Woman of the Island

I have this idea of a woman. She has long hair, probably a little red, and she’s soft. Her skin in the wintertime is as pale as milk, but gets brown with exposure and summer sun. She is used to wearing hand-knit sweaters, flax-woven dresses, and flowers in her hair. Sehnsucht is in her songs, whispers of all hope and memory and longing.

She sees the beauty of every kind of weather, wonder in pink sunsets, stormy afternoons, or silent snowfalls. She has not romanticized life, but has let all these things romance her to her very core. She is not frail, not ever, even if sickness wastes away her fleshier parts, she is sturdy, determined, stoic. And yet, she knows when she needs to be cradled by the earth or wrapped in someone else’s arms, when the earth doesn’t suffice. And yet, she can laugh for hours and love for eternity, even when the strain of it hurts her sides and her throat is parched and she doesn’t know to how draw even one more breath. Somehow, she keeps on.

There, in her eyes, can be seen in turn, or maybe even all at once, a merriment and a sorrow, sorrow that goes down so deep, it mingles with the very groaning of the earth, mingles with the earthquakes and volcanic rumblings, mingles with everything unsettled, mingles with the soil, even as it gives birth to life.

She is a storm-weary traveler.

She is the soft sun, breaking through the leaves.

She is alive.

She is mystery, paradox, enigma.

I have this idea of a woman. In her voice is triumph and subtlety. She is bountiful in graces, even when she is lacking in possessions. She maintains the tenuous complexity of being and becoming.

I have this idea of a woman. She is imperfect and oh so perfect in her imperfection.

I have this idea of a woman.

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