a monthly feature by Elisabeth Horan
The Complexity of Mother Nature's Gifts
The fall always forms the shapes of loss. Dead leaves, dead summer, vacant endings... beginnings are for the selfish spring. Hunting season, deer bones, chaos, snow and frozen noses reign.
In Vermont, in October and November, I sense a folding inward, at the waist, a retraction of hope and strength. It is more a bracing of the shoulders against the harsh wind, eyes to the ground, a trudging begins to take hold of my steps, and I do the chores as a stoic farmwife, from here on in through April.
This mirrors the braced and trudging steps of how I often sort and file my life and battle with mental illness - I accept what I cannot change... I rue the things which make me sad - that which has not been given to me... If only I was thin, pretty, cool, had not been molested, had made better life choices, had not almost killed myself drinking away the pain.
If only, only only. If only the sun shone...
But what if I embraced my chubby thighs, my imperfect life. What if I said, guess what God, I forgive you, for all the fucking brutal pain, I forgive my rapist and his pain. I forgive the bullies who teased me.... I forgive myself for all the incredible hurt I caused my husband in my quest to destroy myself as punishment for the horrible things I (thought) I had done.
We often hurt others because we have been hurt. Bullies often bully because they have been bullied. God was not in charge of my thighs, of my shape, of my weight, of my outcome. Who shall I hold accountable for the blessings or curses I had been given.
I'm gonna try to see death for what it is. It's just the ending of something. The end of summer, the end of a horse's life, the end of hating my body. Other people need me and find me beautiful, in all my flaws. My husband has forgiven me. I work to forgive a God I've never met.
I'm gonna celebrate my body and be thankful that it still works. That it can comfort children, hold food, take steps, attract others...that its fingers can type poems.
I forgive the fall for taking my horse to ground. For its bitter wind and incessant howl. It too, has been hurt and held down.
Thank you for reading my words. May you find blessings and light in the complexity of Mother Nature's gifts.
Thank you Twitter writers loves, for holding me up during this difficult time of grief and loss.
With love, Elisabeth
Pants ain't holding this shit
You think we might be better off in the ward? Young one… u been to the sea with a woman; u been to mountain with a man, asked God, we did, and learned that for him... we ain't waiting around.
I never got my wish from him. I never got my wish for thin. I never got the legs. What would I do with them anyway, baby--
Wrap them like wire round a tree, slant them 90 degrees to leave an impression upon boys, men, convicts, interlopers, thieves. Why, Christ, woman, why.
Be a fat old bitch for once in your life... be happy with them thighs, feed em up for your man, press out babies one by one by one. Let a heartbroke lad find solace in their folds, their patterns, let him sleep, allow him thine pillows,
Esther, give a bloke a chance at heaven.
Woman, be a bed.
Holy haven for a youth in resurrection.
Don't climb the mountain to the sinners’ pyre, wait---wait it out, tentacles grabbing up the lonely boi down at the water.
Save him, Elisabeth, that's on you. Your mouth knows one word, Adedayo, that's it. Make it a weapon, make it a balm, but make it count.
Don't you let the biddies determine your worth.
Lord, pants ain't holding this shit.
Pants ain't holding in this shit.