I wake, long before dawn, on Election Eve, after a night of weighted dreams, and the realization that storm clouds have been moving past my head, throughout my life or at least throughout this election cycle.
Sometime last week, at the height of my anxiety, I dreamed or saw or imagined an ominous sky with clouds that parked. Right above me. Unmoving.
Every morning since, I’ve woke with a migraine.
To a chilling thought. Donald B. Trump might be just the person to awaken the Divine Feminine. His Presidency would be such a storm over women that we would rise up, not just here, but around the world, to claim our rightful place.
This terrifies me. The uncertainty of it. And the very certainty. Of chaos. Donald C. Trump, the leader of the free world. But it also relieved me of the burden of this election. For women.
But then I sensed into a Donald D. Trump presidency deeper, and I realized, that while it may be good for waking women (and the men who support us), it would create so much more suffering–for others.
And maybe that’s what has to happen. Maybe this suffering is necessary. To incinerate the old forms into something new. Something higher. Wasn’t this the path of Einstein’s dissipative principle?
But how long will that burning and rebuilding take?
Women have risen to power in the past in many cultures, throughout time, only to be relegated back into bondage as backlash, not just for the duration of dictatorship, but for generations–sometimes spanning hundreds of years or centuries or never again.
(Watch: The Ascent of Women.)
I don’t want to imagine my fellow citizens of color waiting hundreds and hundreds of years because Barack Hussein Obama was POTUS. Nor my fellow citizens who are Muslim or otherwise handicapped in the minds of white men with power. I don’t want to imagine the greater suffering of immigrants or the greater suffering of humanity with whom we share this planet, who itself is hurtling toward dissipation.
But maybe this sense of urgency is claimed by every generation, and the Universe laughs back, at our impermanence. Pompeii comes to mind. The orderly kitchens of mothers and children cemented in time. Like the clouds above me. Frozen. Still.
On Sunday, at High Noon–3 days before she rises–I claimed a warrior’s mask. On behalf of women. For humanity.
What other choice do we have as a nation?
Suicide? Aka. Donald E. Trump.
Despair? Aka. “Voting is pointless.”
(Watch: The Science of Resilience.)
I see signs that a large part of our citizenship is claiming resilience. And I don’t just mean my personal Facebook feed or my local cocoon of human rights activists. Signs of resilience resound in the GOP, in those who have stood up, at great risk to themselves, not just professionally, but personally, physically, to express the urgency, the necessity, the now of this choice.
(Watch: The Arizona Republic Responds…)
A place called Pantsuit Nation, where citizens gather on Facebook, in the privacy of a group dedicated to common ground, is filled with such voices–Democrat and Republican and Independent–not just in rejection of Donald F. Trump, but in support of Hillary Rodham Clinton. And I am crushed there, daily, by how ordinary American citizens express hope and suffering and fear. Physical fear. Of intimidation. Of harm. By the entitlement awakened by Donald G. Trump.
And not only fear of expression, but fear at the polls. Fear after election day. Fear for their families and their homes. Fear so strong that most don’t openly support the democratic nominee for President in their communities or workplaces or lawns or Facebook feeds.
In our democracy.
Many women, in fact, have taken advantage of early voting, for the first time in their lives.
Our men tell us, Don’t worry. Relax.
Donald H. Trump will not be President of this Republic.
We’ve heard this before, haven’t we?
This, Relax. Chill. It’ll all be okay.
But the stakes for women are inside our very bodies.
You’d have to have a pussy to understand.
And unlike the men we love, Donald G. Trump knows it.