Frailty, thy name is woman

Photo by Dids on

“I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.” – Simone de Beauvoir

There exists a certain kind of creativity. It is not doing. It is not assembling. It is not dexterous. Nor is it even touchable. Sometimes you recognize it but it is elusive, dynamic. When you see it, it feels like you caught the sight of lightning. Brief, but dazzling. The more you think about it, the more unreal it becomes. To witness it is to be blessed. It is the spontaneity of a woman.

It is often disregarded by great men as merely trifle. Her jumping with joy – clear in her youth, and more subtle after trials and tribulations. Her sweet buzzing enthusiasm. Or her more modest affection in motherhood. When we want a compass, she will follow the wind. Always told what to do, she is typecast, overlooked and placed under the umbrella term of “women and children,” as if she was only a cartoon as opposed to real artwork, a toy car as opposed to a self-contained jewel, a fixed appliance as opposed to a hurting, healing, heartening being. A background. And yet, she yields, she accepts. For want of rebellion, she plays the background and does it in such a way as to be invisible. But invisibility is not without effort. Her creativity is her being, her gait, her care and her frolic. She is a fluid and sensitive tapestry of everyday concerns. Our century or culture does not acknowledge it. It is more amazing than physics, more wise than philosophers, and yet is as plain as clouds.

Hell hath no fury…

The spontaneous woman is not merely an angel. She is anything but. She is not an artificial garden with no dry leaves and only flowers. She has her storms. She feels. She drowns. She not only bears life, she is life: she needs to belong and she needs to be alone. She wants to love, to fondle, to feed, to laugh. She wants to hate, to shear, to shatter, to cry. She can be at ease one minute and be whipped up into a frenzy the next. She is day and she is night. She is everything in between.

“When she does not find love, she may find poetry. Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a color, a smile awakens profound echoes within her; her destiny is outside her, scattered in cities already built, on the faces of men already marked by life, she makes contact, she relishes with passion and yet in a manner more detached, more free, than that of a young man […] instead of being interested solely in her grasp on things, she looks for their significance; she catches their special outlines, their unexpected metamorphoses. She rarely feels a bold creativeness, and usually she lacks the technique of self-expression; but in her conversation, her letters, her literary essays, her sketches, she manifests an original sensitivity. The young girl throws herself into things with ardor, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain All.” – Simone de Beauvoir

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