There was a time when I’d have found a way to slip behind the ficus and ask for forgiveness.
She kept telling me to stop asking, dress if I need to, but do the doing. Move into the moving. But I went on dreaming the dreams of an enslaved mind.
Today I bore my way through it. I skipped the dressing, wore skin pants and a wink and felt like there was nothing in the world to be sorry for.
Washed the laundry, swept the kitchen, danced topless and poorly.
This is goodness too.
Coming home is never easy. It took time to land fully into that calm and peaceful way of life that is being at home.
There is no prestige in being at home, though. Warning! It is not for those craving the full attention of the world.
Gentlewomen, we do not win awards for making home and hearth our life’s purpose.
It is taken for granted that we will raise our children, care for our households and fully support our husbands even in the face of full-time jobs.
Society tells us that the guts and glory of being a valued human being exist only for those who make their careers in public, for those who focus all their attention on becoming that elusive something.
But being at home is what I do best. I get my kicks out of making regular life run like a well-oiled machine, a purring engine.
Modesty is suddenly an oppressive bitch. Hark, oh daughters of the world, know that it’s wholesome to celebrate for no other reason than to feel celebrated.
Sometimes we are the ones in charge of that.
Yes. We are the ones in charge.
Might I remind you that the world needs to come alive?
Might I remind you that the world is you?