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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.

On Writing – #1

Aug 29, 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.

On moving and writing and coming home.

Two years ago (has it been that long already?!?) my daughters and I moved from our house of 13 years to a condo. Months of preparing. Months of work. Days of hard labor that felt more like years. Hardly a simple process. It pushed all three of us to our limits and still required more. Various states of disarray. Boxes. Everywhere. At first, flat and hidden, then tripping hazards, then assembled. Next – painfully and endlessly –filled, taped shut, and stacked to the ceiling. And into them, so many memories, so much of the past, and every bit of the future – yet unspoken, but imagined, anticipated, and hoped-for.

Questions swirled. What memories will yet be created in this new space? With whom will I have conversation? Over what will I laugh and cry, celebrate and grieve? What relationships will form? Which ones will end? What will I know and experience? What will I write?

Writing. Oh, that.

Every day – for days on end – were so packed, so full, so exhausting that writing felt like a distant memory; something I used to know and do, but couldn’t quite place. It was overcome by details, by movers, by conversations with my daughters about leaving the only home they really remember, by more trips to Target than I cared to count, by “yes, let’s just order pizza…again,” by a wonky internet connection, by cables and cords, by muscles so sore that all I could do is fall into bed and barely get back out of it the next morning. There was no writing.

It strikes me that it hardly takes a move for this to be my reality. I’ve struggled with it lately – not feeling at home. And because, frankly, it’s way easier to not write. The similarities to moving abound: hardly a simple process, pushing me to my limits, still requiring more…

Writing calls forth my willingness to allow various states of disarray. Writing requires that I box up what no longer works and take it to the dump. Writing challenges me to make space, to start fresh, to invite beauty. Writing compels me to sort through stories, ideas, and words that ask to be unpacked, honored, and given their proper place. Writing is, in and of itself, hospitality: providing food, shelter, and rest for all that longs to be let in, welcomed, and hosted. Writing is home. And creating home takes work.

It’s no wonder that I felt displaced. I didn’t want to do that work. To unpack the boxes that were piled ceiling-high in the attics and basements of my own mind and heart. To do the work of unwrapping everything protected. To not know if once unpacked, unwrapped, and exposed anything of value will be worth staying in and with.

In order to write, to create, to be “at home” I have to be willing to move.

This is what I’m musing about even this morning – now two years into this home, two years at this desk, two years looking out this window. Moving. Freeing all that’s been boxed to decorate and dance and inspire at will. Pulling up deeply entrenched roots and putting down others. Letting old stories be reimagined in new spaces and new ways; making room for those that are yet to be told (and lived). Welcoming my truest self, my very soul with hospitality. Coming home.

May it be so.

The New Colossus

Jun 15, 2016 | Women's Voice & Power, Writing

By Tanya Geisler

 

For the last two years, I’ve been writing with a group of amazing women writers. Each week we show up with our words and we witness each other’s voices speaking our joys, our challenges, our grief and our delight.

On yesterday’s call, Tanya shared this piece of writing. And it was so powerful and moved us all so deeply, that we decided we each wanted to share her words on our walls, on our blogs. We wanted to be Georgina to her Emma…

It is my strongest encouragement and deepest hope that you read Tanya’s words. 3 reasons (at least): 1) It is beautiful, powerful, and deserves to be heard. 2) It is written by a woman I advocate for and love. 3) You need to hear what she has to say.

The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
~ Emma Lazarus

You remember these words?

Lazarus wrote this sonnet to raise money for the construction of the pedestal upon which the Statue of Liberty would stand. It was read as part of an exhibit to great acclaim, but was promptly forgotten and wasn’t included in the opening of the statue in 1886. It wasn’t included on the pedestal, even. It just was…absent.

She died a year later.

Can you feel that? Can you feel the pain of something written that was celebrated in a
moment, known then forgotten. Looked over. Looked past.

Vital and alive. Then insignificant and abandoned. Seen then unseen.

But there is more, of course, for how else would we know this famous sonnet?

Because a woman named Georgina advocated on the poem’s behalf. On Emma’s behalf. On behalf of all that the statue could come to represent, should the sonnet be re-remembered. She called in favours, lobbied hard and worked tirelessly to have the meaning mean something.

In 1903, Georgina succeeded, and a plaque bearing Emma’s words was created and
installed in the pedestal.

It was then that the Statue of Liberty stood for something. On something. What was
conceived as a French token of admiration for the American way of life became a symbol of hope and welcome for weary refugees in fourteen scant lines.

Fourteen scant lines upon which American ideals rest.

The very ideals that are being gunned down in nightclubs. That are being turned inside out and spat back with vitriol and ignorance and arrogance from the podium.

These words of a woman, written for a woman, and upheld by a woman, are once again being appropriated at best and at worst, ignored. Shouted over. Seen but unseen. Heard but unheard.

They’re trying to tear her down. They’re trying to gag her silent lips. They’re trying to wall her up. They’re trying to keep them out. They’re trying to kill them off. They’re ruining everything.

Everything.

Everything that is good and holy and kind and decent and beautiful and possible and
hopeful and right and sacred.

Will we continue to let them? Will we continue to stand with mild eyes observing the chaotic tempest around us?

We were born knowing what is right. And then, we unsee and forget. Until we re-remember what we know. Until we re-remember that we are mighty.

And it’s up to us, you know. We must speak the words of her silent lips. I will be Georgina to your Emma. Let’s lift the lamp and shine the light. Let’s do this. Let’s stand for something. On something. Something colossal. Something like everything.