The depiction of women — of myself — over millennia.
Last night I drove into the canyon to Danielle’s, the moonless eve of the solstice cold and heavy with the absence of the winds that have been realigning our world. There were years when I longed for my friend to live here year round, to be in this place with me, to be the woman who I didn’t have to explain things to — who just got it, because she was also here, getting it. Then last summer she came and didn’t leave and I don’t have to explain the wind to her, the darkness under our eyes greeting each other.
We work through our rhythm with a bowl of popcorn between us — men, women, men, women, children, men, men, men, women. There is hardly a moment of air between my stepping foot in the house and my crashing into the guest bed at night, the words rushing, tumbling, pouring out of the rocks that are mountains and into the valleys and pools as if the frost has broken. We say every word that has never seen the light of day.
Last week I had gone over to Gin Spragg’s house to talk about my work. “She’s brilliant with finding the through line,” says her husband Mark before he leaves. Gin shrugs and looks at me “I like story,” she says, and we dissect mine.
“What’s interesting about women,” Gin later adds, “Is the world sees what we want to show them. All else remains hidden.”
My great-grandmother, Leonora Rodrigues Jorge. What I have of her are stories of instability, pain, and grief. What I remember is my grandfather crying when he spoke of his mother, though when he first handed me these photos, it’s electricity through my spine. Why does grandpa have an old photo of me? My brain plays tricks.
A 15th century portrait of a Portuguese noblewoman, severe and refined, radiographed to reveal a previous painting on the canvas. A mother and child, in flow.
Fonte do Ídolo chiseled into granite that comprises the pre-Roman spring in northern Portugal. The Callaici Bracari are the Celtic tribe native to the land and Nabia is their Iberian goddess of running waters and the forests. Today, the Rio Nabão flows sixty kilometers, feeding streams and creeks throughout the central valley.
My great-great-grandmother Jacinta Gloria Pereira on the island of Pico. At this point, her daughter had left for America to marry the widow with a farm in California. The two women would never see each other again, but my friend’s 93-year-old grandmother tells me she can still remember Dona Jacinta’s singing at parties, and Senhora Nunes shares memory after memory of her housekeeping.
“You really nailed the bread,” says Danielle, our mouths full of it.
“It took me a while,” I respond, “But yeah.” It’s the ritual of flour and salt and water that keeps me channeling my ancestors, that keeps me rooted in my strengths.
But men, women, children aside, bread consumed, the surface far above, our conversation turns — as it always does — to this valley we live in, to its magnetism, its inscrutability, the power of its voice in our day. “This place is full masculine,” says Dani in a moment of clarity. “Holy shit,” I respond mid-stretch, “That’s why we’re so strong here,” our feminine energy pulsing in play. The winds having returned to howl through the canyon, the evergreens ache in their scrape against her roof, the river refuses to still, even in December. We agree — as we always do — to trust our instincts. We agree to receive.
“I’m worried about the winter, though,” Dani tells me. “Is it harder to hear in the winter?”
“No,” I tell her. “It is easier.”
Happy solstice.