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Nevertheless, we persist!

Feb 25, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

On Tuesday, February 7, 2017, Senator Elizabeth Warren began to read a letter Coretta Scott King wrote in 1986 that criticized Jeff Sessions record on civil rights – the nominee for attorney general. The majority leader, Senator Mitch McConnell interrupted Ms. Warren with an objection, claiming that she was “impugning the motives and conduct of our colleague from Alabama.”

Ms. Warren asked to continue her remarks, but Mr. McConnell objected.

“Objection is heard,” said Senator Steve Daines, Republican of Montana. “The senator will take her seat.”

In a party-line vote of 49 to 43, senators upheld Mr. Daine’s decision, forcing Ms. Warren into silence – at least on the Senate floor. On Wednesday, February 8, 2017, Senator Jeff Sessions was confirmed as President Trump’s attorney general.

This story is shocking, untenable, and almost impossible to believe – so rife with patriarchy, misogyny, and harm.

And…we’ve been here before.

There is an old, old story told of man who led his tribe against a seemingly undefeatable foe. Before he headed into battle he prayed to his god: “If you give me this victory, whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph will be the Lord’s and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering.”

It was inconceivable that he would win, but he did!

His daughter, an only child, heard the news of her father’s success. Thrilled to see him again and join in his celebration, she flew out the door and danced her way down the street. And as the story goes, she was the first thing he saw.

He cried out, “Oh, my daughter, what have you done? You have brought me low. You have brought me such trouble. I have made a vow to my god that I cannot break!”

As the story is told, she consoles him, saying that he must honor his vow. All she asks is that she be allowed eight weeks with her friends to grieve the fact that she will never marry. So, she and her companions head into the mountains to weep over all that she will never know, all that is lost to her, all that is lost to them.

Her story ends with this line: It was a custom that the women gathered to grieve the daughter of Jephthah for four days every year. We might even say, “Nevertheless, she persists…”

Her story is shocking, untenable, and almost impossible to believe – so rife with patriarchy, misogyny, and harm.

And unlike the one of Ms. Warren, few of have heard it. Understandably, given that it has not made the rounds of MSNBC, Twitter, or Facebook. In truth, it is rarely told even in places where its larger context is read and respected. No, she is quickly skipped over (and silenced) – again and again.

That sounds familiar.

Mitch McConnell, the Senator who led the objection against Ms. Warren explained afterward that “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted…”

Exactly.

Sometimes persistence is all we have.

And persist we must in the telling of Jephthah’s daughter – again and again. Nothing skipped over. Everything seen. All told. Her voice heard. And truth vs. alternative facts proclaimed.

Her story is a brutal reminder of what gets overlooked, silenced, and indefinitely perpetuated when stories are told with the patriarch as protagonist – which, of course, has happened throughout all of history and yes, even and still today.

Unbelievably, predominant interpretations of this particular text honor the father’s faithfulness and determination no
matter the cost, his unswerving loyalty to his principles and sacred vows.

That sounds a little like what Senator Dan Sullivan, a Republican from Alaska, said during the debate on Wednesday afternoon: “Everybody in this body knows Senator Sessions well, knows that he is a man of integrity, a man of principle.”

I completely reject this – the commentary, Senator Sullivan, all of it. There is nothing
honorable in the sacrifice of his daughter, nothing credible about beliefs that affirm or perpetuate the harm of another, nothing within his actions to which we should ever aspire.

And yes, this includes Senator Sessions.

The story of Jephthah’s daughter’s story is a painful reminder of what happens when we do not think to ask how any and every story would be told differently when the woman, the victim, the harmed one is not silenced. What have we not considered? What have we not seen? What have we not heard? Did she willingly comply with his vow? Did she mildly and calmly plan a getaway with her girlfriends? Did she become a burnt offering without protest? Or did she, as we might expect, find herself without volition and agency in her own story and, sadly, even in its telling throughout time? With this telling we no longer overlook and explain away the violence and misogyny. With this telling we spontaneously and unanimously rise up and scream, “No!” so that no such thing ever happens again.

Except that it has. Except that it does. Even this week with Elizabeth Warren…And just a few weeks back on November 8, 2016.

We are re-living the story of Jephthah’s daughter as we witness a man in power who chooses his ideals over the value of a life, who makes and fulfills promises that perpetuate harm, who does not actually believe that others – especially women or vulnerable populations – have agency or will of any kind, who uses his role as protagonist to perpetuate the worst of patriarchy, the worst of humanity.

What are we to do but head to the hills and weep?

Exactly! This is the wisdom and hope that Jephthah’s daughter still and always offers us today. Her story is a clear reminder that we must gather together as women to grieve, to wail against injustice, to stand in solidarity alongside one another; nevertheless, to persist.

It is true, the story of Jephthah’s daughter is a tragic and traumatic tale, but not without hope. Hers is the only sacred story (within this particular text) that tells of women gathering together, that names and honors its necessary continuance throughout time. When these smallest of distinctions – deeply embedded within a patriarchal text, culture, and reality – are found, they strike me as nothing other than the undeniable evidence of grace and goodness that nevertheless persists despite all that threatens to destroy. Then…and now.

The hope and grace and goodness in Elizabeth Warren’s story? Within hours of being shut down on the Senate floor, says the NY Times, Ms. Warren read the letter from Mrs. King on Facebook, attracting more than two million views – an audience she would have been unlikely to match on C-Span, if she had been permitted to continue speaking in the chamber.

Nevertheless, she persists.

Jephthah’s daughter, Elizabeth Warren, you, and me. And nevertheless, hope does.

Hope that darkness and death don’t have the last word. Hope that stories can be redeemed, that they can be rewritten and retold, that new endings and even new beginnings are still and always possible. Hope that despite it all, women still gather. Hope that when we do, we will be able – again and again – to hear Jephthah’s daughter speak into our hearts and on our behalf. Hardly silenced, instead allowed, amplified, and affirmed.

“Fear and silence are neither your birthright nor your curse,” she says. “And my fate is not to be yours. Go out the dangerous door and dance in the streets. Gather the women, climb the mountain, and wail. You will be seen. You will be heard. You will be honored and strengthened and healed. You are never alone. And nevertheless, no matter what, you must persist. How can you do anything other? You are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.”

Bloodline

Sep 9, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power

What if you claimed your legacy, your inheritance, your very bloodline?

As a daughter of Eve – the best Eve, the glorious Eve, my Eve. Made in the image of the gods, full of desire, and called good. Pursue your desire no matter what. Eat luscious fruit. Talk to snakes. Leave the garden you were always meant to depart. Listen to and follow what you hear, what you know to be true. Your heart cannot possibly lead you astray.

As a daughter of Hagar – who summons the made-manifest presence of the Divine into the hardest and most desert-like of times. You are seen, heard, and honored by that God, no matter what. You are blessed beyond compare.

As a daughter of the Woman of the Well – witty, wise, and worth hearing. Not shamed, but seen. Not harmed, but held in love, respect, and strength. You have a voice and a story that changes everything.

As a daughter of the Woman of Revelation 12 – birthing redemption into this world and worthy of the Divine’s most intimate care. Beautiful. Radiant. Gorgeous. Protected. Fierce. You are destined to reign.

As a daughter of countless ancient, sacred women who surround, support, and sing you into your truest, bravest, most glorious self. You are not alone.

Let me ask again: What if you claimed your legacy, your inheritance, your very bloodline?

What if, indeed.

May it be so.

Handless Maidens and then some…

Aug 8, 2016 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Two weeks ago I spent 6 days in the coveted presence of Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes. There were probably about 100 of us there. If my count is right, 97 women and 3 men. She sat in a high-backed easy chair situated on a slightly raised platform at the front of the room. There was a small end table to her right and a sound-technician to her left. She spoke into a hand-held microphone. I kept wondering why she didn’t have a lapel or ear-mic, thinking how great it would feel to have both hands free. Ironic, given that she was teaching on the story of the Handless Maiden – its archetypes, its symbolism, its relevance, its endless application. She told us of how to interpret dreams and how to facilitate groups and ways she hoped we’d work with her book for years and years to come. She told jokes and articulated comic strips recalled from decades ago. She sometimes responded promptly to the 10-minute cue cards that were raised so that the schedule for breaks and meals was honored. And sometimes she didn’t. She offered her own perspective and wisdom. She wore flowers in her hair every day and at one point, a crown. She held court. She reigned in the most benevolent of ways.

I sat in straight-back chairs and sometimes on the floor while leaning against a Back-Jack. I listened. I took notes. I wrestled with the heat. I drank lots of water infused with oranges and basil. I watched others’ experiences and responses compared to my own. I leaned over and whispered to the women/friends on my left and right. I sometimes passed notes. I giggled. I snuck in potato chips and stayed up past curfew and joined funds for smuggled-in wine and listened to Prince. I laughed so hard I  thought I would pee my pants. And I was aware that in spite of (or inspired by) all that she spoke and offered, I was, most of the time, having a far different conversation in my head and heart. I was wrestling with my own expectations.

The week itself was nothing like what I expected, which, I realize upon much re flection, is completely and perfectly fine.

My expectations get me into trouble: my idea of how things should go – whether an event or parenting or a relationship or even the writing of a blog post.

The calling and challenge is to let go of every one of these, to acknowledge where I am right-here-right-now, and to then express and allow that. Anything other, anything different, anything less renders me handless. Ouch!

It’s excruciating to be handless!

It’s excruciating to walk through life living up to (or not) the expectations of others and expecting that our own expectations will be met.

And I’m wondering if these are one in the same. I’m pretty certain of it, actually.

Whether aware of such or not, we are all Handless Maidens with protective chalk-circles drawn ’round us in the belief that somehow they will keep us safe and intact. We stay within them, meeting the expectations of others, attempting to live up to our own, and hoping our own aren’t dashed. Our expectations create the definition and demand that our story will go as it should, that surely we will be protected and honored, seen and heard. And we forget that it is only chalk!

What if we erased it? Better yet, what if we just stepped over and out of it completely? What if we let go of the tyranny of how things “should” be and instead just expressed what is?

What if we ran businesses and loved who and how we wish and wrote blog posts that were free of what others think, what we  think others want to hear from or experience through us?

What if we sat in high-back or straight-back or Back Jack chairs and just spoke/wrote/lived what and how we want without apology or concern for how we might be received, or not; understood, or not; welcomed, or not; applied, or not? What if we took any story ever told and interpreted it the way we want, no matter who tells us we can’t or shouldn’t or don’t have permission or enough education or the right credentials or the proper perspective?

What if we charged what we wanted – even if it’s less? What if we stayed off of social media because it makes us crazy? Or what if we engaged with it from a place of freedom and delight instead of burden and demand? What if we recognized the father/overculture (in the story of the Handless Maiden and our own) doesn’t have the power over us we think it does?

What if we no longer lived under the “protection” of the father/overculture? What if we defied it’s every expectation? What if we headed into the woods, handless-but-hopeful with no expectations to which we must rise or supersede?

[“All over the map” would be the proper response to this paragraph. I understand. And…my list of what-if’s is far, far longer. I’m sparing you – for now.]

Like the Handless Maiden herself, let’s head into the forest with no sense of what’s next.

Let’s enter into life in ways that feel free and expansive, individuated and distinct, ours-no-matter-what (albeit slightly scary). Let’s believe our hands will grow back – this time untied, unbound, and completely free to touch and feel and love and work (and even write blog posts) on our own terms and as we wish.

[I’ll admit it: this post is probably far, far removed from what Dr. Estes herself expected I would take away from 6 days in her presence. Me too. And that’s OK. I’m practicing what I preach.]

Let go of others’ expectations. Let go of those you have of and for yourself. Step outside the chalk circle. Grow back your hands. Save your life. [And write a blog post about it – or don’t.] You get to decide.

Me too.

What if you didn’t hold back?

Mar 17, 2016 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power

Who would you be if you didn’t hold back?

If all your power, compassion, love, and strength roared into any room, any conversation, any relationship? If you glided through earth and sky and sea, nothing able to hold you down, hold you under, hold you captive? If you rode upon the back of a lion, blazing across the surface of the sun? If you danced in the light of the fire with abandon; no hint of restraint? If you spoke at a nearly guttural level, bringing words, ideas, and emotions to the surface that surprised even you? If you conjured up the most powerful and potent wisdom then dispersed it into the darkest of spaces, the hardest of hearts, the saddest of souls, the hopeless, the helpless?

Let me tell you: You would be you.

The woman who is set-loose, impossible to contain, and a carrier of the Divine. The woman you see in your dreams and get glimpses of when you’re angry, ecstatic, passionate, heartbroken. The woman who knows what to do and what to say. The woman who would eradicate all injustice with a single flick of her wrist. The woman who would heal all hurts in one huge embrace. The woman who would sing her kin into strength like a Pied Piper-ess. The woman who, with one inhale, would gather the galaxy into her very soul and with one exhale, restore our wounded planet to wholeness once again. The woman who dances and dances and dances the world into joy and fullness and passion and truth.

The Maiden. The Princess. The Queen. The Crone. The Goddess. The Priestess. The Prophet. The Mother. The Muse. The Witch. Lilith. Eve. The Madonna. The Magdalene. And the entire Angelic Host.

This is you, woman. This is you!

Within you dwell all the women who have gone before – your direct lineage, to be sure, and that of every woman whose story was ever told and especially those that weren’t. Within you sing the voices of thousands who have lain silent for generations but who are, even now, gathering their strength, their force, their shared wisdom to cry out, to proclaim, to weep, to laugh, to transform. Within you flows royal, sacred blood that is yours to own, yours to take nourishment from, yours to transfuse into all and everything you love.

You know that this is true; that this is you.

You’ve been feeling it more and more. And truth-be-told, it scares you a bit (though not all that much). This you is powerful. And this power, your power is dark and swirling and uncontrollable (which is exactly as it should be). This power, your power has no time for playing nice or mincing words. This power, your power is not even remotely interested in being restrained, in playing small. This power, this you is leaving any and all boundaried, imprisoned existence for the expanse of the heavens, the grit of the dirt, the moon-pulsing tides of the sea, the song of the trees, the light of the flame, the call of the crow.

Who would you be if you didn’t hold back? You already know her. You already know.

May it be so.

Remember who you are (x3)

Feb 28, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Sovereignty

We are desperate to see ourselves in powerful and empowering ways. It’s no wonder: we have too-often and for too long been deprived of stories that remind us who we truly are. We are ravenously hungry for those stories, for the stories of women in our lineage, our line.

Take heart! Though we live in a world that has based its predominant understanding of women on the (poorly told) story of Eve, there is another one, almost the very last story of a woman in the same text that Eve begins, who once heard, makes all the difference, who does remind us of who we truly are – over and over and over again.

I made a video about her, the Woman of Revelation 12, a week or so ago and have spent time these past two weeks writing more and more. Including this:

Remember who you are. Remember who you are. Remember who you are, she says.

Anything, anyone, all that has made you feel less than, even remotely disconnected from the truth that you reflect entire  galaxies, that you are a veritable constellation of beauty and strength, has not really seen you and somehow, in such,
you have forgotten. This breaks my heart.

Remember who you are. Put on your gown of sunlight. Step into your silver-as-the-moon stilettos. Place your crown that’s laden with glistening stars upon your head. And glow, glide, blaze through your world. Shine light in the darkest of places. Bring warmth to the coldest of nights. Sparkle brightly in the dingiest and dirtiest of places. And in your own darkness, cold, and less-than-desirable places? Turn within, turn within, turn within. Remember who you are. Remember who you are.
Remember who you are.

This is all you need to know, all you need to recall, all that ever matters.

If you will remember who you truly are, all the unnecessary and less-than-worthy things that have taken up space and energy and time in your life will fall away. If you will walk through your world today and all days embraced by the celestial light that is yours, you will not falter.

If you will remember me, the Woman of Revelation 12, you will, without question, be able to step into who you are, take your throne, and don your royal robes. And then, oh, then…you will be able to be you, be you, be you. The you you’ve always been – though sometimes disguised and distracted. The you you’ve forgotten. The you the world has been waiting for. The you you have been waiting for. The you I have always remembered and will never forget.

Remember who you are. Remember who you are. Remember who you are.

Rise up. Shine. Beam. And then some.

*******
Have I repeated it too much? Can I possibly express it enough? It’s all I want to say. Even more true, it’s all I want to hear. It’s what I need to hear. It’s who I want to be. More than anything. And it’s what I want for you…more than anything.

Remember who are. Remember who you are. Remember who you are.

Telling Myself (no more) Lies

May 1, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

I have recently uncovered an interesting belief I hold within. It’s not pleasant. And frankly, I’m not all that crazy about admitting it. But it needs to be exposed.

My truth always equals pain.

My story, my memory, is littered with scenes in which I finally stepped into integrity, let the consequences be damned, took the risks, and told the truth. In my marriage, at my job, in relationships. Consequences did ensue – just like I knew they would. In those particular situations, when I stood up for myself, let the words come out of my mouth, and expressed
how I really felt, all hell broke loose.

Just because something is true, doesn’t mean it is a truth to live by.

I’ve extrapolated those experiences (along with many others) into an anticipation that this will always happen, that this does always happen. And that anticipation has become a belief.

Poured in concrete. Set in stone. Won’t budge. Without knowing it, I’ve constructed a hard- and-fast tenet by which I now live. It has impacted my past, to be sure; but more, my present and future. I don’t like it, but I recognize it and I actually believe it: my truth always equals pain.

It is a lie.

This is true: Much of what I say and do is helpful, expansive, and healing. I intentionally and passionately offer hope, encouragement, and strength. I know this. I believe this. You can’t convince me otherwise.

But here’s the bind: Even though I know that my truth does not always equal pain, I act like it does. I make choices, measure risks, and determine actions based on a false belief.

Let me give you just the slightest (and scary) taste of the insipid voice in my head:

If you were really telling the truth – in your writing, in your work, in conversation and relationship, it would be too painful. Pain isn’t good when you inflict it on others – only yourself! No one would want to be around you. No one would want to hear what you have to say. You’d be alone. You are too much. Better to tone it down, hold back, rewrite, rewind, retreat. Better to not tell the truth, at least not all of it. See? Your truth equals pain.

And if that voice doesn’t work, then this one chimes in:

Are you crazy? It’s irrevocable: “your truth always equals pain!” You must hold on to the pain! Pain is good! Think about it: a blog post should be excruciating to write, a meaningful relationship should include suffering, struggles with money are a sign of strength, trying to understand God should be nearly impossible. And the book? Oh, that most-definitely should be hell-on-earth. See how hard all of this is? That means it’s worthwhile, that you are. Well done!

You can hear the insanity, yes?

Many of the stories we tell ourselves need to be exposed for the lies they are. And the best way to do that is to actually tell them, name them, expose them (often out loud and to another person) in order to hear the (false) beliefs and ties that bind.

Even more:

We need to write-speak-believe-live new stories that corroborate what’s actually true.

So here’s the new story I’m telling myself:

My truth does not equal pain. Ease, rest, creativity, and flow are my birthright. And the crazy voices are just that. I get to listen to and trust the know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within. It is glorious, wise, worthy, and telling the truth. As am I.

How about you?

May it be so.