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Every Woman Holds A Universe Within

To be a woman demands only one thing: a universe within.

We hold a cosmos of colliding stars, pirouetting meteors, and twinkling stars within the folds of our minds and hearts.

Every tear we cry holds precious moonstone and liquid gold, every pigment in our eye the overlapping of a thousand flower petals, every curl of our hair wraps around the golden rays of the sun. Every breath carries the four winds, every word charged with the energy of a raging river, every blink of an eye rattles off another hurricane, every fingernail painted with the colours of the sunrise.

Each eyelid decorated with the palette of the sunset; from ears, necks, and wrists dangle the precious gems of the earth; on ring fingers nestles the moon itself; in the hems of dresses butterflies cocoon; around the legs of plants vines wrap; on shoulders birds perch.

With each breath we take, we inhale the corrosive acid of others and exhale the beauty that we create. Each woman that walks upon this earth contributes to the beautification of our world—beautification that simply requires a readjusting of our societal scope.

We hold within each and every one of us an incredible capacity to create.

Within the vast forests of our minds we paint landscapes and tie-dye truths. We choreograph waltzes to our words and craft our words to the beat of our feet. The soft humming of instruments is ever present in the background of our thoughts: harps and pianos when we are content, saxophones and trumpets when we are joyful, cello and flute when we are sad, drums and electric guitar when we are angry.

If you listen when we speak you will hear the melodies we craft in our subconscious. Our thoughts do no ebb and flow like an ocean wave, rather they rush forward like a river coursing down a hillside. If you listen when we sing you will see landscapes and beautiful scenes painted on the canvas of your mind. We sing not for ourselves but to share the beauty of what we see. For even in the chains of patriarchy, we see and celebrate the beauty of ourselves and others.

Our differences are the sharpest knife in our mental arsenal.

Each woman presents a different truth. A truth that is crafted in the forges of our hearts, lined with effervescent gold and sparkling gemstones. We cradle this truth in the caverns of our hearts, but we do not hide it away. Our truth is whispered in the undertones of our words, is cushioned in every step we take, is clinging to the ends of our eyelashes. Wearing our truth on our sleeves can be dangerous and so emergency medical attention is often needed. Vile remarks tossed around like a baton in a riot cut into the soft flesh of our truth and leave it bleeding on the ground. But like a hillside burnt down in anger, it will rise again.

In the loving embrace of the night we tend to ourselves and nurse our hearts back to full strength. We will dance in the moon’s glow until we feel the blood pumping from our toes to our ears. Our truth will never stay quiet long. Each time it is ripped apart by the angry claws of the fearful, it emerges stronger and bolder. No truth will be the same as when we are first born into this world, but it will only get stronger.

From woman, woman came. From woman, came truth. Women know how to listen for other’s truths, even without meaning to. We see the beauty of a gathering is not simply the togetherness, but also the dazzling tie-dying of differences that sparkle like the gems in a crown. For each woman with curly hair, there is one with straight. For each woman with brown eyes, there is one with blue. And for each woman with a scar on her face, there is one without.

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For each woman with an amputated leg, there is one with an amputated arm. For each woman who is an athlete, there is one who writes. And for each woman who believes in a God, there is one who does not. For each woman who is black, there is one who is white. For each woman who loves a woman, there is one who loves a man. And for each woman who feels alone, there is one willing to reach out a hand.

Our differences are a sharp knife—a tool to carve out a statue from marble or a tool to slash other women’s truth.

Each woman homes a field of sunflowers in her heart. The sun the flowers turn to face does not come from herself, but from the glowing smiles of the women she loves.

Each day she rises to join the other women in sharing their truth. She rises like the break of dawn for she knows she is the sun.

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