The Story of the Woman Who Could .. part 1

The Story of the Woman Who Could
by Morgana BraveRaven

Each morning she rises early to go to work. After the alarm has screeched for a full seven rounds on the snooze setting she swings her legs over the edge of her bed and plants her feet on the floor with a thud, then wrenches her bone-weary body from the cozy comforts of bed. Warm blanket, soft, forgiving pillow, a salvation she hates to leave behind in the scraggy, still dark moments of the day… but she does.

So it is every morning as she hits the ground – not exactly running, but at least involved in movement.

Another day, and she is awake and moving through the weight of it.

Ahh – the plight of the single mother, the lone parent. The weight of it. An experience that is embraced and dreaded all in the same breath. But you press on, each day mocking the last, and the next. You press on because there isn’t another choice. Choice is not an option because there is so much to do and so much
left undone. Life is what’s in front of you, and dinner still has to be made.

The blessed weight of it. Imagine – yes, imagine if you will, for a moment, a woman sitting at a bus stop. She is an ordinary woman sitting patiently on a bench at a bus stop, just waiting for her bus, with one hand resting quietly by her side, when through the air wafts a mote of dust – a wee tiny spec which lands upon the
back of her hand, and suddenly the woman cannot get up, because the weight of that wee spec is incomprehensible. So, there she sits, shrieking and flailing, because she has realized that she is pinned to the bench. She is stuck. She is trapped, and those who are near look on with disbelief because they are unaware of the weight – they cannot see the mote, and therefore assume that the woman must be utterly mad.

But that is not the case. Madness has no involvement whatsoever. It is merely that her bus has rounded the corner and will pull up to the curb in less than four seconds. And she can’t get up. She can’t pull her hand from the bench and she must, because she must be on that bus to get to work on time.

This is the weight of it – responsibility. No matter what should fall upon you, you must get up off that bench and get on that bus – even if it means chewing your hand off to do so. Choice is not a factor and plays no part. Dinner still has to be made.

~*~

She stands behind the counter slicing whole wheat buns and piling cold cuts and shredded lettuce neatly, and with great speed – slicing, wrapping, bagging (oh, and don’t forget the napkin) when a round woman blurts out, Excuse me Misssss, I said no sauce on that sandwich, and flips her a look that insists that she naturally belongs behind that counter making sandwiches at warp speed for eight bucks an hour because,
obviously, she is too stupid to do anything else…

The lunch line up grows at an exponential rate and all she can see in front of her is an ocean of crossly folded arms and stern faces. The occasional huff pressed impatiently through pursed lips is not helpful. Can they honestly believe that such displays of calculated hostility help her to make sandwiches any faster? And when the man in the red plaid shirt, the one with the foul breath, jumps to the front of the line questioning her as to the whereabouts of his long awaited sandwich, how shall she control her urge to scream and throw sliced tomatoes at him?

How shall she exercise control when all she wants to do is reach over the glass counter and grab the obnoxious offender by his shirt collar and scream, You daft, foul smelling idiot! I’m not bionic…

But, exercise control, she does. Chokes back the urge to scream. Swallows her breath. Forces herself to focus on the orders on the screen while trying not to think about the fact that after taxes and rent, she will have $130 to get through the rest of the month. In this small town there is little work in any field, and certainly none in hers. In such a town, and under such circumstances, you do the work that is in front of you: ham and cheese on white, smoked turkey on whole wheat… She does not think about the eight years she spent at university. She does not think about careers or money, shoes with holes, or dreams. If she did she would crack, and dinner still has to be made…

~*~

She stands in front of the mirror repeating to herself out loud, Be Grateful, Be Grateful, Be Grateful. This is her positive voice. She tries to hold fast to its logic, but another voice pipes up, taking control. She does not want to follow it, does not want to listen to its whining and sniveling. It is so petty, but it seems impossible not to listen because at this moment what it is saying seems truer, and she gives in… WHAT should I be grateful for???? What?? WHAT!!! I am exhausted. I am broke. We have nothing but instant noodle soup in the cupboard. I can’t afford to fix the car. IDID NOT SPEND EIGHT YEARS IN UNIVERSITY FOR THIS!!!! Why am I here? How did I get here? My life at this moment has no purpose – I feel like a machine, and I can’t see an end to it. There are no choices for me! This is just too hard – I can’t do it, I just can’t…

She brushes her teeth. Washes her face. Her movements are mechanical, as though her arms were hooked up to some kind of machine, with someone else cranking a handle that makes her arms move. She dries her face. Straightens the towel, then goes to kiss her sleeping children. Folding herself into bed she tries once more to give positive logic a chance. Be grateful that you have a job to hate. Be grateful that you have a car that needs to be repaired. Be grateful that you have noodle soup. Be grateful that your home is filled with the love and laughter of children. She pulls the blankets closely around her. It all sounds like bunk, she thinks. It’s too hard – I just can’t do this…

~*~


It’s all about attitude. It is, and she knows it. Approach anything with a sense of dread and a negative attitude, and it will all fly right back in your face. Whatever task you are facing will be that much harder, and so much heavier. It will be a weight upon you so heavy that it becomes unbearable. The sheer weight of it. She knows this, and yet she can not influence a change. Not here in this shop where she has no choices, where she is tethered to the counter by an invisible cord that adds up to eight dollars an hour. She has stopped caring about anything. One day rolls into the next. Eat, sleep, work – machine. Eight dollars an hour… it costs twenty five an hour just to live.

~*~

To Be Continued… keep an eye on your inbox ;o)

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Janet Legere, Editor
Sykaro Insights Ezine


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