Anthologia!: On a Time Between Stories

INTRODUCTION

The word ‘Anthologia’ traces its roots to the enchanting Greek language, embodying the phrase ‘flower gathering.’ Born from ‘anthos' (flower) and ‘legein’ (to gather, to select), it emerged into English in the early 17th century, adorned with a metaphorical grace: a collection, meticulously chosen for its captivating beauty and profound significance.

Anthologia! celebrates this age-old tradition, unfolding a curated gathering of women storytellers in this powerful and inclusive Issue, On a Time Between Stories that are both universal and deeply personal. Written with verve and clear insights, the stories in this anthology, authored by eleven courageous women, emerge from the whispers of wisdom passed down through generations and deep connections of maternal lineage. They traverse the emotional landscapes of leaving homelands, the sensations of displacement, identity and belonging, and the enduring scars left by oppression. They sing an ode to women’s rage and retell the myth of Athene and Medusa, reveal the protective fierceness of a mother’s love, the resilience demonstrated by cancer survivors, and emotional safety and inclusion in women’s lives.

These stories shine with essential truths about love, womanhood, and the timeless struggle to define ourselves and find love within our inner landscapes, embodying life’s liminal moments. Together, these women write courageously, underscoring the vital role of documenting our stories to create a braver, more beautiful world.

Anthologia! is a call to all of us to adorn our own brief time with as much love, wisdom and, most importantly, beauty as possible. When women are the storytellers, we alter traditional timelines, shift societal patterns and change the arc of time. We hope as you make your way through this book, you see parts of your journey reflected in it. Take time to inhale and exhale: who knows where you will find yourself at the end.

CHAPTER 1

THE RECLAMATION

Daniella Libri Elias

Dedicated to eleven-year-old Daniella,

who dreamed of one-day writing stories.

For all sisters, may we meet on fertile ground.

I was pulled back to the present with a forceful jolt – my body pulsating with unrelenting tremors. In the background, the sound of meditation music was gentle – a calm contrast to the new, yet ancient thrum of energy running through me. I tried to replay what had just occurred in an attempt to understand the magnitude of the moment. Everything had changed. I slowly paced, noting the light of the candles as they danced with flickers so intense it was like they, too, had witnessed my reclamation. They felt them; they heard me.

I followed a chord from my heart out of that room, trusting its guidance. Directing me towards the final task. In my mind it was all clicking into place, I knew what I needed to do. What I needed to say. And so as I anchored myself firmly in front of my love, feeling his curious eyes roam my messy hair and tear-stained face, I was grateful for his unquestioning silence. A patient pause in-between. He, too, could sense the power pouring from me.

A low howl of wind outside alerted me of their presence. They were still here. They would always be here. There was no turning back now and nowhere else to hide. However, in truth, I didn't feel fear. Instead, I welcomed their familiar energy, their wisdom. My Maiden, Mother, Enchantress and Crone revealed themselves through the vibrations around me, creating a solid wall at my back to hold me with what I was about to claim.

Raising my voice, not to yell, but to stand firm, knowing that these words were necessary, their meaning holding the weight of those who came before me and those who will come from me.

For the first time, I allowed myself to express without hesitation or uncertainty, and with the intention of being seen.

And so, I declared myself.

…

I always prided myself on being a good girl, doing just enough so that praise would coax my ego, but not too much, not pushing the boundaries enough to ruffle any feathers. No, that wouldn’t be polite. To ruffle feathers meant to make others uncomfortable. To make others uncomfortable could lead to me being under the microscope, with whispers and judgment passed my way. Instead, I chose to be a great student, a good daughter, a responsible older sister – in the only way I knew how – to be quiet and to follow the rules.

I could achieve, of course, but not be lavish in the sharing of said achievements in case it would make others feel inadequate. I could speak my mind, but only if it didn’t go against what everyone else in the room was saying. I could have fun, but not do anything that might embarrass myself. I could wear what I wanted, but only if it would be considered appropriate. I had to make sure to embrace all opportunities because my parents and immigrant grandparents had sacrificed so much to give us this privileged life. It was exhausting trying to keep up with it all. Trying to wear all the masks while covering the very essence of who I was.

Of course, it didn’t stick.

Repressing parts of ourselves is never sustainable. But for a long time, that was how it went. I held such a deep fear about being a disappointment, even though I knew there was no evidence to suggest that I was. I felt confident within the strong walls I had built around myself, the mask placed firmly on my face. As long as no one could see what was beneath, I was safe. The real me was too much to fit into the mold society gave me. I was emotionally messy and opinionated. I felt too much, too curious about everything, and had the deepest desire to be free, to explore without limits.

The expectations I placed on myself were the highest of them all.

Daniella, do not mess up under any circumstance.

Daniella, do not say the wrong thing; you don’t want to look stupid.

Daniella, just do what everyone else is doing and fit in.

Over the years, the mask became tighter and tighter, to the point where it felt like I was wearing another skin. I could no longer see or feel where the real me began and ended. On rare occasions, I would wonder where all of this pressure came from. Why me? Why was I like this? It was all-consuming. A burden I carried so heavily with me. For years, I believed the stories and repeated them in my mind, rejecting my individuality and accepting roles that I thought were what I was meant to do.

As women, we have done this for centuries. We have been silenced, shamed and made to feel less than. We have been underestimated, exploited and misunderstood. Our experiences have barely been documented. Our ritual selves, our powerful selves, our wise selves, all stuffed in a box over and over again, told to behave, told how to feel, how to act, how to react.

All of this has left us in a space of disconnect, we no longer know ourselves and our intuitive connection is limited. Mistrust is in our natural cycles and there are blockages right down to our sacral selves. When I step back, I see it is the essence of our femininity and the power we each contain that scares society because it can not, and will not, be controlled. It is potent magic, filled with healing waters. It is creation in motion with a heart-filled strength that could shake up the entire vibration of this planet.

It seems big, doesn’t it? I guess that is why, for so long, so many of us have accepted a reality that is not our own. One that is not one we want. One that does not align with our sense of purpose, pleasure and joy.

Standing in front of my mirror, I reflect on the room around me. Outside the window, the shadows of the trees move in unison, a few long branches brushing their leaves across the glass. The moon is new, leaving a sky of black velvet to stretch as far as the eye can see. The only light sources are the candles around me and the dim glow bouncing off my open laptop.

Class is in session for Cycle School, but it has stretched late into the night, so a five-minute break is where I find myself. While I wait, my eyes land back on themselves. So brown, almost black, I have always loved my eyes. I thought them to be mysterious, although with age, I know that there is nothing mysterious about eyes – they are the portals to our truth. So much is shared through them. The way mine squint together when I smile, the lines that grace the sides of them, they tell stories of my laughter, of my lineage. Most of the women in my family have the same eyes. They connect us.

I notice how the light makes my dark hair look like silk and my olive skin glow. The hairs on my arms raise, an excitement in the air. My smile appears, lips closed like they know a secret. My eyes wandering down to my