beginnings – "ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA."

The Power of She

Why does she write in the third person? Who is she?

If you’ve been following my blog here, and if you’ve managed to visit other fora on social media where this whole journey began, you know that I am SHE. You are SHE. All individuals who identify as female (although Sylvia & Erma hesitate to speak for all women) are SHE. Each of us is multi-dimensional. We are made up of those who have blazed trails before us, and we evolve as we set on new paths with those lessons in tow. For better or worse.

I choose third person because there is both a freedom and a security that come from its use. As I regain my footing after years of putting others first — not at their request but rather because it was easier for me to find purpose that way – I find myself to be often unrecognizable; and for the first time in forever, I am excited about becoming. I am full of fear, but I am more fearful of what will happen (to her) if she stays the course and chooses that which she already knows. That which she already knows has extinguished so many of her dreams and dampened the ground for any wild fires. It’s time to find the spark.

Today, as she took the road less travelled, she began to breathe again.

She is unleashing the power of SHE.

#over50andfabulous
#midlifewomen
#womenwriters #memoir #nonfiction

The Bridge to Me

As she crossed the bridge, she removed all of the fluff, all of the extra. She got rid of the fillers. The sugar-coating melted away. She stripped down and began to bare her soul.

“Now, you are ready to begin, my friend.”

“Begin what?”

“Everything. Anything.”

And with that, what she considered both friendly recommendation and cautious admonition, she noticed the view from the bridge. Wider. Vaster. She looked ahead not down.

Clean Windows

A room can be dank because you have closed the windows, you’ve closed the curtains. But the sun is shining outside, and the air is fresh outside. In order to get that fresh air, you have to get up and open the window and draw the curtains apart. Forgiveness is like this. (Desmond Tutu)

As Sylvia looked out her bedroom window this morning, she noticed the sunlight hitting it in such a way that she was struck concurrently by two thoughts: the first was pretty matter-of-fact, that she must stay home on occasion and get some cleaning done; and the second thing, well, that was a bit clearer, that even when we allow something into our hearts, minds, and souls, there is no purity in it unless we invite it without any preconceived notions or expectations. (Sylvia’s second cup of coffee had begun to work.)

It’s the most difficult thing to do, I believe, to forgive. Forgiving means you’ve been wronged or hurt. More precisely, it means you feel wronged or hurt. When Sylvia opens the windows, she becomes vulnerable, and it is that vulnerability where she risks being hurt. It is also that vulnerability that allows pure joy, love and peace to enter.

Hmm. So, you decide. Doors and windows open or closed? Forgive yourself first, and then open. Fresh air never felt so good. That’s what Sylvia has been doing on this summer day. The windows look much cleaner now.