“Writing is all about raising your voice and staking your claim. You speak your truth, claim your authority, take a stand for what you believe in. We can talk all day long about how to write—both the craft of it and the practice of it—but the hardest part by far is stepping into your power.” *
Searching for a topic to blog, I found this quotation in a desktop document. It made me consider: How often I had used the word “power” in Rain Dodging?
Well, just a few times . . .
Mary of Modena, was exposed to powerful, independent women all of her young life as a daughter of a Mazarinette. But in 1673, she was powerless, a 14-year-old, unwilling political pawn, instructed to marry James II, then still the Duke of York, by proxy.
University of Oxford
Despite her youth, upon first sight, Lord Peterborough described her as poised and elegant: “her Eyes so full of light and sweetness that they did dazzle and charm too. There seemed given unto them from Nature, Sovereign Power; Power to kill and power to save;
She may not have had the power to choose her own court . . . However, I maintain she continued to sustain intellectual freedom for women in her husband’s court.
The more I read, the more compassion-mixed-with-anger. Was that why I had cried when the camera panned the Treasure House staircase, 25 years before, when I sensed a past life? Had I been a woman of those times without an identity, without any power of my own, without self?
Aphra Behn saw Mary’s court with its relative freedom for women as empowering, since exceptional women whether writers or artists could flourish there.
The ultimate show of power and powerlessness: What started out with four close women witnesses ended with a circus filled to standing room with members of the king’s court.
So far, though Mary created an environment that encouraged the arts, it would seem that her court was appointed through family connections, not even a queen had that kind of power.
“Salon[s] encouraged socializing between the sexes and brought nobles and the middle-class together..” Here, women could be powerful influences.
For the next few weeks, I dealt with the power of both hurting and being hurt. Slowly I improved, adjusted. Started sleeping again.
Back then, using ‘my power,’ coupled with an honest ambivalence towards ‘relationship’ attracted men like a scent.
Using looks as power. But chased and abused. Sounds familiar.
One of the last visitors, I walked through the empty red-brick Tudor gatehouse, from the present back to echoes of the past. I’m grateful. I had fallen into it—smack dab in the middle of Power with a tinge of discomfort.
I related to her, powerfully. I gravitated towards her, strongly. Melancholy childhood. Educated. Chaos. Bouts with depression. Preferring the country life. A husband who supported her need to write. A survivor. Resilience.
With the exception of Johnny Cash and Neil Young, for whom I was awe-struck, tongue-tied, and absolutely dumb-fucked, fame—in the words of Shania Twain about celebrities—don’t impress me much. Other things, like a mix of intelligence and power, now that was fascinating.
In all seriousness, I was reexamining my attitude towards the feminist label. I know I am a Russian Jewish descendant of resilient struggle, but it has always been vague, out there like a cloud.
But I do refuse to be invisible: I’m stepping into a different power.
Wish me luck.
*Jennie Nash, (nonfiction book coach)
