| This letter was published on the WWW for public viewing on March 12, 2000 by Judy Ireland. I believe, although I did not write it, that it is still every bit as relevant today as it was then. It is no longer to be found, and I did not want this to be lost. |
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We have all walked barefoot through the streets of Calcutta.
We have maneuvered sharp stones and hot coals. We have prostituted ourselves and begged to feed our children.
We have all run our fingers through the hair of a dark eyed man we hoped would take us home. We have spun dreams out of cloth and sewn them into secret codes that would point the way to freedom.
We have felt the whip on our backs and rusted chains secured around both ankles.
We have lived in kivas, recounting the almost lost and summoned stones of our ancestors. We have demonstrated service to our sons and daughters, teaching them the ways of respect, with just a handful of dirt. We have held the ceremonial pipe, high above our heads, bringing together both male and female, as we utter the invocation, "All things are born of Woman, and nothing shall be done to harm the children." We have smoked in silence and sweated rounds of prayers to Great Grandmother, Great Grandfather. We have danced our dreams awake.
We have labored by candlelight to embroider the emperor's robe. Knitting tiny stitches of silk and gold. Going blind, that others may see his splendor.
We have stowed away on ships, been pirates, and have known that kind of freedom, and wanted more. We speak with parrots and tigers, knowing the satisfaction of learning their language, incorporating the majesty of their walk. We have stalked the great apes, and lingered on the jungle floor, trying to learn civility.
We have scrambled through windows late in the night, risked punishment and ridicule, just to be, for a moment, in the total rapture of one who sees and cherishes our beauty.
We ultimately know that we are the world's best kept secret around.
We have been painters, splashing tenderness and mercy across a canvas, only to be discovered one hundred years later. Omitted from the history books and continued out of love.
We have died for nothing and we have died trying to prove a point. We have climbed mountains to show that we can. We have carried swords and loaded guns.
We have built temples of unspeakable beauty. Hauled stone to a perfect point and watched men perish in order to reach the top and glorify a god.
We have spent an entire passage from youth to old age, dressed in black. Staring at the ground. Walking behind. We have felt less than men.
We have groomed and brushed and made our horses shine. We have ridden bareback on hot sand and with only our own mane to cover us, trotted slowly through town.
We have stood with our children hiding behind our backs, screaming, "PLEASE DON'T!
We love you."
We have all been thieves and belly dancers, swinging yards of material from the hip. Silver bracelets and rings everywhere, even the nose.
We have all been hung by the neck for being a witch. And for knowing the truth. We have been dropped through the gallows and burned alive for doing what comes naturally, for allowing the magic of our toes to speak.
We know spells. And, that forced will produces things somber and perverse. We have strung bones and holly and collected old teeth. We have painstakingly combined lavender, horse tail, beetle wings, and cinnamon and a lock of blonde hair, to blow life into love. We have intuitively always known that thirteen is better than one. When women gather in numbers, silent, singing, twirling, dancing, spinning and most importantly, laughing, from the ground up we can conjure a prince, and spontaneously, we can let him go.
We know that "witchcraft" is nothing more than the manifestation of the extraordinary on and ordinary day. We have often foreseen the future.
We have been, and remain, splendid women of color, gently balancing potent politics and terra-cotta vessels upon our heads. And, it would seem, that nothing short of grace would support them. We transport water to feed the fields and wash dirty little fingers.
We have been treasured and adored, fought for and fought over. Caged and clipped. Desired and coveted, bruised and sold.
We have been thrown away for no longer being young.
We have held positions of the highest order and ordered others to their knees.
We have acted on stage and on the screen. We have improvised lines at home to halt an intruder. We have befriended and helped to invent drama.
We have watched villages burn while men carry lifeless babies, and our own souls, on a staff. As trophies. More than once, more than twice, we have stood in horror and disbelief, and felt that we could do nothing. It is not so. We know that when something is wrong, damn it, it is WRONG.
We sing in congregations, and on the bus, and pray to keep you safe. We have made music with nothing but sticks. Drummed our heartbeats on the kitchen table. We have performed arias that can shatter glass and break the hearts of angels.
We sing the blues. We have wailed the truth across open fields and crowded streets, and brought courage into picket lines. We whisper lullabies. Chant and hum stories without a spoken word.
We have wept and soaked the ground. We have planted and fed the hungry, the lost, the homeless. We have designed and grown gardens of dahlias, peonies and tulips.
We have written great novels and been on the lookout for inspiring speeches.
We have scrubbed and shined marble, wood and linoleum, and wiped away all traces of blood. We remember Atlantis and Greece and lingering moments of what it means to stand in full glory, with flowing gowns and cypress placed at our feet.
We have lied and hated other women because they seemed to have more. We have secretly envied our own daughters, because they were, or so we thought, more beautiful.
We have held other women and felt ashamed. Lovers? We have had enough to reinvent the word. We have lived for romance and fantasized about the truth. We have been saints and controlling women, often not knowing the difference. We have walked the fine line between madness and the Divine.
We have waited.
We have boarded trains and smuggled loved ones, one last time, though enemy lines.
We have driven long distances and plopped ourselves down on unfamiliar land.
We have made something out of nothing.
We have baked bread and brought soup and nursed others back to life. We have commended and assisted our elders in their safe journey to another world. And, on any unforgiving, hot, August day, we have given birth to billions of stars. Often alone. Our only midwife, the wind. With the age old voice of wisdom that says, "You CAN. Push. Breathe."
We have stayed up nights and slowly rocked our babies 'til we could no longer stand. And with just an hour's sleep, propped that infant up on the bathroom floor,slapped on the eyeliner at 4 am, and prepared for other work. Turned and winked.
We have witnessed the all-knowing, omnipotent gaze that stares us down, right through to the instep of our souls. It comes only from a newborn. And you shiver and laugh out loud, 'cause you know who is really in charge.
We keep the faith and we keep the home and come back again, to service.
We have fitted and altered and changed into every conceivable costume. We have worn a hundred million masks. Rebelled and ran away.
We have begged for freedom and longed for permission. Searched and stood in line.
We have paced and worried and taken long walks. Given in, gotten up and turned around. We have sat in silence and wondered.
Most of all, we resuscitate the soul. We flourish in simplicity. We make whole. Spirit. It is why we are here.
Because we have always known that this is not a hard or complicated world. It is a globe surrounded by unharnessed order, and faeries and unseen guidance. Nothing needs to be controlled, or forced or beaten.
We will love most anything. Just ask.
We have forgotten how closely the Goddess holds us near. And when we choose to remember, the world will shudder, tilt, and spin. It will stand straight up on its axis.
And it will never look the same.
Love,
Judy
