My Period Is Not A Spiritual Journey

I want periods to be beautiful, I really do. I want to be blissed out about diva cups and my menstrual cycle. I want to dare to wear long flowey white skirts and run down beaches amazed with the wonders of my body. I want to do ‘period yoga’ where I stretch out my cramps and marvel about motherhood. I want to write my body love letters, encouraging it to keep doing its thing and keeping me healthy. I want to wake up and drink chamomile tea while tenderly patting my pelvis and curling my toes.

I appreciate all the sweet feminist boys who say periods are beautiful. I appreciate the sweet feminist boys who try to get rid of the stigma surrounding women's bodies. I really do. I respect the women who paint canvases with their menstrual blood to make a statement. I respect the women who create new feminine product alternatives so that periods don’t keep young women from attending school. I really do.

And I really want periods to be beautiful, I really do. But let’s be honest. I’ve gotten period blood on my feet. On my feet. There is about nothing worse than waking up, standing up and feeling a waterfall gush down your legs. Pads are the grown up woman's equivalent of a diaper. When I’m on my period I consistently wonder if it possible to become addicted to ibuprofen. I spill little red pills all over my purse and swallow them as if they are magic. 

I’ve written slam poetry about periods. There is something really poetic about bleeding over the possibility of a child, of children for years before their potential arrival. My mother bled for me, for my brothers. And I bleed for the children I may never have. I bleed for possibility. I am thankful for my mother’s blood. But let’s be truthful, no child’s gratitude is ever going to cover waking up at 2 am, clutching your stomach. Is my child ever going to thank me for that? No. No one is ever going to say to me “Thank you so much for feeling like you might die once a month for me. That’s so nice of you.”

I cry when I have my period. It freakin’ hurts. It has always, really, really, hurt. I do not tend to be an envious person. But I envy all females whose periods do not feel like a small drummer is banging on the walls of their uterus. If your period does not hurt like heck, do not gloat. If you gloat, I will hate you. Though by the time you have mentioned it doesn’t hurt, I have probably already put serious thought into hating you. Give gratitude and have lots of compassion for your not as blessed sisters, here. Let me just tell you, I missed many days of middle school, with a stinky lavender compress against my pelvis, in bed, worry about how I would survive college without my mother checking on me and my cramps. However, I did just make it through a whole year of college without missing a day of school.

This year I bought a little pink diva cup in hopes I could learn to love my period. I don’t know how to use it and i hate seeing its little daisy bag. My period is not daisies. It is not a frolic through a little feminist field of body celebration. My period does not bring my closer to nature. It does not make me feel like an empowered women. I do not go on spiritual full moon journeys and bleed into the earth. Instead I fill my purse and pockets with tampons and curse he who created waist bands and tight clothes. I do not find this experience transcendent or spiritual.

And I’ve been trying. I have really been trying. I do have affection for my period. I think my body is neat. I’ve written my poetry, I’ve read my feminist literature, I’ve yelled at my brothers for thinking my period is gross. Here’s the deal, I don’t think my period is gross. But I also don’t find it beautiful. I find its rhetoric, its poetic potential, its symbolism beautiful. But this actual experience, this waking up to stained blood sheets and fear that sharks will eat me when I swim in the ocean, I’m not really digging this. I’m not digging stuffing bleached horrible things in my body. I am not digging reading articles about Toxic shock syndrome and that tampons are ten dollars a box. I am not appreciating that my government taxes feminine products because its run by a bunch of old white men who don’t care that I’m over here glaring at them all. I am not digging cute little acronyms like T.I.M. “Have you met T.I.M yet?” Yes, I have and I hate him. I am not digging any of this.

So in case you were wondering:

My period is not a spiritual journey.

It does not connect me to the moon, or God or whatever inner women goddess crap you’re selling me.

It has not caused me to transcend my human form.

It is not my body’s way of calling out to Mother Earth.

It does not want your red cupcakes and pink balloon parties.

It does not want your homeopathic remedies and krill oil.

It does not want to be your feminist art project.

I want periods to be beautiful.

But more than that, much more than that, My period and I just want to curl up with a bottle of ibuprofen, a pair of loose pants and a bowl of frozen cream puffs and wait this thing out. That is all we want.

That is all we have ever really wanted. 

Young And Pretty

We are walking past the Ferry building, San Francisco. He tries to stop us, “Hello Ladies! I am only talking to stylish people today.”

We ignore him and she turns to me angrily. “What did he say?”

“I’m only talking to stylish people..”

A lady, wearing his same green shirt shouts out to us. “Was he bugging you ladies? I’m sorry! This will only take a minute of your time…”

“No thanks.”

Her face is still flared. “Maybe they should teach him not to hit on people he is trying to sell things to!”

“He’s not hitting on us. It’s a script.” I reply.

She is not buying it. 

“He was hitting on us. It may be a script. But he only said that to us because we are young and pretty.”

Young and pretty. Young and pretty.

I look at her. Yes, yes, her. But when I catch my own reflection in the dark glass of buildings along the Embarcadero, it’s harder for me to agree with that statement. I wish I had not worn this silly pinstripe romper. I reflectively pull my stomach in, try to stand straight. The view is not much improved.

At her home, I change in the bathroom after my shower, stare at my bra in the mirror. It seems too small to me. It leaves little claw marks across me. But I’m okay with this view. And I wish I was all body love and positive, but its always so much easier when its other people’s bodies were are talking about. You go sister, rock that crop top. I’ll just cut up this tee shirt too short and not wear it outside of these doors. I walked out the bathroom towards her room and lay on her bed, my body warm, my legs tired.

She walks in with a towel on and checks her phone. She is in no rush to get dressed. And when she does, she sheds her towel lightly and fully. I have seen her body many times. We are best friends, there is no strangeness in our changing together. But still, I am in aware of how completely and without hesitation, she is willing to stand in her own skin, completely comfortable. I try to emulate her, in shifts, but I am still too uncomfortable to be fully unclothed for seconds in front of any person but my own.

Young. And Pretty.

Another night. It is not warm here. I traveled by train to get here and we are walking across the wet grass. Our cheeks are flushed, our voices are raised the sort of octave produced by freedom and heady giggles. She is wearing a short skirt, maroon. The sort of skirt you shouldn’t bend in and watch your twirls, darling, we might catch sight of your underwear (The cotton and little lace sort, she never wears thongs. This is a point we agree on.) Not that she would mind too much. She is not easily embarrassed. 

The lights of the campus are warm. Our breath comes out in little clouds. We speak in the tones of our youth, feminist terms interspersed with the names of boys, literature, twinges of gossip. We compare our collected experiences and scribbled first semester notes. Names and people we do and don’t know bounce back and forth. I say “I mean, she’s just one of those people is pretty and knows it.”

She turns to me and speaks without missing a beat. “Well, I know I’m pretty. But I’m not obnoxious about it.”

I blink, I feel a kick inside me. Young and Pretty. Are we allowed to know we are pretty, much less claim it? Isn’t that against everything..what? I don’t know. I’ve never known. But isn’t one supposed to be in constant questioning about one’s body, one’s face? There should never be any answers, no real affirmation. That’s how they keep us tame.

“I know.

I know I’m young and pretty.”

It reminds of another time. Another time turning to another friend, the sort of friend you walk down the street with and boys stare. But you know its never at you. “You know you’re gorgeous, right?” I ask. I expect her to rebut this, to be shocked by such an accusation. But she isn’t. She isn’t at all. “I mean, I’m not stupid. I know I have a decent face.” How can you know this? How can you state this with such utter confidence?

Young and Pretty.

Back in her room now, she stands in a pink bra, lace like icing. “Isn’t it cute.” she squeals, half on jest, but in pride, the sort of pride only young women share between each other in relation to underwear and little skirts and sun hats. 

And it is. It is very, very cute. I look at her. Her body is soft and gentle. Her face is familiar, little freckles playing against the bride of her nose. Even from her, I recognize the scent of her hair, gently scented shampoo. 

“Aren’t I pretty”

“Yes, yes you are.”

And if only I could learn to see myself, through the eyes you see yourself through. 

If only I could learn to see myself through the eyes you see me through.

If only I could learn to see myself through the eyes I see you. 

Young and Pretty. Young and Pretty.

A Writer's Prayer

May I find the words I seek. May I find companionship and solace in the stories I write. May I find a voice and give voice to those that are silenced. May my words be brave and courageous, may they stand against time. Dear Lord, I pray that my words bring healing, that they allow battle wounds to deal. They come in peace, they desire to build.. But they are not afraid to be bold, to speak that which is uncomfortable, that which may pain. They are not the stuff of simple fairytales, but of wildness and heady freedom. They are found in the tartness of summer’s first blackberries, caught between thorns and brambles. May I write words that hold their weight, but know when to wear white dresses and yellow flowers. Words that are nomadic and yet rooted. They take hold in hearts and swing themselves up into the wind. These words, my words, they are the vines up ancient trees, they are the newest of spring’s children. They are human and flawed. But they are sanctified, made holy through candlelight and prayer. They are the beats between music that cries and music that laughs. They are not the sort to be contained to the page, they are too untamed for such a notion. They crawl into hearts and sleep in the curves of the ear. These words, they are words that fight. These words, they are words that love. They are contradictions, they are parables. May these words be blessed. May the Lord, look upon this little church of words and bless its boughs. May She anoint these fingers, may She consecrate this ground. May each word here be kissed by angels, may each word be a balm to those that in need. May these words matter. May these words dance. 

Amen.

my desk.

What's Up With My Book Shelf? Only Reading books by Women Authors For A Year

When I set out to only read books by women authors for a year, it was not a political statement. I was simply addressing an imbalance in my life. I saw that my crammed book shelf was filled with books by men, I could barely remember the last book I had read by a women. It felt wrong. I knew I needed to fix something. So I decided that every book I read outside of my school curriculum would be by a woman. At first I would go to grab a book and then shake my head and put it back-by a man. I did this over and over again, but over time only looking at titles by women became second nature. It became like I couldn’t see the other books. But at the same time, I was shocked. As I became highly attuned to grabbing books by women, I began to see how rare they are. Take a moment to really look, look at your book stores, your library shelves. Where are the books by women? Sure, they are there. But the numbers are nowhere near equal. 

And so the personal became political. I did research, I sent out a survey, I took a class on women’s voices, I created a list of my school librarian’s favourite books by women authors. I started to organize and stock the up cycle book centre with books by women. Now home, I’m setting up writing workshops for young girls in the community and giving them venues to share their work. 

The truth is women are writing, women are being published. But we’re not getting the shelf space, not getting the recognition we deserve. We are not in your school curriculum. We are not the authors of your textbooks. We are not on the top of the best seller lists. So I’ve come to understand that if I want space for myself on book shelves, I will have to carve that space out for myself, shove my way in. I am willing to do this because I know I deserve that space, I know that women deserve equal space. So yes, I read only books by women for a year, and yes it became political statement.

It was a statement 

-that my gender is worth recognition.

-we deserve space.

-I’m done with a literary canon that is not inclusive.

-I believe books are one of the most important tools on this planet, and if we don’t have access to a full toolbox than we are only shorting ourselves.

-women don’t write books for women, they write books for people. ALL PEOPLE. It is beyond time we recognize that. 

-This is bigger than gender…

Books are what make our lives rich, teach us to be curious, teach us compassion. Our first loves lived in books, our earliest friends played in pages. It’s an absolute tragedy to be kept from the diverse range of voices and experiences out there. Yes, I read books by women for a year, but beyond gender, this experience showed me what amazing literary voices I have lost out on by being stuck to a western white literary canon. 

-This is not just a feminist stance. 

And you know what, I read so many amazing, rich and inspiring books that I may never have laid my hands on if not for this experience. 

So here is my book list from this past school year. 

The Book List :

1.The Orchard By Theresa Weir 

2.The Lives Of Monster Dogs By Kirsten Barkis.

3.The Glass Castle By Jeanette Walls

4.Commencement by J. Courney Sullivan (I spent much of the year cutting up this book and turning it into an art project…in other words, don’t read it). 

5.The Daughter Of The Queen Of Sheba by Jacki Lyden 

6.Going Bovine by Libba Bray

7.Things I Don’t Want to Know by Debra Levy

8.Faith Unraveled by Rachel Held Evans

9.A Map Of The World By Jane Hamilton 

10.Help, Thanks, Wow By Anne Lamott 

11.The Night Book Mobile (Graphic novel) by Audrey Niffennegger 

12.Love, Anger, Madness by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

13.The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood

14.The Age Of Innocence by Edith Wharton

15.Jezebel by Irene Nemirovsky 

16.Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

17. Dog Eaters by Jessica Hagedorn 

18. The Cure For Death By Lightning by Gail Anderson-Dargatz 

So where do I move on from here? I work on creating a more balanced book shelf. I look to empower and support women writers in my community. I constantly evaluate my reading habits and why I choose the books I choose. I do not just randomly grab from shelves, but make sure I’m reading a diverse array of books. I read outside my comfort zone, I read books that didn’t make it into the white male western literary canon. I read the sort of books I want to see on the market more. And I vocally celebrate all bad ass women writers. I invite you to join me!

Want some great resources? Here are some of my favourites!

KT Bradford’s “I challenge you to stop reading white straight cis gendered male authors for one year.”

http://www.xojane.com/entertainment/reading-challenge-stop-reading-white-straight-cis-male-authors-for-one-year

The 2014 VIDA Count

VIDA looks at whether women are being reviewed in major literary publications, newspapers and magazines each year. (Answer: Not Enough).

http://www.vidaweb.org/2014-vida-count/

Occupy The Syllabus

A call for to evaluate who’s work is on our course syllabi 

http://www.dailycal.org/2015/01/20/occupy-syllabus/

A Mighty Girl

A company that only sells products and books written/created by women and/or with the intent of empowering young women

http://www.amightygirl.com/

Me, with some of the awesome books I read this school year on my head!

You May Kiss Me In The Poetry Section

I’ve always wanted to be kissed in a bookstore, my body gently pressed against the poetry section. Bookstores are the most romantic of places. They are full of ancient history and secrets, brimming with full bodied sentences and the scent of jasmine wafting out from exotic storyscapes. They are places of escape and content, of danger and peace. In book stores, one gets lost and one finds oneself on shelves that are at once unfamiliar yet make perfect sense. Of course parts of you were left in the Mesopotamia section, its only logical. 

I imagine being looked at in the way I look at books after I finish them, with wonder, gratitude, warmth spreading over my skin, a hand placed at the spine. Or with confusion, with puzzlement. Yes, I want that too. Look at me with confusion, with puzzlement. But mostly with wonder, I want to be looked at with wonder. I want to be lead down the aisles of an old winding book store. The sort of book store where books fall off shelves and you have to side step around piles. Pull books down from the dusty shelves and read random snippets of books read out loud to me, the sentences that make you smile. I want to hear you laugh, laugh before you put your hands to my waist, bow your head towards me. Look at me, look at me with wonder. How did you find this novel of a girl, this little slip of a poem, this curious newspaper clipping? Did you find her in the pages of a book, tucked into the binding? You must have, that’s the only sort of place I really reside.

I sometimes sit on the floors of bookstores, and simply read book titles. I run my fingers across them, this is a form of meditation. If enough words sink into my skin, I will be more whole, I will be of better form. So in my curving train of thought, relationships founded among the shelves of books surely have enough ink to flourish. A silly thought? Probably. Write it down dear, it will last longer. Book stores are the homes of all sorts of longing, all sorts of secrets, all sorts of starts. Mine have only been of the ink variety as of yet, but I am not opposed to the meeting of flesh and star blazed eyes, pressed against the poetry section. Our heads bowed, excuse me Emily Sylvia Plath, excuse me Richard Blanco. Having to make those sort of apologies, oh no, I’m not opposed to that at all, dear. 

Which Story Is It?

I know there is a story inside me. But I don’t know which one it is. Have I found it yet? Is it about my two hearted girl, my heart seamstress? Is it the one I wrote lonely, late at night, my hummingbird heart pounding? I wrote it curled in bed, sophomore year, mistranslating my loneliness as a pang for words, for a world balled up inside me, pounding to get out. A mistake I often make, a mistake I never regret. It is hard to be lonely when entire worlds spin inside you, when books whisper the sweetest of secrets. Is it that story, that little novella of fairytale cliches and sugar sweet sentences? It is a story both grandiose and humble, flawed and crystalline. 

Or is the one about a bookstore, the one where people trade in secrets and wishes? Another story about longing, but longing turned to other books. You deposit a secret in the black box, and then you take out a book for your heart ache. Little do you know, your wishes are worming their way into other’s books, into other’s stories. A wild little town, one set by the sea, bright colours. What if revolution really lead to bone deep peace? This story doesn’t belong to one character, though you always thought it did. No, it’s a story of many, a story of a town. A town you call home, turned surreal, turned wild. It has lost its sweet candour. Is this the story I set down to write?

Is it one about the notes scrawled in the margins of a book? A story of madness written alongside one. The Queen of Sheba dressed in blue coats from Gimbel and baked anchovy cookies, while her father painted paint by number masterpieces. 

I know the story inside me wants to blur the lines between faery speak and English. She, for I know she is feminine, wants to dine with doubt, wants to speak with faith. She wants to call her God female, for He has been masculine all her life and she has come to doubt that her God is all that attached to the male pronoun in the first place. She wants her God to be a feminist, to delight in critical theory and have a proper library with leather bound books. Can I write of that God? This God so different from the one I’ve grown up with, I can’t fashion God in my own image. But if I am fashioned in their image I must assume that they aren’t opposed to such ideas. Should I refer to God in my story as they or their, he or her? Will God make an appearance in this story I am trying to write?

Where do I find this story? Do I already have it bundled up, ready to assemble or has it not found its way to me yet? For me, finding a story is like finding a warm ember on a freezing day. I simply hold it, wondrous of its existence, grateful for its presence. But how do I know when it is THE story. The first story, the first novel, Adam and Eve. This is the beginning. How do I know when I have found the beginning of my novel writing days, when I am about to embark on the journey of the lifetime? Do I just have to buy the ticket and hope the journey leads somewhere? I guess so. I’m just having trouble finding the station I leave from. 

On Listening To Pebbles and Guitars

Should I live for one reason?

Should I die for one reason?

But really, have you ever met a pebble, dear?

They are not precious, dear.

They do not take long, deep breaths

The sort of breaths that exhaust the soul

They do not absorb your remains

But they do fit in the palm of hands

slide into pockets

Must I live for one reason?

Must I die for one reason?

Have you heard laughs in the wood, dear?

Little laughs

sometimes gruff

they will ring in your ears through all your wild and soft walks

Did you hear them again? Or are the leaves simply singing?

Should I live for one reason?

Should I die for one reason?

Wouldn't it be simpler to live by ink and die by pen?

They can burn me with my books

They can feed me to the wolves that slink among the library shelves

insufficient sustenance

Have you ever met a pebble, dear?

I, myself, have met many.

And sometimes the right rock is known to bring me to shivers.

Have you heard a guitar cry, love?

Tears need not be visible to contain moisture

Have you heard it laugh?

Those deep sort of prayers that must be collected by someone up there with heavy arms

Must I live for just one reason?

Must I die for just one reason?

Or may I simply sit here on hard surfaces and listen to pebbles?