I Am Poppy.

 

 
I am Poppy. 
We are the same and we are different.
We are of the same species and we are different specimens.
As female, knowing what specimen you are (it makes life better).
We have similar aspects and we may speak a different language.
As a woman, knowing what language you speak (matters).
 
Her femininity is sick. In need of recovery.
Something is always wrong with her.
Not that I think so; she thinks so, and proceeds to proclaim, in her articulation, all-things-wrong-with her.
She identifies as a ‘her’, as a woman, as a female – but I can see how she doesn’t like being a woman, because she complains about it all the time.
Something is always wrong with her body – her life – something is always wrong. It’s rather exhausting (for me) to be around her, I can only imagine her exhaustion of her own womanness.
All things wrong – but doesn’t see herself in the wrong body (yet) – she just doesn’t like being in her body, which unfortunately, is true for many of us.
The fortunate (receiving good, unexpected, lucky) gift of being a woman (of our femininity, our beauty, our sexiness, and our grace) –  that seems unfortunate.
Maybe there’s nothing wrong. Maybe we just don’t know what’s right. 
I’m sick, she’s sick, we’re all sick – those us who want to be women; who want to put some value on and in our femininity, but we don’t know what it means to be feminine anymore.
Our American culture has drowned out, washed away, and gotten rid of any cultural and traditional rituals (rites of passage) that lead us into womanhood. (one thing I appreciate about the Cuban culture: quinceanera).
In America, our entrance into womanhood is usually nil, or a haphazard mess of an unspoken, “You are woman now,” followed with an unspoken, “Am I? …what the hell does that even mean? “
I was in the movie theater when I first heard I would be a woman soon (Pulp Fiction).  Upon which my womanhood was left to the perils indicative of the movie. 
Sad, but true.
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I asked her to start with some basics. To at least understand what language she speaks and/or wants to speak by looking at her own definitions of beauty, of femininity, and of being a woman.
What definitions do you like? Don’t like? Feel into this.
What do these words mean, how do we digest them, and what do we want them to mean?
What are some examples, traits, and qualities in other woman that we prefer? That we are attracted to? And which ones don’t we prefer?
What traits and qualities do we admire (in other women), but that aren’t necessarily align with the nature of our unique feminine beauty? We can appreciate another woman’s beauty language, but it may not be our personal beauty language. 
Like preference of flowers.
We are different specimens of ‘female’ – just as there are different specimens of flowers, and we have individual preferences, qualites, and natural traits. It’s important to know some of these basics.
A flower might ask: What kind of flower am I? (amidst all these flowers)
I might be a poppy, and be completely unaware that I am a beautiful poppy (if I can’t see myself). And as females, we don’t know how to truly see ourselves, so we don’t value or appreciate what we are and how to contribute ourselves to the world.
 
If I don’t’ know I am a poppy, I might want to be every other flower but a poppy – oh! how exhausting that must be.
I might be jealous of the hibiscus: of its beautiful tropical nature, as I might wither when if gets to hot –  but the hisbusic seems to thrive: something must be wrong with me!
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I might be jealous of the roses, even jealous of certain color roses. I might be sad that people don’t give me as a gift for special occasions or as a means to say I love you.
I might spend all my life-time comparing my flowerness to all the other flowers that I am not – to the everyday daisies that people easily admire – to the calla lilies that get the wedding fun, and to the rave and delight people give to the iris.
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What about me? I might forever be asking. How come no-one marvels at me?
Does anyone even know my beauty, my color, or my radiance exists? Or am I withered down to seeds on a bagel, or to some type of toxic residue of opium extract?
Do people even know I am a flower? 
This might cause a lot of pain and confusion if I (poppy) don’t even know my own magnificent beauty – if I can’t value myself as a poppy.
Do people even know I am a woman? Do people know I exist?
More importantly – Do I know I exist? As a woman? As a female? As Beauty? As Sensual? As Grace? 
Do I know my own feminine magnificence?
No. I don’t.
We don’t.
And it’s time to know ourselves.
– manna received, manna given
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