The Sisters' Journey After Joseph Campbell Given that the journey of a boy hero starts in the ordinary, in a village, perhaps, quiet and peaceful, where do we, The Sisters of the Wound, begin? Besieged from our first cry, we’re born into locked lands, held down by men in our own homes, encircled on streets, we’re told it's our fault if we don't survive. Given that a boy hero receives a call to adventure, what are we, The Sisters of the Shattered, supposed to hear? Is it a pile of stories that smell of mold, fill us up with wet cold, proclaim we must be silent as we sink into a flood? Given that a boy hero crosses a threshold and begins his travels, where can we, The Sisters of Fury, go? Should we stay at home? Cry out alone? Beat ourselves against all the hard surfaces until the walls and floors bear the bloody hollows of our lives? Given that a boy hero reaches an ordeal where he could die, what can we, The Sisters of Still Alive, say? We have been here always. We were born here. We will not stay. The reward for the boy hero is a medal. The reward for a girl is a path. The road back for the boy hero is to go home. The road back for a girl is to walk away. The magic the boy hero receives is a special sword or a boast. The magic a girl seizes is a mountain risen within. She will carry her mountain to The Sisters of Not-Yet Begun. She will show them where the climb begins. Prophecy In the ashes of our lives a day will come when every mother screaming at her daughter, every father punching his son, every soldier taking aim, every crook rifling through somebody’s bank account, every minister or priest hectoring a queer in their church, every cop pointing a gun, every CEO pocketing a bonus for separating people from their jobs, every man delighting in a woman's fear, every person sneering at someone with skin darker than their own, every bully on every playground in the world, all of us all at once will stop. Mouths will shut. Fists will unclench, Guns will be put down. Anyone standing in front of anyone they've badgered into crying or trembling or looking even a tiny bit ashen will step back. Some of us will search for Kleenex. A few old-fashioned souls will take handkerchiefs out of pockets or purses. Wet eyes will have to be wiped before we've collected ourselves enough to turn to each other and say I am so sorry. Days will pass, months, then years. All the needle-tipped words, all our panic will dissolve into puddles that will evaporate. Someday someone will win a Nobel Prize for discovering that what we assumed were the ropes of our captivity were actually the threads of our cocoon. By that time, the sky will be filled with fluttering. Our wings will carry us everywhere.
Diane Silver is an essayist, journalist, and Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has been published in Ms, The Progressive, MockingHeart Review, Kansas Speaks Out: Poems in an Age of Me Too, and many other publications. Her books include the Daily Shot of Hope meditation series. http://www.dianesilver.net
Guest Editor Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, the 2009-13 Kansas Poet Laureate is the author of 24 books, including How Time Moves: New & Selected Poems; Miriam’s Well, a novel; and The Sky Begins At Your Feet: A Memoir on Cancer, Community, and Coming Home to the Body. Founder of Transformative Language Arts, she is offers writing workshops, coaching, and collaborative projects YourRightLivelihood.com with Kathryn Lorenzen, Bravevoice.com with Kelley Hunt, and TheArtofFacilitation.net with Joy Roulier Sawyer. CarynMirriamGoldberg.com.
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 
I love both of these. Especially the last line of Joseph Campbell one. Also love the phrase: even a tiny bit ashen, You’re a master.
‘the ropes of our captivity were actually
the threads of our cocoon’. Brilliant work, Diane. Happy for all your recognition.
[…] you, Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg for choosing my poems The Sisters’ Journey and Prophecy for The Coop. I am thrilled and honored for these to be my 3rd and 4th poems published in this marvelous […]