Every so often, there’s a fifth Monday in the month and this gives me the opportunity to gift you an extra piece of writing. I do a lot of writing outside of the parameters of Private View; some of it is more creative than you normally receive, although it all tends to link back to life as art, art as life, and finding the value in both.
Here’s a short piece I wrote in response to a passage from Sharon Blackie’s book, Hagitude.
In Sharon Blackie’s book, Hagitude, she writes:
The essence of a rich and meaningful elderhood is finally to set our inner angel free.
When I first read this, I thought “How sweet” but on reflection, it’s not my inner angel who needs to be freed, it’s my inner pixie.
I’ve played the angel role all my life: going to university because my dad told me to, being a stay-at-home mum caring for kids, dropping my life so my husband could follow his dreams, looking after my parents and stewarding them out of this world. I’ve done everything asked of me as a daughter, a mum, and a wife.
Not that I regret any of those caretaking roles, but my inner angel isn’t the one who’s been kept under lock and key - my inner pixie has.
And what would happen if I finally let my inner pixie run wild?
Just imagine.
My inner pixie would have me sell all my belongings and move to the bright light of Portugal, where I would feast on freshly caught sardines, locally-made cheeses, and Vinho Verde. I would stay in bed until the shops opened at noon, then spend all afternoon sitting outside a cafe, sketching tourists and writing poetry that would become songs I’d sing at an open mic.
My inner pixie would have me dye my hair the particular shade of pink/lilac that looked so good on me in that Snapchat filter. She’d have me wear a gold nose ring and get finely etched tattoos of flower sprigs on my chest to mask the network of wrinkles and demand I add another sprig every year until, on my death bed, I offered my skinny bones, covered in a meadow, to the pyre.
My inner pixie would dress me in vintage Vivienne Westwood, snatching my waist so tight I’d gasp. She’d change my name to something non-binary like Sky, Sorrel, or Silver. I’d start an Instagram account and become an influencer, posting all the bad poetry I’d written in Portugal alongside black and white line drawings (later to be licensed to tattoo artists) — all of which would get me a lucrative book deal and endless podcast interviews.
My inner pixie would tell me to hang out in karaoke bars, learn how to DJ, become a vegan chef, dance on cruise ships. She’d tell me I can have it all. She’d tell me I AM IT ALL.
Then, one day, my inner pixie would take a kitchen knife, surprise me in the shower, and cut off my angel wings. Ignoring my calls to throw them on the compost heap, she’d stuff them into a black plastic bag, toss them in the trash, and watch as the garbage truck left a trail of white feathers in its wake. My inner pixie would turn her head to look at me, and grinning ear to ear, shout, “Angel slain!”
JC
Journal Prompts
What part of you has been kept under lock and key and is asking to be freed?
What would happen if you let that part of you run wild?
What dreams are you keeping locked away?
How does your inner angel manifest itself?
Suggested Reading
Killing the Angel in the House, Virginia Woolf
Yes, let the pixie out! 🧚🏼♀️ Leaving behind domestic drudgery would be "cutting" free. I would make a dress out of film negatives and do the grocery shopping in that. :)
This is a such a wonderful bit of writing and resonates deeply. I too was always the good daughter, wife, mother and I’m still learning how to keep my wings while also utilizing a little pixie dust to help me soar. :)