Scattering over the pebble-dash days of my recent existence has left me pondering my sanity. These sharp moments of tension are forcing me to look around at my tin coated life and make some decisions. Precisely what sort of decisions I am entirely uncertain about. There is just some knowing that I am off balance and flailing around in spectacular internal turmoil. I am all too aware that such anguish, such colossal, self-indulgent angst is not confined to the echoing halls of my mind. It is the usual home-maker in the temperament of an adolescent fury or bewilderment - not a thirty-something woman's rant. Yet the growing discontent and unsettled disposition closely lingers beside the chorus of other women's dissatisfaction. Women previously forgotten. Those who were dealt a blow, a twist of fate, by being birthed in to a time of constraint, restriction and discrimination. A place where to be born female entitled you to a life of enslavement in a mans world. No voice, no expression, nothing but tight clothing, marriage to old rotting men and children (if you were lucky).
Lying on the park reading Woolf's A Room of Ones Own the swirling chaos of women's history lands upon my grassy door step. The park sounds and thriving life enclosing me in a blanket of sensual paradise as I ache with sorrow for the women who have gone before and breathe breaths of frustrated agony for the violence and injustice that prevails today for so many more. I am almost lost to the sickening tide of sadness.
I turn to the Indigo Girls for solace and repair.
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