I believe you do too, cynical as you are, because it feels so much better to be that person, and because you are awesome. And I proclaim here and now that, deep down, all truly awesome people are earnest and sincere. So push your inner cynic face down into the couch and sit on him, and listen to these words, from, as is so often true here, APW, about fighting for your own dreams and fighting for the dreams of others:
. . .It was about always saying yes to each other, about saying, “Not only do I believe you can do that, I believe you can do something ten times bigger. And I believe you have a responsibility to do it, and to help change the world, and I will personally do everything I can to help you accomplish your dreams.”
So, tell me what I can do, or tell me what you want to accomplish, and I'll figure out how I can help. I promise to start sharing my dreams and asking for help, which is damn hard for me - and probably everyone else. It's hard to open up those tender places. They get hurt so easily.I want to see women standing up and saying I will fight for your dreams, not just for mine.
I'll be thinking about your dreams and you'll be thinking about mine, and we'll have double the power of thought behind them and double the intent and double the energy and double the talents and tools and manpower. And, shit!, we'll create an awesome world!
Think about it.
And here's something to muse on whilst you do, from First Milk:
I Wish I Had More Sisters
I wish I had more sisters,
enough to fight with and still
have plenty more to confess to,
embellishing the fight so that I
look like I'm right and then turn
all my sisters, one by one, against
my sister. One sister will be so bad
the rest of us will have a purpose
in bringing her back to where
it's good (with us) and we'll feel
useful, and she will feel loved.
Then another sister
will have a tragedy, and again
we will unite in our grief, judging
her much less that we did the bad
sister. This time it was not
our sister's fault. This time
it could have happened to any
of us and in a way it did. We'll
know she wasn't the only
sister to suffer. We all suffer
with our choices, and we
all have our choice of sisters.
My sisters will seem like a bunch
of alternate me's, all the ways
I could have gone. I could see
how things pan out without
having to do the things myself.
The abortions, the divorces,
the arson, swindles, poison jelly.
But who could say they weren't
myself, we are so close. I mean,
who can tell the difference?
I could choose to be a fisherman's
wife, since I'd be able to visit
my sister in her mansion, sipping
bubbly for once, braying
to the others, who weren't invited.
I could be a traveller, a seer,
a poet, a potter, a flyswatter.
None of those choices would be
as desperate as they seem now.
My life would be like one finger
on a hand, a beautiful, usable, ringed,
wrung, piano-and-dishpan hand.
There would be both more and less
of me to have to bear. None of us
would be forced to be stronger
than we could be. Each of us could
be all of us. The pretty one.
The smart one. The bitter one.
for-no-reason one. I could be,
for example, the hopeless
one, and the next day my sister
would take my place, and I would
hold her up until my arms gave way
and another sister would relieve me.