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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.”

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.

Musings on Being Single

Nov 5, 2016 | Women's Wisdom

On days like today I wrestle with what to do. It’s a Saturday morning. Little requires my time or attention for this day or the next. No daughters are home. Nothing is scheduled. No work remains undone or even beckoning. On days like today I  wonder if I should just stay home, light a fire, read a book, maybe do some knitting and watch a movie; or if I should take myself to a coffee shop, laptop in tow, order an Americano “for here” and wax eloquent (hopefully) on my keyboard, smile at a person or two, maybe even engage in surprising, but welcome dialogue.

Perhaps this is an odd wrestling. But as a single woman it is an ever-present dilemma: to be wholly satisfied with the life she has created and to rest within such or to venture out, allow herself to be in the company of strangers, be seen instead of safely tucked away.

Of course, it’s not one or other. It’s always both/and. And it remains a bind.

In truth, I am wholly satisfied with my life: my home, my schedule, my friends, my daughters (of course), my work, my writing, my presence in the world. And, it is achingly lonely at the same time.

I am not alone. Not at all. People love me, support me, spend time with me – and I them – willingly, enthusiastically, gratefully. But it is not the same as being in relationship – intimately connected in conversation, in activity, in limb, in love.

Believe me: I know the opposite all too well – being in relationship and alone.

Relationship is hardly the exclusive and fail-safe anecdote to loneliness, and, in truth, can sometimes perpetuate it more excruciatingly than any amount of alone-ness. And maybe it’s because I’ve known all of these – healthy, beautiful relationship, being alone in relationship, and being alone, period – that I have some context, some perspective, some broader lens through which to view the nuances of each. Perhaps.

Or perhaps I’m just restless, finding it difficult to allow and appreciate being with just me.

No. That is not it – though it has been, to be sure. I do appreciate me – who I am, how I am, all that I think and feel and understand and don’t. And it’s this that I want to share, this that I want to be seen and worshipped (yes, worshipped), this that I want to offer in the most lavish and luxurious of ways.

I’m not certain that going to a coffee shop today will enable one bit of this. I’m relatively certain it won’t. But maybe there is something to be said for living with intention, stepping toward that which one desires vs. waiting for it to come knocking on your door (or messaging you through a ridiculous-and-nearly-always-disappointing online dating site).

Maybe.

I haven’t decided yet.

For now, I’ll stir the fire I lit between paragraphs three and four, pour another cup of coffee, look out at the endless rain and final falling leaves, and wonder a bit longer…

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.