It’s okay for women to have secrets, R, my 56 year old Russian coworker told V and me. We both respected her deeply, even though she often infuriated us. She was the kind of woman who rejoiced in command of her feminine power. She always got her way. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and it was maddening. We never caught her without her hair and nails done. She always wore elegance on her skin and her scent was that of a freshly cut rose. Of course, she was a Gemini woman, and one of the most Gemini women that I had ever met. She continued, the world will make you think that you must explain yourself to everyone, especially your husband and your family, don’t. I have secrets that nobody has known about me for decades and that they will never know. Every week, R would give V and me an impromptu lesson in how to be a powerful woman. Neither of us asked for it, but there was always a hidden gem somewhere in her words, so neither of us complained. If anything, we often found ourselves inspired.
While I do feel that R’s words hold some significance, I have mostly expressed my femininity a little differently. I associate femininity with communion, narrative leadership and creation. Something that I feel was stolen from me when I was younger. Something that I was taught to doubt my own ability in. These last few years for me have been about regaining authorship of my own life. Saying no, more than I say yes. Choosing to do only that which I want to do, and letting my intuition guide me on the way. And perhaps, also learning how to keep secrets, instead of feeling like I must explain myself away.
Like yesterday, when I was guided to slip away into the night after a show. I didn’t listen though, and I stayed longer than I needed to. Curiosity won me over. I was indulgent. I did eventually leave, but not soon enough. The moon was shining through a small window, fairy lights all above us, and a loved one was singing about heartbreak and hope. I met my past self again. I wanted to say more, but I made my weak jokes, attempting to cloak all that I was truly feeling— the disappointment of receiving too little, too late. The sadness of meeting her again, after all that I had done to make peace with her loss. The excitement of possibility, where would our conversation lead us, was there more that I could learn from her, or was it my fear at play again?
Rumi, Section 149 of the Masnavi, year unknown - 13th century AD
Nobody teaches you how to speak with your past selves. We are taught to forget and move on (to better things). To pretend like our old versions never existed. Because anybody who has moved on, does not still linger by graves. They may visit from time to time, to pay their respects, but they do not dwell. So what does it mean to dwell? Does it mean that we have not really moved on? Does it mean that there is still an attachment holding us back? That there is still more to uncover? That our past selves are not truly dead?
I detest the simplicity that surrounds responses to such questions. I detest the answers that invalidate the romance, the passion and the struggle that went into rebirth. We didn’t just arrive here. We experienced an entire life-changing, earth-shattering journey to do so. Invalidating that journey by saying that since we have moved on, our past does not hold importance, means that to some degree, we are choosing to not embrace all of the lessons that we learned on our way here.
I have not fully buried my past yet, but I have been making my peace with it. It is a process, that I know will last a while. I am trying to be okay with knowing that I loved, I lost, I grieved, I was hurt, and I truly lived. I am trying to accept the knowledge that life, for me, was not a simple path of coming into my self. That it contained many twists and turns. Many moments of faltering and hesitating. Many moments of self-doubt and circling back. Many moments of confusion, haste and restlessness. Now, I am finally here. In this beautiful body and existence that I have had to fight for, every step of the way.
I do not want to go back, and I do not want to pretend that my past has disappeared or that it never existed. I know that I will become better at speaking with my ghosts in time. I know that one day, when I walk by the graves of my old selves, my eyes will twinkle at the secrets that we share, and I will know exactly how to speak them into rest. That is all that I want for them, to finally rest. They’ve done their part, they’ve got me here. Now, they can finally sleep.
Yours truly, on Diwali night, in a different era. May she rest in peace.
With love,
AB
loveee