The work was never done.
There was always a pile of laundry or a sink full of dishes that demand our attention. Always a closet to be cleaned or a meal to be cooked. Always a letter to write to a Senator pleading for a vote that will assure my body autonomy.
And like those first few hours when the kitchen counter is clear, the sink empty of crusted pans and milk stained glasses, a hard-fought battle for one right only lasted for so long before the sink was full of executive orders written to remind you that there will always be dishes to wash, always someone else’s mess to clean up.
The work was never done.
It’s easy to think it is when there is a good paying job, a house in a cul-de-sac, a credit card in our own name. But marginalized voices can tell you the work is never done. They do the work so you don’t have to. They take the garbage out, care for our kids and elders, march in the streets, harvest our food, clean up the messes of our government with their bodies. With their lives.
The work was never done.
Misogyny, patriarchy, toxic masculinity, white supremacy, racism, other-phobia- we gag on these foods daily. We are underfed in kindness. We are starved for equality for all. Our kitchens are empty of the nourished ideals that we are ALL created equal, this is a government OF, BY, and FOR the people. Instead, our plates are crusted with twitter rants and conspiracy soup. And it is causing a collective failure to thrive.
This woman’s work is never done.
And I am exhausted.
Burned out.
Tired to the bone.
But if Ruth Bader Ginsburg can care about the fate of our nation on her death bed,
I can wake up every morning and get to work.
