A few days after Hillary lost the election she was spotted walking her dog in the woods. The patriarchy gloated - they had finally put her in her place.

 

You see, throughout almost all of history, white-haired women have been forced to disappear into the darkness of the forest (well, the nasty ones anyway). 

 

Probably because a mature woman with a mind of her own becomes a dangerous force when she can no longer be defined by her looks.

 

I've seen a young woman's whole identity wobble over a single comment about her thighs. But a post-menopausal woman can no longer be defined by any part of her body (especially the bits she spent years learning to love).

 

She can only be judged by her thoughts, deeds and what she's achieved through decades of creating, loving, losing, and healing – guided by her own unique inspiration.

 

I personally disappear into the forest every morning, as did my mother, and Charles Dickens.

 

You see, I believe in the original meaning of the word 'genius' as a spirit that visits. I find (like Mr Dickens), she arrives at the same time each day and always under a canopy of leaves.

 

When she breezes in, the world goes silent except for the bird's secret code. I see the world through my child's mind, the trees grow like giants, and fairies fly in the corner of my eye.

 

All time becomes one. And I become absolutely nothing at all.

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Then I pick up the dog poop and rush home to write it all down.

 

All the creative women I know have their own personal version of how they get their inspiration.

 

But none of the wise women I know work in an office or have a boss. The women who have mastered the whispers of the Genius turn her musings into songs or stories, business plans or social media campaigns.

 

Because one thing a creative woman learns in her career is just how precious her voice is and how hard she has to fight to be heard.

 

Sometimes you have to take a step back for that.

 

In a world where creativity is shouted over with logic, drowned out by headphones and copied from the net.

 

Someone needs to be listening to the whispers.

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