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This is why these stories matter!

Nov 3, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

My on-again-off-again spiritual practice is to read one of the ancient, sacred stories I sometimes so love and then just write – stream of consciousness, no editing, uncensored. I don’t know why I don’t do it more often, more consistently, more sacredly, for every single time, when I look back at what I’ve written, I am stunned, moved, supported, strengthened, transformed. And every single time I say to myself,

This is why these stories matter!

I could tell you of the woman about whom I journaled just a couple days ago. I could tell you about her life, the details that surrounded, the choices she made. But for now, just this: the two lists I created while journaling about her.

In the early part of her story, this:

  • Be kind and generous
  • Be willing to risk
  • Accept seemingly crazy invitations
  • Follow your heart

Later in her story, sadly, this:

  • Demand blessings
  • Distrust fate
  • Engineer outcomes
  • Manipulate for certainty

This is why these stories matter!

Could I have come to these truths without her story? Yes, probably. But oh, how incredible to see them, resonate with them, and recognize them in new and deeper ways through her voice, her ever-beating heart, her profound and endless relevance.

In my story (and maybe in yours, as well), all of these things have been true.

When I demand blessings I am ungrateful, tense, suspicious, and pretty darn certain that things will go badly. When I distrust fate I become negative, pessimistic, and unable/unwilling to hope. When I engineer outcomes it is ALWAYS disappointing. I am ALWAYS disappointed with myself. I become bitter and angry. I feel entitled. Little works. When I manipulate for certainty I labor and scheme and see myself as God. I let go of all faith. I trust no one. And I somehow believe that not only do I know what is best – for myself and everyone else – but that I have some influence and power over such things.

And…

When I am kind and generous it feels spacious and sweet. It is restful. I am aware of goodness all around me. When I am willing to risk it calls on and strengthens my ability and desire to have faith. It is invigorating and energizing and exciting and thrilling and brave. When I accept seemingly crazy invitations I find myself in places I would have never gone or even imagined. Whole worlds appear that I wouldn’t have otherwise known. Gifts and blessings overwhelm. Surprises await. I am opened to new ways of being. I am expanded. I grow. When I follow my heart it is risky yes, and rewarding. Much love given and received. Laughter. Passion. Adventure. And an increasing trust in my own deep knowing. Yes, this. No matter what.

This is why these stories matter!

These women still speak, deserve to be heard, and have SO much to offer and say – to me (and maybe to you, as well). The fact that they sit in-between the pages of the Bible makes it a bit complicated, I realize. But from where I sit – and stand – it’s all the more reason why they must be told! It breaks my heart to think that they are already covered with so much dust, so much dogma, and eventually will, I fear, just.be.forgotten.

That’s not okay with me.  No woman’s story deserves that fate. These stories matter because every woman’s story matters!

And these particular women? They are our matrilineage, our bloodline, the Sacred Feminine enfleshed. I (and maybe you, as well) don’t dare let them slip away.

So, in honor of Rebekah, the woman’s story from whence all this pours forth, I will follow her wisdom, her guidance, her still-
speaking voice. (Maybe you could, as well.) I will keep being kind and generous, even when it’s hard and sometimes seemingly impossible. I will remain willing to risk, even though it often feels crazy. I will willingly and boldly accept seemingly crazy invitations because they are the ones that open doors worth walking through. And I will follow my heart because, quite frankly, what else is there to do?

 

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The other woman

Jun 13, 2014 | Sovereignty, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Every once in a while, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the other woman. She looks so much like me, but wilder and darker. She’s who I imagine myself to be in my dreams, on my walks, when I feel especially free. She laughs boldy. She dances in the dark. And she slips stealthily through the shadows of my day. She never really leaves; but sometimes inches even closer. Or maybe it’s me that moves toward her…

Always I look for her, the other woman, so hungry for more of her presence. I spend time doing all that calls her forth. More present when I take tender care of myself; when I bathe in warm, womb-like waters; when I sip dark and blood-red wine; when I light a candle and stare into its flame; when I soak in the beauty of sea and song; when I nurture my love of words and mystery; when I gather with other women who have seen glimpses of her, too.

Always she comes, the other woman, when I listen – increasingly, trustingly, even brazenly to the voices – the ones that swirl and seduce, that beckon and call, that cackle and crackle and know; the ones within me that speak deep, before-the dawn-of-time truth. A mother tongue. I write down what they say, certain that when I do, it is She who swirls across the page, comes into my line of sight, and takes up ever-more permanent residence in my soul.

One day, not long ago, I know I saw her reach out and pull a piece of fruit right off the tree in my back yard. She took a bite. Her head leaned back, her eyes closed, its juice dripping down her chin. And time stopped. Everything beautiful and trustworthy and safe and exhilarating and holy sang and shone. The sky was more blue, the sun more bright, the birds more rapturous than ever. And then time moved on. Nothing bad happened. No Voice spoke from on high. No lightning fell from the sky. Nothing and no one fell apart. There was no Fall at all.

Hardly banished, this other woman always stays. A visceral embodiment of the wild and true woman I really am. Now, blessedly, I see her more and more, this dark goddess of my dreams and companion of my days. Not just in the shadows, or only in the Eve, but every-once- in-a-while in the mirror. She winks, as if to remind me that fruit is for eating, that desire is good, and, most of all, that I am.

I’ve heard it said that to be the other woman, this other woman, is about the worst thing one could do. I beg to differ.