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Make your mark!

Aug 26, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Stop listening to the insipid internal and external voices that tell you you’re inconsequential, that you don’t really matter all that much, that until you “figure out” why you’re here, what you are here to do, what your calling is, that you’re somehow missing the mark.

Once-and-forever silence those voices and choose to believe another one: your own!  That know-that-you-know-that-you-know voice within.

And if that doesn’t (yet) feel completely trustworthy, then believe me. You are making your mark just by being. Nothing more is required. No accomplishment or attainment or degree or certification or pedigree. No dues-to-be-paid. No suffering to bear. Just you. Right now. Exactly as you are. Because you are, period.

Which means you have total freedom and profound permission to rise up, step forward, speak out, say yes, say no, be you.

This is your mark!

Make it!

[This post is inspired by the ancient, sacred story of Cain’s Wife; her husband the origin of the phrase “the mark of Cain.” In the midst of his story, we have missed hers. And I think that’s a mistake. When I acknowledge her mark on the world, she is redeemed. When I acknowledge her mark on me, I am, as well.]

Sometimes the best choice is to RUN!

Aug 22, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

It is excruciating to be the victim of someone’s scorn, passive-aggressive behavior, or blatant harm. I’ve heard so many of these stories over the years. In the media. In the workplace. In families. In marriages. In churches. In friendships. (I’m hardly immune.)

There’s a voice within that tells us to run, to flee, to get the heck out of dodge. Instead, we stay – silent, enduring, keeping a stiff upper lip; we refuse to acknowledge just how profoundly this impacts our accurate and honest sense of self, how we sell our very soul.

So, run!

I don’t necessarily mean this literally (though sometimes that’s exactly the right thing to do). I do necessarily mean that we are wise-wise-wise to listen to our brilliance within that says “enough,” that stands up, that knows to walk-if-not-run away – even if only emotionally and energetically – from places and persons that don’t serve us, don’t honor all we offer, don’t recognize all of who we are.

So, run!

What would it cost you? What risks would ensue? What consequences would straggle along after you, threatening to drag you down with them? (I’m hardly immune.)

No matter how high those costs, vast those risks, or massive those consequences, you still deserve to run. I understand that you very well may choose not to. (I’m hardly immune.) But it matters that you know that you have the right, the capacity, the strength, and most of all, the desire.

When you speak your inalienable “yes” or “no,” when you honor your intuition, when you trust your most integrity-filled heart, and when you run, the Divine shows up – profoundly, miraculously, magically, overwhelmingly – because you do! Then, whether you stay or go, you are filled with blessing and strength; you carry a knowing, a secret-sense of self, a glorious glimpse of who you truly are that enables you step boldly into even the hardest and painful of situations with power and beauty.

So, run!

I promise you will be amazed by who meets you there. One look in the mirror, you’ll see her, and you’ll smile: “Oh! There you are! I know you!”

[This post is inspired by the ancient, sacred story of Hagar. She consistently and endlessly provides me strength and courage beyond-compare. She ran. She runs with me. And in such, the Divine runs toward us again and again.]

Letting Go is NOT Falling Apart

Jul 13, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

A wise woman tells me she gets this strong sense that I am unable to really let go; like I’m afraid of letting my hair down. I hear her words, feel the lump in my throat (a marker that truth has been spoken), and in
my mind’s eye can already see the story, her story, the one I need to hear.

~~~~~

The town harlot. Marginalized, unseen, shamed, and scorned. And not one bit of that matters. Not to her. She leaves the margins and enters the fray – walking into a room full of men – the insiders, the censors, the judges, the jury. They look up from their feast, reclining interrupted by the shock of her presence. Head held high, she ignores every incredulous face, sidelong glance, and whisper of contempt. There’s only one goal, one guest, one man that matters. No amount of shame or scorn will stop her. She will be seen.

And she will not bow or scrape. Not today. She will stand. Eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to- toe with this God-man, this healer, this miracle worker, this Love enfleshed. Jesus.

So she did. Time slowed. Din silenced. Shame dissipated. Scorn dissolved. Only the two of them existed. And maybe this is what enabled her next move: the visceral and complete awareness that this moment and this man were all that mattered, that she mattered.

She let go.

She wept. So much that she rained down tears on his feet. Then, in front of all her accusers – those leaders, law enforcers, and rule-followers – she let down her hair. Literally. She opened an expensive perfume, an aromatic oil, the fragrance of which filled the room and confused the senses. She poured it on his feet, mixed it with her tears, and dried them with
her hair – her let-down hair.

She let go. Of ramifications, risk, (broken) rules, created ruckus.

She let go. Of their responses: unheard of! disallowed! scandalous! extravagant!

She let go. Of everything.

Because she knew she could. Because she knew she was safe. Because she knew she was seen. Because she knew she could not be stopped. Because she knew her own heart would not lead her astray. Because she knew…

And in letting go, she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

He spoke of her with such fierce love – condemning those who had not offered him even the smallest portion of what she had; who had stingily gripped their pride, their power, their position; who refused to let her anywhere near them (at least in daylight), let alone into these inner chambers; men who refused to let go.

“Truly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.”

~~~~~

But that has not happened. Not really.

Why would I think my story (or my telling of hers) would be any different?

~~~~~

I am not like her. I sit tight and hold back. I clench my teeth, my fists, the muscles in my neck. I won’t enter the room. I won’t take the risk. I won’t bear the ramifications. I brace myself for the scorn and shame. Because I’m convinced it’s coming.

I refuse to let go.

Letting go has meant being wanton, irresponsible, and foolish. Letting go has gotten me into trouble. Letting go has been what I’ve done when I have not held onto myself, and ultimately compromised myself. Letting go isn’t prudent. Letting go isn’t smart. Letting go might get me hurt.

Letting go has gotten me hurt.

~~~~~

What does this mean: “I can’t let go.” What am I holding on to? What am I unwilling to release? What do I fear will happen if I do? What do I grip so tightly? Why do I feel like I balance on tip-toes while a noose chafes my neck? What room won’t I enter? What faces will I not face? What old-tapes play?  What taboos am I unwilling to break? What tears do I refuse to shed? What expense do I spare? And all the while, what words and stories am I unable/unwilling to speak, to write, to live?

All these questions exhaust me. I dwell on the margins instead of entering the fray. The wise woman says to me, “It feels like oppression. Sacrificing words because someone made you feel like you’re not good enough or you don’t fit in or you’re too different. You’ve got to let go. Reflect on where those messages of perfectionism and being outside the norm come from. Then you can contain that energy and get out of your own way. The floodgates will open.”

Even this exhausts me (though it rings true). So much time spent trying to figure everything out, to understand my own psyche, to analyze my own stories, to endlessly push against the obstacles that refuse to let me pass.

~~~~~

She sings to me. She seduces. “You know my story is yours. You know the rooms that are yours to enter. You know the courage required. You know the focus, the intent, the determination with which you must move. You know of the whispered contempt, the shouted scorn (or at least your fear of such). You know who waits for you at the head of the table. You know of the tears you’d shed, the emotion you’d express, the offering you’d give, if your heart was exposed – and received. You know what’s true: this God allows, welcomes, and honors you. You know…”

I see her outstretched hand, her dazzling smile, her yet-glistening tears. “Here’s what I know,” she says. “You are extravagant. You are safe. You cannot be stopped. You know this. And you’re not alone. I am with you.”

~~~~~

Letting go is not falling apart.

It’s not falling, at all. Rappel, free-fall, skydive, stop worrying about the net beneath, leap, spread your Phoenix wings, fly. Of course.

~~~~~

Of course. I’ve written of her before. I know this! It was in letting go that she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

Her story and mine (and yours, as well) is about being a woman who risks and believes and has faith – in herself; who stands eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to-toe with the Divine and then makes the extravagant choice to pour out everything she has – because she can do no less.

Letting go is not less. It is more – the most – the best – and all I can ever hope to do; it is the fullest expression of who I am.

(And you, as well.)

May it be so.

Chasing Rainbows

Jul 6, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories

The night I saw THE rainbow was the culmination of another out-of-town weekend. I was in my 20’s (a very long time ago) and driving home after having played too hard; wishing for any story but my own.  Discouraged and exhausted, I headed into the most desolate part of the trip. Endless miles with ample opportunity to feel sorry for myself, to become lost in familiar regret.

When I looked up, farther than the worn and mind-numbing highway dividing lines, I saw it: a breathtaking bow across the sky. It had to be a gift, a sign, some kind of divine apparition that meant I was not alone, that things were destined to change, that my hope had been worthwhile.

I wanted a picture to preserve this memory, this memento, this marker. I rustled through my purse, leaned over to check the glove-box, and then remembered I’d packed the camera in my trunk. I decided to watch for as long as I possibly could, drive underneath and through this arc that stretched from one side of the road to the other, and then stop the car.

I let the heat of the late-evening stream into the car – windows down and sunroof open. For the moment it lasted, I imagined myself enveloped in all that color, light, magic, and promise. Then, as planned, I pulled over, retrieved the camera, and lifted my head to frame the shot.

The sky was blank. Everything was gone. Nothing was there!

It is hard to understand how something so seemingly real and substantial can sometimes be nothing more than an illusion.

On the other side, from that angle, looking back with perspective, the rainbow I’d been
chasing no longer existed. What had I been thinking?

The metaphor isn’t lost on me.

*******

Back at the height of my piano-playing days, I perfected a piece called Fantasie Impromptu by Chopin. In the middle of a start and finish that were fast, complicated, and complex was a beautiful, calming, almost haunting melody. Years later, that tune was extracted out of the larger composition and made popular. It’s name? I’m Always Chasing Rainbows. Of course.

I looked up the lyrics:

Why have I always been a failure? What
can the reason be?
I wonder if the world is toblame.
I wonder if it could be me.

I’m always chasing rainbows,
Watching clouds drifting by.
My schemes are just like all my dreams,
Ending in the sky.

Some fellas look and find the sunshine.
I always look and find the rain.
Some fellas make a winning some time.
I never even make a gain.

Believe me,
I’m always chasing rainbows,
Waiting to find a little bluebird,
in vain.

The connection between this story and the one above is not lost on me.

*******

Still – and always – I am an optimist through and through. Hope does not leave me. It is relentless. And this gets me into trouble, spells certain disaster, and has broken my heart more times than I can count.

What is the alternative?

I don’t look at either of these stories with a lens of harsh scrutiny – beating myself up for my naiveté in the first or acceding to the inherent pessimism in the second. Instead, I see my patterns – with clarity and courage. Sometimes I can laugh. Often I am called to grieve. And I am certain that I’ll know far more of both – with a better (and wiser) perspective, with ever-increasing strength, and maybe with a camera closer at-hand.

*******

I grew up learning to associate the rainbow with God’s promise to Noah that the earth would never again be destroyed. That telling skipped over one incredibly important part of the promise-fulfilled that I now have the perspective to see and offer, one that is anything but illusion: Noah’s Wife.

Whether read as literal tale or mythic archetype, her symbolism and truth are rife. She suffers through incredible tragedy and impossible-to-fathom loss. And it is on the other side of the rainbow that her flesh and blood births new life; that her legacy enables the future to exist at all. She is hope enfleshed.

As her, so too, you and me. She calls us – her daughters, her lineage, her kin – to see ourselves as the rainbow’s promise fulfilled – life sustained, legacy continued. She calls us – her daughters, her lineage, her kin – to be the visible reminder and sign that destruction never wins, that hope always endures, that beauty and life always triumph. No illusion. Promise, indeed.

“What is the alternative?” Noah’s Wife asks.

Indeed.

*******

I have lots of stories in which I’ve chased rainbows; times in which I thought I was heading toward something miraculous and amazing that turned out to be something far less, even nonexistent. Still, from this side, with perspective, I don’t believe I would change a one of them. For in spite of them all, it is hope and hope and hope that has healed my heart. It is the surviving the storm, the flood, the tragedy, the loss that has brought me blessing untold. It is the chasing of the rainbow that has made life as beautiful as it is.

The Day I Spoke Up in Class

Apr 24, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

For most of my life I’ve been a rule-follower. I am really good at figuring out what’s expected and then never disappointing.

Especially true in school, I transitioned from smiley-faces at the top of my papers to 100%’s and straight A’s. Though I’ll take some credit for being smart and doing the work, I am also aware that at least a portion of good results was because I was willing, able, and highly committed to complying. Nothing other would have ever crossed my mind.

The day in class that I shakily-but-firmly said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” shocked me more than anyone else in the room.

 

I was 40, in my Master’s degree program, and listening to an in-class discussion about when the Judges ruled the Israelites. One of the stories told was of Samuel: a boy who grew up in the house of priest and heard the voice of God. He lived there because years earlier, his mother Hannah, heartbroken-yet-endlessly-hopeful, made a vow. She promised God (and Eli, the priest) that she would give her child away (to the temple, the priest, the God) if only she could have one in the first place.

A fellow student – a young man in his early 20s – decided to express his opinion: how crazy a woman would have to be to promise her unborn child. “What woman would do that?!? I can’t believe any woman could make that kind of a choice! What’s wrong with her?!”

As memory serves, my blood boiled and a switch flipped. The highly-honed and years-
practiced parts of me that had always done the right thing and said the right thing (which usually meant saying nothing) said “no more.” I turned from my front-row seat toward his in the back and said (at a volume that increased word-by-word):

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what you’re talking about! How could you? You’re not a woman. You couldn’t possibly understand. I do. I know. Any woman who that desperately longs for a child will promise anything, anything to get what she wants – even if it seems like it’s the craziest thing in the world! I made promises like that! Hoping-praying believing that if I just offered enough, gave enough, prayed enough, suffered enough, waited enough, was faithful enough, that maybe I would be granted my only wish, my deepest desire, a child of my own.

Frankly, I didn’t care what it cost me. I’d deal with the consequences later. In fact, I would have lied, stolen, and done nearly anything to get the only thing I wanted, the only thing that mattered. And it wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t crazy. I was willing to sacrifice what I most wanted to get what I most wanted. That’s what a woman knows. That’s what a woman promises. That’s how a woman lives. You don’t know.”

I turned back to the front of the class. Discussion continued. I don’t remember a bit of it. I do remember that I was never the same.

That day I heard a woman’s story being told in a way I knew wasn’t true, wasn’t accurate, wasn’t right. She was being misunderstood and misinterpreted, even maligned. And though I couldn’t quite see it at the time, it seemed as though his words were being spoken about me. It seemed that way, because it was that way. If I allowed Hannah’s story to be told in a way that felt shortsighted, lacking in grace, and frankly, just wrong, why would I expect that I should feel anything different on my own behalf?

The way in which I hear and tell the stories of other women is directly proportionate to the way in which I live my own. (The same is true for you.)

 

It doesn’t matter that nearly 15 years have passed since the day I spoke up in that class. The stories of staying quiet, following the rules, and doing what’s expected are still being told within my psyche. I can hear the doubts, the insecurities, the fears. I  desperately need to (re)tell stories of  women in reimagined and redeemed ways so that I can reimagine and redeem my own. (The same is true for you.)

And so I do. I (re)tell the ancient, sacred stories of women – over and over and over again.

The more they are understood, the more I understand myself. The more their voices are heard, the more mine is. The more they are seen as brave and beautiful, the more I see myself as such. The more I bring their wisdom forth, the more my own does the same. And the more I free them from old, tired tellings that silence and shame, the more I am freed, unsilenced, and unashamed. Did I mention? The way in which I tell the stories is exactly the way in which I live my own. (The same is true for you.)

Listen to the stories you’ve been told (about yourself, your past, your history, your lineage, your culture, your beliefs). Listen to the way in which they’ve been told. And especially listen to the ones you’ve been telling yourself. Stand up to misunderstanding. Disallow misinterpretation. And put a stop to the maligning. Then look for the stories you need; the ones that will invite you to living your own the way you most desire and most deserve. (I’ve got just a few of these to tell…)

It might be that once you have some reimagined and redeemed stories in your own queue, your own psyche, your very soul, that you, too, will speak up in class, stand up at work – at home – in relationship; that you will say “no,” shout “yes,” step forth, and shine. May it be so.

********
The woman’s story I defended that day? She did get her heart’s desire – and then some. Call her crazy if you want. She knew better. So did I. So do you.

Living in the in-between

Apr 17, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Once upon a time, long before women had volition or will as to who they married, a search commenced for the perfect wife. A servant was sent out – commanded to find a bride, but only from particular tribes, with particular lineage, holding particular pedigree. Perplexed as to how this would ever happen he prayed. “O God of my master, please give me success today. I will stand by this spring as the young women of the town come out to draw water. I will ask one of them, ‘Please give me a drink.’ If she says, ‘Yes, have a drink, and I will water your camels, too!’ let her be the one I am to select…”

As the story goes, this is exactly what happened. As she finished speaking the words he had hoped to hear, he adorned her with a gold ring for her nose and two gold bracelets. She took the servant to her family. Negotiations ensued with her father who finally asked her: “Are you willing to go with this man?” She replied, “Yes, I will go.”

The servant began the long journey back to his master with this young woman in tow. One particular evening, after days of traveling, she looked up and said, “Who is that man walking through the fields to meet us?” The servant replied, “It is my master.” She covered her face with her veil as the servant told his master the story of how he had found her. And the text says, “Isaac brought Rebekah into his tent and she became his wife. He loved her deeply…” ~ from Genesis 24

Tell the truth. Even if only for a brief moment, don’t you feel desire stir? The part of you that wishes her story was yours. But if you’re anything like me, that quickly passes, you heave a heavy sigh, and you hear the resigned internal response that says, “Forget it. That only happens in other people’s stories. After all, you’re not the answer to the craziest of prayers. You’re not recognized as the perfect woman. You’re not being adorned with expensive jewelry. And let’s be honest: there are no camels anywhere in sight! What could her story possibly have to do with yours?”

In one swift movement – from desire to cynicism – the in-between is bypassed.

How convenient.

Want some more examples?

  • I could step into my strength, my power, my amazing-ness, but no one will be strong enough to handle it. Better to play small.”
    “Sure, I could write the book and it would be fabulous, but I’m certain no one will buy it. Why bother?
  • Yes, I do have an amazing business idea, but it won’t make enough money to support me. I’d be foolish to even start.
  • Of course, I could tell the truth in my marriage/relationship/job, but it will create way too much trouble. I’ll just suck it up – again.
  • It’s true, I could clean the house / get my eyebrows waxed / exercise, but I’ll just make a mess / have to wax them again / quit. There’s no point.

Brilliantly, this pattern grants carte blanche permission to hold back, not risk, not do. We stay stuck. We leap to the ending we want, witness it in others, assume it won’t be ours, and then wonder why our story doesn’t go the way we had hoped or planned.

Lest you think I’m preaching here, know with complete certainty that this has been my reality more times than I care to count – or admit. The narrator in my brain tells me incessantly that I want too much, that I am too much, that less would be better, smarter, and far less rife with certain disappointment. I stop before I start. And even worse, I get irritated at the stories around me that I want for my own – like Rebekah’s.

Unless…I look at her in-between.

Here’s what I believe: Far before we were invited into her tale, she had learned, loved, lost, tried, failed, laughed, grieved, and then some. Far before she was discovered, wooed, adorned, and loved she was generous, brave, strong, and courageous. Far before she was chosen by the servant and then by Isaac, she had chosen herself; she knew and believed herself to be worthy of love; worthy, period. How could anything else be true? It was all of this – and so much more – that created the perfect and seemingly coincidental circumstances at the well. Far before that day ever came, she was doing the work, living her life, dwelling in her in-between.

There is no other way.

And this is one of the many reasons why I love her story (and those of so many other ancient, sacred women). She calls me back to what’s most true about stories; most true about mine:

After once-upon-a-time and before happily-ever-after there’s a whole lot of in-between.

When I can see this in Rebekah’s story, I can begin to see it in my own. I can stay put instead of wishing. I can choose hope over resignation. I can do the good, hard, ongoing work of being the protagonist in my own story. The one I’m in this day, not someday. I can be strong and powerful and amazing. I can write the book. I can build the business. I can have the hard conversation(s). And I can maybe even clean the house / wax my eyebrows / exercise (though admittedly, some days, those seem about as probable as watering camels). I can live my in-between.

So can you.

Turn your attention from the outcome and fix your gaze on the in-between. Trust that the day-in, day-out work of living, hoping, choosing, risking, being, makes a difference far beyond what you can imagine; that you are writing a story worth being told.

And for the times in which you’re tempted by cynicism more than compelled by desire, listen to Rebekah. She’ll gladly and graciously remind you of her in-between and yours; of who you are: her daughter, her lineage, her kin.

See how amazing your story is already? Wow!

May it be so (with or without the camels).