fbpx

November 9, 2016

Nov 9, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement

I woke up this morning to news I did not expect and cannot believe: Donald Trump has won the presidential election.

Given such, I would expect to be spinning and spewing and raging. But unbelievably, I am calm and quiet. I sit here at my desk, in the dark, stunned, and wondering why that is, wondering why I am not in tears, wondering why I am not sinking into immediate (and appropriate) anxiety.

It takes a while, but then it comes to me: I’m listening to something else. Something steady and solid, something strong.

I’m listening to my heart.

And this morning, this day, my heart is loud – louder than my mind can scream. My heart is wise – wiser than all that assaults my sensibilities. My heart holds truth – truer than what the news reports. My heart is strong – stronger than anything and anyone who attempts to defeat it.

True, it is broken, bleeding, and twisted in pain, but still, it beats. And still, always, it loves.

Yes, love is what I feel this morning – the deep, aching kind. For this world, for this nation, for our future. And most of all, yes, most of all, for my daughters – their world, their nation, their future.

My mind cannot, will not make sense of this day nor all the events and choices that
conspired to make this morning’s news a reality. But my mind is not what serves me now. Nor fear. Nor anger. (Though yes, grief. Definitely grief.)

My heart is what serves. It can be trusted. It is strong. It will love. And love always trumps fear.

About Fall, Writing, and Letting Go

Nov 4, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf.
~ Albert Schweitzer

 

There has always been something beautiful and miraculous about one solitary leaf as it lingers then slowly, finally dances toward the ground. Glimpsed by few, maybe by none, but no less gorgeous, no less significant, no less real or relevant.
~ Ronna Detrick

Once upon a time and a hundred years ago a woman typed away on a laptop as she sat in a gray chair in the living room of her condo in the city of Tacoma in the state of Washington in the United States of America in the Western hemisphere of the world as she knew it. She typed what you are reading now. And she wondered if anything she could possibly say would have relevance in the future.

Then she began to wonder if anything she had already said, already written, already created had any relevance. “Probably not,” she realized. So she pondered whether any of her labor or struggle or questioning of her work and voice in the world had been or was was worth it.

“For if, after all, 100 years from now, no one recalls or even cares about what I did and said back then, does it matter?”

She realized, even as she asked it, that it was an existential question, one that made her want to pour another glass of wine and think less and watch back-to-back dramas on Netflix. But it was only 10:30 in the morning. Wine and mindless entertainment weren’t timely choices right now. So instead, she sat with the question, mulled it over in her mind, and stared out the window. She saw the sun streaming through the lingering leaves: all browns and yellows now – the green faded and gone. They clung to the branches as long as
they could before fluttering to the ground. She knew they would eventually disappear – raked up into piles and scooped into big black plastic bags and taken to some distant destination for disposal and decay. It all felt related somehow, timely and true.

But the longer she looked at those leaves and thought of their pre-determined demise, she realized that after Winter, Spring would come again and new leaves would grow, that Summer would arrive with green-in-glory, that Fall would return; the cycle repeating itself over and over. And all of this without her effort, without her intention, without a bit of her labor or
concern.

She wondered if maybe, just maybe, the same might be true about her writing, her words, her life.

Maybe all she needed to do was be the leaf,
to allow the sustenance of the roots to be unfurled through her. No effort but that which naturally came forth. No intention but being right here, right now. No labor or concern, but that which turned her face toward the sun, or drank in morning’s dew, or huddled in chill at first frost, or sought shelter in the storm.

Nothing required except to finally loosen her grip and gracefully, willingly, let go.

“Yes,” she thought, “just let go.”

She wondered if in 100 years there would still be leaves and trees and seasons, if there still would be women writing, never mind if they were reading anything she had written or said.

And she realized that she could not, would not let go of this – what mattered most of all:

women’s words still bursting into bloom and thundering forth in greens and reds and oranges, becoming the very substance that fertilizes those that are yet to come.

So she turned back to her laptop and typed some more…

There has always been something beautiful and miraculous about one solitary leaf as it lingers then slowly, finally dances toward the ground. Glimpsed by few, maybe by none, but no less gorgeous, no less significant, no less real or relevant.
~ Ronna Detrick

 

Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf.
~ Albert Schweitzer

My Three-Graces Season

Sep 27, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power

I went in search of Renaissance art today, remembering that there was a particular period in which women’s bodies were depicted as large and voluptuous. My need to find such was hardly creativity-inspired; instead, rather desperate. I kind of hoped that seeing them would help me better see myself.

I am about twenty pounds above where I normally hover and thirty from my idealistic goal. Never mind that this has been my idealistic goal for more than twenty years. Never mind that I am now in my mid-50s, post-menopausal, and hosting a significantly slower metabolism. Never mind that the last guy I dated would sometimes say, “You’re chunking-up a little bit, aren’t you?” and that maybe, even subconsciously, I (still) respond in rebellion and rage. And never mind that for the past 18-months (interestingly, the amount of time since the guy and I broke up), I have been working exclusively from home, sitting at my computer for 10-12 hour days – no movement, no standing, no break. I understand it all.

You’d think I could extend myself some grace. But no. That idealized vision of myself (no matter how unrealistic), haunts, plagues, and deceives.

Somehow I have convinced myself that I will be happier once I see that number on the scale again, once I can get rid of the multiple sizes of clothes my closet holds, once I can be thin. I know it’s not true, that it’s all an illusion. But that doesn’t silence the voice within that will not leave me be, that rolls its eyes when I get dressed in the morning, that sighs as I walk past the mirror, that says, “It’s Monday. Get your shit together this week, OK?” that nods in determined agreement as I witness the world around me saying only thin equals good, only thin equals acceptable, only thin equals lovable, only thin equals worthy.

Believe me, I know better. I am well-versed in the objectification of women, the media’s tyranny, the cultural messaging. I know all about the necessity of being embodied and present and accepting all of me, my whole and complete self. And I remind myself of this repeatedly, even while I stand in line at the grocery store and stare at the covers of People or Self or Cosmopolitan and deliberate over the purchase of Peanut M&Ms.

So back to the Renaissance art.

Artist Peter Paul Rubens was particularly fond of creating images of women who were large, curved, and far from what we describe as perfect and beautiful today. One of his final works was called The Three Graces. Three ample women, barely clothed but for some gossamer here and there, and forming a circle together so that one of them has her back to her viewers. They are thought to be Aglaia – which means radiance, Euphrosine – which means joy, and Thalia – which means flowering, and they served Aphrodite, the goddess of love. I can’t help but wonder what they are
saying to one another, what they know that I don’t, what stories they tell amongst themselves.

Here’s what I don’t have to wonder at all: Not a one of them is talking about how they were merely wearing gossamer because nothing else in their closet fit. Not a one of them is saying, “Look at me! Can you believe how much weight I’ve gained?” Not a one of them is talking of a new diet or exercise plan or seemingly miraculous form of self-affirmation. Not a one of them would have considered such a thing. And without that self-critique, without that shame, and within the trifecta of their
friendship and love, all we see is beauty…and grace.

I want in on that. Yes, in on the graces of radiance, joy, and flowering; even more, in on Grace itself x 3.

So I think I’m going to call this my Three Graces Season. Because I’m not opposed to wearing gossamer. Because even with Peanut M&Ms in hand, I want to be reminded that beauty is relative and true and ever-present and mine even now, evermore, always. Because I’d rather serve the goddess Aphrodite, love Herself, than the insipid little gods who keep nattering on and making me crazy.

May it be so.

A story for Mother’s Day

May 8, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

Mother’s Day used to be the hardest day of the year for me – when lost in the throes of infertility. That is no longer the case. But I never want to forget. I never want to not acknowledge just how difficult today is for those without children, for those who have lost children, for those who have chosen to not have them, for those who have lost mothers (living or dead), sisters, friends, for so many women…and men. So today, this – in the hopes that it will encourage your heart, strengthen your faith, summon forth grace, and remind you that hope, yes always hope, endures.

A story in 3 parts:

The Ending:
One day, out of the blue, unexpected, unanticipated, unbelievable, I was pregnant. And again, 15 months later. Emma Joy is now 16, Abby 17. They are miracles. It is a miracle that I am a mother.

The Beginning:
I was 31 years old when I got married. Behind the power curve (in my insular opinion) where such a significant life-marker was concerned. Children were up next (and fast) on my make-up-for-lost-time agenda. There would be no leisurely year of nuptial bliss before we began the process of trying to get pregnant. The clock was ticking. There was no time to waste – or for which to wait. I was in hot pursuit.

The Middle:
After a year of trying with no success, the fertility consultations and moderate treatments began. By year two, we’d moved to more intensive, invasive testing. And with still no success or answers that satisfied, in-vitro was the next recommended attempt. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

And then I couldn’t bear any more. I was tired of waiting. I was tired of trying. I was tired of hoping. So I stopped. No more treatment. No more planning. Little-to-no conversation. Time for life to move on. It did, of course. And it didn’t.

In the nearly-three years that followed, no matter how I tried to ignore my longings, those emotions would not be aborted. No matter how I tried to put on a spiritual happy face and quote Romans 8:28 (And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love God…), I raged inside. No matter how I tried to tell myself that God had other plans for me, that my life would have other “births,” that my world would be rich in unimaginable ways, I was miserable.

But not for lack of trying to summon up any other emotion, any other perspective, any other experience. I tried to pray. I tried to be patient. I tried to let go. I tried to trust. I tried to have faith, thinking that would make sense of things, but every effort was impotent and infertile.

Oh, how I wish I could say that my (im)patient waiting, hoping, and tenacious trust resulted in a profoundly dynamic spiritual life; a seismic and never-to-be-questioned-again faith.

Even more, how I wish that I could say to others who struggle with such intolerable
heartache that “just having faith” will, indeed and ultimately, engender and enable a hope in God that comforts and sustains.

I cannot. I will not.

I grew up believing that faith was something I needed to (and could, with enough work) attain. It was a developed skill, a worthy goal, a near-requirement for the believer in God. I also grew up believing in some kind of Divine barter system: if only I could have what I wanted, what I desired, what I fervently prayed for, then I would have faith. I ask. God comes through. My faith exponentially grows.

I am still growing, but here is what I believe now:

Faith is not ours to work toward, aspire to, or command at will. It will not appear at our beck-and-call.

Faith grows in chasms of doubt. It is nurtured in the darkness of pain. It slowly, silently, almost imperceptibly multiplies in long, wide, and deep spaces of waiting, of questioning, of aching, of asking.

Faith is not a sense-making activity, quality, or attribute. It is a crazy, defiant, and nearly certifiable choice – made an infinite number of times within one day, one life, one heart. It does not come in miracles and breakthroughs, but in the pregnant spaces of life that are more-often filled with desolation than hope. Still, an occasional tinge of awareness that something is growing and will be birthed, but a complete and helpless inability to will it to arrive any sooner. It is a mysterious, un-navigable, impossible-to(pre)determine journey.

Faith is much like pregnancy: experience more than event. And faith is much like infertility: despairing, but waiting-trusting-hoping anyway.

Faith is living one day after the next. One foot in front of the other. One wish-and-a-prayer that is too-often dashed, but whispered yet again. One broken heart that somehow mends and loves again. One longing for success that decries a dwindling bank account. One more blog post when creativity wanes. One more load of laundry. One more commute. One more prayer. One more push.

Faith is not the ending of the story, nor is it the beginning. It is the way in which we be; the way in which we live in the middle.

Naturally, the gift of my two daughters – then and now – nearly takes my breath away.

Naturally, I am deeply grateful to the Divine for their presence in my life. But I have learned that the faith that spikes in such places rarely sticks. The faith that stays – and sustains – is that which is nurtured in the well-worn path of worry, the sleepless nights, the inconsolable heartache, the insatiable desires. In between the lines. In the middle.

I am aware that my story could have gone so differently. But my faith was not what made the difference. It was grace. And that would have been true no matter what…

Happy Mother’s Day to each of you: daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers-or-not, friends, women, men. May faith be yours. May grace overwhelm. And may hope, yes always hope, endure.

A POSTSCRIPT: I would not be writing any of this, thinking any of these thoughts, believing (and sometimes doubting) any of this were it not for my mom and her faith. Thanks, Mom. I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.

[Portions of this post first appeared in January of 2013.]

Is beauty worth $8 + tax?

May 6, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

As I sat down to journal this morning, I spotted the fresh tulips I bought just four days ago. They are already drooping. One or two more days and I’ll have to throw them out. Is it worth the money when
they only last such a short time? What I’m really asking, is this:

Is beauty worth $8.00 + tax?

I know the answer AND I can see the way my mind wants to weigh the benefit, the value, the worth – as though beauty (and so many other things) is practical, something to be calculated through a Return-On-Investment filter. And this got me to wondering: How many other values that defy measurement do I subject to such?

Multiple examples rush to mind:

  • The measure of my own self-worth tends to decrease the higher the number on the scale. (I’m not proud of this – even disagree with it, fundamentally – and still…)
  • I have been known to measure a blog post’s success (and subsequently the worth and value of my writing) on the number of shares, likes, or views it receives.
  • Based on the response I receive (or don’t) from a text or email I send will measure my willingness to continue to express my desire.

This kind of measurement doesn’t serve me at all! And yet, I do it all the time.

But here’s the thing: self-worth, creativity, and desire don’t bow to a cost-benefit analysis.

There is no measurement or rating to place on such things – as though we can analyze and determine in advance whether a quality like hope or love or grief or disappointment is worth it. And when we try, it’s a slippery slope. More than slippery, it’s downright dangerous.

  • The tulips are going to die. Why spend the $8?
  • Allowing myself to express grief surely won’t change the past. Why bother?
  • This happiness won’t last more than 5 or 6 days. That’s not long enough. Better to tone things down than to be disappointed.
  • Even if I don’t eat this candy bar today, I’ll weaken tomorrow. The effort at restraint isn’t worth it given my certainty of the future.

Though a few of these may sound somewhat silly, more of them sound familiar. This is exactly what we do. This is exactly what I do. Here’s my best (and most current) example:

Too often when I sit down to write I am measuring the value of my words as I go along. I hear the voice of the critic, fear certain misunderstanding, worse being ignored, and have already begun quantifying them, limiting them, cutting them off at the knees. I have already dismissed their significance and the value of my ongoing investment. In effect, I’ve done to myself (before anyone else can) the very thing I fear: I’ve ignored my own words! Sometimes I so completely pre-determine their value and worth (or lack thereof) that I never begin! (I know you know what I mean here…)

Further, in (pre) measuring the worth of something, in determining it’s value (or not) we actually enable the very thing we intend to prevent.

  • 6 days of beauty in my home isn’t worth $8 — and so there is no beauty in my home.
  • My weight will never change — and so it doesn’t.
  • My grief won’t heal anything — and so I don’t heal.
  • My happiness will never last — and so it doesn’t.
  • My writing will never go anywhere — and so it doesn’t.
  • Why keep hoping? I’m going to end up single anyway — and so I will be.

Here’s what I’m coming to:

Risky investments and not measuring the approximate value and worth, even logic, of our every move might actually be the safest bet. Buying tulips even though they’ll droop and die. Making healthy choices even though it’s hard. Choosing to grieve even though it’s scary. Allowing myself to feel joy knowing it will not last. Writing and creating no matter who understands (or not), reads it (or not), loves it and me (or not). Giving away my heart and desiring, desiring, desiring even though I might get
hurt.

Stated even more clearly, a safe bet is never as interesting, exciting, or fun as tossing our fate to the winds, holding on to hope, and being willing to risk everything for what we value most  and deeply desire.

I’m off to buy more tulips…

On Miracles

Mar 14, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I made a video a few days back in which I talked of Tabitha. Little known. Rarely told. Hugely significant. (This could be my tagline!)

If you didn’t watch the video, here’s the quick recap:

Tabitha dies. Her friends aren’t OK with that and so they send for Peter to come and bring her back to life – which he does. He says, “Tabitha. Get up.” She opens her eyes, takes his hand, and is presented back to her community – the women who love her.

Truth be told, there’s a part of me (and probably you, as well) that struggles with this story because, well, she was resurrected! That seems too good to be true: some made-up story to make the “miracle-worker” himself look better, an ancient version of the snake-oil salesman. But what if we reserved such judgment and instead, allowed the story in its entirety? Even more, what if we could/would allow her story to be ours?!?

What if we allowed miracles into our consciousness, our everyday reality, our lives? Even more, what if we actually
believed that we are one?

That just might change everything. (Kinda like a miracle…)

We’ve been conditioned to think of a miracle as something that is completely outside the realm of possibility. The parting of the Red Sea. Walking on water. The blind and lame healed. And yes, the dead raised to life. But…

What about the miracle that despite our grief and agony and depression and profound sadness, we still hope?

What about the miracle that despite marriages that bind and bruise, we continue to live…and sometimes leave?

What about the miracle of birth in its EVERY form?

What about the miracle of friendship?

What about the miracle that flowers die and the sun goes down and yet both will rise again and again and again?

What about the miracle of opening our eyes to one more day, to taking someone’s hand,
to rising? (Just like Tabitha.)

That is phenomenal and anything but ordinary. That is extra-ordinary. That is who we are. Miracles – each and every one of us. Including you.

So the question remaining is simple:

If you will but allow that miracles do occur, more, that you actually are one, how then will you live?

Where have you hesitated, held back, and played it safe? Where have you not risked, feared misunderstanding, and stayed quiet? What have you not yet written, said, or done? What emotion, passion, idea, brilliance, heart have you not yet let out of the bag? What dance is yet within your bones and song within your lungs? All of these are yours to do, oh miraculous one.

And believe me, I’m right there with you (along with Tabitha, of course).

May it be so.