Busy could be her middle name, if that’s what her mother had had the foresight to choose for her.
She thrives on busy. Loves the chaos. That she leaves her credit card in cabs, her keys on the table in cafes, and has to sprint through airport security to make her flight for a client meeting proves it. She’s busy. Wanted. Important.
That it’s 3.30pm and she realises she hasn’t eaten since the slice of toast she grabbed with the strong black coffee on her way out the door this morning. That she needs and wants to shed a few kilos but can’t find the time to exercise. That she planned to have a rest at the weekend but it was somehow overtaken with too much drinking and smoking and partying and not enough sleep. That she has an odd recurring rash, roller coaster hormones and doesn’t sleep well – ‘probably stress,’ says her doctor. She’s busy.
The kudos from working so hard and taking such good care of her clients makes her walk a little taller each day. A string of investment properties, expensive cars, board meetings… She’s a go-getter. On a mission. Successful.
Responsibility could have been her first name. If it meant doing all the things she thinks she should do, that is. To be successful. Worthy.
But responsibility isn’t her first name. Hers is a dedication to a voice that isn’t her own. A voice that states the matter – all matters, even when she cares about them – in a matter-of-fact kind of way. It’s strong and firm, overbearing, and mostly monotone, especially under pressure. It can be polished too, and hard. It’s a voice that’s desperate to demonstrate she has all the answers.
That voice of hers, it’s lacking some things vital. The shades of her feeling values aren’t there.
The tender dance of softness, uncertainty, longing, weakness too, in their hues of dusty pink, baby blue, deep purple and screaming red have been covered up and coloured in brown. Flat as a pancake. Or a burnt omelette.
She’s being called to come to her own voice, her feminine voice. One that speaks her truth and cries out for what truly matters.
She can’t see that. Not yet. I hope she will.
One day, I hope she will.
“I want to comfort her and say, ‘…hold on to your voice, your subjective stance, the voice of your individual life. Do not let it be taken from you. It is the very soul of humanity and needs to be cherished and heard. As you claim your place in the world, your authority, perhaps even a position of political power, stay true to your grounding in the ancient feminine. Do not rise above your own creaturely needs, but make the quiet nurturing of them the centre of your life.” ~ Circle of Stones, by Judith Duerk
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