Tears

Feb 2, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

Tears are a river that takes you somewhere…Tears lift your boat off the rocks, off dry ground, carrying it downriver to someplace better. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I had been in months of conversation with my Spiritual Director – trying to theologically, ethically, psychologically puzzle out the pain of my marriage. Back then, the thought of leaving it never occurred to me. I had to make it work. It was my responsibility, my fate, my plight, my promise.

And so, week after week she and I would talk of the desert and the story of Hagar (my favorite) and her God. Week after week we would talk of my desert and my story and my God – the one that kept me bound and gagged, stuck, and imprisoned in promises and covenants and vows. Now mind you, I didn’t talk of God this way. I didn’t even believe this about God. But in truth, because I somehow had my choices (or seeming lack thereof) tightly wound ‘round my inherited beliefs, I really was imprisoned. Not by God, but by my ideas and faulty understandings of God.

Patiently, consistently, week after week, she would ask the smallest of questions that would open up my heart just a little bit more to a God that she knew and I wanted to know. And the smallest of shifts would take place.

Sometimes they felt as futile as pouring a glass of water on a desert full of sand and hoping for a lake; other times, they were an ample pour that soothed my deepest thirst.

One day she said, “We’ve talked much of the desert, Ronna – the heat, the sand, the journey, the diffculty. Where is the water? Where is the water for you?” I sat there for a few minutes, slightly incredulous that she would even ask such a thing. Finally, tears rolling down my cheeks, I said, “That’s the problem! There is no water for me! I’m totally parched, endlessly looking for some relief, some easing of this excruciating pain.”

And just as calmly as she’d asked the question, she then said this, “That’s not what I see, at all. There is plenty of water. Lots of it, actually. Do you not see?”

I responded hurriedly, even angry: “No! I don’t see. I don’t know where the water is. I am so thirsty. Tell me?” Graciously, she handed me a box of tissues and said, “Your tears, Ronna. Your tears.”

What makes the desert beautiful,’ said the little prince, ‘is that somewhere it hides a well… ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

How could I not have seen?

I remember moments in elementary school, middle school, high school and beyond when something would be said that wounded me or caused profound shame. My instinctual response was tears. I’d try to hide them, but that was not easily done, given that my face would turn red, and red-rims would immediately form around my eyes even if I was able to prevent the actual tears from falling. When I was finally alone, whether hiding behind my locker door or in my bedroom at night, I would cry and cry and cry. Such sadness would pour forth.

And this is hardly something from just my past. Even now, I cry. A couple months ago, there was a period of two or three nights in which I cried myself to sleep – so sad over an ending relationship that once again (!!!) completely broke my heart. Two weeks ago, while visiting my sister across the country, I caught a horrible cold. One night I took myself to bed at 6:00 – unable to sit in the living room one second longer. My head was completely congested. Crying was not helpful, given how much liquid was already clogging my sinuses. But I was so miserable, that it was all I could do. The tears came, I wiped them away along
with the snot, and I prayed for the mercy of sleep.

What if my tears are gift? What if they are the well in my desert?

When Hagar cried out in her desert, an angel came, the Divine showed up, she was heard and seen. Her tears called the Divine to her side. And if her, perhaps me, as well.

Perhaps all my searching for the Divine was and is “answered” in my tears. Perhaps the water that pours forth in the driest of places, the harshest of places, and even the most lovely, is the Divine in liquid, watery form. Perhaps my tears are the Divine. Perhaps.

And if so, then the Divine has always been with me. In my bedroom alone at night, hiding behind my locker door, in sadness, in sickness, and yes, in health. My tears have been an embodied experience that expresses my very soul. Which IS where the Divine dwells, shows up, lives, and moves –  the same spark that dwells within us all.

And hey, even if it’s not the Divine (which I believe it is), it is still a miracle – just like the angel that showed up for Hagar. It is a miracle for me to see my tears as an expression of my soul; as a way in which I have an embodied knowing that I can trust…

The awareness of this overwhelms me, actually, and makes me cry. Which means it is true. Which means I’m right. Which means that right here, in this place, at this computer, within this post, as word number 925 is typed, I am embodied, my soul is engaged, and the Divine is – as always – present…and handing me another box of tissues.

If me, then you, as well.

May it be so.

 

*****

The conversations I had with my Spiritual Director over many hours and many years formed a profound basis for the work I do today – handing you a (virtual) box of tissues, hearing your stories, seeing your heart, welcoming your soul, and
finding/expecting/experiencing the Divine that is and always has been here and present and real.

Undoing old understandings. Inviting new ones. And deepening your connection to the infinite wisdom you do hold within, in your very soul. Learn more.

Letting Go is NOT Falling Apart

Jul 13, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

A wise woman tells me she gets this strong sense that I am unable to really let go; like I’m afraid of letting my hair down. I hear her words, feel the lump in my throat (a marker that truth has been spoken), and in
my mind’s eye can already see the story, her story, the one I need to hear.

~~~~~

The town harlot. Marginalized, unseen, shamed, and scorned. And not one bit of that matters. Not to her. She leaves the margins and enters the fray – walking into a room full of men – the insiders, the censors, the judges, the jury. They look up from their feast, reclining interrupted by the shock of her presence. Head held high, she ignores every incredulous face, sidelong glance, and whisper of contempt. There’s only one goal, one guest, one man that matters. No amount of shame or scorn will stop her. She will be seen.

And she will not bow or scrape. Not today. She will stand. Eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to- toe with this God-man, this healer, this miracle worker, this Love enfleshed. Jesus.

So she did. Time slowed. Din silenced. Shame dissipated. Scorn dissolved. Only the two of them existed. And maybe this is what enabled her next move: the visceral and complete awareness that this moment and this man were all that mattered, that she mattered.

She let go.

She wept. So much that she rained down tears on his feet. Then, in front of all her accusers – those leaders, law enforcers, and rule-followers – she let down her hair. Literally. She opened an expensive perfume, an aromatic oil, the fragrance of which filled the room and confused the senses. She poured it on his feet, mixed it with her tears, and dried them with
her hair – her let-down hair.

She let go. Of ramifications, risk, (broken) rules, created ruckus.

She let go. Of their responses: unheard of! disallowed! scandalous! extravagant!

She let go. Of everything.

Because she knew she could. Because she knew she was safe. Because she knew she was seen. Because she knew she could not be stopped. Because she knew her own heart would not lead her astray. Because she knew…

And in letting go, she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

He spoke of her with such fierce love – condemning those who had not offered him even the smallest portion of what she had; who had stingily gripped their pride, their power, their position; who refused to let her anywhere near them (at least in daylight), let alone into these inner chambers; men who refused to let go.

“Truly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.”

~~~~~

But that has not happened. Not really.

Why would I think my story (or my telling of hers) would be any different?

~~~~~

I am not like her. I sit tight and hold back. I clench my teeth, my fists, the muscles in my neck. I won’t enter the room. I won’t take the risk. I won’t bear the ramifications. I brace myself for the scorn and shame. Because I’m convinced it’s coming.

I refuse to let go.

Letting go has meant being wanton, irresponsible, and foolish. Letting go has gotten me into trouble. Letting go has been what I’ve done when I have not held onto myself, and ultimately compromised myself. Letting go isn’t prudent. Letting go isn’t smart. Letting go might get me hurt.

Letting go has gotten me hurt.

~~~~~

What does this mean: “I can’t let go.” What am I holding on to? What am I unwilling to release? What do I fear will happen if I do? What do I grip so tightly? Why do I feel like I balance on tip-toes while a noose chafes my neck? What room won’t I enter? What faces will I not face? What old-tapes play?  What taboos am I unwilling to break? What tears do I refuse to shed? What expense do I spare? And all the while, what words and stories am I unable/unwilling to speak, to write, to live?

All these questions exhaust me. I dwell on the margins instead of entering the fray. The wise woman says to me, “It feels like oppression. Sacrificing words because someone made you feel like you’re not good enough or you don’t fit in or you’re too different. You’ve got to let go. Reflect on where those messages of perfectionism and being outside the norm come from. Then you can contain that energy and get out of your own way. The floodgates will open.”

Even this exhausts me (though it rings true). So much time spent trying to figure everything out, to understand my own psyche, to analyze my own stories, to endlessly push against the obstacles that refuse to let me pass.

~~~~~

She sings to me. She seduces. “You know my story is yours. You know the rooms that are yours to enter. You know the courage required. You know the focus, the intent, the determination with which you must move. You know of the whispered contempt, the shouted scorn (or at least your fear of such). You know who waits for you at the head of the table. You know of the tears you’d shed, the emotion you’d express, the offering you’d give, if your heart was exposed – and received. You know what’s true: this God allows, welcomes, and honors you. You know…”

I see her outstretched hand, her dazzling smile, her yet-glistening tears. “Here’s what I know,” she says. “You are extravagant. You are safe. You cannot be stopped. You know this. And you’re not alone. I am with you.”

~~~~~

Letting go is not falling apart.

It’s not falling, at all. Rappel, free-fall, skydive, stop worrying about the net beneath, leap, spread your Phoenix wings, fly. Of course.

~~~~~

Of course. I’ve written of her before. I know this! It was in letting go that she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

Her story and mine (and yours, as well) is about being a woman who risks and believes and has faith – in herself; who stands eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to-toe with the Divine and then makes the extravagant choice to pour out everything she has – because she can do no less.

Letting go is not less. It is more – the most – the best – and all I can ever hope to do; it is the fullest expression of who I am.

(And you, as well.)

May it be so.

About rain and tears and grief

Feb 16, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom

My desk sits in front of two windows that look out on stark trees. For now, there are no leaves in sight. And the rain continues to fall and fall and fall. I suppose I could look at the bright side: the ever-green grass, the vast foliage, the lack of dry skin for the plethora of moisture. All of these things would be true. But those silver linings are quickly forgotten in the endless gray and endless wet.

I cannot tell you how many seasons, exactly like this one, I have said, “I have to get out of here!” And yet one day follows after the next, Spring arrives, then Summer, and I remember, once again, at least one of the reasons why I stay: days that are so clear, so gorgeous, so glorious that I can barely take them in.

Weather, yes; so too, in life.

Seasons that are dark and bleak. Tears that fall and fall and fall like rain. Endless gray and endless wet. The disbelief that warmth will ever return.

It will. I promise.

Your willingness to allow dark and bleak and tear-stained seasons is directly proportionate to the clear and gorgeous and glorious you that will yet shine forth. I promise.

And though it’s not the advice you usually hear, take mine: Weep, wail, and scream. Let it all out. A cloudburst. A downpour. Get drenched. Your grief is what makes you more tender, more vulnerable, more real. Your heartbreak is what enables you to tell
your truth in ways heretofore unheard. Your tears are what water the soil of the life you are yet to birth, yet to bring forth, yet to offer this world.

Take your finger out of the dyke and flood the world with the oceans you’ve been keeping at bay.

Why? Because as surely as the sun will return to my neck of the woods – you will survive, you will heal, you will rise. I promise.

Those who have the courage and capacity to grieve are those who have the courage and capacity to yet stand, to still hope, to live and live and live.

I promise.

Letting Silence Speak

May 2, 2014 | Women's Voice & Power

I can feel the silence within me. It is deep, strong, dark, passionate, swirling, boiling, pulsing. A witch’s caldron. A brewing storm. A lump in my throat. And as much as it longs (and fully intends) to make its way into audible sound, spoken word, written wisdom, and lived truth, it holds back. Me, too. 

Waiting and listening, I’m nurturing, protecting, and keeping safe a growing, gestating force within. 

It will not be ignored. Undivided attention is demanded and required. Deep breaths. 

It’s no wonder my tendency has been high to avoid it, to stay away from silence, to keep myself in places of din, distraction, and dissociation. 

It has every intention of being heard, expressed, made manifest. Me, too. 

These days, I’m letting it speak: this silence. I’m staying quiet. Hibernating. Listening to its roar. Trusting that its form will yet be made known; that I will have the strength and capacity to push, to breathe, to birth. Labor and delivery ahead. Blood. Sweat. Tears. And the blessed sound of silence broken by a sacred scream. 

It’s me that’s being birthed. It’s my sacred scream. It will, at least for me, be ear-splitting, earth-rending, heart-breaking, soul-healing, and world-changing. 

Maybe for you, too. 

May it be so.

I Feel, Therefore I Am

Feb 22, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

In both college and graduate school I took classes in which the work of Rene Descartes was discussed – the “Father of Modern Philosophy” best known for his statement, “I think, therefore I am.” And though I’d hardly pin all responsibility directly on him, this emphasis on thinking, at least as superior to feeling, has gotten us into trouble.

What if we understood and believed this, instead? “I feel, therefore I am.”

Without going too deep into the history of philosophy, Descartes larger work was in response to the Scholastic Aristotelian tradition of his time; one that was, at least from his perspective, prone to doubt given a reliance on sensation as the source for all knowledge. He wanted and created certainty; irrefutable and almost mechanistic ways of understanding ourselves, God, and the larger, existential questions of life. And though I’m hardly advocating a return to the world of Aristotle, still…

What if sensation and our hearts were understood, undeniably, to be the source of all knowledge? NOT our thoughts?

*****

I had a long, tearful conversation with my eldest daughter a week or so ago. We were watching the end of Season 2 of Downton Abbey when one of the main characters died of preeclampsia. She cried and cried and cried. As she began to breathe a little slower and feel a bit more calm, I said “It’s not really about the show, is it Emma?”

“No, mom. It’s not.”

“What’s it about?”

“I just don’t like it when good people die.”

“Of course you don’t, sweet girl.”

Her head in my lap, our conversation continued. In the midst, I heard a 16-year old girl struggling with the recent death of her aunt, with a haunting sadness over strained relationships with friends, with an ever-waxing-and-waning sense of self worth, with a deep-and-angry awareness of life as unfair. But I also heard the incessant hiss of an inner voice; one that was giving her a good talking-to: “I’m too emotional. I feel out of control. I’m not OK. My feelings are too much.”

*****

Every now and then I hear the word, “think” and am immediately transported to my own teenage years. I can remember my dad saying, “Think, Ronna Jo!” and it’s palpable. I cringe internally, just the slightest bit. I feel edgy and insecure. Sometimes a lump even forms in my throat. All over one little word. He was, undoubtedly, trying to teach me something or get my help with a particular task and, like all parents are wont to do, would get impatient. Truth-be-told, I’ve heard myself say the same words to my girls a time or two. And I cringe yet again . . . 

I wonder what it would have been like to hear him say, “Feel, Ronna Jo!” Will I offer the same to my daughters?

*****

These, whether blatant or not, are the predominant truths we’ve learned, internalized, and lived by:

  • Think instead of feel.
  • Trust thoughts over feelings.
  • Thoughts = logical. Feelings = illogical.
  • Thoughts are safe and feelings are dangerous.
  • “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9)

Yes, I am aware that nothing is either/or, black/white. But as a parent, as a woman, as a human being, I wonder: What if feelings were allowed, given room and air to breathe, were seen as guide and source of wisdom, and even took the lead? Would our thoughts then stop fighting us and fall in line behind our hearts?

In my own experience, it is an endless wrestling match. The rational part of my brain tells me what I should think and even what I should feel – objectively, logically, even obviously; but my heart will not comply. And sadly, too many times, the way I’ve “managed” this and let my thoughts win is to shut the feelings down.

Even typing that last sentence makes me want to weep, scream, and shout; to stand on a soapbox or a mountainside and call all Feeling-Beings to me, assuring them that what they feel is good, that what they feel can be trusted, that what they feel is the source of a wisdom-before-the-dawn-of time.

There’s no shutting feelings down – mine or yours. They are a strong, dauntless, and beautiful force-to-be-reckoned with (thank goodness). They wait, often in the shadows, and catch us unaware – sometimes when we hear a particular word or watch a TV show (last night: the heartbreaking end to Season 3). But no matter what prompts them or from whence they arise, I am learning to let them speak to me. “I see you. I hear you. I feel you. You will not be hidden. You will not be silenced. You will not be ignored. You are welcome here. You are honored. You are true. What do you long for me to know? What do you long for me to understand? And what do you long for me to allow or receive?”

The case could probably be made that much of this is inherent in gender; that women struggle with this duality in unique and potent ways, far more than men. And of course, to some degree that would be true. But I think feel that men have their own pain around all of this – enculturated to not express their feelings; to build, develop, and trust their thoughts; to distrust their emotions and their heart. All of us are less for such – as is our world.

I’ve been asking myself a particular question for days: “What do I know, with certainty, right now?” And as I ponder the words, the scenes, the list itself, I recognize one common thread: where even momentary certainty resides, my head and my heart are aligned. More, please.

So I take a deep breath. I sit a while longer with my daughter(s). I enter back into the fray of my own anxieties and heartaches. I laugh. I remember. I cry. I hope. I pray. I doubt. I love. I hurt. I wonder. I worry. I trust. I drink champagne. And I give myself permission to feel, to feel, to feel.

This I know, with certainty, right now: My thoughts are in service to my feelings; my head is in service to my heart. Not the other way around.

I feel, therefore I am.

Yes, this.