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Yes, yesterday. Now what?

Nov 10, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Yesterday, November 9, 2016, I did all the things I always do:

I made coffee. I journaled. I gave my daughter a hug before she left for school. I made my bed. I took a shower. I blow-dried my hair. I put on makeup. I got dressed. I spritzed perfume. I donned earrings, necklace, bracelets, ring. I cooked oatmeal and added berries. I perused and posted on Facebook. I answered a few emails. I prepared for and talked with my clients.

You’d think it was just another day.

Which it was, of course.

Which it was not – in any way, shape, or form.

In the midst of doing all the things I always do, my heart was strong-but-heavy. I could not, nor can I yet today, escape the permeating awareness of the days-ago election or tomorrow’s unknown.

But as I did all the things I always do, as I sought to incorporate reality into my psyche, as my day went on and I listened to my daughters, talked with friends, answered more emails, fixed dinner, and prepared for a night of sleep, I found myself thinking of other women.

Centuries of them – who survived atrocities, hatred, violence, genocide, slavery, silencing, shame, and yes, misogyny. Who made the bed and hugged their children and got dressed and cooked breakfast. Who lived and lived and lived.

The more I thought about them, the more I thought about the particular women within the stories I tell. Somehow, despite all the silencing and shame they’ve known, the atrocities of their time, the layers of theology and dogma (and misogyny) under which they’ve been buried, they have survived. And that gives me hope. They give me hope.

Where there’s hope, there’s life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again. ~ Anne Frank

Yes. Hope is what we need. And hope is what women offer us. Centuries of them. As far back as the stories I tell, even further, and every age since. They rally on our behalf. They rise up and remind us that we are to do the same, that we will do the same.They come alongside us, even still, even today, especially today, in solidarity and strength. They catch our tears, soothe our tired brows, mend our broken hearts, and whisper – call – sing us back into strength.

Can you hear them? Listen closer. They are chanting, drumming, thundering the words they most want us to remember, most want us to believe, most want us to embody:

“Live and live and live!”

There are moments when I feel like giving up or giving in, but I soon rally again and do my duty as I see it: to keep the spark of life inside me ablaze. ~ Etty Hillesum

This is what we will do: live and live and live.

So, my friends, let us have faith in each other. Let us not grow weary. Let us not lose heart, for there are more seasons to come, and there is more work to do. ~ Hillary Clinton (from yesterday’s concession speech)

These are the things we always do – day-in, day-out: we hope, we persevere, we have faith in each other, we do not lose heart, we work, we love, and we live and we live and we live.

About Fall, Writing, and Letting Go

Nov 4, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf.
~ Albert Schweitzer

 

There has always been something beautiful and miraculous about one solitary leaf as it lingers then slowly, finally dances toward the ground. Glimpsed by few, maybe by none, but no less gorgeous, no less significant, no less real or relevant.
~ Ronna Detrick

Once upon a time and a hundred years ago a woman typed away on a laptop as she sat in a gray chair in the living room of her condo in the city of Tacoma in the state of Washington in the United States of America in the Western hemisphere of the world as she knew it. She typed what you are reading now. And she wondered if anything she could possibly say would have relevance in the future.

Then she began to wonder if anything she had already said, already written, already created had any relevance. “Probably not,” she realized. So she pondered whether any of her labor or struggle or questioning of her work and voice in the world had been or was was worth it.

“For if, after all, 100 years from now, no one recalls or even cares about what I did and said back then, does it matter?”

She realized, even as she asked it, that it was an existential question, one that made her want to pour another glass of wine and think less and watch back-to-back dramas on Netflix. But it was only 10:30 in the morning. Wine and mindless entertainment weren’t timely choices right now. So instead, she sat with the question, mulled it over in her mind, and stared out the window. She saw the sun streaming through the lingering leaves: all browns and yellows now – the green faded and gone. They clung to the branches as long as
they could before fluttering to the ground. She knew they would eventually disappear – raked up into piles and scooped into big black plastic bags and taken to some distant destination for disposal and decay. It all felt related somehow, timely and true.

But the longer she looked at those leaves and thought of their pre-determined demise, she realized that after Winter, Spring would come again and new leaves would grow, that Summer would arrive with green-in-glory, that Fall would return; the cycle repeating itself over and over. And all of this without her effort, without her intention, without a bit of her labor or
concern.

She wondered if maybe, just maybe, the same might be true about her writing, her words, her life.

Maybe all she needed to do was be the leaf,
to allow the sustenance of the roots to be unfurled through her. No effort but that which naturally came forth. No intention but being right here, right now. No labor or concern, but that which turned her face toward the sun, or drank in morning’s dew, or huddled in chill at first frost, or sought shelter in the storm.

Nothing required except to finally loosen her grip and gracefully, willingly, let go.

“Yes,” she thought, “just let go.”

She wondered if in 100 years there would still be leaves and trees and seasons, if there still would be women writing, never mind if they were reading anything she had written or said.

And she realized that she could not, would not let go of this – what mattered most of all:

women’s words still bursting into bloom and thundering forth in greens and reds and oranges, becoming the very substance that fertilizes those that are yet to come.

So she turned back to her laptop and typed some more…

There has always been something beautiful and miraculous about one solitary leaf as it lingers then slowly, finally dances toward the ground. Glimpsed by few, maybe by none, but no less gorgeous, no less significant, no less real or relevant.
~ Ronna Detrick

 

Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf.
~ Albert Schweitzer

In line at Starbucks…

Oct 24, 2016 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Although women’s words have been censored or eliminated from much of our heritage, in the midst of the pain of dehumanization women have nevertheless always been there, in fidelity and struggle, in loving and caring, in outlawed movements, in prophecy and vision. Tracking and retrieving fragments of this lost wisdom and history, all in some way touchstones of what may yet be possible, enable them to be set free as resources for transforming thought and action.
~ Elizabeth A. Johnson, She Who Is

This is probably NOT the stuff that keeps you up at night. It does me, though. Not every night, of course, but still, I do ponder the subject, do pull books off my shelf to bolster my thesis (and remind myself to stay the course), to recognize how tightly woven it is into my writing and thought.

I am quick to realize that this is not the stuff of most dinner parties, not what I see in the news, and definitely not what I hear being bantered back-and-forth while in line at Starbucks.

What if it were? What if this WAS the conversation we had – women together, women with men, even men together?

What if we were consumed with the painful history of womens’ dehumanization? What if we were determined to “track and retrieve fragments of lost wisdom and history?” What if we believed that this was crucial to “transforming thought and action” – which all of us know must happen? What if, indeed.

But we are not talking about it, not devoting our every waking moment to its promulgation, and definitely not losing sleep over it.

Understandably.

Our lives are busy. They are full. They overflow with struggle and frustration, celebration and joy. They are often overwhelmed with schedules and to-do’s and responsibilities. They are rich with friends and lovers and children. And they are subsumed by so much else, so many other messages that either elate or exhaust our souls.

So how and why would we take the time to talk of old stories, to find the threads of our own history as women, to somehow weave them back into our day-to-day lives?

I wish I knew.

Here’s what I do know, though:

If we do not, if we ostensibly forget from whence and from whom we came, we are destined to repeat the same patterns. The plight of women does not improve. The conversation does not change. The world does not transform. And I, for one, think all of these things need to happen.

To shine a spotlight on the censorship and dehumanization of women is the very thing that helps us – now, in this moment, in our day-to-day lives – understand why we think the way we do, why we feel the way we do, why we make the decisions we do (even when they are not the ones we want to make), why we often feel slightly crazy, why we struggle with ways to articulate our position or stance, why we are disconnected from our bodies, why we witness people in (hoped-for) power deny the harm they inflict and attempt to silence the brave women who name such anyway.

It’s hard: the work of remembering. We want to move on, move forward, make headway, not have to look back.

I get it.

I’m not all that crazy about having to remember my own story, in having to look back and honestly acknowledge the places in which I’ve known harm and perpetuated it against my very self (and others, to be sure). And yet, it is only when I do so, that I experience any kind of transformation and growth; it is only when I do so, that I am able to hold enough perspective and wisdom to make different choices today – not only for myself, though that is paramount, but also for my daughters, my family, my friends, my colleagues, my community.

If this is true for me, *just* one woman, how much more – all of us together?

Imagine this multiplied times the infinity of women’s stories – past, present, and future!

That image, that possibility, that future? That’s the one I want and the one we deserve.

I still wish I’d written these two sentences, but love that Elizabeth Johnson did. Hear them one more time; more, believe them.

Although women’s words have been censored or eliminated from much of [our] heritage, in the midst of the pain of dehumanization women have nevertheless always been there, in fidelity and struggle, in loving and caring, in outlawed movements, in prophecy and vision. Tracking and retrieving fragments of this lost wisdom and history, all in some way touchstones of what may yet be possible, enable them to be set free as resources for transforming thought and action.

May it be so.

So, I’ve written a book…

Oct 19, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

The subtitle is “A Braided Essay on Women and Silence and Shame.” And it’s published, printed, physical, able to be held in my (and your) hands. All for a VERY particular reason. Well, far more than one, actually.

I wrote this in the context of my writing group. Just another piece to be offered in the safety and vulnerability of that sacred circle of four. And in truth, I didn’t think all that much about it. It was crafted. It was edited. It was strong, yes. But something happened when I read it out loud, when I told a story I’d nearly forgotten about, and then experienced it seen, heard, and honored. Something happened, yes; and something changed. With MUCH encouragement, it was clear that more had to be done.

So I (mostly) overcame my every fear, every internal caveat and objection, every reason to not make it available, every conceivable excuse, and now here.it.is.

I hope you will buy it. NOT for any money it might make for me (which will be a VERY small percentage, believe me), but for the following five reasons:

  1. Women need their voices heard and stories told. ANY form that encourages such, no matter how unconventional, needs to be encouraged, supported, and then replicated – again and again.
  2. The story I am telling is mine, to be sure, AND you will find your own story in the midst. It is a story that all of us have known in one way or another – that is too often unspoken, but in-the-water; that needs to be told, acknowledged, and yes, seen, heard, and honored.
  3. Once you’ve read this for yourself, it is my deepest hope that you will buy more copies – for your sisters, your daughters, your friends; that it will provide women the courage to no longer remain in silence or shame, but to speak and be seen.
  4. Something powerful happens when we allow ourselves to actually and finally birth that which has been gestating within for months (if not years); to move that which has stayed sheltered and ostensibly “safe” into the wider and visible world. And it is the celebration of such that welcomes and blesses. I’m inviting you to be part of that with and for me.
  5. It is only in naming what is true – no matter how hard – that we can hope for change. And so, that is what I have done.

I still feel afraid about putting it out into the world. My heart is racing, my hands are a bit sweaty, and I can compile a list a mile long of all the reasons I shouldn’t – which is exactly why I must. But here’s the thing: no matter my trepidation, my inner-critic (or even/especially the external ones), something has already been profoundly healed in my writing of this story and even more, in the publishing of it. I can’t begin to know the outcome of such in its entirety, but on some level it doesn’t matter. I’ve honored the story, the creative process, and my very self. And your purchase, far more, your reading and sharing of this work, confirms all of this AND reminds me (and all of us) just how powerful a woman’s story truly is; just how important it is that it be told.

Thank you for witnessing this with and for me; for participating; for seeing, hearing, and honoring – me.

Click here to buy Throwing Stones

You can read more about Throwing Stones by clicking on the image of the book above. There you’ll see more of my words and the words of those who have already read and heard it. Of course, once you have read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts, as well.

My Three-Graces Season

Sep 27, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power

I went in search of Renaissance art today, remembering that there was a particular period in which women’s bodies were depicted as large and voluptuous. My need to find such was hardly creativity-inspired; instead, rather desperate. I kind of hoped that seeing them would help me better see myself.

I am about twenty pounds above where I normally hover and thirty from my idealistic goal. Never mind that this has been my idealistic goal for more than twenty years. Never mind that I am now in my mid-50s, post-menopausal, and hosting a significantly slower metabolism. Never mind that the last guy I dated would sometimes say, “You’re chunking-up a little bit, aren’t you?” and that maybe, even subconsciously, I (still) respond in rebellion and rage. And never mind that for the past 18-months (interestingly, the amount of time since the guy and I broke up), I have been working exclusively from home, sitting at my computer for 10-12 hour days – no movement, no standing, no break. I understand it all.

You’d think I could extend myself some grace. But no. That idealized vision of myself (no matter how unrealistic), haunts, plagues, and deceives.

Somehow I have convinced myself that I will be happier once I see that number on the scale again, once I can get rid of the multiple sizes of clothes my closet holds, once I can be thin. I know it’s not true, that it’s all an illusion. But that doesn’t silence the voice within that will not leave me be, that rolls its eyes when I get dressed in the morning, that sighs as I walk past the mirror, that says, “It’s Monday. Get your shit together this week, OK?” that nods in determined agreement as I witness the world around me saying only thin equals good, only thin equals acceptable, only thin equals lovable, only thin equals worthy.

Believe me, I know better. I am well-versed in the objectification of women, the media’s tyranny, the cultural messaging. I know all about the necessity of being embodied and present and accepting all of me, my whole and complete self. And I remind myself of this repeatedly, even while I stand in line at the grocery store and stare at the covers of People or Self or Cosmopolitan and deliberate over the purchase of Peanut M&Ms.

So back to the Renaissance art.

Artist Peter Paul Rubens was particularly fond of creating images of women who were large, curved, and far from what we describe as perfect and beautiful today. One of his final works was called The Three Graces. Three ample women, barely clothed but for some gossamer here and there, and forming a circle together so that one of them has her back to her viewers. They are thought to be Aglaia – which means radiance, Euphrosine – which means joy, and Thalia – which means flowering, and they served Aphrodite, the goddess of love. I can’t help but wonder what they are
saying to one another, what they know that I don’t, what stories they tell amongst themselves.

Here’s what I don’t have to wonder at all: Not a one of them is talking about how they were merely wearing gossamer because nothing else in their closet fit. Not a one of them is saying, “Look at me! Can you believe how much weight I’ve gained?” Not a one of them is talking of a new diet or exercise plan or seemingly miraculous form of self-affirmation. Not a one of them would have considered such a thing. And without that self-critique, without that shame, and within the trifecta of their
friendship and love, all we see is beauty…and grace.

I want in on that. Yes, in on the graces of radiance, joy, and flowering; even more, in on Grace itself x 3.

So I think I’m going to call this my Three Graces Season. Because I’m not opposed to wearing gossamer. Because even with Peanut M&Ms in hand, I want to be reminded that beauty is relative and true and ever-present and mine even now, evermore, always. Because I’d rather serve the goddess Aphrodite, love Herself, than the insipid little gods who keep nattering on and making me crazy.

May it be so.

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.