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Women’s Wisdom: Inextinguishable

Jun 28, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I’ll admit that I have been known to doubt the efficacy and relevance of my own words and work. The endless call to somehow birth and bring forth all that stirs within me often torments. And I sometimes wonder if the ideas that illuminate my mind and the emotions that tug at my deepest soul are more like synapses misfiring or the last leg of a nerve that twinges in pain right before it gives up the ghost; demons that tempt me to just give up.

But on better days, I consider that maybe my thoughts are like stars long since extinguished, having traveled for millions of light years, and just now coming into view – shining, burning, sparkling, breathtaking. Concepts, sentences, paragraphs, and pages that are not mine alone, but part of a long and streaming trail of women’s voices that are making their way into visible focus and recognizable form.

When looking at stars, you’re actually looking into the past. (Source)

As I read this, the torment ceases and the demons flee. This speaks. This resonates. This gleams. This is true. All that I see and all that I know – the thoughts, the ideas, the emotions – are generated from the past.

All that I see and all that I know is a wisdom that has been traveling toward me for generation upon generation. Yes, sometimes covered by clouds or blocked by sun, but ever and endlessly on its way and in my midst. And never, ever extinguished.

What I see and what I know is what you see and what you know, as well: the impossible-to-hide radiance of women’s wisdom. It’s star-shine.

Held, carried, protected, and nurtured within the minds, hearts, and DNA of every woman who has walked on this planet (and a few who have soared above it on planes we only dream to traverse). It accumulates, accelerates, and races toward us – waiting to be seen, waiting to be captured, waiting to be beheld. All the wisdom of all the women who have ever lived – seen, felt, known, and experienced within the universe of us.

Were we to recognize, acknowledge, and honor this – individually and collectively – oh, what a galaxy would burst forth.

Together, gaining ever-more strength, speed, and power, we would stream through both heavens and hells, trailing fire and light behind us. Unbridled in our beauty. Unstoppable. Impossible to hold back. Nothing but space and time within which to glisten and gleam, shine and speak, sing and dance and glow.

Star-shine: the cumulative wisdom of all women throughout all time. It surrounds us. It’s within us.

It is us.

No torment can withstand or demon dwell in the midst of such white, hot beauty and strength. So then, our birthright is to speak, write, muse, love, and live in the most brilliant way we can, the most bold way we can, being the most radiant selves we can. We are to race through the skies of our universe flinging grace, hope, and endless capacity and courage wherever we go, shimmering with the diamond-like reflection of every woman who has gone before, and making visible the legacy we carry within.

“When looking at stars, you’re actually looking into the past.” Yes. And because this is true, it means that our wisdom will shine endlessly through millions of light years ahead. Our present will create the past that will yet brighten the galaxy that other women – our daughters, our granddaughters, and generations to come – will yet see, yet capture, and ever behold within themselves.

Women’s wisdom. It cannot be extinguished. It’s star-shine.

The other woman

Jun 13, 2014 | Sovereignty, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

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.

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.

Transforming Your Story (Part 3)

Mar 17, 2014 | Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Transforming Your Story – The “How”

Part 3 of a series. 12 posts scattered throughout 2014 on Transforming Your Story.

Part 1 – the “what:” To transform your story means that you are awake to and aware of the book in which you find yourself and the pages you are writing.

Part 2 – the “why:” This is your story. You’ll decide where it goes from here.

And now, Part 3 – the “how.”

In order to transform your story, you need to consider how you came to tell it the way you do.

Have you ever listened to yourself tell a story about something that happened to you and wonder why you chose to tell it the way you did? Why you used humor, sarcasm, dismissal, emotion, or any other myriad of devices?

Whatever choice you made in that moment is not objective. The ways in which you experience the events of your life and the way in which you interpret, translate, and tell of them is always subjective; always influenced by the lenses that are yours. And one of those lenses is the assumptions you make.

We all make them: assumptions. We jump to conclusions, have opinions, feel our gut response. We can’t help it, really. It’s knowing what they are and where they come from that makes the difference.

Here’s a quick exercise to prove my point:

  • When you see an online personality who appears to be completely put together and undoubtedly successful, what thoughts run
    through your mind?
  • When you spot a composed, attractive, and perfectly thin mom at Starbucks with her well-behaved, well-dressed children, what do you think?
  • When someone passes you on the freeway, what is your directed response toward the other driver?
  • When you hear someone mention the word “God,” what happens inside?
  • When you watch a political debate, what thoughts formulate concerning the “opponent?”
  • When following a truck with bumper stickers that offends you, what do you already know about the people inside?

I have no agenda inherent in any of these statements; rather, I list them to show how our brains so quickly leap to what we think we know, what we think we understand, what we’ve sometimes been indoctrinated to feel. Assumptions form quickly, naturally, and make their presence known. It can be a little scary, really.

These unconscious perceptions and preconceived notions have been developed and highly-honed over time – through our own and others’ voiced experiences; through the particular circumstances and cultural realities that have influenced and shaped our lives.

If this is true as it relates to the things and people external of you, it is just as true, if not more so, within.

You have interpreted the events in your past, in your own story, in a particular way. You experience the day-to-day aspects of your life with a learned-perspective. And you even consider your future with pre-determined beliefs about what can and will happen (or not).

You are living (and telling) your story within a swirl of assumptions.

Knowing the assumptions you have and do make within your own story (the “how” of how it’s told) is one of the most profound ways to transform it – past, present, and future.

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

A personal example:

A NOTE: My theological perspective has shifted more-than-significantly since the following story occurred, but it serves in this context.

I assumed, during my excruciating years of infertility, that it was, apparently, God’s plan that I not become a mother. It was not mine to question, to doubt, to feel anger over. And this created incredible angst and nearly insurmountable levels of ambivalence for me. If I believed that God was in control of all things, then this too, had to fall under “his” purview. And if that assumption were true, then who was I to question, to rage, to exhibit pain? I needed to suck it up and accept God’s will as best for me.

And therein lied the problem: I couldn’t – at least with any degree of honesty.

Adjectives that describe those years are words like gray, bland, and flat. It’s true: I was sad when the clinic would call to tell us the latest insemination attempt hadn’t worked. And yes, I was devastated, at least momentarily, when I was reminded of my fate every 28 days. I even recall expressing tentative anger with the-God-I-thought-I-knew through my journaling, but quickly talking/writing myself out of such by listing all the ways in which I was grateful; more, the ways I clearly needed to change my attitude, my perspective, my response. I argued with myself incessantly. I fought every temptation to despair. I kept a stiff upper lip and marched onward because to stop long enough and actually experience, let alone express my anger and anguish would have undone me…or so I thought.

The assumptions I held and the beliefs they perpetuated (or maybe the beliefs I held and the assumptions they perpetuated), reeked havoc in my mind and soul. They shaped my story in marked and undeniable ways during those years. And if then, how many times before and certainly after?

Herein lies a pathway for me to look at my story anew: to wonder about where grief remains to be expressed, where true emotions have been hidden under layers of practiced behavior, where learned-belief has superseded lived-experience. And the more of these layers I uncover, the more profoundly my story – as I’ve been telling it – becomes clear to me; the more ability I have to tell and live it as I prefer – to transform it – with beliefs chosen, assumptions put aside, new lenses donned.

I can re-play that tape in a much different way today. I extend myself considerable consolation and kindness. I grieve after-the-fact. I wonder anew about where the divine was showing up all the time – but in ways I couldn’t see…yet. I look with appreciation and gratitude at the infinite strength of my heart to endure, to persevere, to hold on to hope. And I look at my two daughters with infinite amounts of awe – continually amazed by their presence in my life; miracles, both.

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

In my story – and maybe in yours – to get underneath assumptions, acknowledge them, and then gift ourselves with new and ever-deepening understanding – might be the most transformational thing we
could ever do.

My story is worth that. Your story is worth that. Even more, you are! 

May it be so.

Sophia and Quantum Physics

Jan 20, 2014 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I had to figure out how to find Sophia. Or make the space for her to find me. One day I came to realize that she’s been here all along. Through all my questions she continues to hold my hand. She nudges. Cajoles. Entices. Winks. ~ Karen Speerstra, Sophia: The Feminine Face of God

I have often wondered how my life might have been different if I’d known of Sophia; if god was a woman; if I had realized and felt that I was supported, surrounded, and upheld by the Feminine – in spirit, in form, and within.

I can only wonder, for this is not what I have known.

Rather than wallow in regret, I can, with gratitude and awe, recognize that whether I knew Her or not, even realized She existed, She has been here all along.

That’s the beauty of truth: aware, or not, has no influence or impact on its reality, its presence, its activity in our lives.

Consider gravity. Even if I do not understand it at the most scientific of levels (which I do not), its truth is no less present nor its reality any less felt. Or how about Quantum physics? (Let me be clear: no comprehension at all!) But I see its outworking and mysterious, mystifying reality around me – all the time and without question.

It’s the not-knowing, not needing to recognize, and not actually having to be aware that makes truth and its power and presence so beautiful, winsome, and undeniable.

And if we can know, do recognize, and are aware? Delight, gift, and grace.

Sophia (along with gravity and Quantum physics) has existed, acted, and stayed even when unacknowledged, unknown, un-understood, and unseen. And if that weren’t good news enough, then this: when all is said and done, it takes the pressure off when it comes to the sacred, the divine, and any understanding of (or even belief in) god – or not. It’s just not about us.

This means the slightest of winks or most tender of nudges is also nothing more (and certainly nothing less) than delight, gift, and yes, grace.

(You can imagine Sophia’s smile right now, can’t you?)

May it be so.

Believing in Another World

Jan 13, 2014 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

The debate is long, old, and exhausting.

Is there life beyond ours, in other places, on other planes or planets. Is there a heaven and a hell? Is there a Divine-reality that surrounds and supports; advocates and angels upon whom we can depend or guides who have our back? Are there forces of evil with which we battle? And is all of this “out there” or is it just through the veil? On the periphery or in my direct line of sight? Within or without?

I do not claim to have answers to these questions. What I do have, though, is belief.

I believe in another world; a world of mystery and beauty and the Sacred that exists around me, yes; but more, within me.

I believe in another world that is woven into the warp and woof of this world. Found in the faces of my daughters, the laughter (and the tears) of my friends. Experienced in moments of writing, particular words spoken, stories told and heard. Tasted in a perfect meal, strong coffee, and dry champagne. Recognized in stunning prose, brilliant thought, a clean house (and even a messy one). Felt in a tender touch, a long hug, a slow kiss. Seen in a sunrise, the majesty of Mount Rainier, the birth of a child. Heard in my heartbeat, my breath, my body.

Not Someday. Not far away. Not in the sweet-by-and-by. Not when the roll is called up yonder. Right here. Right now. Ripe for the picking.

Perhaps the point is less about “another world” and more about allowing, acknowledging, and yes, believing that the one we’re in is worth believing in.

If we only had eyes to see and ears to hear and wits to understand, we would know that…holiness, goodness, beauty is as close as breathing and is crying out to born both within ourselves and within the world…We glimpse it at those moments when we find ourselves being better than we are and wiser than we know. We catch sight of it when at some moment of crisis a strength seems to come to us that is greater than our own strength. (It’s) where we belong. It is home… ~ Frederick Buechner

May it be so.