Recalling Female Resilience
A while ago I did a writing challenge where I had to time myself to write on certain given subjects. I recently found my exercises again. I decided to finish this one for International Women’s Day — a vignette on resilience and grace represented in many women who do not have a voice.
Bouquet
An arrangement of freshly cut, dewy faces with glowing complexions; sweet, rosy cheeks ready to smile for the camera. They have left behind their roots. We are leaving behind the oasis now; drink up before the long journey ahead. Are we all going to stay together? One asks. No one can answer but a few well up with sadness. We’ll all remember each other, one tries to comfort.
The journey is long, arduous. A lot of bumping into others, bunched together, in the back of a smelly lorry. The giant, owner of ‘grubby grabbers’, is not at all friendly or respectful. Does he know who we are? A long, dark few hours — no light, no fresh air. Finally, they are made to leave the vehicle, limp and wan from travel sickness. Something unsettling begins to creep up from within. Where are we?
They open their eyes and look up. A beautiful wing — white chairs, burgundy ribbons, balloons and colourful triangles linked in chains greet them. They are bewildered but take it all in. Fruit and musk scents, light bursting through rose windows, bodies bustling about — excitement in the air. They wonder if they are part of something significant. Maybe this will all have been worth it.
They take but a few breaths before they are whirled out and their tired legs are tied together. Some are lucky enough to see the whole event from a higher vantage point, only after wearing tight chokers and enduring hot and moist grips around their necks. Disorientated by all the movements and the unknowable flashes from all around them, they sense a slow of pace and are relieved. Now the ordeal is over and perhaps we will be set free.
One group is released and recaptured to signify the anticipation of some other’s future happiness. The rest will stand or squat until they are told they have had their time in the lights. They long to return to the hillside where they belong, rooted and free, individual and cared for by the natural elements. They learn what they did not know they had to learn: that their destruction is in the name of celebration and commerce.
But, brave and undaunted, remembering who they are, they dream of a daring escape back to their heavenly habitat. Suddenly, their colours return and their countenances open up. Even in their very last moments they are filled with grace and beauty. They wrap themselves up — embracing the life they lived, patiently waiting for the welcome touch that will revive them once again. They will not be disappointed. Such were the days of the wild flowers that God planted.
