FREE AT LAST

I love sitting here listening to Caroline Myss speak her wisdom. She is what you call a no nonsense woman. “Stop it!” she stresses. “Or I am going to put your head in the toilet.” I like to put Sheba’s head in the toilet now. She’s barking over her rubber chicken. I can hardly think! I’m suppose to toss it with her. I like sitting here with her when she’s quiet and peaceful. She probably likes it when I play rubber chicken. We are both in training – to better ourselves and to please each other. Mutual love.

I think we are making some progress. We are going to prove that you can teach old broads new tricks. It depends on the rewards used. Sheba is not as discriminatory as I am. She is tail-wagging happy, will sit, down and stand on her head if possible for any treat big or small. I am not so easily swayed. It would be in your best interest to trick me into self motivation. I am a tough cookie. Sheba loves tough cookies, too. She’s always next to me.

For today at least, I’ve relinquished my guilt for everything. I’m letting it fall like puddles at my feet. I can declare like Martin Luther King, Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty we are I am free at last. A little melodramatic, you say. But alas! I do feel shackled by all that I’ve been taught, unwittingly or otherwise.

I like to turn a new page, a clean slate with no blame. I’ve come to the conclusion that we can’t forget, we can’t forgive so let’s move on and start a new story. We think our wounds are healed but are they just scarred over? They can bleed at any provocation. Ask any survivors of residential schools in Canada. And has Truth and Reconciliation Commission brought about truth and reconciliation? I am sure that many would find a fallacy in my comparison between such a big hurt and my little hurts. But aren’t wounds, like beauty, in the eye of the beholder? I’m not a fan of licking each other’s or trading stories of wounds. It makes me want to have bigger ones than you have. That’s why I think it wise for me to move on.

I hate the name of Wounded Warrior. I don’t even like being a warrior at all. The title signifies fighting, warring. Don’t we have a lot of that? Every day in the news there’s a war. The Gulf War, the war in Afghanistan, Syria, Vietnam, Iraq. Then there’s the war on drugs, terror, against crime, poverty, cancer. Why must we fight so much? Can’t we work to find solutions? Maybe if we can change our talk, we can change our thinking and seeing. Maybe we can find common ground without the fight. How about a little brotherhood and sisterhood. And maybe then there won’t be so much ass and other body parts grabbing.

So why this sudden avalanche of sexual harassment stories. They’re tumbling out of closets. Big names, starting with Harvey Weinstein, are falling like dominoes, except for Trump. He is still President even though he said grab them by the *  *.  Maybe he has a big gun mouth.

 

 

About hafong

Hello! My name is (Leung) Hafong alias Lily Leung. You always say the last name first….that is the Chinese way. That is my partner lurking behind me. Since this is my blog, I won’t mention his name. But this is a rather cool picture. You see me and yet you don’t…sort of the way I feel about myself most of my life. So this blog is a self-exploration, an archeology dig of some sort. My tools…..words of a thousand or so at a sitting. I will try for that.
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