A Woman in a Box

 Before I became a woman, they handed me a box.

Here, they said. This is for you to stay safe in.

This box is too small, I said. It’s the wrong shape for me.

But don’t you want to be safe? If you put yourself into the box, everything will be all right. You will be safe– you’ll be a Good Wife, and a Good Mother. This box is the only way to know for sure that your husband and your children are happy.

But what about me? Will I be happy?

You’ll be safe.

So I climbed into the box.

It doesn’t fit, I cried! Look, I stick out over here, and this leg is too long, and my breasts are too large and and I have questions, ideas, things I want to see and do.

From outside the box, they handed me a knife.

Here, they said. This is for you. Cut off the pieces that don’t fit in the box.

I took the knife, trembling.

That will hurt, I whispered.

But it’s the only way to be safe. It’s the only way to be Right and Good. Cut, they cried!

So I cut.

I cut off all the parts of me that didn’t fit. I held my breath and made my largeness small. I made my small tender parts big and tough to fill the empty corners. I pulled the lid down tight, so I could be safe inside the box. 

And I painted a laughing face on the outside of the box.

Grief #3

Grief is a canyon with no bottom. At first you are just falling away eternally, deeper and faster and into thicker darkness every moment until the light is almost gone.

Then at some point you find that you are only dangling over the edge, hanging on by your fingernails, dangerously close to falling, but still somehow attached to solid ground. For now. For as long as you can keep your hands clenched, clawed desperately into the crumbling edge of routine, habit, daily existence. All your energy is focused on just not letting go.

And then maybe, hopefully, eventually you are able to get an elbow up and maybe a knee over the ledge. You might lie, gasping for a while on solid ground. You might be able to crawl away, and then sit on a bench a little distance from the cliff and observe the canyon and remember and marvel at its awful, beautiful depth.

If I could, I would tell you...

Here are some things I wish you heard every day.

You did a good job.

You are a gift.

Your ideas matter.

I am listening to you, I hear you, that makes sense.

You are needed here.

You are right.

That was hard, but you did a good job-- you did the best you could and that was enough.

I am so proud of you.

I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this.

What do you need right now?

This won't last forever, it will get easier, it will pass away.

It's good enough now, you can stop trying.

We've been waiting for you.

You're really good at this.

What do you wish you could hear someone say?