My Three-Graces Season

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

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…

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.

Where the Women Gather (and why)

How might your life have been different if there had been a place for you? A place for you to go … a place of women, to help you learn the ways of a woman…a place where you were nurtured from an ancient flow sustaining you and steadying you as you sought to become yourself. A place of women to help you find and trust the ancient flow already there within yourself…waiting to be released…

A place of women…

How might your life be different?

I won’t speak for you, but I feeeeeeeeeel the longing within me as I read these words, as I let them soak into my pores, enter my imagination and bloodstream, and transmute my deepest hopes and strongest desires.

These emotions are being prompted, at least in part, by my ongoing awareness of just how much I think…and think…and think. Trying to make sense of things, figure it all out, reason my way through, find an answer. But in this place, where the women gather, all this thinking and reasoning and processing, though allowed and understood, is not the native tongue.

In this place, where the women gather, we feeeeeeeeeel. We trust. We know. Tears flow. Laughter abounds. No words at all need be spoken. And here, the truest, deepest part of us is honored and made whole.

In this place, where the women gather, we are surrounded and nurtured and loved.  Balm for the wounded soul. Comfort for the most tender of hearts. Strength for the weary and worn.

This place, where the women gather, is why I return to the ancient, sacred stories of women, stories worth telling. Because I desperately long for (and find) a gathering of women who serve as mothers, sisters, aunts, and grandmothers, great- and great-great-great grandmothers, the closest of friends. As I reimagine and redeem their stories, I reimagine and redeem my own. As I stay with them, and they with me, I slowly-but-surely let go of my thinking and reasoning and processing. They invite me in, offer me shelter and solace, courage and strength, and give me permission to just rest, just wait, just be, just feeeeeeeeeel.

They invite you in, as well.

Can you imagine?

How might your life have been different if there had been a place for you…a place of women, where you were received and affrmed? A place where, after the fires were lighted, and the drumming, and the silence, there would be a hush of expectancy…a knowing that each woman there was leaving old conformity to find her self…a sense that all womanhood stood on a threshold.

And if, during the hush, the other women, slightly older, had helped you to trust your own becoming…to trust it and quietly and prayerfully to nurture it…How might your life be different?

Imagine it. And then…just ask.

(Both quotes from A Circle of Stones: Woman’s Journey to Herself by Judith Duerk)

Not seeing the forest for the trees (yet)

I don’t know about you, but when I read or hear the stories of amazing women (which is ALL the time), I have the tendency to compare myself to them. And that never goes well.

I convince myself that I will not be one about whom amazing stories are told. Because I’m not her. I’m just me.

And every bit of this is totally wrong.

Here’s a story to prove my point:

Queen Esther. Ostensibly sex-trafficked as a young girl, she is corralled into the king’s palace, lives with the eunuchs, and is then trained for a full year to be able and ready to please the king (sexually, of course) if called. She lives as a potential consort right alongside all the other girls of her town and every surrounding town, right alongside all the king’s previous and current wives. And all under the dark cloud of awareness that the last queen, who dared to say “no” to this same king, was deposed and discarded. In the midst of all this, she becomes the chosen one, is named the king’s favorite, is heralded as Queen, and then uncovers a massive plot to destroy her entire people – the Jews. She manages to merit the king’s favor, trick the villain (who was not the king himself), usurp his wicked plans, and save thousands of people from genocide. And now, thousands of years later, she is still honored, her amazing story still told, still celebrated through the Feast of Purim, a festival within the Jewish tradition that honors the redemption she ushered into the world.

Who am I to think that my story could possibly be anything like hers?

And in truth, isn’t it just pouring salt on a wound to hear it in the first place and then be left feeling like there is SO MUCH to live up to? It’s impossible. I don’t begin to compare. Why bother even trying?

Again, every bit of this is totally wrong.

Here’s why.

Esther lived her life one day at a time. She faced the (often horrific) circumstances of her life in the best way she could in the moment. She took in distressing news and then acted as best she knew how in the moment.

She risked but not always. She spoke up but not always. She stepped forward but not always.

And when all was said and done – over years of time (not days, as the story so often sounds) – she became legend.

She could not possibly have seen the forest for the trees. She could not have seen the huge and sweeping plot that was taking place around her. She could not have seen the bigger narrative of which her seemingly-small life was a part. And she could not have seen how significant her life and story truly were.

Take heart, dear one; the same is true for you (and me).

Here is all that’s required:

  • Do the next thing.
  • Face your circumstances in the best way you can in the moment.
  • Take in distressing and dangerous news, then act in the moment.
  • Risk and speak up and step forward as often as you can, even if not always.

And consider this:

Maybe, definitely, it is best that you can’t see just how and important and significant your life truly is.

Just like Queen Esther. (Yes, you: just like her. Amazing!)

The most famous and well-known portion of her story is what her uncle Mordecai says
when she expresses her fear:

Don’t think for a moment that because you’re in the palace you will escape when all other Jews are killed. If you keep quiet at a time like this, deliverance and relief for the Jews will arise from some other place, but you and your relatives will die. Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?

Yes, hugely significant and dramatic. I’ll give you (and her) that. But here is what matters:

“For such a time as this” meant (and still means) one moment at a time, one conversation at a time, one choice at a time, one risk at a time, one day at a time. Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.

Yes, be the queen. I’m all about that. Kick ass and take names and speak up and be bold. And know that the things that seem minor and insignificant and seemingly just the opposite of the amazing stories you read and hear are the stuff of “for such a time as this,” are the stuff of legend.

Paying the bills and having yet another conversation with your kids and telling your spouse or lover how you really feel and not pouring another glass of wine and not allowing fear to distract you from the writing that calls, or telling the truth, and all of the above and then some.

These are the details of your life – which matter, which make a difference, and, when all is said and done, are legendary. Because you are. You just don’t know it yet.

May it be so.

It’s all going to end badly

A few weeks ago, while talking to my therapist, I mentioned my ongoing and haunting hunch that the archetype of the Prophet is mine to live into and fulfill: one who says what must be said, who speaks the truth, who proclaims what others don’t or won’t. (I’ve written before about how I actually think this archetype is
true for all women.) Here’s what he said to me:

“It’s all going to end badly!”

“And what do you-of-all-people know about the stories of the prophets, Ronna?!? Right! They get dragged through excrement and tortured with hot coals and lay naked in the streets and sometimes are even killed! So, if that’s a given, then you may as well say what the hell you have to say, because there’s no happy ending! Get on with it!”

(I love this guy!)

This may sound depressing to you – and I’ll admit, on my worst days, it sounds that way to me, too. But it also offers me profound freedom! If it’s all going to end badly anyway, then it really doesn’t matter. If all my labor and effort and toiling and work will, ultimately, be misunderstood and potentially even maligned, then why not go for it?!?

I suppose I can try to forego this ending, circumvent it somehow – or at least attempt such. I can morph myself into something or someone other than who I am in order to be more acceptable, tame, and market-savvy. I can blog and write and speak about things far less divisive and derisive. I can leave spirituality totally off the table. I can eliminate the word “God” from my vocabulary.

Yep. I could do all of this (and so could you: just change the words so they apply), but then I wouldn’t be doing what I do (nor would you). And that seems even more problematic than a less-than stellar ending.

Still too depressing? OK. Here’s some redemption.

As my therapist and I continued to talk he said,

“Seriously, Ronna. Are there any stories of prophets that don’t end badly? I don’t actually know…but you do. Tell me, p-l-e-a-s-e, if there is any other outcome!”

And here is what I said: “Actually, there is one story of a prophet that doesn’t end badly. And interestingly, it’s the story of a woman.” As soon as I spoke those words, the two of us stared at each other and then both, in our own ways, said, “Well, OK then!” and laughed.

Since that conversation I’ve done a bit of homework. There are actually 10 women in the Bible who are named as prophets and nothing bad happens to any of them! So, new approach:

It’s NOT going to end badly!

This creates just as much freedom as its negative counterpart! If no matter what I say or do – in speaking the truth and telling the truth and being committed to the truth – it is not going to result in a horrific or brutal end, then I may as well say and do what I’m here to say and do (and you, as well)!

Here’s the bottom line:

It really doesn’t matter how things are going to end – whether badly or well. What matters is that I stay the course, stay committed to that which I believe (in), stay focused on that know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within, stay on track, and just stay, period. (You, too.)

And all the while holding this as truth: …whether by conscious choice or circumstantial demand, women inherently and instinctively are prophets. We inherently and instinctively see and know truth – deep in our bones. We don’t want to incur the risk of speaking truth and we must. We don’t want to bear the cost or harm of saying what others don’t want to hear and we can’t not. We’re caught between the proverbial rock and hard place.

Clearly, we are prophets. And we are in good company. 

The ending doesn’t matter one bit. The story we’re telling and living does.

May it be so.