There are some things it’s good to be angry about. Not always good to spew that anger all over the place, though, indiscriminately staining anyone and everyone with its blood; but it’s good to hold it, know it, and feel its power within you. And when the time and place and person are right, it is a good thing to be able to share your anger, sufficient to the point of understanding, with a clarity that will either freeze, burn, or turn the heart of the recipient.

It was awhile ago that I wrote this poem. I was feeling the pain of being treated differently and suspecting that no small part of the vitriol was coming at me simply because I am a woman. I imagined that men in my position would have been lauded, as they historically had been, for finding new ways to engage with new constituencies, to speak within their discipline in new and powerful terms, for publishing books filled with bold and bright new ideas, for sharing poetry, newly written resources, and making them available for anyone who might find them useful. When men did those things, I imagined, they were written about, read, their works used and appreciated, their constituents respected. And I imagined that few men would have been exposed to insult, personal and professional, at the depth I was experiencing, the impact of which was like acid on my heart. I imagined. Either that, or so it must have been.

Photo by Vonecia Carswell on Unsplash

But I wasn’t so sorry for myself that I couldn’t see my place as one of privilege: a woman in Canada, educated as far as she was interested in studying; working with deep, intentional thinkers passionate about what church could do in community; speaking internationally to large groups of people who often stood as one to applaud the ideas I shared. Even in the years experienced as an outsider because of the behaviour of most of my colleagues and the actions of my denomination, I could work with people who understood me and I felt, essentially, safe.

Still, as International Women’s Day rolled around, that simmering sense of anger came to the surface. It flowed out, however, not in the murky waters of a pity pool, but in a torrent of stories of women all around the world and the challenges they face on a regular, often daily, basis. I set my own concerns aside and wrote for them, my own difficulties of little consequence in the face of what it is other women do every single day. In the light of their strength, our own can be renewed.

At West Hill, when I share my poetry, it is usually accompanied by my partner, Scott Kearns, who interprets it and fills the space with music matching my own heart. The lament that bled through his fingers and into the space as I read this past week, was deep and true. I am so fortunate to have his talent support my offerings. If you’re able, find such a piece of music on Youtube or something on your phone, and read this aloud as it plays.

There isn’t a moment goes by …

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t get born
into a world of privilege and luxury,
wrapped in cashmere and lace,
rocked in a satin cradle.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t get born
into poverty,
spilled from a starving womb barely adequate to its task.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t hold her offspring
wondering how such beauty could come to be.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t mourn her absent child
taken by a system convinced it could care better than she.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t worry how she’s going to make it through the day.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t give up something for somebody else,
convinced her need can wait,
her hunger go unfed.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t begin the long, hard walk for water,
swinging her two or three year old
along on her hip as she goes.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t hide her children away in the forest
praying their safety for just one night more.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t rise in the night
and gaze down upon her sleeping child,
convinced she’s the luckiest woman in the world.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
who lies rigid in the night,
literally steeling herself against the intrusion,
her body taken because somebody can.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t scream loud and long, but only inside,
her silence her complicity,
her acceptance her guilt.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t rise in the morning
and do what needs to be done,
bruises and all.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t fight for her life after rape,
brutalized by her attacker
and the system that protects him.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t walk the floor of her home,
back and forth, back and forth,
anxious for the lives of her children, her family.

 

Photo: Anne Spratt, Unsplash

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t hold a tiny still body
and weep.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
hides who she loves
to save who she loves.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t risk it all for love.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t pay for the crimes of a man she loved.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t lose a little piece of her heart
as she watches her children grow hard against the world,
raised in dust and poverty,
on dreams that fade with every morn.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
isn’t bustin’ proud of her grown child’s grace,
success, choices, refusals.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
is lured into an infatuation
with skin-deep beauty
sold by industries of lies.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t stand in front of a mirror
and feel the criticisms
of a thousand passing glances.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
that doesn’t feel she’s not enough.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
that wouldn’t give her eye teeth
for a little bit comfortable –
one, pants that fit without lycra,
another, a winter coat that might keep her warm.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t spend a kid’s college tuition
on handbags and high heels.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t smash into a glass ceiling,
never break it
but bleed anyway.

 

Photo: New York Public Library

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t lie and tell someone
she fell down the stairs.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t hand another woman
the address of a place that’s safe,
where she can go if she needs help.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t scream herself hoarse
at a system that keeps her down, down, down.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t close her eyes
on a life filled with joy and sorrow,
weakness and strength,
leaving only her legacy to rise in the morning.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t take a long, hard look at her life
and begin to think,
to think for herself.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t sort through her thoughts
and begin to put two and two together.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t rub those two plus two thoughts together
and come up with a view of the world
that she’d never even considered before.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t realize she has a choice
and that whether she takes it or not,
she’ll have made her choice.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t get up
and walk out of her life,
out of what has been –
out of the stories she’s told herself,
out of the truths she thought were hers,
out of the lies we’ve lined up for generations.

There isn’t a moment goes by
that some woman somewhere
doesn’t step into a new moment,
a new reality come wrapped in fear,
and know the exhilaration of her own self.

And there isn’t a moment goes by
that some man somewhere
doesn’t see himself reflected
in that woman’s eye
and wonder.

Photo: Guillaume Issaly, Unsplash

If you are a woman, I do hope your International Women’s Day is one that brings you home to the truth of your own strength, no matter the situation in which you find yourself. As we navigate a world that could only ever be stronger and more humane were women recognized of equal merit in all sectors of society, in all countries, in all fields, and in every home, may we hold to the truth and beauty of our own hearts and reach out to that found in those of our sisters should we need it. And if you are a man, as you look around on this special day, I hope that when your eyes fall on a woman, you see an equal and commit to fighting alongside her to make that reality both her truth and yours.

Carry on, my comrades. The world is awaiting you.

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