Telling Stories

Dec 20, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”

These words were penned by Sue Monk Kidd in her book (and then film) The Secret Life of Bees. And oh, how I have found this to be true.

I tell stories that often feel to me like they are on death’s door – so often untold (even more frequently mis-told) if not completely forgotten. And I can’t bear that!

I need their stories to remember and resurrect my own.

  • As I struggled through the excruciating years of infertility, the kindness of women who had known the same came alongside me in solidarity and strength. Remembering and telling the stories of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Hannah (and so many more) reminded me of who I was and why I was here no matter the grief, the ache, the anguish.
  • In the days-weeks-months-years leading up to my divorce and certainly through it, the steady companionship of a marginalized, pregnant slave was all that held me together. Remembering and telling Hagar’s story reminded me of who I was and why I was here no matter the misunderstanding, the confusion, even the shame.
  • As a mother, while worrying and wondering about the stories through which my daughters have already lived and are yet to face, the cryptic tale of a woman who knew fear far more visceral than my own danced before me in glory and radiance.
  • Remembering and telling the story of The Woman of Revelation 12 reminded me of who I was and why I was here: to rise up on my daughters’ behalf, to fight for them, to sustain their story.
  • Often, at the start of a new day, I consider all that waits for me in the hours ahead and I look to these same women and so many more.
  • I ask one to walk with me – offering perspective, hope, wisdom, courage, and strength. She never disappoints. Remembering and telling her story, over and over to myself, reminds me of who I am and why I’m here – no matter what comes.
  • Just three weeks ago I sat on a stage at a church in Nebraska – graciously invited to tell the stories I love. Friday night. Saturday morning. Sunday. I recounted the lives of Eve, the Wives of Angels, the Midwives, Elizabeth, Mary, Hagar (yes, again), the Woman at the Well, the Woman of Revelation 12 (mmmhmm, again), and the Extravagant Woman. And I wept – so aware of the ways that the remembering and telling of their stories is the only thing that has enabled my own; the very thing that has offered me life and life and
    life.

I must tell stories so that they can live; so that I can!

I’m guessing I’m not the only one. If this provokes even the slightest hunger in you – to remember and hear such stories – there is nothing I would love more than to tell you one, many, an infinity of them!

Here’s a place to start. One ancient, sacred story – chosen especially for you – the Sacred She who will come alongside you with wisdom, beauty, and strength; who will help you remember who you are and why you are here. I promise. Learm more about SacredReadings.

3 Verses on Truth and a Refrain

Sep 30, 2014 | Women's Voice & Power

Verse #1:

There is good news.

Nothing about you is broken. Nothing about you is wrong. Nothing about you needs foxing or undoing or redoing. Nothing about you requires that you look over your shoulder, wonder how someone else feels, or worry what others will say. Nothing about what you long for, want, or desire is bad.

Verse #2:

There is more good news (or, Verse #1 stated in reverse).

You are whole. You are right. You are together and strong and ready. You can look forward, pay attention to the head on your own shoulders and the heart between them, and state your truth no matter what. Everything you long for, want, and desire is good.

Verse #3:

Since Verses 1 and 2 are true, then this is true, as well:

Risk boldly. Reach beyond. Drink deep. Step up. Speak out. Press on. Lean in. Dare greatly. Love deeply. Sing loudly. Dance wildly. Express passion. Create with abandon. Leave things behind. Explore new territory. You’re not alone. Expect the sacred. Hold nothing back. Nothing and no one can stop you.

The Refrain:

May it be so.

(Not) throwing the baby out . . .

Jul 7, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Writing

When you grow up steeped in religion, attending church every Sunday, knowing Bible stories better than fairytales and hymns better than pop songs, it is difficult to extract yourself from such. I find it nearly impossible to hear words like Sacred, Spiritual, even God (let alone the concept, recognition, and experience of such) in any ways other than how they’ve been taught. I find it nearly impossible to not feel twisted, pulled, and confused; so deep the current of doctrine and dogma that flows within my mind and heart.

More times than not I want to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Though this example is probably too strong, it’s like having been a member of Jim Jones’ congregation, drinking the Kool-Aid, and surviving. From that point forward your radar is off the charts around beverages. You have a hard time trusting that any liquid poured is safe, not a trick, and holds no ulterior motive whatsoever. You know that was a particular period of time, a particular set of circumstances, a particular world from which you walked away; but still, it haunts you – so inherent the lessons learned, the beliefs swallowed. It’s made even more complicated by the fact that there is such goodness within. (I’m not talking about Jim Jones anymore.) Relationships. Community. Tenets and beliefs that actually do make a difference. And stories. So many stories. A sea of them in which to float, be supported and strengthened by, to trust. I dare not throw it all out.

But what is the baby and what is the bathwater? How do I sift through years and years of belief that feel as though they’re part of my genetic coding, keep what I love and let go of the rest?

Here’s just one tiny example. God. It is difficult to hear that word, no matter how much intellectual and academic work I’ve done, in any ways other than my earliest understandings.

You know what I’m going to say, don’t you? The white bearded man in the sky who is able to create the world, destroy the world, plague a nation, part the seas, walk on water, bring the dead back to life, and an infinite host of other things. You don’t want to mess with him. You want to keep him happy. You want to make sure that you are following all of his rules, keeping all of his commands, and staying ever in his favor because when you do you can be assured goodness in the here and now and the sweet by-and-by. When you don’t? Well, that isn’t what you want to talk about, is it?

Though this paragraph sounds caustic, I don’t mean it that way. These are centuries old understandings that have served generations.

This God – believed in, known, and completely committed to – has offered and provided profound respite, perseverance, and strength. Miracles have occurred. People have changed. Worlds have changed. Truth-be-told, I have known miracles. I have been changed. My world has changed. You see? Baby and bathwater…

This is why I wrestle – endlessly and always. This is the tension. This is not merely my writing, my passion, my work; but my life’s journey. And there is no easy way out. Because even if I could let go of the God, I cannot let go of the women…

Or maybe it’s that they will not let go of me.

Eve. I become enraged, yet again, by shame’s hold. And I become profoundly determined, yet again, to pursue my desire no matter the risk or consequence.

Hagar. I become aware, yet again, of just want it costs to be a woman in a patriarchal world. And I am reminded, yet again, of what courage looks like, how the divine shows up, and that I will yet find water in my deserts.

The Woman at the Well. I become conscious, yet again, of how powerful shame’s hold can be. (Have I mentioned this?) And I am given carte blanche permission, even mandate, yet again, to honor my intellect, my wit, and the sacred (even god) who loves and honors this about me above all else.

The Woman in Revelation 12. I acknowledge, yet again, just how scary it is to create, to birth something/anything precious into this world, and to face the dragons (within and without) that threaten to consume and destroy. And I am reminded, yet again, of who I most truly am – even in the midst of my fear: powerful, regal, and magnificent – crowned with the sun, the moon at my feet.

And so many, many more…

These women, part of a text that is umbilically tied to (and tangled up with) religion, are the baby. I dare not throw them out. If it means I have to survive a little bathwater, I will.

More, the idea that these women and their stories do get thrown out (disregarded, ignored, misunderstood, misaligned), breaks my heart. I cannot bear it. I’ll drink the damn bathwater (and the Kool-Aid) if I must in order to help them remain alive, known, heard, valued.

It’s possible you’ve already thrown out the bathwater and the baby. You’ve deliberately, even defiantly walked away from the religion of your youth – or even adulthood. Or you’ve always sensed that the Kool-Aid was a ruse and have avoided it at all costs. I get this, believe me. And I respect you, deeply. So, it’s with great awareness of the dissonance created that I still and always invite you, even ask you to get wet. To trust that in even the most brackish of stuff there are stories worth saving. To believe that through the most unlikely of ways and the most unlikely of women that your story might be saved. And if nothing else, to believe me when I tell you that you are not alone.

Understand and experience it as you will, the fact remains that you are intimately companioned by the most amazing of women. Their blood flows in yours, their heart beats in yours, their voice is the one you hear within – that know-that-you know-that-you-know wisdom you dare not doubt, that sometimes whispers and often shouts. They are that real, that alive, and yes, that Sacred, that Spiritual, that Holy.

It is only when we reimagine and redeem the stories of women that we can reimagine and redeem our own. More, it’s the only way in which we can reimagine and redeem our world.

May it be so.

And come on in, the (bath)water’s fine. I promise.

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.

Go Into the Darkness.

May 26, 2014 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Gazing into the mirror, I saw myself as I was – a black silhouette in the room, a woman whose darkness had completely leaked through. ~ Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair

It is into the darkness that we are beingcalled – those of us who are wise andlovely. Underwater. Into the woods.Further down. Deeper in.

As I talk to other women about this, they intuitively understand exactly what I mean.They nod their heads, smile slightly, and sigh. We *clink* our glasses (virtually or real) and wonder where it will lead, what we will yet discover, how we will emerge – if we do at all.

We do not fear. This is no scary unknown that threatens to overwhelm. No, this is a provocative darkness of swirling power and endless potential – a return to some earlier knowing, primal experience, and ancient home.

This is a darkness of beauty, seduction, and irresistible pull. This is a darkness in which we gather up all our force, all our wisdom, and every ounce of volume we’ve neglected to express (or which we’ve been taught to suppress). This is a darkness that holds, that nurtures, that restores.

This is a womb, a safe haven, a coven-like embrace of the Feminine. It’s sacred. Witch cauldrons boiling. Secret formulas whispered. Dark magic practiced. It’s exactly what we’ve longed for longer than we can remember. It tugs at a part of us we’ve forgotten…but…we are remembering at an increasingly exponential pace.

In this darkness we speak a language that does not yet make sense on the surface, in our day-to-day life. It’s guttural, before time, and cryptic. Still, we recognize and respond to this native, mother tongue. And we know that once we’ve re-mastered it, we will never speak the same way (or of the same things) ever again.

The longer we are here, the more our eyes adjust, the more our throats loosen their too-familar constriction, the slower our hearts beat.

At first, just shapes and long-neglected senses, now faces, voices, parts of the self that have been in hiding – waiting to be found. And so many other women. Those who have been here all along, holding our place in the circle. They immediately welcome us – faces aglow in the sacred fire that crackles, beckons, and burns. Eve. Lilith. Hagar. Mary Magdalene. The Woman at the Well. Pandora. Psyche. Demeter. Medusa. Sophia.

Here, in the darkness, our eyes can see all, our voices speak unfettered, and our pulse throbs in a rhythm that comforts and heals.

We have no intention of leaving.

You know of what I speak. The undertow that precariously upsets your footing, but thrills you somehow. The branches that scratch at your arms as you enter the forest – willing and wondering.

Keep walking. Listen to the trees. Let go. Trust the tides, the waves, the water, your tears. Take a deep breath, dive, and then exhale – certain that when needed, you can and will inhale. All that you need, all that sustains, all that supports, encourages, and empowers awaits you. It has always been here.

Go into the darkness. I’ll meet you there.

*****

As I have written this post, I have wanted for more articulate language; for some way of making sense of all that I am feeling and sensing within – this darkness that calls and willingly consumes. Then I realize: that’s the way of it, the way of the darkness – at least for now. No translation required. No justification. No argument. No reasoning. No reasons. Just dark and beautiful and home. If we will go there, if we will gather there, if we will stay there, we will find one another. And then, together and grateful, we will dance and sing. We will toast with endless, delicious elixir. We will speak in a thousand tongues. We will look into each other’s eyes. We will be seen and known.

One last thing – at least for now: this can and does happen at any moment and at any time, all the time. Because deep calls to deep and like knows like. So look for the darkness and trust that it is looking for you.

Once found, once seen, once experienced, once felt, even in the slightest and most surreptitious of ways, you’ll know exactly what I mean. You’ll nod your head, smile slightly, sigh, and then *clink* your glass with the rest of us. Welcome home.

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay