to see, to discover, to understand at last the true nature of something.
I am having an epiphany. One would think such things come suddenly and I suppose that is the usual way. However, mine does not lose its validity because I am seeing it one frame at a time. Does dawn lose its right to be, and to be recognized, because we catch it by glimpses only as we sip our morning coffee? Is it any less dawn or is the day any less day? Is its power drained for lack of an attentive audience? I don't think so.
The flowers just keep growing anyhow.
The crux of the matter lies in my life-long belief that I must grasp, clutch, steal, force and prove (by any strained calculation I can summon) that I have a right to exist. That I have a right to BE.
I am forever looking around for a way to balance the scales in my favor lest someone suddenly realize that my very presence is an embarrassing mistake;
like I have found myself at some elaborate event where I know I don't belong. I keep thinking, "What am I doing here?" Sooner or later, the invited guests will notice me and begin to whisper. The hostess will be summoned and I will be asked to leave. The irony is that I would be more than willing to leave, if I could just find the door.
I am not enjoying myself and I am not happy to be here.
Often, abused children become adults who spend their energies trying to prove to the world and to themselves that they belong, when, deep inside, they know this is not true. We look for affirmation in every place and at every source but the one which is most obvious: within ourselves. The logic--if you think about it--is perfectly...logical.
The Damned know better than to look to themselves for Salvation.
How does illumination come? For some, I don't think it ever comes at all. These stumbling outcasts accept the ends of their lives with a kind of relief. Sometimes, they get energized and proactive, ending their misbegotten existences themselves.
My epiphany is coming, one heartbeat at a time. Who do I have to thank for it? In the name of honesty, I must thank every person I ever knew who did not hear me when I spoke. I must thank all those people who glazed over when I tried to express what was going on inside me. I must thank those individuals who talked over me, through me, past me, around me (you know who you are). And I must thank the folks in my life who found my fire too hot, too frightening, too overwhelming…and stepped back.
If you think I'm being sarcastic, run along. We both have better things to do.
You closed every door to me, and for that, I am truly and profoundly grateful. At the time, of course, it was excruciatingly painful. I found myself alone because that is where you left me. But, if you’d heard me; if you’d been willing to listen instead of rolling right over me, I would never have given up, turned around, and walked away. I would never have been forced to be quiet inside myself and hear...
It is found in peace. In watching the dawn come. In dancing naked about a fire beneath a full moon, knowing that I myself am fire. Truth comes in hearing the murmur of ancient blood in my veins; in knowing an inheritance pools in my spirit.
Truth comes in silence. In acceptance. In wondrous recognition (it was there all along!).
I remember how frightened you were of me. What was it? My quick mind? My blatant sexuality? My resilient femaleness that you could not bend and break into simpering submission? I can see you now, all puffed and swollen with false power. When did it finally dawn on you--at what point did the awful realization finally take you in the throat, in the balls--that I was not impressed with you, Posturing, Quivering, Whimpering Man?
Maybe you, like some domesticated mutt, picked up the wild scent of my Truth long before I did. Poor you. I was harmless then.
I'm not harmless now.
Remember me? The one who wanted your approval, your affection, your love? Remember me? Surely the sounds of my plaintive begging still ring in your ears. Just as the sounds of your patronizing refusal still ring in mine.
What were the rules again? I give them back to you. The world is full of women who are willing to crawl. I see them every day. I watch them entreat and beseech for any opportunity to be debased by you.
At midnight I stand beneath the trees and listen to my ancient blood. The moon is full and whispering secrets I am meant to know. I feel the rhythm of the planets. I begin to move, to sway, to close my eyes, shake loose my hair and arch my back.
When I return from the woods, I am clothed in black. Fire sparks and flashes from my eyes. I am mystic and woman and full of knowing.
I exist because God deemed it good that I do. There is no other reason. He created me for things you will never know.
But I know. And it is enough. It is peace.
© Camille Moffat 2000
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