As some of you know, I have been taking a break from work since September. Three months in, I find myself grateful for the extra time and space and also bristling against my now (even) more domestic mode. (Since there is nothing else to take my focus.)
I hate domesticity. I rail against it. All the time. Almost every day.
I hate everything to do with housework and domestic duties. It is something that I have an ongoing battle with. I struggle, I rage, I despair. I accept, I flow, I enjoy. I struggle, I rage, I despair. This is the rhythm of it for me.
I hate the schedule. The monotony. The uselessness of it all. What does it mean for me to wash dishes, cook food, buy groceries, run errands, pick up toys, change summer to winter clothes? I honestly don’t give a shit. I find it useless, stupid and a waste of everything else I am good at.
I love my children and I honestly don’t give a shit.
I feel like a wolf that has been trapped in the wild and caged. Every day, her wildness dims a bit. And she forgets what snow on the air smells like.
This place where I am is not where I expected to be. In high school, I did a project with my two best friends and we wrote down what we wanted to be when we grew up. One wanted to be a fashion designer. One wanted to be married with children. I wanted to travel around the world and have “lovers in every port”.
Being the main housekeeper and childcare provider feels like having a job I hate and not getting paid for it.
Maybe, some would say, your healthy and happy children are payment enough.
Nope. No, they are not. Not for me.
And yet, YET, occasionally, there is joy in this role. Occasionally, nothing brings me greater pleasure than being a mother, a mama bear, a goddess of the hearth, a keeper of all things cozy and nutritious and delightful and wonderfully loving.
And then, there are many times where my rage and feeling of unfairness threatens to rip my brain from my head and light my house on fire.
So what does a woman do, a wild woman do, a woman who dreamed of travelling and having lovers in every port, what does this woman do with her domestic rage?
I allow myself to become untamed. I shed the skin of domesticity and become animal. True to my nature. Wild. Free.
I light candles and they represent the burn of every woman who feels like me.
I put on a black dress. I like where it is tight and pulls against me. I like how it caresses my bare skin. How it will expose me as I move. It connects me to my darkness, my vitality, my angst, my vibrant push against it all.
I know I have a choice in this moment. To dive into the darkness I feel or to pretend it isn’t there. To stuff some part of me down, down, down. To suffocate my soul. To stitch myself up on one side only to have myself spill out on another. To cover my shadow with sparkly glitter which burns like poison on my skin.
So I dive into the darkness I feel. I move and sway and let the music take me away.
I begin to shed, cracking open what I mistakenly thought was me. I am reminded of myself. How much life there is inside of me. How much joy. How slowly I can move; like I am leading the world by the tip of my finger.
I touch my skin and feel where it is velvet soft, where it is warmer, where it curves in and out.
And then, aaahhhhh, there I am. My creature. My animal of all the shades, this breath of life in and out. My curves, my opening wider and wider.
I find the hard parts and soften them with curves. My cells open and breath for the first time today.
Yes, here I am. I become exquisite, mysteries, untouchable, magical again.
I leave with no plan, no solution. Nothing has changed. But I have stood firmly inside of myself and tasted my greatness. I belong to myself once again. And I have reminded myself of how much I am, how deep I go, how wide I am capable of opening.
I have celebrated my truth and made poetry from it.