A Reflection on 12

Dec 7, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Writing

  • 12 represents the completed cycle of experience.
  • 12 is the symbol of cosmic order.
  • There are 12 months in a year.
  • Time is measured in two groups of 12 hours.
  • There are 12 signs in the zodiac.
  • There are 12 days of Christmas.
  • On the 12th day of Christmas my true love gave to me – 12 drummers drumming.
  • Apollo 12 was the first moon walk.
  • A total of 12 people have walked on the moon.
  • There are 12 names for the sun in Sanskrit.
  • In the color wheel there are 12 basic hues.
  • There are 12 steps in recovery programs.
  • There are usually 12 people on a jury.
  • The 12th man in football refers to the role of the fans.
  • There were 12 principle gods in Greek mythology who resided on Mount Olympus.
  • King Arthur’s Roundtable had 12 knights.
  • The Beatles released 12 studio albums.
  • There are 12 half notes in each octave.
  • In numerology, the number 12 is a higher octave of the number 3 and represents careful planning and orderly growth leading to spiritual development.
  • My birth number is 12 before it is reduced to 3.
  • I was born on the day before the 12th month began.
  • I was 12 years old when a self-image formed that has stayed with and haunted me my entire life.
  • Just under 12 years passed between my sister’s birth and when I left home.
  • 12 years passed between leaving home and getting married.
  • 12 years passed between getting married and graduating from seminary.
  • 12 years passed between graduating from seminary and today.
  • 12 years ago, my daughters were just 6 and 8.
  • By this time next year, I will have been blogging for 12 years.
  • Two years from now, I will have been divorced for 12 years.
  • There were 12 tribes in Israel.
  • The first recorded words of Jesus were when he was 12 years old.
  • Jesus had 12 disciples.
  • Mary Magdalene is mentioned 12 times in the Bible.
  • Revelation 12 tells one of my favorite stories – about a woman clothed with the sun, the moon at her feet, and a crown of 12 stars round her head.
  • There is another favorite story of mine that tells of the Hemorrhaging Woman who bled for 12 years.
  • There are 12 letters in the word “hemorrhaging.”

I can tell her story in 12 sentences.

  1. 12 years of bleeding meant 12 years of isolation, pain, and grief.
  2. She had tried every medicine, method, and mantra – all to no avail.
  3. Still and always she held on to hope.
  4. When she heard about the man with the 12 disciples – a healer and miracle-worker – she was determined to put herself in his path.
  5. “Surely, if I can but touch the hem of his garment, I will be healed.”
  6. So she did.
  7. And she was.
  8. He said, “Who touched me?”
  9. His 12 disciples were incredulous as they looked at the pressing crowd and said, “What do you mean who touched you?”
  10. The woman finally stepped forward and said, “I did.”
  11. He responded: “Your faith has healed you.”
  12. Then he continued on his way – soon after to heal a 12-year-old girl.

I can finish this piece in just 12 more sentences. I promise.

  1. “Your faith has healed you,” he said.
  2. It was not the Divine, the miracle-worker, the man that made the difference.
  3. It was her.
  4. She made the healing happen.
  5. That feels hugely important to name and remember.
  6. My word for this year is “healing.”
  7. It is now the 12th month.
  8. Maybe there is still time.
  9. And maybe neither time nor healing is the point.
  10. Maybe it’s about still and always holding on to hope.
  11. Maybe it’s about faith – not in a miracle, a miracle worker, or even a man, but in myself.
  12. May it be so.

This woman’s story, the Woman of Revelation 12, even Mary Magdalene (mentioned 12 times), are but three of those I work with to create SacredReadings.

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

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.

On Writing – #4

Sep 2, 2016 | Writing

This week, I’m offering a series of posts on writing – ones I’ve written before, new ones yet unseen, anything and everything that reminds you of just how powerful the act of writing is – whether you have any aspirations of ever being a writer…or not.

Writing For A Change
[1st posted in August, 2010]

A true piece of writing is a dangerous thing. It can change your life. ~ Tobias Wol

There are two obvious ways to look at the title of this post:

Writing for a change (as in finally, and/or in deference to other activities).

Writing for a change (as in having an agenda, desiring an outcome, hungry for
transformation).

Given that I write all the time and would do even more if I could, it’s the latter of the two that applies to me. Over and over again.

Though I am deeply hopeful that my writing invites change in others, what I know with 100% assurance is that it creates change in me. As I think of topics, categories, and themes I am (not always, but often) aware of how they speak to me, compel me, and are what I most need to consider in my own life. As I type words I am (not always, but often) aware of how the language choices, phrases, and even punctuation speak to what I’m attempting to avoid or that which I desire. Even as I choose design elements I am (not always, but often) aware of how particular images touch my soul, or don’t, and what that’s about.

And I’m super-aware (always) of when I’m just trying to make something work when it’s really not. ‘Seems an important metaphor in life…

Writing for a change means that I am willing to pay attention to all of this; that I am willing to pay attention to my own life – as articulated through the very letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages I type. The dignity and the depravity. The celebration and the pain. The clarity and the confusion. The sanity and the craziness. The certainty and the mystery.

We are all a paradoxical bundle of rich potential that consists of both neurosis and wisdom. ~ Pema Chodron

All of it. All of it is telling. All of it tells me of me. All of it is writing for a change.

Change writers are purveyors of hope. ~ Mary Pipher, Writing to Change the World

Writing for a change, for me, means hope.
It is in writing that I feel hope. Yes, what I write offers hope – I hope; but it’s the writing itself that keeps me centered – and invites me to move; that encourages,  challenges, compels, inspires, settles, calms, offers perspective, heals, and changes (me). Hope is rife.

And finally (though hardly), I am writing for a change because I’m realizing, more and more, that only I can say these things. Not because I’m such an excellent writer or because I have such incredible thoughts. Only I can say these things because they are words, ideas, stories, and concepts that I alone can say. They are mine. (The same is true for you, you know?)

What can I do that isn’t going to get done unless I do it, just because of who I am?
~ Buckminster Fuller

I am writing for a change – my own. Always. Every day. In hope.

What are you writing for? What are the words (and worlds) that you alone can say?

On Writing – #3

Aug 31, 2016 | Writing

This week, I’m offering a series of posts on writing – ones I’ve written before, new ones yet unseen, anything and everything that reminds you of just how powerful the act of writing is – whether you have any aspirations of ever being a writer…or not.

Elegance and Crudeness: I Am Writing Today
[Written February, 2013]

Despite all obstacles placed in my way, many of which I erected myself, I am
writing today.

I am writing about the Divine Feminine. My history in regards to such, misconceptions that abound, and ways in which She is experienced both within and without. I am writing about my own religious tradition and the ways in which even the uttering of Her name would have well been understood as straight from the pit of hell. I am writing about the ways in which that has confused me for so many years. And I am writing about how my movement toward Her has invited me into expansiveness, empowerment, and faith beyond-compare.

As I write, I have been reflecting on words spoken by artist and activist Callahan McDonough:

“I look for that balance of elegance and crudeness in my work. My desire is for my work to be experienced out in the world, to make a difference that touches people’s lives.”

Yes, this.

There is a balance of both elegance and crudeness in writing. Even more, in life. When I allow for both, I then extend myself grace and forgiveness. When I allow for both, I am compelled to higher levels of creativity without incessant second-guessing. When I allow for both, I find myself in a place where darkness does not overcome light, nor does shadow (or to use Steven Pressfield’s term, resistance) overwhelm me.

I am writing today. About some of the hardest things: my own story, my own doubts, my own fears. But in each, allowing confidence and doubt, hope and despair, and yes, elegance and crudeness; the jumble of emotions, talents, insecurities, and stories that are me.

Oh, that we would live our lives in such a place: aware of the elegance and crudeness innate in us all – allowing for both and
calling forth ever-more. What might we yet create? What might we yet imagine? What might we yet birth?

Yes, this: birth. The primary and original place in which elegance and crudeness coexist. The primary and original place in which women bring forth their innate and particular power.

The primary and original place in which miracles occur and the Divine Feminine makes herself known. The primary and original place in which the Divine is made manifest in our world – over and over again. Elegant. Crude. Beautiful. I’ll take more of that, please.

And thanks, Callahan…

On Writing – #2

Aug 30, 2016 | Mothers and Daughters, Writing

This week, I’m offering a series of posts on writing – ones I’ve written before, new ones yet unseen, anything and everything that reminds you of just how powerful the act of writing is – whether you have any aspirations of ever being a writer…or not.

Turning this Impossible Page
[Written almost exactly a year ago. Incredible!]

I bought a new journal a few weeks back. Planning ahead. Knowing my current one was nearly full. Wanting to make sure I didn’t run out of pages. But here I sit, the last sheet of lined paper filled with words, and yet unable, unwilling, to close the cover.

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.” Impossible.

How could I have known that I would finish my most recent journal on the very day that marks my first-born leaving home, the day before I take her to college, the day that perches precariously between all that has gone before and all that is yet to come? The symbolism is not lost on me.

~~~~~~~

With every journal I complete, I feel a certain sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, of “success,” somehow. It’s a physical sign of something completed. I close the cover and hold it in my lap for just a moment – palpably aware of all I’ve experienced and expressed in and on those pages. All I’ve grieved. All I’ve imagined. All I’ve hoped.

I can’t bring myself to close this one, these 18+ years, these everyday days. I can’t bring myself to open a new one to late-night phone calls and weekend visits and home-for-the-holidays. I can’t bring myself to face the empty page, the now-empty half of her room, the empty space no longer filled by her everyday presence. How can I?

As my hand hovers on this last page, this tome that is Emma Joy, I am flooded with so much of the same. She has been physical sign, daily reminder, visceral presence in my life. A life that, with and because of her, is complete and rich and messy and whole. Every word, sentence, paragraph, and page so full, so true, so worthwhile. I held her in my lap for hours, the most-profound and miraculous manifestation of me-as-creator, the end to infertility’s grief. More than I ever imagined. More than I could have ever hoped.

How can this day be here? How can this journal be filled? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I opened to the first, fresh, brilliant page that was her? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she scribed herself across my heart?

~~~~~~~

As I (will, eventually, necessarily) close this journal, it is Emma Joy who opens the new one.

As it should be! Blank pages upon which she has yet no idea, no notion, no preconceived idea of all the glorious prose and poetry and music and drama and grief and imagining and hope that await her powerful, poignant writing – on the lines and between them. This is the gift of a new journal, of life itself: wide open space, freedom, and stepping into an unknown that awaits creative engagement, consistent presence, honest truth. What more could I possibly wish or hope on her behalf?

Turn the page and write, Emma!

College-ruled paper. New pens. Words and stories and experiences and expressions to create, compose, and live. Write yourself! No pseudonym. No holding back. No editing. No restraint. Because you can. Because you know how. Because you’re ready. Because you will change the rest of the world just as you have changed mine. And remember that it will require
no more effort to do so than your
willingness and maybe the occasional reminder from your mom that this is what you have always done, that this is who
you are – indelibly inscribing yourself onto every heart you touch.

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.” Not impossible, just not yet.

Not today. Maybe tomorrow. But for now, I’ll hold it in my lap just a little bit longer. Pen in hand. Heart on sleeve.