There would be a parade,
a celebration,
a holiday to commemorate
the day he sought enlightenment.
We would not speak of
temptation by the devil, rather,
we would laud Adam's curiosity,
his desire for adventure
and knowing.
We would feast
on apple-inspired fare:
tortes, chutneys, pancakes, pies.
There would be plays and songs
reenacting his courage.
But it was Eve who grew bored,
weary of her captivity in Eden.
And a woman's desire
for freedom is rarely a cause
for celebration.
Poem by Danielle Coffyn
For the last 2 days I've been thinking about this blog. I've been thinking about whether or not to continue. Then I saw this poem by Danielle Coffyn. I logged in, looked at when I posted last, and saw that 2 days ago marks 1 year to the day since I last posted. Interesting.
Anyway, this poem speaks volumes to me and seeing National Adoption Awareness Month on social media has me thinking again too. Seems like for years I've been so wrapped up in opening a brick and mortar business, dealing with family drama (adoption related), the pandemic, and of course politics, that I haven't had much time to think about what to write here or even whether or not to continue writing here. It seems that I've said all I can about my own situation and there are so many other bloggers and adoption folks that are more eloquent than I and besides, I just haven't had the spoons to deal with any extra emotional labor. Since I can't seem to focus on anything else right now, I'm back in this space for a bit.
One of the reasons for drama is truth telling. Funny how truth telling is such an issue in so many areas from family, to adoption, to religion, to politics.
I told the truth about my own situation and how my daughter's adoption came about. The result of that is family estrangement. I won't go into detail but it does make me wonder how many other mothers have had to deal with the lies, gaslighting, smear campaigns and more, from the people who were supposed to love you unconditionally yet coerced the adoptions. Telling the truth matters.
Imagine a world where religious leaders told the truth.
Imagine politicians telling the truth.
Imagine adoption agencies telling the truth.
Imagine our own families believing us when we tell the truth.
Can you imagine what that world would be like? Here we are, on the eve of the most consequential election of my lifetime, and that poem above certainly rings true. Patriarchy is celebrated. Men's decisions are celebrated. Men in power are celebrated. Male politicians are celebrated. Priests are put on pedestals. Just look at what lies have done to our beautiful country. Lies by politicians at all levels. Lies by corporate media who don't want you to believe what you see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears. Lies from people who care about nothing but their own power and influence.
"A woman's desire for freedom is rarely a cause for celebration"
Those who don't want women to have freedom have been lying to us for generations. The most upsetting thing of all is the fact that some of those people who don't want women to have freedom, are women. I have been shaking my head about this for years. I don't understand it. I don't think I will ever understand it. The social worker with Catholic Social Services who helped take my baby away was a woman. Amy Coney Barrett, female Supreme Court justice, in her Dobbs decision, referenced in the footnotes, "the domestic supply of infants" that would be available for adoption when abortion is outlawed. Mothers lied to their daughters and their entire families about motherhood and paternity.
Maybe the old saying about never discussing religion and politics is an old way of being that shouldn't be anymore. Maybe that's just one of the reasons why we have so much trouble with the truth. Too many people, too afraid to say anything. Maybe, just maybe, if religion and politics were discussed on a regular basis with family, friends, coworkers, or anyone, we'd be more comfortable with talking about our own truths regarding those topics. If we learned how to talk to each other honestly and openly, there wouldn't be so much fear around it. If we learned how to talk to each other with authenticity and kindness, maybe our country wouldn't be facing this current threat. If we talked with women and believed them when they talk about their struggles, maybe we wouldn't be seeing the mortality rate of infants and mothers rise. If we talked honestly with and supported pregnant women, we wouldn't see high rates of adoption and family separation.
A woman's desire for freedom shouldn't be thwarted by other women. Women who will vote against their own self interests don't seem to understand that they're supporting a patriarchal system that only celebrates men's freedom. With so much information available online, there's no longer an excuse for women to say they didn't know. Is it willful ignorance? Is it fear or pressure from husbands or families? I don't know. Make it make sense.
These are the thoughts roaming around in my head today. Trying to make sense of nonsense. How simple life could be if we didn't have to deal with racism, sexism, ageism, and any other "isms" that people like to use to oppress other people. It doesn't have to be this way. I can dream can't I?
My painting above is called Reflect Here. It's about the enslaved women of the Magdalen Laundries in Ireland. Who were the guards and abusers of those poor girls and young women? Nuns. Just like that social worker, more women. The quote written on the painting is engraved on a bench outside one of the laundries. The rest of the words below are mine.
Reflect Here
"To the women who worked in the Magdalen Laundry institutions and to the children born to some members of those communities - reflect here upon their lives"
Different country, same century.
An ocean apart but lives too close to bear, sisters in fate. Each one unaware of the other.
Different people, same agony. Their grief was mine, mine theirs.
Both of us used for the product we made. They gained, we lost, they took, we didn't give.
Different time, same prison. The golden throne decided. The warden's vestments a common thread, weaving and binding us in womanhood.
