“The painting (by John Everett Millais) depicts the wife of a rebel Scottish soldier, who has been imprisoned after the Jacobite rising of 1745, arriving with an order securing his release. She holds her child, showing the order to a guard, while her husband embraces her.”
It echoes the sentiment that Ann held when she loaded this video. Men will fight – they will fight for the friend beside them and/or the land they left and hope to walk on again. But often times it is the person waiting on them, doing all they can to just keep hearth and home safe, that bouys the soul in hazard. After that recent post, I wanted to ensure I balanced it with this strong support for those who do love and respect their men (and women – I do not judge).
Home – it is a small word. Too small to hold all the meaning it conveys. It can be the worst one room apartment, holding safety if one can just get to its door. It can be that bricked hold in an enclave, gated. In our hearts it is a place we conjure up a pretense of security and love. For some, the pretense is entire, the true home having all the comfort of hell.
But there are those who hold it all together without much help. I’ve one friend who has done just that – always supportive of a man who cannot bear the daily whip of a master and has struggled to do without that and still provide. She gladly served up sausage and beans for months to permit him that soul-salving time. So many bear up under burdens we cannot imagine – the mil-spouse in crappy housing with little money, awaiting word from far lands that sometimes cannot come for weeks…
This song played on the rotation the other day and it reminded me again of those women who forget what they have, the man who would Stand.
Don’t think those lone women don’t stand their own vigil. Crueler, some. They have over eons decided that they can do it – they can “smile as the wolf gnaws”, too. Those who think they will bow to some archaic laws and shroud themselves in sheets to mimic the emotional prison forced on them will be surprised at the fury. Not here, no. We’ve no ingrained sense of fear and intimidation, fed from the womb to the tomb by bitter brides.
No, those good women will rise. And wolves will die, surprise squatting on their brows.
Time, I think, to revisit this one. A favorite here in these gentle confines. A song to gird the loins. Hoc, hoc!