Since I have arrived here at @siestakey a few days ago, I have made a sunset walk part of my routine. This is a little treasure of a place I happened to fall in love with years ago when visiting with my x husband, during a difficult time in our marriage. Despite the tumultuous circumstances we were in, we still allowed this place to be a refuge. We put away all our complex emotions and simply explored the island as children would. Probably the first and only “no kids” vacation we had where we allowed ourselves to do that. To just be ourselves unapologetically. I felt a peace in accepting what we had become, and in my heart I knew we were over. In time my courage caught up with my knowledge. It takes a humble wisdom to look back and feel that I am still thankful for the gift of that time.

This little island holds magic within the pristine crystal white grains of sand that follow you home in every nook and cranny, and holds a quiet fortress in its emerald kaleidoscope of tropical foliage.

As I walked, I saw a couple wandering in their front yard and pointing at things as couples often do after work; most likely some add on’s being presented for the honey do list. I worried they might think me insane as I took photos of the most exquisite three floor tree house I had ever seen. Instead, they just quietly smiled, retreated a bit, and let me absorb with child like wonder this oasis they had created. I assume they understood that there is always room for wonder and magic at any age. I imagined couples at every stage and age sneaking away for a kiss in the love seat placed perfectly under secret canopy, stringy awkward adolescent legs pumping the swing seat as high as they could manage before being told to not go so high, and young children hiding within the sturdiness of its limbs and roots. That couple knew, I may have been a little crazy, but it was a magical madness that we shared together.

This delightful time of change, where Mother Nature chooses her moods on a whim, as we choose our footwear with great rumination.

Over the last few days we have been cradled between morning birdsong and evening frog lullabies, as we welcome a new season. Spring, finally making herself heard, and we rejoice in the untamed harmonies. As the last bits of snow melt we awaken our garden beds, tending to seed and soil, cleaning the debris of winter, pulling out all the hibernating patio furniture; chores done cheerfully as temperatures warm. Our spirits sprouting, enchanted by the earths chorus, we rise to take part, in the family of things.

Sabrina

Poem from “What I Learned From the Trees”

By L.E Bowman

A grown man looms behind my three-year-old daughter. Occasionally he will poke or tickle her and she responds by shrinking. Smaller and smaller with each unwanted advance. I imagine her trying to become slight enough to slip out of her booster seat and slide under the table.

When my mother views this scene, she sees playful taunting. A grandfather engaging with his granddaughter.

“Mae.” My tone cuts through the din of a familiar family gathering together. She does not look at me.

“Mae.” I start again. “You can tell him no Mae. If this isn’t okay you could say something like, Papa, please back up—I would like some space for my body.”

As I say the words, my step-father, the bulldog, leans in a little closer, hovering just above her head. His tenebrous grin taunts me as my daughter accordions her 30-pound frame hoping to escape his tickles and hot breath.

I repeat myself with a little more force. She finally peeks up at me.

“Mama . . . can you say it?”

Surprise. A three-year-old-girl doesn’t feel comfortable defending herself against a grown man. A man that has stated he loves and cares for her over and over again, and yet, stands here showing zero concern for her wishes about her own body. I ready myself for battle.

“Papa! Please back up! Mae would like some space for her body.”

My voice is firm but cheerful. He does not move.

“Papa. I should not have to ask you twice. Please back up. Mae is uncomfortable.”

“Oh, relax,” he says, ruffling her wispy blonde hair.

The patriarchy stands, patronizing me in my own damn kitchen. “We’re just playin’.” His southern drawl does not charm me.

“No. You were playing. She was not. She’s made it clear that she would like some space, now please back up.”

“I can play how I want with her.” He says, straightening his posture.

My chest tightens. The sun-bleached hairs on my arms stand at attention as this man, who has been my father figure for more than three decades, enters the battle ring.

“No. No, you cannot play however you want with her. It’s not okay to ‘have fun’ with someone who does not want to play.”

He opens his mouth to respond but my rage is palpable through my measured response. I wonder if my daughter can feel it. I hope she can.

He retreats to the living room and my daughter stares up at me. Her eyes, a starburst of blue and hazel, shine with admiration for her mama. The dragon has been slayed (for now). My own mother is silent. She refuses to make eye contact with me.

This is the same woman who shut me down when I told her about a sexual assault I had recently come to acknowledge.

This is the same woman who was abducted by a carful of strangers as she walked home one night. She fought and screamed until they kicked her out. Speeding away, they ran over her ankle and left her with a lifetime of physical and emotional pain.

This is the same woman who said nothing, who could say nothing as her boss and his friends sexually harassed her for years.

This is the same woman who married one of those friends.

When my mother views this scene, she sees her daughter overreacting. She sees me ‘making a big deal out of nothing.’ Her concerns lie more in maintaining the status quo and cradling my step-dad’s toxic ego than in protecting the shrinking three-year-old in front of her.

When I view this scene, I am both bolstered and dismayed. My own strength and refusal to keep quiet is the result of hundreds, probably thousands of years of women being mistreated, and their protests ignored. It is the result of watching my own mother suffer quietly at the hands of too many men. It is the result of my own mistreatment and my solemn vow to be part of ending this cycle.

It would be so easy to see a little girl being taught that her wishes don’t matter. That her body is not her own. That even people she loves will mistreat and ignore her. And that all of this is “okay” in the name of other people, men, having fun.

But. What I see instead is a little girl watching her mama. I see a little girl learning that her voice matters. That her wishes matter. I see a little girl learning that she is allowed and expected to say no. I see her learning that this is not okay.

I hope my mom is learning something, too.

Fighting the patriarchy one grandpa at a time.

~ By Lisa Norgren

Photo: TheGuardian

over time

I’ve become insignificant 


an abandoned castle
resting 
stoic
on a hill
admired
from a distance


where is the one
that dare walk
the meandering path
desiring to enter
the chambers within


who craves reprieve
seeking shelter
from life's storm
returning to abide
within this labyrinth
of loneliness


still, I remain

steadfast

enduring time

longing once again
to be called
home


©Sabrina Escorcio
October 2016

*

Where shall we go from here

As time precociously writes words

upon predestined palm lines

Fading in, then out of conscious crease

*

Where resides the universe once

born within depth of souls on fire

Dreams vibrant as galaxies burned,

settling deep into sinew and bone

*

Love curates sharp silhouette, bold

Its defined, curious form carried

within rib cage conduits containing

lungs that swelled with breath of life

*

Fate has come to rest itself delicate

upon raft of broken bone fragments

Dissolving into barren streams that once

flowed full, that now groan empty

*

Memory fades, moaning an internal

dialog current, aching for rebirth

Searching her form within blurred

parallels of muted past and love unfolding

*

Where shall we go from here

As time precociously writes truth

upon predestined palm lines

Fading in, then out of conscious crease

*

Sabrina Escorcio

Sabrina Escorcio

*
I am often told
that emotions
are fleeting
that they come
and then go
as for me
this is far from truth
when I encounter
a feeling
I am victim
to its intensity of touch
fondling every piece
of its existence

*
I reside within its world
and stay awhile
travel
see the sights
experience
it’s hidden treasures
and monuments
converse
with its inhabitants
at times I even argue
with my travel companion
keep record of my moments
both good and bad
then add each
to the photo album
hidden in my mind
knowing it won’t be long
before I visit
with them again