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3 ways to be fear-defying in writing and life

When I look back over 17 years of blogging, here’s what stands out to me:

My voice has fluctuated, depending on the level of fear I’ve felt at any given time.

I’ll admit: “fear” sounds too strong, somehow, but when I boil it down, that IS what’s left.

What I wrote about when I was still married and still part of the church, is far different than what I said once outside both those structures (and strictures). I can see and remember how afraid I was to express my doubts, my questions, my grief, and the many places in which I was feeling more anger than hope. I was afraid I’d be misunderstood, that I’d go too far, that I’d be too much.

What I wrote about in my 40’s and 50’s was different than what I write today — now in my 60’s. And though I could go into all of the details and themes inherent here, suffice it to say, I was afraid I’d be misunderstood, that I’d go too far, that I’d be too much.

This looking back has “forced” me to track the circumstances and seasons in which I held back, hid even, because of fear — all of which was expressed (or not) in my writing. And as I’m inventorying every bit of this, I’m not only getting clearer about fear’s presence, but angrier. Not at myself, but at fear itself.

As women on this planet, we have been conditioned to be afraid, to be far more concerned with how others perceive and experience us, than to hold fast to (even fight on behalf of) who we know-that-we-know-that-we-know ourselves to be.

That needs to change.

In If Women Rose Rooted, Sharon Blackie says:

To become [one] who can express her wrath rather than her rage, and warn of the dire consequences of ignoring it, is to have stepped fully into your own power as a woman.

And in Untamed, Glennon Doyle says that women need to be “full of themselves.”

What we need right now is more women who have detoxed themselves so completely from the world’s expectations that they are full of nothing but themselves. What we need are women who are full of themselves.

A few chapters later she says this:

What the world needs is masses of women who are entirely out of control.

We must, you and me both, consider who we’d be and how we’d be, if fear weren’t present. Yes, in writing. In relationships. In our choices. In our work.

We must, you and me both, be crystal clear on (and done with) everything that has perpetuated its presence.

We must, you and me both, begin and continue to name our wrath over our rage.

We must, you and me both, step fully into our power as women. No more holding back. No more hiding. No more fear. Done.

*****

Here are three provocative questions to consider that serve as a helpful start and then some in this fear-defying, world-changing work:

  1. Who would you be right now (and what would you write) if you expressed your rage (at fear and all that perpetuates) it instead of ignoring it?
  2. Who would you be right now (and what would you write) if you didn’t pay any attention at all to anyone’s expectations of you?
  3. Who would you be right now (and what would you write) if you were entirely out of control (at least as far as the world is concerned)?

I won’t speak for you (though I’m guessing you feel the same): The answers to these three questions define how and what I want to write; more, how I want to live and who I want to be: unbound by fear, unmoved by others’ expectations, and completely unrestrained (even out of control).

May it be so.

Hearing Voices

I am neck-deep in manuscript-writing these days. This book, my book, this thing I’ve been nurturing and holding and holding back for years (and years and years) is now making its way into the world. Much like labor, I can’t stop it now – nor do I want to.  

The section I’m working on currently tells the story of a young woman whose life was violently, brutally ended.

I don’t like the story at all.

I wish it didn’t exist.

There’s no justification of it, no making sense of it.

And though I might wish to just ignore it – to dismiss it as one more piece of evidence against the text within which it’s found – that only perpetuates her harm. Which isn’t acceptable to me.

It is in telling women’s stories – even and maybe especially the most painful ones – that we invite the healing we desire and deserve.

When I calm myself down, at least for a bit, about the injustice and senselessness and violence, I can hear a different voice; I can hear hers. The one that was snuffed out. The one that was permanently silenced. The one we’ve rarely-if-ever bothered to listen to. The one that I imagine she’d speak on our behalf if only we could and would hear.

This is what I believe she’d say:

  • Fear is not your birthright.
  • Do not hold back – no matter the danger or risk.
  • Pursue what brings you life.

I am clear that these three statements are, indeed, the wisdom she longs for all of us to embody – in honor of her sacrifice, in honor of her story, in honor of her, and most of all, in honor of the life and story that is ours.

I am clear that were we to follow these three statements as gospel, it would be our own healing and that of our world that we would enable, invite, witness, and proclaim.

And I am clear that if I were I to imagine her saying even a bit more, it would sound a little something like this:

I’m right about this! Fear is not your birthright. But courage is. Write. Speak. Say. Do. Be. Say “yes.” Say “no.” Quit. Continue. Decide. Whisper. Roar. Love. 

Risk is a given. To try and mitigate it, lessen it, create a balance sheet to show you exactly what might happen if you move this way or that is not the the least bit practical nor remotely close to your destiny. Do not hold back. Let risk and danger be the signs that you are moving in the right direction. And then read the paragraph above over again so that you can remember that fear is not your birthright.

Learn from me. Let my life (and death) offer you invaluable perspective. Cherish every moment. Pursue all that is yours, all that awaits you, all that exists within and around you, all that you desire and deserve. And then read the two paragraphs above over again so that you can remember that fear is not your birthright and you must NOT hold back, no matter the danger or risk!

Of course we wish that stories like hers did not exist, then or now. We must rage (rightly and justifiably) against violence. And in the midst of both, we must honor the voices that can no longer speak, the stories that are rarely if ever told.

We must use our own voices and live our own stories in ways that are courageous and risky and full of life.

 

And when we do? Well, Jepthah’s Daughter smiles and says “Thank you.” Oh, and this:

Read the three paragraphs above over again? And then maybe a few more times? 

With her wisdom as rubric, encouragement, and hope, I labor on – knowing and trusting that the imagined words of even one ancient, sacred young woman might strengthen you in the labor that is yours, in the story that is yours, in all that is yours to birth and live and heal.

May it be so.

November 9, 2016

I woke up this morning to news I did not expect and cannot believe: Donald Trump has won the presidential election.

Given such, I would expect to be spinning and spewing and raging. But unbelievably, I am calm and quiet. I sit here at my desk, in the dark, stunned, and wondering why that is, wondering why I am not in tears, wondering why I am not sinking into immediate (and appropriate) anxiety.

It takes a while, but then it comes to me: I’m listening to something else. Something steady and solid, something strong.

I’m listening to my heart.

And this morning, this day, my heart is loud – louder than my mind can scream. My heart is wise – wiser than all that assaults my sensibilities. My heart holds truth – truer than what the news reports. My heart is strong – stronger than anything and anyone who attempts to defeat it.

True, it is broken, bleeding, and twisted in pain, but still, it beats. And still, always, it loves.

Yes, love is what I feel this morning – the deep, aching kind. For this world, for this nation, for our future. And most of all, yes, most of all, for my daughters – their world, their nation, their future.

My mind cannot, will not make sense of this day nor all the events and choices that
conspired to make this morning’s news a reality. But my mind is not what serves me now. Nor fear. Nor anger. (Though yes, grief. Definitely grief.)

My heart is what serves. It can be trusted. It is strong. It will love. And love always trumps fear.

The Wild Voice Within

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.

Open the door. No matter what.

Same thoughts. Same frustrations. Same choices. Different day.

To open the door, or not…

Your hand trembles on the knob, uncertain, not ready, afraid.

No. Not yet. Step back. Stay safe.

But you don’t want to be safe, do you? Not really. You want to fling the door wide and dance through its frame. You want to write poetry and paint wildly and speak prophetically. You want to move through your world with the freedom and abandon of a young girl – dandelions in her hair, trees bowing down to her in worship, grass the grandest of blankets, blue skies that surround in song.

Tell me why you stay inside? Remind me?

Listen. You already know this. Nothing that you want, desire, or deserve remains on this side of the threshold. You’ve given it every chance. You’ve been patient. You’ve been gracious. You’ve stayed seated. You’ve been silent.

You know this, as well: Until you step over the threshold and turn your back on the familiar, the entrenched, and yes, all that
seems safe, you won’t be able to taste the wildness that awaits.

You don’t know what will happen (which, of course, is why you have continued to stay inside). You don’t need to. Turn the knob, open the door, breathe in the brisk, fresh air, and move. Don’t look back. Be impatient. Choose yourself. Stay standing. And start speaking, shouting, yelling, singing. Who cares what anyone else thinks? You’ll be free.

Will you stumble and fall from time to time? Probably. Will you know grief? It’s a given. Will people sometimes often misunderstand you? Mmm hmm. But will you be alive? Yes.

How about this? I’ll stand on the other side and just keep knocking. Eventually, you’ll get so tired of not accepting the invitation that is so clearly yours that you’ll open the door anyway. And there, waiting as I’ve always been, I’ll grab your hand and pull you into the world, the beauty, the life that awaits you.

[The story of Jepthah’s Daughter inspired this post. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need and so love.]