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TRUTH is a warrior

Jan 1, 2014 | Hope & Encouragement, Sovereignty, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I’ve spent the last few days at a beautiful, private, and extremely quiet place. I’ve spent a lot of time looking out at the water, the mountains, and more breeds of birds than I can count. I’ve rested. I’ve read. And I’ve even written a little. I’ve spent intentional, sacred time looking back over 2013.

Consistent themes have emerged, right alongside some pretty twisty threads. I’ve focused on the themes: patterns that have powerfully, almost miraculously appeared and made themselves at home in my world and my heart. And I’ve pulled on the threads – in some cases, pretty hard; my resistance high to the unraveling necessary to weave something stronger, more beautiful, and better able to support all that lies ahead and all that I deserve and desire.

The word that has come to me, again and again, on both ends of this spectrum – themes and threads, past and future – has been TRUTH.

I have seen Her presence made manifest in powerful ways when I have been willing to speak. I have heard Her voice within me when I have been most afraid, most heartbroken, most insecure, and most alone. I have felt Her in the words and actions of my friends – women who have called me to the TRUTH they see and experience in me when I am loathe to forget.

I have had also to acknowledge that there have been many times in which She wanted to be more present. When She waited quietly (though impatiently) in the wings. When She was ignored. When I was too afraid, too heartbroken, too insecure, and feeling myself to be too alone to bear one more reminder of Her vast and magnificent presence.

Here’s what I know – and what you know, too: TRUTH will not be denied.

She comes as ruthless cure and kindest companion, as double-edged sword and heroine’s scepter, as quietest whisper and on-a-soap-box shout. And She longs to be given even more reign, more space, more permission, more room to be expressed.

Because here’s the thing: TRUTH knows that when She’s seen, spoken, and experienced everything changes.

You’ve heard it before – my very favorite-of-all-time quote:

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open. ~ Muriel Rukeyser

Which is exactly why we don’t want to tell it (and why, TRUTH-be-told, we do). It’s exactly why we hear, with great clarity and acumen, that know-that-I-know-that-I know voice within, but hesitate to let it out. It’s exactly why, when it’s spoken to us or about us we either wince or weep, hide from or herald its coming.

Truth is a demure lady, much too ladylike to knock you on your head and drag you to her cave. She is there, but people must want her, and seek her out. ~ William F. Buckley, Jr.

TRUTH is what I want, what I seek, what I offer.

I’m inviting you to the TRUTH-telling you most need, most want, and most deeply long for; what you know and need to talk to someone else about. Yes, you and me, one-on-one, having TRUTH-filled conversations about stuff that matters.

Themes and threads. Past and present. Certainly, the future. The fears, the heartbreaks, the insecurities, and the loneliness. Most definitely the know-that-you-know-that-you-know voice within. And in all of these, the Sacred – present and accounted for when we have eyes to see, ears to hear, and a heart that desires. A safe place to tell your TRUTH and to see it transformed and transmitted into every aspect of your life. Exactly what you’ve been looking for. Take the next step.

******

As I’ve worked on this post, I’ve continued to look out at the water, the mountains, and the endlessly-passing-by birds (two hummingbirds are to my right, a small finch to my left, and I saw a blue heron an hour-or-so ago). I’ve felt my fear ebb and flow. The TRUTH? It’s daunting to state intentions, plans, goals, even dreams.

What if I can’t keep up? What if my TRUTH doesn’t resonate with yours? What if it results in more unsubscribes than subscribes?

But I’m hearing deeper, more heart-rending questions than these. What if writing my TRUTH leaves me feeling like a voice crying in the wilderness? What if telling my TRUTH results in more winnowing than gathering, more loss than gain; hard choices, tough calls, firm(er) boundaries, profound risks? What if living my TRUTH means that goodbyes are on the way – to patterns, to particular behaviors, even to people?

Other possibilities beckon and abound, as well. What if writing my TRUTH is what will create exactly the platform, the context, and even the content I most love, most long for, most live to create and share? What if telling my TRUTH invites opportunity, people, and places into my world that defy my wildest imagination? And what if living my TRUTH actually serves to draw me even closer to the Divine, to the Sacred, to a way of being that is more powerful, more breathtaking, and more wildly passionate than I’ve even and ever dared dream?

TRUTH makes no promise to be a gentle or barely-felt presence. She is a warrior, a fighter, a lover, and the fiercest of friends.

And this, it occurs to me, is who I want to be, as well.

May it be so.

There Is No Plan B

Apr 4, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom

On days like today I need a way to make sense of (or at least hold on to) my broken heart. Perspective. Confirmation. Sense-making. Sort-of . . .

Because we are vulnerable, life hurts. We are not here to be free of pain. We are here to have our hearts broken by life. To learn to live with vulnerability and to turn pain into love. . . . There is nothing so whole as a broken heart, said Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk, [a] Hasidic sage. The world breaks our hearts wide open; and it is the openness itself that makes us whole. The open heart is the doorway, inviting the angels in, revealing that the world–even in the pit of hell–is charged with the sacred. ~ Miriam Greenspan, Healing Through the Dark Emotions

Yes, this: “. . . even in the pit of hell . . . ”

I’m taking deep (and sometimes graspy, raggedy) breaths.

On days like today, I want to shut my heart down; to create a super-power barrier to the inevitability of ever being hurt or sad or disappointed (again).

And on days like today, the idea (and reality) of continuing to open myself up, to be exposed, to risk and palpably feel heartbreak as the very path to wholeness and joy feels not only counter-intuitive, but just plain idiotic.

Still, there is no Plan B.

Without heartbreak there wouldn’t be space – and spaciousness. Shattered-wide-open creates room for more love – and love and love and love.

So, down I go. Over the edge. Making the leap (which, more truthfully, feels like being pushed off the side of a cliff). Trusting that vulnerability (and raw strength, capacity, and time-worn-hard-earned perseverance) will sustain me (along with texts from my sister, calls from friends, the glimmer of a kind face via Skype, lingering conversation over good soup and better wine, sage advice from wise women in my life, and knowing-hugs from my daughters). And hopefully, prayerfully my faith. Yes, all this will (eventually), lead me back to joy, the sacred – and love and love and love.

“There is nothing so whole as a broken heart . . . ”

I click the heels of my Ruby Slippers and try to imagine, try to believe. “There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.” Longing for home. Longing for hope. Longing . . .

And always, especially on days like today, longing for love – and love and love and love. There is no Plan B to this, either.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ~ Jesus, Matthew 5:4

May it be so. And then some.

*****

I wrote this post nearly three weeks ago . . . not ready to say it out loud; the emotion too raw. It still is. But in the midst, gracious confirmation that my words matter, that my heart is whole: 

“This is precisely why grief, like love and any other foundational, deceptively simple human emotion or state of being, is the terrain of artists. And it is a writer’s even more specific job to give voice to loss in whatever ways she can, to give shape to this unspeakable, impermeable reality beneath all other realities.” ~ Emily Rapp

Yes.

And so, on a day exactly like today, I’m hitting “publish.” Because even though Easter has passed, I still believe in its message. Because comfort comes. Because grace conquers grief. Because faith endures. Because hope cannot be held back or held down or even, ultimately, withheld from a heart that’s hell-bent on surviving and healing and knowing-giving-generating-offering-receiving-being love and love and love.

Because there is no Plan B . . . gratefully.

A Meditation Gone Awry

Mar 1, 2013 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I listened to a meditation a few days back called, “Inner Goddess.” What enticed me to such? First, it was free. But second, really, how could I resist that title? Not seconds in, I heard these words:

“To experience a sense of transformation is to call upon all the other women who have lived throughout time; that have embodied certain qualities that we want to strengthen within ourselves.”

Though the calm voice intended for my breath to slow; mine caught in my throat. I gasped. My pulse quickened. And my mind leaped far beyond her words into concepts, ideas, and entire worlds of my own.

Somewhere in the distant recesses of my mind I heard her mention Isis, Medusa, Aphrodite, and others. I listened, distractedly, to the affirmations she called forth; specific messages each of these goddesses wanted me to hear, incorporate, and believe. But more, I recognized my heartbeat – a deep, steady “yes” that longs for, trusts in, and knows this connection to other women who have lived throughout time; for me, the ancient, sacred women of Scripture.

Maybe this is uniquely my bias, but it seems we are far quicker to assimilate the relevance, messages, and presence of goddesses like Isis, Medusa, and Aphrodite than we are those of Eve, Hagar, and Mary (just to name a few). We have the conceptual bandwidth to understand and allow for the influence of mythic archetypes, but find ourselves quickly tripped and bound by the biblical text (and accompanying doctrine, religion, dogma, conservativism, et. al.) within which so many incredible and inspirational women’s stories dwell.

This is not only problematic, it is nearly unacceptable.

Today, were a woman’s identity known only as “the wife of…” she would rail, scream, and fight. And yet, we are content to let Eve and her lineage’s identity remain only as “those stories in the Bible.”

As long as we do, we are disconnected from our own lineage and our own legacy.

This breaks my heart.

This propels me forward.

This transforms my life.

That is not to say that I don’t understand others’ perspectives and experiences. It can feel messy and tricky and even seemingly dangerous to wander into Scripture; so prone are we to distrust what’s housed within or the agenda of the one who is interpreting it. Still, the beauty and wisdom inherent in these ancient sacred narratives is powerful and cannot be denied. Like the Greek and Roman goddesses, these women too, are available (and waiting) to be called upon, invited, and heard.

This is what I attempt to do: resurrect, re-imagine, re-tell their stories so that they are redeemed; but more, so that we might be strengthened by their companioning presence, their hard-won wisdom, their connection to our truest self. I’ve done it over and over with Eve; the gorgeous women even giants couldn’t resist; Noah’s wife; Sarai; the Extravagant woman; and so many more to come.

I’m just getting started.

It’s possible, of course, that I’m preaching to the choir; that I’m writing this post for the sole purpose of convincing myself of what I most need to hear. If so, I’m fine with that. But if, somehow and miraculously, my words are what you need to hear as well, then you can be certain that I am smiling…and…feeling my breath catch in my throat while my heart beats, “yes.”

Trust me, Eve and so many others are experiencing the same resonant response – each of them inviting you to call upon them, beckoning you to know them, encouraging you to walk with them; but more, to experience the sense of transformation we so passionately long for and which can so readily be found in those who have gone before us – who remain with us, even now.

“To experience a sense of transformation is to call upon all the other women who have lived throughout time; that have embodied certain qualities that we want to strengthen within ourselves.”

May it be so.

I Feel, Therefore I Am

Feb 22, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

In both college and graduate school I took classes in which the work of Rene Descartes was discussed – the “Father of Modern Philosophy” best known for his statement, “I think, therefore I am.” And though I’d hardly pin all responsibility directly on him, this emphasis on thinking, at least as superior to feeling, has gotten us into trouble.

What if we understood and believed this, instead? “I feel, therefore I am.”

Without going too deep into the history of philosophy, Descartes larger work was in response to the Scholastic Aristotelian tradition of his time; one that was, at least from his perspective, prone to doubt given a reliance on sensation as the source for all knowledge. He wanted and created certainty; irrefutable and almost mechanistic ways of understanding ourselves, God, and the larger, existential questions of life. And though I’m hardly advocating a return to the world of Aristotle, still…

What if sensation and our hearts were understood, undeniably, to be the source of all knowledge? NOT our thoughts?

*****

I had a long, tearful conversation with my eldest daughter a week or so ago. We were watching the end of Season 2 of Downton Abbey when one of the main characters died of preeclampsia. She cried and cried and cried. As she began to breathe a little slower and feel a bit more calm, I said “It’s not really about the show, is it Emma?”

“No, mom. It’s not.”

“What’s it about?”

“I just don’t like it when good people die.”

“Of course you don’t, sweet girl.”

Her head in my lap, our conversation continued. In the midst, I heard a 16-year old girl struggling with the recent death of her aunt, with a haunting sadness over strained relationships with friends, with an ever-waxing-and-waning sense of self worth, with a deep-and-angry awareness of life as unfair. But I also heard the incessant hiss of an inner voice; one that was giving her a good talking-to: “I’m too emotional. I feel out of control. I’m not OK. My feelings are too much.”

*****

Every now and then I hear the word, “think” and am immediately transported to my own teenage years. I can remember my dad saying, “Think, Ronna Jo!” and it’s palpable. I cringe internally, just the slightest bit. I feel edgy and insecure. Sometimes a lump even forms in my throat. All over one little word. He was, undoubtedly, trying to teach me something or get my help with a particular task and, like all parents are wont to do, would get impatient. Truth-be-told, I’ve heard myself say the same words to my girls a time or two. And I cringe yet again . . . 

I wonder what it would have been like to hear him say, “Feel, Ronna Jo!” Will I offer the same to my daughters?

*****

These, whether blatant or not, are the predominant truths we’ve learned, internalized, and lived by:

  • Think instead of feel.
  • Trust thoughts over feelings.
  • Thoughts = logical. Feelings = illogical.
  • Thoughts are safe and feelings are dangerous.
  • “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9)

Yes, I am aware that nothing is either/or, black/white. But as a parent, as a woman, as a human being, I wonder: What if feelings were allowed, given room and air to breathe, were seen as guide and source of wisdom, and even took the lead? Would our thoughts then stop fighting us and fall in line behind our hearts?

In my own experience, it is an endless wrestling match. The rational part of my brain tells me what I should think and even what I should feel – objectively, logically, even obviously; but my heart will not comply. And sadly, too many times, the way I’ve “managed” this and let my thoughts win is to shut the feelings down.

Even typing that last sentence makes me want to weep, scream, and shout; to stand on a soapbox or a mountainside and call all Feeling-Beings to me, assuring them that what they feel is good, that what they feel can be trusted, that what they feel is the source of a wisdom-before-the-dawn-of time.

There’s no shutting feelings down – mine or yours. They are a strong, dauntless, and beautiful force-to-be-reckoned with (thank goodness). They wait, often in the shadows, and catch us unaware – sometimes when we hear a particular word or watch a TV show (last night: the heartbreaking end to Season 3). But no matter what prompts them or from whence they arise, I am learning to let them speak to me. “I see you. I hear you. I feel you. You will not be hidden. You will not be silenced. You will not be ignored. You are welcome here. You are honored. You are true. What do you long for me to know? What do you long for me to understand? And what do you long for me to allow or receive?”

The case could probably be made that much of this is inherent in gender; that women struggle with this duality in unique and potent ways, far more than men. And of course, to some degree that would be true. But I think feel that men have their own pain around all of this – enculturated to not express their feelings; to build, develop, and trust their thoughts; to distrust their emotions and their heart. All of us are less for such – as is our world.

I’ve been asking myself a particular question for days: “What do I know, with certainty, right now?” And as I ponder the words, the scenes, the list itself, I recognize one common thread: where even momentary certainty resides, my head and my heart are aligned. More, please.

So I take a deep breath. I sit a while longer with my daughter(s). I enter back into the fray of my own anxieties and heartaches. I laugh. I remember. I cry. I hope. I pray. I doubt. I love. I hurt. I wonder. I worry. I trust. I drink champagne. And I give myself permission to feel, to feel, to feel.

This I know, with certainty, right now: My thoughts are in service to my feelings; my head is in service to my heart. Not the other way around.

I feel, therefore I am.

Yes, this.

A Lament

Jan 23, 2013 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom, Writing

I’ve been tricked. ‘Tis so Sweet to Trust in Jesus is playing on Pandora. What? It’s an instrumental station – conducive-to-writing music – not old hymns! Aaaaaaugh! Every word cycles through my mind – even though I try to resist; even though not a one is actually sung. All I can do is angrily, uncontrollably weep.

Really? Trust in Jesus? Believe that God is at work in my life? How am I to do so in the midst of such excruciating heartbreak? Is this God’s will? Is this God’s plan? Is this God’s desire?

‘Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus when I’m getting my way, when things are as I want them to be. Not so much, when life feels like it’s going to hell in a hand-basket. When relationships fail. When wounds penetrate deeper than we thought we could ever bear. When disappointment feels like a crushing burden. When sadness catches in our chest so painfully that wee can hardly breathe. When anxiety nearly consumes all sane thought.

Where is the sweetness? Where is the hope? Where is the love? Where is God?

Thank, God. The song just ended . . . 

*****

At any given time I probably have 20 draft posts sitting in the queue. I think of something, see something, ponder something and jot down just enough to jog my memory later. Sometimes I return to what I started and craft something more. Often, I end up trashing most of it.

The words above were one of those drafts. I stumbled across it just today. Excruciating memories flooded as I pieced together the scenes of when I wrote it and why. Thankfully, the circumstances of that particular day have passed, but the reality and rawness of the emotions can still be felt, even now.  I considered trashing it, but then stopped. Here’s why:

It’s all good and well to skip merrily through our days – full of faith in a God who loves and provides. Until our faith fails because God seems to.

How are we to understand God in such places? How are we to hold on to trust? How are we to believe? How are we to hope? And what are we to do?

I wish I had answers. (Well, I have a few, but they just don’t suffoce in such places and those who tell you different are, in my not-so-humble-opinion, lying.) Here’s the best I can do:

Sometimes (if not often) we just need space, time, and frankly, permission to rage…at God.

So here it is: permission.

Take it. It’s yours. No lighting will strike. No coal in your stocking. No plague of frogs (a story from Exodus – or, if you prefer, the movie, Magnolia.) Be furious. Be pissed. Storm. Curse. Rail. Scream. Weep. Whatever. God’s OK with it. I promise. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, how about these? You are in good company:

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear pain in my soul,
and have sorrow in my heart all day long?
(From Psalm 13)

Why is life given to those with no future,
those God has surrounded with diffculties? I cannot eat for sighing; my groans pour out like water. What I always feared has happened to me. What I dreaded has come true. I have no peace, no quietness. I have no rest; only trouble comes. (From Job, Chapter 3)

*****

What I shared at the start of this post is hardly the first of such drafts I’ve written, but never published. Many have been trashed. And many more exist on untitled-but-saved files. They show up in journals scattered throughout my house. And had I kept the thousands of pages onto which I’ve poured my heart over my lifetime, we’d be buried; more lament would be present than praise.

It’s not that my life has been harder than others. It’s not that I’ve endured anything even closely resembling the stories of some. Hardly.

But my life is my own – just like yours. And my life, just like yours, is filled with heartache that deserves to be expressed; that must be expressed. There is no other way. Not really. So says Holocaust survivor, Elie Weisel:

Not to transmit an experience is to betray it.

So pour out your heart. Lament like there’s no tomorrow. And tomorrow will come. I promise.

Life with Popcorn

Jan 29, 2008 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

Life is tough. It’s filled with disappointments, unmet expectations, hurt, grief, frustration, on and on the list goes. I’m not saying it’s not also filled with amazing beauty, celebration, life, and love. I’m all for that and know much of it. But as I’ve been in conversations over the past few days, I’ve been increasingly touched by the levels of difficulty and struggle that pervade.

Did we somehow expect something else? Is that what makes life feel so unjustly hard? Or is it that life really is unfair?

Here’s where I’m landing this Tuesday evening:

Of course life is bizarre; the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show. (Unknown)

Emma, Abby, and I made and then consumed popcorn tonight as we watched another round of American Idol auditions. Perhaps not the highest quality choice, but in the midst of so many stories that are painful, I was grateful for an hour of dissociation, popcorn, laughter, and an occasional surprising moment of amazing beauty.

‘Might be a good metaphor for life: in the midst of our own and others’ painful stories may we know some gracious moments that help us gain perspective, laugh even for a bit, and find beauty in unexpected places – all accompanied by more popcorn.