I dreamt hats. Fancy hats. Embellished hats. Softly constructed hats of wool, mohair, and shapeable. We were a group of women in the type of store I rarely find myself in, the ones that carry niche-y brooches, feather boas, dirndl skirts, bejewelled and dazzled things. My patience is tested by such things. I gave up on silky undergarments in my teens, hating the way the shoulder strap slipped and panties clung. In fact I gave up panties entirely, going commando since jr. high school, donning undergarments only when wearing a skirt or dress; the sensation of super fresh air on my cooch feels primordial. It’s not modesty.
And not just that, when I was in design school-fashion that is-our millinery class was cuckolded by an instructor hell-bent on feathers and trims, not my thing and at a time when minimalism was waging a war against opulence. I mistrusted her snide sweetness that made me think she’s was on my side, when really she under-appreciated styles and ideas not reflecting her own. My final design received a low mark although the construction was flawless. She henpecked, I could get a better grade she said, insisting I add a decorative element to a perfectly simple design. Even now, that shit sends me sideways.
Suzanne Kingsbury, author and founder of Gateless Writing, Inc. writes,
” The Divine Feminine represents the connection to the part of your consciousness responsible for nurture, intuition, and empathy, regardless of your gender…the divine feminine is the aspect of the self, associated with ‘creation, intuition, community, sensuality, (felt sense rather than thinking sense), and collaboration.”
I am reminded how I appear in the world: Tall, statuesque, not ugly, confident, assured with a boyish kick-assery attitude. The feminine is not pearls and silk, nor is the lack of high heels and lace, “masculine” energy.
Having grown up with three brothers, a father and a cool mother, I can see how my need to keep the wolf from the door-the sense of alienation being the only girl, my mother was aligned with the dark unpredictable nature of my father who shamed us both in words and misdeeds, driving us inappropriately together and faithlessly apart, created in me an over reliance on calculation, judgement, survival skills and masculine bravado.
That dream reoccurs too. “The wolf at the door, the wolf at the door!”
I am at war, always, holding hard the door, fighting back the darkness, I press my full weight against the gnashing of teeth.
"Our ‘self talk’" more often than not… can play a highly judgmental role, acting as an inner critic that cautions us away from risk and tells us how to fix and better ourselves. …
(If only I had chosen another path ,if only I wasn’t so__________, (fill in the blank) and less___________ (fill in the blank.)
“ …(Yet) another, softer voice exists below the inner critic, that celebrates you. This is a voice of possibility that encourages you to create, reminds you of the upside of risks and points out your resourcefulness.”
Growing up in a legalistic family, with little encouragement or guidance, has led me year after year, like a brawling tomboy, to struggle, struggle with authority, wrestle away from intimacy, throw rocks at the pretty things, thumb my nose at perceived weakness and “just get on with it”, leaving little room for softness and fantastic hats, even if only symbolic.
I understand the Divine Feminine is not frippery, but looking into the mirror and seeing a rosy cheeked child who wants desperately to be heard, be seen, be safely held and nestled. My restlessness, my journeys away from myself, my seeking “home”, my attempts to come to rest in that softer voice, so hard for me to access, calls, “Come home, come home.”