The Wild Voice Within

Jun 23, 2015 | Women's Voice & Power, Writing

There is a voice within that says more and edits less. It digs deep and dives down. It is impossible to embarrass and completely unrestrained. It refuses to keep quiet. It’s not interested in playing nice. It is passionate, risky, even risqué. It is dark and red and viscous. It weeps. It delights. It knows. It howls at the moon. And it writes . . .

But that’s about as far as it goes.

The voice without holds sway.

Pages and pages that never see the light of day. Notebooks and journals written by hand. Hundreds of documents started then saved. 3×5 cards scattered throughout a drawer. Ideas barely captured before they disappear. Disheveled and raw, desperate almost, this voice pours forth. Never mind the incomplete thoughts, the inchoate sentences, the impossible to define emotions.

Still it speaks, no matter how silenced. It is wild and will not be tamed.

Held at bay by nothing more (nor less) than a lump in the throat. Sitting on the tip of a tongue. Waiting to be welcomed home.  Certain. Sure. Patient. Undeniable truth, endless desire, and sheer volume finally tips the scales.

The wild within is seen, run toward, and embraced – like the Prodigal returned. No longer outcast, marginalized, hidden away. Far from penitent or tame. Fiercer than ever before. Articulate and wise beyond measure. Then consonants, vowels, words, sentences, pages, index cards, memories, stories, beliefs, emotions – all will tumble forward. Falling, twirling, dancing, taking form. Every stroke of the pen, peck of key, and document stacked or saved will fluently coalesce. Alchemy. Magic. Grace. Nothing but pure, unadulterated beauty and strength flows forth.

On that day and for all that follow, finally reunited and reconciled to her very self, she will speak-sing-write-create her way way into a world that has been waiting for her all along.

Take heart.

A freewrite on faith

Jun 7, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Writing

There have been times in which my own writing has taken me to places of surprise, insight, and even tears. Some alchemy occurs, my brain works for instead of against, me, and I have the unexpected ability to express something that changes and transforms me. When that happens, it is the Sacred – with a capital S.

But it happens so rarely! Which causes my faith to wane. In myself, my capacity, my ability, to be sure; even more, in the Sacred – with a capital S.

It seems to me that the Sacred – with a capital S – would want to be experienced, want to show up, want to amaze and awe and impact. And so, when days and weeks and months and seasons slip by without noticeable Presence – with a capital P – it never occurs to me to wonder about those upper case realities. I figure it must be me.

I do not have enough faith. I am at fault. I am to blame. Yep. That’s it. So I get to work. I write more. I critique myself more. I think more – and nothing surfacy, thank you very much – only thoughts that are deep, profound, and significant. I sweat drops of blood – or at least try.

Still, to no avail. And the accompanying belief (which is really a lie) is this: Yet again, I am not enough, do not want it enough, do not believe enough. Because, really: “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”

I remember countless nights as a teenager, lying in bed, eyes red-rimmed from tears, thinking about that verse. A mustard seed?!? That’s nothing! I would close my eyes and picture that tiny seed – the one that rattled within the charm hanging from the silver bracelet my grandmother gave me (alongside the State of Washington, the Empire State Building, a grand piano, and countless other then-meaningful symbols). I’d pour all my faith into it – every positive thought, learned belief, and endless hope – in order to move the mountain du jour: clear skin, a boyfriend, a date to the dance, being pretty, being noticed, mattering.

Truth-be-told, these nights hardly ceased with my teens. There have been more nights as an adult in which I’ve done the same – just new mountains to move: a man, infertility’s end, a miracle in my marriage, a relationship’s healing, money, and yes, my writing. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. Nada. And I am left with the defeating awareness that my faith remains (or does it?) smaller than that seed; apparently almost nonexistent.

I grew up hearing and learning that “faith without works was dead.“ As though, in order for faith to be real or worthy or even remotely worthwhile, to keep it present and even functional, my actions (only the good, worthy, and important ones, of course) were required.

Imagine faith as a body and works as exercise and food choices. To let one’s body fall apart; to not take the necessary steps, do the necessary work, be  responsible? Well, all kinds of internal and external shame shows up around that. Likewise, to let one’s faith merely ‘be’ without working at it, working, period? Yes, shameful.

These days, all of this sounds and feels wrong to me (both the eating/exercise and the working at faith).

I believe that faith is something lovely and light and whimsical and intuitive and transparent and un-capturable and liminal. What is John O’Donohue’s word? Penumbral. (I’ll have to look that up). Faith just is, period. I don’t have to work at it, or work to prove that I am worthy of it, or work on it to make it grow and even exist, in the first place. Faith is like hope and joy and peace and love. It is a state, a reality, a truth, a gift. Yes, that’s it.

As I write this, I feel the surprise, the insight, and yes, the tears. Alchemy and change. The Sacred – with a capital S. Which has nothing to do with me, my less-than-a-mustard-seed faith, my effort, my striving. Nada. Thank God! This is mountainous. And I am the one who is moved.

Guess I’ll keep believing…and holding on to hope…and pondering mustard seeds…and yes, writing.

*****

Penumbral: A fringe region of half-shadow resulting from partial obstruction of light by an opaque object; the lighter and outer region of a sunspot; the point or area in which light and shade blend.

Telling Myself (no more) Lies

May 1, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

I have recently uncovered an interesting belief I hold within. It’s not pleasant. And frankly, I’m not all that crazy about admitting it. But it needs to be exposed.

My truth always equals pain.

My story, my memory, is littered with scenes in which I finally stepped into integrity, let the consequences be damned, took the risks, and told the truth. In my marriage, at my job, in relationships. Consequences did ensue – just like I knew they would. In those particular situations, when I stood up for myself, let the words come out of my mouth, and expressed
how I really felt, all hell broke loose.

Just because something is true, doesn’t mean it is a truth to live by.

I’ve extrapolated those experiences (along with many others) into an anticipation that this will always happen, that this does always happen. And that anticipation has become a belief.

Poured in concrete. Set in stone. Won’t budge. Without knowing it, I’ve constructed a hard- and-fast tenet by which I now live. It has impacted my past, to be sure; but more, my present and future. I don’t like it, but I recognize it and I actually believe it: my truth always equals pain.

It is a lie.

This is true: Much of what I say and do is helpful, expansive, and healing. I intentionally and passionately offer hope, encouragement, and strength. I know this. I believe this. You can’t convince me otherwise.

But here’s the bind: Even though I know that my truth does not always equal pain, I act like it does. I make choices, measure risks, and determine actions based on a false belief.

Let me give you just the slightest (and scary) taste of the insipid voice in my head:

If you were really telling the truth – in your writing, in your work, in conversation and relationship, it would be too painful. Pain isn’t good when you inflict it on others – only yourself! No one would want to be around you. No one would want to hear what you have to say. You’d be alone. You are too much. Better to tone it down, hold back, rewrite, rewind, retreat. Better to not tell the truth, at least not all of it. See? Your truth equals pain.

And if that voice doesn’t work, then this one chimes in:

Are you crazy? It’s irrevocable: “your truth always equals pain!” You must hold on to the pain! Pain is good! Think about it: a blog post should be excruciating to write, a meaningful relationship should include suffering, struggles with money are a sign of strength, trying to understand God should be nearly impossible. And the book? Oh, that most-definitely should be hell-on-earth. See how hard all of this is? That means it’s worthwhile, that you are. Well done!

You can hear the insanity, yes?

Many of the stories we tell ourselves need to be exposed for the lies they are. And the best way to do that is to actually tell them, name them, expose them (often out loud and to another person) in order to hear the (false) beliefs and ties that bind.

Even more:

We need to write-speak-believe-live new stories that corroborate what’s actually true.

So here’s the new story I’m telling myself:

My truth does not equal pain. Ease, rest, creativity, and flow are my birthright. And the crazy voices are just that. I get to listen to and trust the know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within. It is glorious, wise, worthy, and telling the truth. As am I.

How about you?

May it be so.

A poem. Some story. Lots of truth.

Jan 15, 2015 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Writing

“Please understand me!”
she cried.
An impossible premise
an impossible promise
impossible, period.

She cried
“Please understand me!”
until she didn’t
until she realized
that it was her promise
to herself, period.

~ ~ ~

“Please. Understand me!”
I have cried and cried
and cried some more.
An impossible, overwhelming request.
Held silent under its thumb
I’ve screamed:

The premises must be explained!
The promises must be decried!
Do you see (me)?
Do you hear (me)?
Do you understand (me)?

No, you don’t.
No, you won’t.
Period.
I see.

So, no more explaining.
No more premises defended.
No more promises (to self) broken.
No more, period.

~ ~ ~

“Understand me, or don’t!” she sings.
So pleased,
as she writhes and writes and rises.
Overcome, but not overwhelmed
by all she has to say,
by how she stays…standing.

And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end…

*****

I have spent a lifetime trying to understand. My parents, my siblings, my family dynamics. What it meant to go to church, what it meant to be a Christian, what it meant to believe in God. How to be a good girl, how to get ahead in school, how to please my parents. The rules for girls. The rules for boys. How pretty rules. How to be seen, or not; heard, or not; perfect always. All of these un-understandable. All of these futile. And every one required,
demanded, and understandably critical for survival.

There was a season in which I did not understand much of anything, least of all myself, my choices, my behaviors, my actions. I didn’t care. And I couldn’t understand why. I did not stand up at all, least of all for myself. I crouched. I skulked. I compromised. I hid. I underwhelmed (myself). Under the radar. Under-achieving. And misunderstood.

Later, I thought I had finally found it, everything. It was all I’d ever wanted – until it wasn’t. I tried to understand my marriage and the man. Why he was always depressed. Why it was my job to keep him happy, sane, coping, functional. Why I couldn’t get pregnant. Why I should even bother believing in a God who wouldn’t answer my prayers. Why I was so horrible as to doubt, to rage, to be faith-less. I tried to understand my anger. I tried to understand my confusion. I tried to understand my loneliness. I tried to understand my tears. All to no avail.

My tears. They defied all understanding, any explanation, all and any attempts to be thwarted, slowed, stopped. They continued. Inexplicable. They made no sense. “This is nonsense!” I thought. Endless. And always in the dark, in private, in secret. Why? What I didn’t understand (until I did) was that my tears made more sense than anything or anyone else. That they were the font, the truth, the gift at the altar, the only part of me that knelt and knew, that stood – defiant, unstopped, unsilenced, undaunted.

Maybe it was never about my understanding. Maybe, really, it was about being understood. Needing, longing, demanding to be understood. By my parents, by my family, by my culture, by my God. Later by my husband, by my friends, by my employer, by my therapist. Now by my love, by my readers, by my girls. Then and now, not having to do, feel, be, all by myself.

These days, I feel understanding’s incessant, relentless demand in a more subtle but no-less visceral way: through what I write. “Please understand x, y, and z.” “Do you, will you see?” “Do you, will you hear?” But what I really mean, what I really want, still, is this: “Please understand me!” “See me!” “Hear me!”

And it strikes me that all of this is a helpless prospect; always has been. It is neither about understanding, nor about being understood – at least not anymore. It’s about trust, intuition, and writing-speaking-feeling-saying-being whatever I want, all that I want, what my tears have always known. It’s about weeping and roaring and blazing and shining and preaching and provoking and yes, standing.

It’s about not under-standing.

Someone once said, “seek first to understand.” I’ve done enough of that – under duress, under demand, under false pretenses, premises, and promises.

And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end.

*****

“Please understand me!”
she cried.
An impossible premise
an impossible promise
impossible, period.

She cried
“Please understand me!”
until she didn’t
until she realized
that it was her promise
to herself, period.

~ ~ ~

“Please. Understand me!”
I have cried and cried
and cried some more.
An impossible, overwhelming request.
Held silent under its thumb
I’ve screamed:

The premises must be explained!
The promises must be decried!
Do you see (me)?
Do you hear (me)?
Do you understand (me)?

No, you don’t.
No, you won’t.
Period.
I see.

So, no more explaining.
No more premises defended.
No more promises (to self) broken.
No more, period.

~ ~ ~

“Understand me, or don’t!” she sings.
So pleased,
as she writhes and writes and rises.
Overcome, but not overwhelmed
by all she has to say,
by how she stays…standing.

And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end, period.

The Unanswerable Question of “Why”

Dec 10, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Writing

Every day we are confronted with realities that confound us, enrage us, and break our hearts. We sift through their rubble for the smallest shard of meaning. We search for clues, breadcrumbs, anything that will put our tired minds at rest. And for all of this striving, it is rarely with measurable result.

We know Frederich Buechner’s words are true, but we’re loathe to admit or accept them:

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Do not be afraid.”

Still we fight, wrestle, and do battle with the unanswerable question of “Why?” We are ravenous for an answer.

I am no different than you. I see things I cannot reconcile, no matter how hard I try. Too painful, too diffcult, too impossible, too violent. I can’t shrug my shoulders and move on nor take a dogmatic position that enables me to rail at all who disagree with me. I have to find a way to hold ambivalence, to stay, to allow (though not accept) what I hate and hold on tenaciously to hope.

The only way in which I know how to do such a thing is to go to stories.

Stories of others who have asked the same questions – even more, have somehow lived without their answers. Stories that offer me perspective and wisdom – even more, companionship, kindness, and support. Stories that name and normalize my own – even more, remind me that so many have persevered and survived; that perhaps I will, as well. Stories that remind me that despite so much evidence to the contrary, grace, hope, miracles, and love endure – ever more, ongoing, infinitely, no matter what.

“All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.”
~ Isak Dinesen

Stories are hardly an escape from reality; rather, a visceral and poignant reminder that one profound truth supersedes and wins out over all others (despite evidence to the contrary at times): Stories reveal all that we have in common, all that we share, all the similarity found even (and maybe especially) in difference. When we listen to an ancient myth, though far removed from our day-to-day reality, we see aspects of ourselves. When we hear a fable or fairytale, though hardly the stuff of our lived experience, we see aspects of ourselves. When we watch a film, whether drama, romance, or sci-fi, we see aspects of ourselves. And we see each other.

We must tell stories to be reminded that we are more the same than not. No matter the time period, the culture, the politics, the religion, the lens, the perspective. We are one.

“To hell with facts! We need stories!”
~ Ken Kesey

So let us tell stories. And let us listen to them. Our own. Others’. Any and all we can get our hands and hearts on. Those that break us open and those that bind us back together again. Most of all, those that bind us to one another – again and again and again.

When we do, the inexplicable, unanswerable, and ever-nagging question of “why,” loses a little bit of its power and grace, hope, miracles, and love gain back so much more of theirs. As it should be. As it must be.

May it be so.

 

 

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The perfect way to stop a woman.

Oct 18, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

“I’ve seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write…. and you know it’s a funny thing about house cleaning… it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola
Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

“Perfect way to stop a woman.”

Ouch.

For me, this is not about the cleaning. It’s about the metaphor: all the things that keep me from doing what I say I most want to do. All the seemingly important tasks that clamor for my attention. All the distractions. More to the point: all the inhibitions and insecurities that crowd and clamor and consume.

I’m not naive, nor am I an idealist. There are things that need to be done. Responsibilities that beckon. Important work that is required. But for me, those tasks, burdens, and endless lists tend to become excuses, delays, even weirdly-grateful-for hindrances that keep me from the better part.

There’s an old, old story told of two sisters. One day a renowned Teacher graced their home. One of the sisters sat contentedly at his feet while the other scurried about in the kitchen – managing the critical details of hospitality. Eventually the sister in the kitchen complained. “Don’t you care that she has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The Teacher said to her: “Dear woman, you are worried about many things. Your sister has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

Ouch!

A few examples of my own stuck-in-the-kitchen reality?

  • I must be losing subscribers because they don’t quite understand me. I should re-tool my “About” page.
  • My social media strategy needs attention, time, and work. Surely, that will help me turn the corner.
  • I need to create some kind of passive revenue stream; something that would be a fail-safe income generator so I can focus on my real writing.
  • Maybe I should craft this blog post in a way that allows everyone to resonate instead of just some. Yes, that seems wise.

This is only the tip of my iceberg. Each of these – and so many more – keep me “in the kitchen” and busy with details that matter on some level, to be sure, but that deflect me from my true desire, true calling, the better part. I grouse about the way things seem to be for everyone else. And I justify lack of movement, avoidance of risk, aversion to exposure, uncertainty, insecurity, and fear. How convenient. How neat and tidy.

The better part. What is that exactly?

  • Doing the hard(er) work of putting myself out there, others’ opinions (and my own self-critic’s) silenced.
  • Trusting that I actually know.
  • Not giving one more thought to “perfect clients” or platform or market share or SEO-optimization.
  • Letting people in, no matter how messy my kitchen, my mind, my heart, my world.
  • Writing, saying, being in ways that might probably go against the grain, but that feel so true, so right, so real, so me.

The better part, the better choice, the only choice, really, is to allow for and invite the messiness, the risk, the passion, the unbridled creativity, the unrestrained voice, the rampant imperfection. The better part is to listen to wisdom within and without. To stop fussing and laboring and yes, cleaning. To come out of the kitchen and sit, stand, and stay in places of meaning and beauty.

The better part is to not be stopped at all, ever, by anything.

Perfect!

May it be so. 

[Deep appreciation to Martha and her story for connecting me to my own. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need
and so love.]