I am not saying that divorce is never the right decision. Quite often, it's the healthiest decision a person can make. It certainly was in my case. But the process itself has no inherent reward. Every turn, every agreement, whether good or bad, right or wrong, reasonable or unfair, someone is getting hurt.
Divorce is a crucible. It is a trial by fire, and most who have weathered the process have the scars to prove it.
A midsummer tradition in Denmark dates back to the Viking era. Bonfires are burned near water to ward off evil spirits. As the Catholic church strengthened its foothold throughout Northern Europe, the festivities were appropriated by the church leaders and re-branded as the feast of St. John the Baptist.
From 1540 to 1693, the hysteria of witch hunting took hold of communities and congregations across Europe, and the bonfires were utilized to "cleanse" the community spiritually by burning persons accused of witchcraft, mostly women.
It is likely these individuals were burned because they displayed behaviors considered unseemly by others in the community. Personal vendettas, unrequited love, jealousy, all became basis for accusations.
I had never considered what those women must have felt, accepting that excessive judgment of wrongdoing. The day I received documents from my husband's divorce attorney, I understood precisely.
I did not recognize the woman described on the pages I held in my hands. Just as the women of long ago would not have recognized themselves in the descriptions of their accusers.
I was being led to the fire, and I instinctively knew that my kids were as well.
The only way to spare them, was to kneel down and put myself between them and the flames. Because nothing else I could do would be enough to protect them from the fires of accusations and misplaced derision if things were left unchecked in this mounting battle between me and my husband.
The last woman burned as a witch was in 1693.
I think about her now, about all of them.
She must have been terrified as the fire was lit. I imagine she also felt a great deal of sorrow, possibly as much for her accusers as for those she loved. Perhaps she felt a bit of amazement at the sheer lunacy of it all.
I like to believe some part of her was relieved. Not because she had won in any real sense, and not because she had been judged fairly, but because, despite their best efforts, her accusers could not take away the one thing they wanted.
Her soul was hers alone. It belonged to her and God, and to those with whom she chose to share it.
Nothing the others did or said would ever change that. Nothing ever could.
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| Sankt Hans Aften - Gentofte Lake, Denmark |
