Open the door. No matter what.

Oct 13, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Same thoughts. Same frustrations. Same choices. Different day.

To open the door, or not…

Your hand trembles on the knob, uncertain, not ready, afraid.

No. Not yet. Step back. Stay safe.

But you don’t want to be safe, do you? Not really. You want to fling the door wide and dance through its frame. You want to write poetry and paint wildly and speak prophetically. You want to move through your world with the freedom and abandon of a young girl – dandelions in her hair, trees bowing down to her in worship, grass the grandest of blankets, blue skies that surround in song.

Tell me why you stay inside? Remind me?

Listen. You already know this. Nothing that you want, desire, or deserve remains on this side of the threshold. You’ve given it every chance. You’ve been patient. You’ve been gracious. You’ve stayed seated. You’ve been silent.

You know this, as well: Until you step over the threshold and turn your back on the familiar, the entrenched, and yes, all that
seems safe, you won’t be able to taste the wildness that awaits.

You don’t know what will happen (which, of course, is why you have continued to stay inside). You don’t need to. Turn the knob, open the door, breathe in the brisk, fresh air, and move. Don’t look back. Be impatient. Choose yourself. Stay standing. And start speaking, shouting, yelling, singing. Who cares what anyone else thinks? You’ll be free.

Will you stumble and fall from time to time? Probably. Will you know grief? It’s a given. Will people sometimes often misunderstand you? Mmm hmm. But will you be alive? Yes.

How about this? I’ll stand on the other side and just keep knocking. Eventually, you’ll get so tired of not accepting the invitation that is so clearly yours that you’ll open the door anyway. And there, waiting as I’ve always been, I’ll grab your hand and pull you into the world, the beauty, the life that awaits you.

[The story of Jepthah’s Daughter inspired this post. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need and so love.]

How to Deepen Your Spirituality

Jul 24, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

One of the most powerful ways in which we infuse and strengthen our own spirituality is to expand it beyond ourselves. It’s soooo easy to become isolated, fixated, even stuck. We study. We focus. We practice. And though all of this is critical and meaningful, the temptation is rife to veer mostly toward ourselves: My study. My focus. My practice.

What we believe and how we embody/experience our spirituality must be inclusive of the world in which we live and the people with whom we relate – even, and maybe especially, those with whom we do not.

How do we do this? There are so many ways, of course, but here are 3 ideas you can start implementing right away:

1. Venture into realms that are outside your boundaries, your comfort zone, your predictable-ness. If you grew up in the church like me, maybe those realms have to do with Tarot, Goddesses, Pagan ritual, or even metaphysics. Take a class. Book a reading. Join a FB group. Build an altar. If your experience is just the opposite, it might mean that you listen to someone talk of their relationship with the god you don’t believe in (or have left), why they believe, why it matters to them, what they love, worship, and revere. Attend a worship service. Listen to liturgy. Download the haunting beauty of Taize on iTunes. Get a Blessing. Step outside your lines.

2. Let go of your dogmatism. No matter your perspective or stance, when push-comes-to-shove you still believe you are right. And this, by its very nature, assumes that others are wrong. Though I’m sure you are incredibly open minded, this is dangerous territory – the impact of which you’ve felt before, witnessed many times, and still have the scars by which to prove it. But that door swings both ways. What would it look like for you, me, all of us, to acknowledge that we’re pretty damn opinionated and that maybe, just maybe there are some other pretty incredible positions/perspectives that are worth creating space for? This isn’t about changing your mind (though that’s always a possibility); it’s about becoming more clear, more grounded in your own beliefs through the challenge of appreciating and respecting others’. It’s about allowing for what’s complicated. It’s about stretching your wings and maybe even doing some heavy lifting.

3. Apply new templates to the old (or, if you prefer another metaphor, put the old wine in new wineskins). This is my love, of course: (re)telling the ancient, sacred stories of women in Scripture in ways that honor and value them as much as we do myths, fairytales, and epic film. ‘My example. What’s yours? Maybe you listen to hymns that are acoustic re-mixes. Maybe you think about the way in which the Archetype Card you drew this morning might talk to Mary Magdalene or Jesus or Eve. Maybe you repeat a Rosary while Tibetan chants play in the background. Maybe you take that yoga class held in the basement of your neighborhood church. Maybe you fill out tonight’s page in your Gratitude Journal as though you were talking directly to God. Mix it up. Shake it up. Try something new!

I hardly say any of this by way of prescription. I speak every single word on my own behalf; always preaching to the choir. I feel incredibly grateful to be surrounded (and confronted) by things, concepts, and people way outside my purview every day. Each and every one, when I allow such, cause me mysteriously, graciously, powerfully to take deeper breaths, to go further down, to open up my arms, mind, and heart. Each and every one, when I allow such, invite me to a whole world of beauty and wisdom I would have otherwise missed. And each and every one remind me, again and again, that there is so much I don’t know. Thank goodness!

There is no limit to the ways in which our spirituality can expand, grow, broaden, deepen, and ultimately impact. Which of course, is exactly what we endlessly and passionately long for, yes? Let’s do
that, then.

May it be so.

An Easter Reflection

Apr 20, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

I will not be attending Easter services today. 

I will not witness the rows of shiny, white patent-leather shoes, frilly dresses, and neckties. I will not gasp when the black shroud is dramatically pulled down from the cross. I will not hear the Hallelujah Chorus. I will not see the lilies. I will drink coffee. I will reflect. I will probably write. I will enjoy the Mason jars filled with orange tulips on my kitchen table. And later, I will decorate Easter eggs with my daughters. I might even open a bottle of champagne. 

I’ve been pondering all of this; what it means and feels like to be disconnected from this Sunday’s tradition, but still umbilically tied to its rituals, its in-my-DNA tug and influence. I’ve pondered even more of how Easter is not exclusive to the church; how if it offers meaning, if it matters, then its value remains and must be made known in ways that are rich and relevant for me.  

And oh, how rich and relevant it’s been.

This whole week, has been rife with symbol and sign (as all weeks are, really). This Holy Week (as all weeks are, really) has called me to story; to death and darkness, to sadness and loss, to questions without answers, to a can’t-see-how-it’s-gonna-happen-but-still-I’m-gonna-trust kind of hope, to perseverance, to risk, to courage, to voice, to condence, to places and people who call me to more.

This whole and holy week has called me to life; to my life. And isn’t this, above and beyond all else, what Easter is about – church, religion, or no?  

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?” asked Jesus when he encountered Mary in the graveyard. 

Indeed. My holy and whole life (and yours) is to be found and experienced where life dwells: in deep breaths and coursing blood, in muscle and bone, in earth and water, in conversation and silence, in laughter and tears, in friends and foes, in facing fears and choosing love, in the sacred stuff of every day.  

So breathe in and rise up. A new day dawns. Light gleams. Stones move. The earth quakes. Buried, silenced, and shrouded ends. Tombs are emptied. Veils are torn. Angels appear. Graveclothes are shed. Death does not have the final say. Song breaks forth. Miracles occur. 

And resurrection always comes.

Speak the language women speak.

Feb 10, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Writing

“We must learn to speak the language women speak when there is no one there to correct us.” ~ Helene Cixous

You know this native tongue – its dialect, accent, and pace. You feel it building in your heart, cascading in your brain, and maybe even lodged in the back of your throat – threatening hoping to escape into an expression that soars. You can picture the very words of the sentence-paragraph-speech-essay-novella-masterpiece you long to bring forth – its brilliance and white-hot-heat irradiating every corner of your world. You can see the faces of those who will finally hear, finally see, and at last understand; who will finally and at last understand you.

Then what happens?

Silence falls.

I woke up this morning to a blanket of snow. 3-4 inches of pristine whiteness covering everything. I can see it out the windows that surround my desk. And as I type, it strikes me that this is rich (though painfully chilly) metaphor for a woman’s silence. A thick, muffling weight that descends. Maybe even beautiful to look at – for a while. Covering over and, at least for time, disguising the verdant, green, life-force underneath that yet beats, endlessly survives, and waits…

Oh, eventually you speak – or you don’t. If you do, it’s in a language that’s common, learned, and acceptable; that ruffles no feathers and sustains the equilibrium. If you don’t, that too is common, learned, and acceptable. Life goes on. No one is the wiser.

That’s not actually true. You are the wiser.

The silence is only external, for within the volume goes up, the clatter is nearly unbearable, and the cacophony rages. You have SO much to say, to express, to feel, to be.

And this is what we fear: that if we were to finally speak, what would come forth would be more like a scream at the top of our lungs. That our words would invite wounds (ours and potentially others’) beyond repair. That what we sense, what we feel, what we KNOW will not be heard or understood.

Speak the language women speak.

Can it be spoken everywhere and instantly grasped, accepted, embraced? Sadly, no. But does that make it less true, less necessary, less vital? Absolutely not! To start, find safe places where it can be expressed…and heard; later, you will not care. And soon, with unswerving determination, you will be unstoppable.

This is your native tongue: the fluent language of your dreams, your pen on the page and fingers on the keyboard, your art, your dancing, your wildest fantasies, your late-into-the-night conversations with a few select friends, your deepest longings, your very pulse.

You know what you think, what you see, what you understand, what you feel.  Unedited. Unrestrained. Unbound. Unbelievable. Unlimited. Uncorrected. Understood. No translation required.

Speak the language women speak.

Not just for yourself (though that, in and of itself, is beautiful and a lifetime’s-worth of significance). Do it for the rest of us. Remind us of our Mother Tongue. Inspire us toward tongues-unloosed, unfettered, and free. Tell your truth so we can be emboldened to do the same. We need to hear you speaking out. We need to see you rising up, taking names, and blazing trails.

Outside my windows, the snow has already started to melt.

May it be so.

*******************************

Believe me, I am not consistently successful in speaking the language women speak. But oh, how I have grown. Step-by-step. Inch-by-inch. Sometimes even word-by-word. And oh, how thankful I am that this is so. As I look back over the years I see the particularly icy places where to speak felt (and was) dangerous, treacherous, and slippery. Still, slowly, tentatively, and over time I did it anyway – holding on to hands past and present who steady me, hold me up, and keep me warm. And miraculously I was (and am) able to stay standing. The more this happens, the more I am able to risk. Costs have come…and will yet be. But the old(er) I get, the more it feels like privilege, responsibility, and legacy to speak anyway; to be brave and dauntless in my use of our Mother Tongue; to bring to life the too-long silenced voices of other women, to stand strong and tall as their daughter, their lineage, their kin.

Because I Am Older

Feb 5, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power

I could talk about what I have learned these past 53 years, about how my body doesn’t move or respond quite the way it used to, about how I sometimes don’t recognize the face that stares back at me in the morning, about what it feels like to walk through the mall or thumb through a magazine or flip through channels surrounded by youth and its glorification, about often usually being the oldest person in the room, house, business, even social settings.

None of this is what I really want to say.

Here it is:

I’ve heard and felt it for the past few years: a sort-of distant drum beat to begin with, now, closer than my very heartbeat; a pulse, a whisper, a chorus, a chant – a nearly-visceral awareness that I am compelled, called, and required to say and give what I know – because I am old(er). It’s not about content – what I’ve studied, the expertise I’ve gained, the work I’ve done – though that matters. It’s not about my unique experiences – places lived, relationships survived and lost, lessons learned – though those matter. It’s not about my particular story – family of origin, personality, choices, preferences – though this matters, as well. It’s about all of this and then some. And it’s the “then- some” of which I really want to tell you; the ways in which each of these elements have impacted all that I know, believe, doubt, question, and trust.

I did some research for this post, looking online and in books I own for quotes, perspective, data on what I’m feeling and trying to say. Oddly, maybe profoundly, nothing showed up. And though I know it’s out there, I closed the last book and every single-extra tab on my laptop screen then moved my keyboard in front of me.

This is what it’s about: not looking other places for the wisdom that’s within; speaking what I know because it matters and needs to be heard; trusting that my thoughts must be articulated and shared. I am compelled, called, and required to step into the world with more strength, more perspective, more volume, more fierceness, more determination, just more, than ever before. I am compelled, called, and required to walk through my world as one who sees, who hears, who knows, and who offers all of this and then some to my daughters, my friends, my peers, my world. I am compelled, called, and required to speak and give me, expressly because I am old(er).

I couldn’t/wouldn’t have seen, let alone said this ten, twenty, or thirty years ago. The credibility or authority (whether offered internally or externally) would not have been mine. But now it is. At 53 I can and must sit at my kitchen table or my laptop, stand on a soap-box or a mountain-top , and speak/give what I know. No holding back. No editing. No censoring. Because what I know and who I am matters.

A part of me All of me wants to say, “Come. I have so much to tell you, so much to offer, so much to give.” But it sounds arrogant, doesn’t it? (The too-long-listened-to voices within still attempt to control and quiet.) And right now, in this very moment, I see myself reflected in the windows that front my desk: a woman in her 50s, questioning her right and ability to speak! I laugh, out loud. Mostly at myself, but also at any who would think me too much and ever dare to say so.

So consider yourself warned and wooed: I am waaaaaay too much! Which is exactly the way I like it, the way it should be, the way it is.

Risky. Bold. Dangerous. Deal with it. Deal with me – or don’t. But if you can, if you want, if you will, oh, how much I will give, how much I will offer, how much I will say, how much I will love. Because I can. Because I must. Because I’m old(er).

And at the end of this post, what I realize is this: Even the remotest feeling that as I age I should somehow quiet down, slip away, or fade into the background is a lie from the pit of hell. More, the endless attempts by the over-culture and media itself to convince me of such, is evil embodied.

Here is what is true: the older I get, the louder, the more present, the more fiery and alive and passionate and impossible-to-ignore.

This is no small story – mine. I carry the lineage, the blood, the hope-and-strength of thousands of women before me and it is my right and responsibility to keep them alive, just as they keep me alive in every single way possible. I am the daughter of Eve, Hagar, Deborah, Jael, Mary, Mary Magdalene, the woman who wept, the women at the tomb, the countless others who have names we’ve never heard, tales we’ve neglected to tell, stories that thunder, lives that yet live. They will not be silent, nor will I. And this is what keeps me alive; hardly old, rather, old(er), wis(er), strong(er) than ever before.

I’ve heard and felt it for the past few years: a sort-of distant drum beat to begin with, now, closer than my very heartbeat; a pulse, a whisper, a chorus, a chant – a nearly-visceral awareness that I am compelled, called, and required to say and give what I know.

Do you hear it? Do you feel it?

It resonates, reverberates, and shakes the rooftops (as do I). I am here. And oh, how much I have to tell you, to say, to give…because I am old(er).

May it be so.