm here to tell you that everything is perfectly fine. However, 

I cheated. Only peeked really.

But I saw them there. And that's the perfect part.

Written there in the Book of Life

breathed by God.

Our names are written there. Us.

Sisters Wild Horse.

Wild forever.


 - Written for my friend M.L. Wild forever!

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2 Comments


pat.sylvia
pat.sylvia
Mar 05

What a wonderful poem! Thank you for that! I'm so very happy for you that you found your "tribe", Char! BTW, as a younger person, I was told I was too bossy, or too loud. And it is sometimes still implied when in meetings and groups controlled by certain men. In my old age, however, it no longer intimidates me! 😁

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Char Seawell
Char Seawell
Mar 11
Replying to

The woman who wrote the poem is my favorite writer in the group. She embodies that poem, always creating sentences of “honey and jalapeño” words. She has started a novel, which I can’t wait for her to finish. isn’t it great that we no longer care what others think? Why did it take so long?

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