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Chances are…

Chances are pretty high that if your desire is strong enough, acute enough, and impossible to dissuade, others will think you a bit crazy and probably way too much. That’s the strongest indication that you’re on the right track.

Chances are pretty high that even if you get what you most desire, that more loss will yet come, that heartbreak will still occur, and that you will somehow yet endure. That’s the strongest indication that you are amazing, strong, and more than enough.

Chances are pretty high that holding on to hope and letting go of control seem like complete contradictions and that you have the capacity to allow them both. That’s the strongest indication that you are other-worldly and powerful beyond-compare.

Chances are pretty high that you will be called to stand your ground and defend that which you know-that-you-know-that-you-know is right and true and worthy. That’s the strongest indication that you are oh-so-wise and most-definitely not to be trifled with.

Chances are pretty high that you need not listen to one voice / person / god / demon / cultural message / internal hiss that tells you anything other.

A poem. Some story. Lots of truth.

“Please understand me!”
she cried.
An impossible premise
an impossible promise
impossible, period.

She cried
“Please understand me!”
until she didn’t
until she realized
that it was her promise
to herself, period.

~ ~ ~

“Please. Understand me!”
I have cried and cried
and cried some more.
An impossible, overwhelming request.
Held silent under its thumb
I’ve screamed:

The premises must be explained!
The promises must be decried!
Do you see (me)?
Do you hear (me)?
Do you understand (me)?

No, you don’t.
No, you won’t.
Period.
I see.

So, no more explaining.
No more premises defended.
No more promises (to self) broken.
No more, period.

~ ~ ~

“Understand me, or don’t!” she sings.
So pleased,
as she writhes and writes and rises.
Overcome, but not overwhelmed
by all she has to say,
by how she stays…standing.

And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end…

*****

I have spent a lifetime trying to understand. My parents, my siblings, my family dynamics. What it meant to go to church, what it meant to be a Christian, what it meant to believe in God. How to be a good girl, how to get ahead in school, how to please my parents. The rules for girls. The rules for boys. How pretty rules. How to be seen, or not; heard, or not; perfect always. All of these un-understandable. All of these futile. And every one required,
demanded, and understandably critical for survival.

There was a season in which I did not understand much of anything, least of all myself, my choices, my behaviors, my actions. I didn’t care. And I couldn’t understand why. I did not stand up at all, least of all for myself. I crouched. I skulked. I compromised. I hid. I underwhelmed (myself). Under the radar. Under-achieving. And misunderstood.

Later, I thought I had finally found it, everything. It was all I’d ever wanted – until it wasn’t. I tried to understand my marriage and the man. Why he was always depressed. Why it was my job to keep him happy, sane, coping, functional. Why I couldn’t get pregnant. Why I should even bother believing in a God who wouldn’t answer my prayers. Why I was so horrible as to doubt, to rage, to be faith-less. I tried to understand my anger. I tried to understand my confusion. I tried to understand my loneliness. I tried to understand my tears. All to no avail.

My tears. They defied all understanding, any explanation, all and any attempts to be thwarted, slowed, stopped. They continued. Inexplicable. They made no sense. “This is nonsense!” I thought. Endless. And always in the dark, in private, in secret. Why? What I didn’t understand (until I did) was that my tears made more sense than anything or anyone else. That they were the font, the truth, the gift at the altar, the only part of me that knelt and knew, that stood – defiant, unstopped, unsilenced, undaunted.

Maybe it was never about my understanding. Maybe, really, it was about being understood. Needing, longing, demanding to be understood. By my parents, by my family, by my culture, by my God. Later by my husband, by my friends, by my employer, by my therapist. Now by my love, by my readers, by my girls. Then and now, not having to do, feel, be, all by myself.

These days, I feel understanding’s incessant, relentless demand in a more subtle but no-less visceral way: through what I write. “Please understand x, y, and z.” “Do you, will you see?” “Do you, will you hear?” But what I really mean, what I really want, still, is this: “Please understand me!” “See me!” “Hear me!”

And it strikes me that all of this is a helpless prospect; always has been. It is neither about understanding, nor about being understood – at least not anymore. It’s about trust, intuition, and writing-speaking-feeling-saying-being whatever I want, all that I want, what my tears have always known. It’s about weeping and roaring and blazing and shining and preaching and provoking and yes, standing.

It’s about not under-standing.

Someone once said, “seek first to understand.” I’ve done enough of that – under duress, under demand, under false pretenses, premises, and promises.

And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end.

*****

“Please understand me!”
she cried.
An impossible premise
an impossible promise
impossible, period.

She cried
“Please understand me!”
until she didn’t
until she realized
that it was her promise
to herself, period.

~ ~ ~

“Please. Understand me!”
I have cried and cried
and cried some more.
An impossible, overwhelming request.
Held silent under its thumb
I’ve screamed:

The premises must be explained!
The promises must be decried!
Do you see (me)?
Do you hear (me)?
Do you understand (me)?

No, you don’t.
No, you won’t.
Period.
I see.

So, no more explaining.
No more premises defended.
No more promises (to self) broken.
No more, period.

~ ~ ~

“Understand me, or don’t!” she sings.
So pleased,
as she writhes and writes and rises.
Overcome, but not overwhelmed
by all she has to say,
by how she stays…standing.

And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end, period.

Maybe it’s (not) only me

Maybe this sounds familiar:

You are in conversation with someone. As they are talking you hear another entire monologue – all within your head. All the words you’d never dare speak, the emotions you really feel, the you you wish you could reveal. It’s so loud you marvel that they cannot hear it, that they cannot hear you (and sometimes you’re even irritated that they can’t). You struggle to stay focused, to repress what keeps rising up, to silence the din. And, *sigh*, undoubtedly, you succeed. You keep your thoughts to yourself. You quiet down the ruckus within. You’re good at this. Highly practiced. On it.

Or maybe it is only me.

Maybe I’m the only one who has known this experience – over and over again. Maybe I’m the only one who, after a lifetime of this pattern, began to feel disingenuous and not really seen, heard, or known. Maybe I’m the only one who felt bone-weary almost every single day. Maybe I’m the only one who felt like she was living two completely different lives: the dangerous one hidden, the safe and acceptable one revealed.

Maybe it’s not only me.

Despite years of good, hard work and profound healing – the therapy, the spiritual direction, the long-and-into-the night conversations with dear friends – I feel something hauntingly familiar. A deep-seated fear that if I do or say what I actually think and feel all hell will surely break loose. A deep-seated belief that I am responsible for keeping myself and them together. A deep-seated pattern of denying
those voices instead of trusting them.

Here’s what I know – and because, maybe, just maybe, it applies to you – what I want you to know, as well:

I need to, deserve to, and must listen to those voices. That rumble and ever-increasing cacophony within isn’t something to ignore. And my renewed and endless efforts to silence it will not be abided.

It’s the sound of generations and generations of women in thunderous chant on my behalf. An army that rides in my honor and defense. A force no more tamable than wild horses. They call me to gorgeous strength. They imbue me with dauntless courage. They remind me that they know – without a shadow of a doubt – who I truly am. And they will not allow anything less of or for me, their daughter, their lineage, their kin.

They say this to me – and maybe even to you:

You do not deserve a life lived in shadow or even slightly restrained. It is not to be your destiny. Silence does not suit you. So rise up. Stand tall. Step forward. And speak. We’ve got your back.

Maybe it is only me. Or maybe not.

May it be so.

[Deep appreciation to Dinah and her story for connecting me to my own. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need and so love.]

When Wisdom Eludes

I remember one afternoon, years ago, sitting in my living room with a woman I deeply respected. I talked to her about my then-struggles, about my longing to be a better wife, a better mom, a better person. I told her how I read nearly every book I could get my hands on, trying to make sense of the situations in which I found myself, trying to improve my perspective, trying to change my behavior, trying to change, period. I confessed that I quickly purchased almost any self-help regimen that promised me the results I so desired if only I’d follow their simple 1, 3, 5, or 7-step plan. And more than just read, I’d actually do what they said! I applied every principle and precept. I followed every rule. All to no avail. I listed off the conferences I’d attended for all of the same reasons. And I named the speakers, subject-matter-experts, and guru’s of one kind or another who I was convinced possessed the necessary “x” for my life. In all of these, I was completely certain that if I did exactly what I was told, surely the change I longed for would be mine.

She listened, patiently, and then said words I have never forgotten:

“Why do you look to outside experts for answers that already exist within you?”

I’m pretty sure the room started spinning. She might as well have told me that my two beautiful daughters playing at my feet were alien creatures from outer space. It was information I couldn’t take in, couldn’t comprehend, and resisted almost viscerally. This thought had never crossed my mind and I was almost 40 years old.

That conversation was nearly 14 years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday…and…I recall and apply it every day – hardly having mastered her advice.

The lure is so incredibly strong to seek for answers externally, to trust in someone else’s experience and wisdom above our own, to assume that someone older, wiser, and at least more successful knows the “secret” that will change everything broken or ailing in our lives.

And yet, were we to actually listen to our very self, our deepest soul, our strongest intuition, the before-the-dawn-of-time wisdom within (that I passionately and resolutely believe in) and then, most importantly, trust what we hear, all that we need would already be ours.

An important disclaimer: When I say “all that we need would already be ours,” I do not mean that finding sought-for wisdom within magically equals never lacking for anything, expecting success at every turn, and being profoundly honored and loved at all times. I do mean that there is no lack of wisdom within us.

The seeming trick is figuring out how to call this wisdom forth, how to access it, how to see/hear/feel/sense it in the first place.

As our conversation ended, I remember putting my infant girls down for naps (so that they wouldn’t act like creatures from outer space) and then sitting down at the dining room table with a stack of college-ruled notebook paper and a pen in front of me. I presented my question/concern at the top of the paper and then did what I’d done hundreds, thousands of times before: I wrote. I wrote exactly what I thought, what I felt, what I wanted, what I knew. Everything. No editing. No censoring. No holding back.

This was nothing new. I’d been journaling for years. What was new was that I half expected to see answers, assumed its accuracy, and trusted its authority. My answers. My accuracy. My authority. All of these appeared – and then some. Instead of being thrilled with this revelation, I was terrified. If my wisdom was right, if I actually knew, then I’d also have to act.

The real trick is trusting the wisdom itself, once found, enough to actually follow through!

This is the collective reality that most women live with. Steeped in a world that has caused us to second-guess our own knowing in deference to those with power, we struggle to hear our own brilliance, let alone express it.

Groomed to value objective reason, to trust our head over our heart, and to rely on facts over emotions, it’s not that surprising that we can barely even hear the voice, the wisdom, the wealth within, let alone follow its advice. Though our wisdom is deeply intuitive, it feels counterintuitive to trust it.

So what are the countermeasures? What are we to do?

We MUST find and rely on the expertise of other women.

It’s possible that this sounds antithetical to what I said above; in direct conflict with the sage advice I received so long ago. I assure you, it is not. It will be through our relationships with other women that we will not only come to find, hear, and trust our own wisdom, but also have the ability to walk headlong into it. We must look to other women for they are the ones who will point us back to the wisdom we already hold within ourselves.

We must discover and listen to the stories of other women so that we can see our own wisdom, our own choices, our own stories mirrored within.

We must hear the wisdom of other women and recognize it as our own: a shared knowing, a DNA-like thread that roots us to one another in soul-and-spirit ways, a gravitational and sacred force that binds us to one another – past, present, and future.

We must be in relationship with other women so that we have the courage to make hard choices, walk thin lines, and
traverse endless deserts.

14 years ago I didn’t understand any of this. 14 years ago I didn’t realize that this woman was offering me her wisdom so that I could find it within myself. 14 years ago I had no idea the choices I would yet be called to make, the lines I would yet be required to walk (and cross), the endless deserts I would yet traverse. And 14 years ago I could have never imagined being surrounded by the women I now know – face-to-face, virtually, and the ancient, sacred ones who companion and guide me in ways that continue to humble, astound, and transform me.

The wisdom you seek is already within you. Find the women who know this to be true, who can point you back to your own north star, who see and affirm beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt their profound belief in what you already know. And be that woman to others.

The more that we can and will do this, the sooner we can leave behind a world of experts who peddle their wares and step into one of shared truth, compassion, creativity, strength, and hope.

May it be so.

The other woman

Every once in a while, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the other woman. She looks so much like me, but wilder and darker. She’s who I imagine myself to be in my dreams, on my walks, when I feel especially free. She laughs boldy. She dances in the dark. And she slips stealthily through the shadows of my day. She never really leaves; but sometimes inches even closer. Or maybe it’s me that moves toward her…

Always I look for her, the other woman, so hungry for more of her presence. I spend time doing all that calls her forth. More present when I take tender care of myself; when I bathe in warm, womb-like waters; when I sip dark and blood-red wine; when I light a candle and stare into its flame; when I soak in the beauty of sea and song; when I nurture my love of words and mystery; when I gather with other women who have seen glimpses of her, too.

Always she comes, the other woman, when I listen – increasingly, trustingly, even brazenly to the voices – the ones that swirl and seduce, that beckon and call, that cackle and crackle and know; the ones within me that speak deep, before-the dawn-of-time truth. A mother tongue. I write down what they say, certain that when I do, it is She who swirls across the page, comes into my line of sight, and takes up ever-more permanent residence in my soul.

One day, not long ago, I know I saw her reach out and pull a piece of fruit right off the tree in my back yard. She took a bite. Her head leaned back, her eyes closed, its juice dripping down her chin. And time stopped. Everything beautiful and trustworthy and safe and exhilarating and holy sang and shone. The sky was more blue, the sun more bright, the birds more rapturous than ever. And then time moved on. Nothing bad happened. No Voice spoke from on high. No lightning fell from the sky. Nothing and no one fell apart. There was no Fall at all.

Hardly banished, this other woman always stays. A visceral embodiment of the wild and true woman I really am. Now, blessedly, I see her more and more, this dark goddess of my dreams and companion of my days. Not just in the shadows, or only in the Eve, but every-once- in-a-while in the mirror. She winks, as if to remind me that fruit is for eating, that desire is good, and, most of all, that I am.

I’ve heard it said that to be the other woman, this other woman, is about the worst thing one could do. I beg to differ.

I Am A Medial Woman

The Medial Woman…is a representation of the strong-sighted and deep-hearted self who lives simultaneously in the world of light (our conventional, daytime domain) and the world of dark (the hidden realm of potential, the depths of the Soul and its making of things to bear, balance, unleash in goodness in the topside world). The medial woman in mythos since time out of mind remains rooted in both worlds, and listening to her ways and means in stories, we can hear, see, and feel the guidance this vital and soulful sense grants: “to live so strong, so wide, and so very deeply…as we promised to do before we ever came to earth.” (From Mother Night by Clarissa Pinkola Estes)

These words offer me explanation for my seemingly-endless held breath. I hear my profoundly grateful and redemptive exhale deep, deep within my soul. A “yes” that resounds throughout all time and in this very moment. An acknowledgement and naming of what I feel, where I live, what I know, how I be.

These woffrds oer me explanation for why I feel out-of-sorts. I see, name, experience, and feel the problem(s) with the world of light; the over-culture in which I live and move, but which often harms and increasingly does not feel like home. And I dwell increasingly, more often, way underneath, in the world of dark; the part of me that senses, intuitively and powerfully, that more exists and will not be suppressed… at least for long. My dark world is not easily understood (or accepted) in the light one. And vice versa.

These words offer me explanation for why I feel more tension than rest, more angst than acceptance; why there has been a lump in my throat for weeks; why the continual stirring within me will not be silenced. Thankfully.

And these words offer me explanation for my work, my calling, my raison d’être. I am a carrier of messages back and forth between the worlds. I trust the dark world – my knowing, my intuition, my creative Feminine force. I speak all of that magic and holiness into the light world. And I take what I experience in the light back into the dark – to mull it over; to throw it into my cauldron and let it cook down and burn away; to hear and hold the voices of other dark, sacred souls as they cackle with me in the brilliant gleam of our cimmerian fire.

These words offer me explanation for my very self: I am a medial woman.

And just maybe, these words offer you explanation as well.

May it be so.