What the Phoenix Knows

Yes, this is a phoenix.
Abstract, with peacock qualities, but a phoenix nonetheless.

I was raised in a matriarchy, all of them masters of the rise. It was normal for my aunt to list the three miracles she had to pull off that day (or five or seven, or more). It was expected that my mother would triumph over adversity (or her own procrastination) at least once a month.

And it was common knowledge that my grandmother could come back from anything, anything. Perhaps it began when she left home at 15, hitchhiking from her tiny farm house in South Dakota all the way to Minneapolis to find work, to find a life. Or maybe it started when she was barely six, on the floor of the convent, where she scrubbed and scrubbed, willfully holding on to her first language even as they tried to beat the German out of her.

Maybe it goes back to her mother who despite her devout Catholic heart and nine hungry children, divorced her abusive husband during a time and in a place when "divorce" was a word said in hushed tones, like whore or fag or Jew.

Maybe it's always been there, this phoenix in all of us. I admired it, I did. But it also brought me pain, as extremes of anything often do. We liked it too much. It was a drug. We craved it, so we caused unnecessary drama and chaos and let ourselves sink down to the bottom just so we could rise again. Why couldn't we all just live ordinary lives? Why did we have to let ourselves get to a point where we had to wield this power? Why couldn't we just calmly, purposefully, plod along, getting through life on a slow-moving current?

About ten years ago I admonished all of us for indulging in what I called, "the Phoenix complex." I thought myself brilliant for coming up with it. I thought it would make us pause, take stock, and stop starting fires just to get off as we rise from the ashes. I buried the phoenix deep inside me, and hung my head in shame every time I indulged in flight.

Now, with my back up against the wall and the clock ticking, I need the phoenix. I need to embrace and harness that power and rise, rise, rise before the ashes turn to quicksand and swallow me whole. Like anything, she is a curse and a blessing. Right now I need the blessing.

The phoenix knows she will be reborn again, and again, and again. The women in my family know that this means we will pull off the best, most unimaginable outcome out of the worst, most challenging situation. Maybe I can have this, without starting fires. Maybe not. But this month, I need what the phoenix knows.