THANK YOU to the terrific Moms from Trestle for another great “Bag Lady” Nite at The Ranch! This month we made lovely art jewelry earrings for women who are victims of Domestic Violence.
About 15 years ago, The Ranch was quietly known as: Wits End Ranch (Women In Transition - Envisioning New Destinies). DV Shelters sent women here for a few days at a time. To be hidden, pampered, nourished. To gain strength and resolve – while digging in the dirt, picking apples, getting a manicure, a re-cycled outfit - or just staring at the mountains. Because it is often at shelters that abused women learn that “The System” will not protect them – or their children. That knowledge makes them feel more vulnerable than they have ever been – and more likely to return to their abuser. Often because they know what they must endure – and are willing to do whatever it takes to protect their children.
Leaving, it turns out, is not as easy as it may seem.(Statistically, only a handful of cases ever make it to Court. Because Domestic Violence victims are afraid to follow through with charges. A man can be jailed for assaults for decades - yet the record shows no “history of Domestic Violence” – no “proof”.) And so, they sometimes came to Wits End.
Here, many of them learned what I was still learning: If I could have grasped how hard it would be, I may never have left. AND, if I could have even imagined that I could survive it, I would have left much sooner.
Next week, I will meet an amazing woman in an Everett parking lot – and give her 9 pair of earrings – 9 amulets of possibility, healing, strength - to give to the women she now shelters. For me, they are given in memory of 2 very special women. Survivors still, I hope:
One who had been the wife of an area Detective for more than 13 years, and arrived here with a bullet in her leg. Snohomish County is legend in this arena – and he knew the “right people”. She and her children already had 3 aliases by then – and had been running and hiding for 9 years. Can you imagine that? Your children can’t keep track of their own names. They can’t make friends. Have only furtive contact their own Grandparents. Can you really imagine that? Finally, there had been Federal Sting – but someone tipped him off, and he shot her. She bled all over the red and yellow quilt I’d bought for my abuser’s child.
The other, a quiet woman who rarely spoke. Who spent her days here on a chair overlooking the pond. The day before she left she said: “I can see colors again.”
- Randi
Possibilitarian
