I wrote about the friend-ish and how he says I am driven and determined and how he doesn’t get it. If I’m honest, he’s scared of me. I suspect. I can’t quite understand why anyone would be scared of me. It seems to be common.
I often refer to the two Margaret’s. We have 2 Canadian authors and they both shaped me as a young woman. I have words from Margaret Laurence inked on my shoulder. I liked her better. I liked her characters, her form of storytelling, the world she built.
I love Margaret Atwood’s poetry. Mostly because I loved Half-Hanged Mary. As a young woman, discovering what it meant to have a uterus and be a threat, it was the verses about living alone, having breasts and some property to call yours. They gave words and shape to what it meant to face sexism.
After my son’s death, when I ate a lot of casseroles dressed with loneliness and recrimination, it was the verses about compassion being in too short of a supply to go around. Enough to understand that when tragedy strikes people flee.
As I struggled with my faith (and struggle still) the verses about being angry and trying to understand. The verses about changing your relationship with God. She expressed rage so much more powerfully than I.
And now? In the midst of freedom and overwork and constant anxiety? When I have over spilled myself on many someone’s, wishing I would learn to be more mindful of investment?
Before, I was not a witch.
But now I am one.