There are things that we write because they are safe. And then there are things that we write that show our soft, underbellies. I have always chosen to stick to the safe stuff. But just beneath the surface, those shadowed parts of me have always been waiting. Not just to be heard, but to be trusted. To share their feelings. Maybe even their wisdom.
That is what this is: a place for my vulnerabilities.
A million years ago – or so it seems – I had a dream. Through all these years and life’s events, that dream has stuck with me, begging to be given some space in my psyche. I dreamed that I was meeting an orthodox rabbi for the first time, and as I stretched out my hand in greeting, the rabbi avoided my hand, declaring me “an unbound woman.”
I remember that I was more confused than offended. More intrigued than insulted.
I still don’t fully understand what it means to be an “unbound woman,” but I have an inkling of what I would like it to mean.
It might be that wild child running across the fields, hair undone, daring the world to keep pace.
Maybe she’s the crazy bitch down the street — the one people call unhinged because she won’t be polite, won’t be tamed, won’t play along and has a low tolerance for BS.
Maybe it’s the old crone, living in the hut in the middle of the woods, that no one fully trusts — until they need her.
I don’t know exactly who she is. But I want to. I want to know her, and I want to live like her.
This is a journey – yes? And the journey of women and their stories are ever changing- tangled, unruly, and brilliant. These tales are meant for sharing, rejoiced and savored.
And that is what I am seeking as an unbound woman: my place in the story.
