The Stunning Story that is Yours

Mar 23, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I see the tears behind your eyes. I know about the lump in your throat. I hear the thoughts that swirl in your mind. Every single one of them. Longing for things to change, wishing for different circumstances, wanting to live a more significant story.

In-between the reality in which you dwell and the one you desire, I know about the ache that will not be soothed, despite your best attempts – whether through good soul work or dulling dissociation.

I watch as you persist in the belief that there is something missing; something you’ve yet to attain or manage or get past/through before you can truly step into your place in this world, before you can step into the stunning story that is yours.

All of this breaks my heart on your behalf.

Because I know better. Because I can see the end from the beginning. Because I have perspective you do not. Because I can see exactly who you are, all that you offer and invite.

Right now, not someday. This very moment in time.

Who am I, you ask? I have been in existence since before the beginning of time. I was there when the earth was formed. I breathed your matrilineage into being, whispering the Wisdom that was hers, that has forever been hers. My heart beats within every story of every woman who has ever lived. And I endure no matter the oppression, the silencing, the abuse, the fear. Nothing and no one can keep me down. Not even you.

I am the you that rises above all that restricts, restrains, limits, or binds. I am the crystal clear voice that may, as yet, not speak out loud, but that is no less real, wise, and right. I am your potential. I am your future. And more than all else, I am your present – right here, right now, exactly this day, this life, this you. Always. Endlessly. Infinitely.

Lean into the truth of this. Let the tears flow in relief. Let the lump in your throat dissolve as your voice sings out. Let the thoughts that swirl rest. You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. And you need not wait for things to change. Your right-now story is enough, perfect, amazing. You are.

You can trust me: there is nothing you need figure out or rise above. All that you require, desire, and deserve is already yours. Reach within. Rise up. Then step into the limelight, enter the fray, and embrace the truth of who you are: my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

*****

I am completely-and-without-reservation convinced of every word I’ve written above.

They could be are spoken by every one of the ancient, sacred women whose stories I love; by the Sacred Feminine herself. Easier said than done to accept, but no less yours, mine, ours to claim. Legacy by which to be transformed; the stunning story through which we will transform the world.

May it be so.

Imagination and then some…

Feb 21, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

Imagination is a wonderful, healing, redeeming, strengthening, transformative thing.

I spend a lot of my time in this act, this work, this calling – the privilege of imagining. How lucky am I?

The stories I tell, the stories I love, are filled with imagination. It’s true! Even the stories of women in Scripture. Oh! Wait! Had you heard something else? Like they are actually carved in stone? Oh, well there’s (at least part of ) the problem! They’re not! Like any story, they are fluid, ever-changing, moving, shape-shifting, and offering meaning to their hearer through the lens of their teller.

First told ’round camp fires and in caves, the oral tradition carried their truth through the generations. Later, carved in stone (OK. I admit it: this part is true), then written on scrolls, then translated and transcribed (and imagined) again and again. Printed. Organized. Argued and fought over. And translated even more. Even still, their significance survives: in art, in poetry, in prose, in song. Ancient, sacred stories infused with imagination.

Though many have walked away (if not run screaming into the dark) because of the ways in which these stories have become doctrine have become dogma have become dogmatism, I am not willing to do so.

Because they were reimagined and retold again and again, in ever- changing ways, I can do the same. I get to do the same.

I began to figure this out while in Seminary – not the most common place in which one uses imagination. As part of my M.Div. degree I was required to take a year of Hebrew and another of Greek. I don’t remember a bit of either, but I will never forget what I learned through them: this whole translation thing is SUPER subjective. Always has been. Always will be. And if that’s true (which it is), then I can translate and imagine and tell the stories just as well as the other guys (which yes, most of the time, have been and still are guys).

My imagination. My perspective. My telling.

When I imagine to my heart’s content, I am the one who is healed, redeemed, strengthened, and transformed.

Oh, the stories I could tell you of this; the myriad of ways in which these stories (and the women within them) have changed my life. But we’d be here for days…

“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” ~ Lewis Carroll

You may find it impossible to believe that the stories of women in Scripture could possibly still speak; more, could possibly speak to you (without the doctrine or dogma or dogmatism). I get that.

“Impossible!” you say. And, like the Queen, it is my honor to continually invite you to a world of imagination, maybe even belief, and most definitely hope. Maybe not before breakfast, but hey, I’m always up for a good challenge!

My hope(s) and endless imaginings for you?

  • That you would come to not just imagine, but know and believe that there are stories that long to be heard and known and experienced by you that will touch and embolden your heart.
  • That you would not just imagine, but know and believe that you are not alone; even more, realize that you are surrounded by an entire chorus of your matrilineage.
  • That you would not just imagine, but know and believe that your story matters.

May it be so.

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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On moving and writing and coming home.

Aug 11, 2014 | Writing

This week we moved from our house of the past 13 years to a condo. Well, to say “this past week” wouldn’t really be true. Months of preparing. Months of work. Days of hard labor that have 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 swirl. 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 – has been so packed, so full, so exhausting that writing has felt like a distant memory; something I used to know and do, but can’t quite place. It’s been 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 care 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 can do is fall into bed and barely get back out of it the next morning.

There’s been 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, I haven’t. 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’ve felt displaced. I’ve not wanted to do that work. To unpack the boxes that are 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 as I finally sit down at a new desk and look through a new 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.

Women’s Wisdom: Inextinguishable

Jun 28, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I’ll admit that I have been known to doubt the efficacy and relevance of my own words and work. The endless call to somehow birth and bring forth all that stirs within me often torments. And I sometimes wonder if the ideas that illuminate my mind and the emotions that tug at my deepest soul are more like synapses misfiring or the last leg of a nerve that twinges in pain right before it gives up the ghost; demons that tempt me to just give up.

But on better days, I consider that maybe my thoughts are like stars long since extinguished, having traveled for millions of light years, and just now coming into view – shining, burning, sparkling, breathtaking. Concepts, sentences, paragraphs, and pages that are not mine alone, but part of a long and streaming trail of women’s voices that are making their way into visible focus and recognizable form.

When looking at stars, you’re actually looking into the past. (Source)

As I read this, the torment ceases and the demons flee. This speaks. This resonates. This gleams. This is true. All that I see and all that I know – the thoughts, the ideas, the emotions – are generated from the past.

All that I see and all that I know is a wisdom that has been traveling toward me for generation upon generation. Yes, sometimes covered by clouds or blocked by sun, but ever and endlessly on its way and in my midst. And never, ever extinguished.

What I see and what I know is what you see and what you know, as well: the impossible-to-hide radiance of women’s wisdom. It’s star-shine.

Held, carried, protected, and nurtured within the minds, hearts, and DNA of every woman who has walked on this planet (and a few who have soared above it on planes we only dream to traverse). It accumulates, accelerates, and races toward us – waiting to be seen, waiting to be captured, waiting to be beheld. All the wisdom of all the women who have ever lived – seen, felt, known, and experienced within the universe of us.

Were we to recognize, acknowledge, and honor this – individually and collectively – oh, what a galaxy would burst forth.

Together, gaining ever-more strength, speed, and power, we would stream through both heavens and hells, trailing fire and light behind us. Unbridled in our beauty. Unstoppable. Impossible to hold back. Nothing but space and time within which to glisten and gleam, shine and speak, sing and dance and glow.

Star-shine: the cumulative wisdom of all women throughout all time. It surrounds us. It’s within us.

It is us.

No torment can withstand or demon dwell in the midst of such white, hot beauty and strength. So then, our birthright is to speak, write, muse, love, and live in the most brilliant way we can, the most bold way we can, being the most radiant selves we can. We are to race through the skies of our universe flinging grace, hope, and endless capacity and courage wherever we go, shimmering with the diamond-like reflection of every woman who has gone before, and making visible the legacy we carry within.

“When looking at stars, you’re actually looking into the past.” Yes. And because this is true, it means that our wisdom will shine endlessly through millions of light years ahead. Our present will create the past that will yet brighten the galaxy that other women – our daughters, our granddaughters, and generations to come – will yet see, yet capture, and ever behold within themselves.

Women’s wisdom. It cannot be extinguished. It’s star-shine.