I’m right about this…

Jun 25, 2018 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power

Chances are pretty high that if your desire is strong enough, acute enough, and impossible to dissuade, others will think you a bit crazy and probably way too much.

That’s the strongest indication that you’re on the right track.

Chances are pretty high that even if you get what you most desire, that more loss will yet come, that heartbreak will still occur, and that you will somehow yet endure.

That’s the strongest indication that you are amazing, strong, and more than enough.

Chances are pretty high that holding on to hope and letting go of control seem like complete contradictions and that you have the capacity to allow them both.

That’s the strongest indication that you are other-worldly and powerful beyond-compare.

Chances are pretty high that you will be called to stand your ground and defend that which you know-that-you-know-that-you-know is right and true and worthy.

That’s the strongest indication that you are oh-so-wise and most-definitely not to be triffled with.

Chances are pretty high that you need not listen to one voice / person / god / demon / cultural message / internal hiss that tells you anything other. And when you don’t?

That’s the strongest indication that you are listening to that know-that-you-know-that-you-know voice within; you believe you are worth being heard.

Chances are pretty high that I’m right about all of this. Not because I’m so amazing, but because you are.

No additional indication needed.

May it be so.

As 2018 begins…

Dec 26, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power

Rebecca Solnit has written a book called, The Mother of All Questions: Further Reports from the Feminist Revolutions – now in my Amazon cart. One quote, read just this morning, convinced me I needed it as part of my library:

The task of calling things by their true names, of telling the truth to the best of our abilities, of knowing how we got here, of listening particularly to those who have been silenced in the past, of seeing how the myriad stories fit together and break apart, of using any privilege we may have been handed to undo privilege or expand its scope is each of our tasks. It’s how we make the world.

I read these words and immediately acknowledge that no truer or better work could be done or hoped for as we step into 2018.

At the risk of sounding redundant, here is Solnit’s quote in list form along with some questions I’m asking myself…maybe you:

Tell the truth to the best of our abilities.
What is the truth that I have been resisting, that deserves to be heard, that WILL change my world and potentially/probably others’?

Know how we got here.
What are the stories I have lived that have compelled and shaped who I am today? What of these need my attention, my affirmation, my intentional healing and change?

Listen to those who have been silenced in the past (a la Harvey Weinstein, not to mention an entire freight train of stories throughout history).
What are the specific ways in which I can create invitation and space for stories not heard, for women who still feel unheard, even for myself?

See how our stories fit together and break apart.
Will I recognize that my story is both the same and different from others’? Will I allow the complexity, the both/and, the dissonance, in order to expand my heart on my own behalf and far, far beyond?

Use our (acknowledged and expansive) privilege to undo such and expand its scope.
What steps am I willing to take to ever-admit and name my own privilege? What will I do to utilize such (and let go of such) on behalf of those who need and deserve it?

I won’t presume to write your New Year’s Resolutions for you, but these might just serve as prompt or verbatim; a way to “make the world” we long for, hope for, and so desperately need.

May it be so.

To hope is to gamble. It’s to bet on your futures, on your desires, on the possibility that an open heart and uncertainty is better than gloom and safety. To hope is dangerous, and yet it is the opposite of fear, for to live is to risk. ~ Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark

12 Years of Blogging

Nov 15, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Writing

I find it almost impossible to believe that 12 years have passed since I meekly created a WordPress site and began typing/publishing my thoughts, later my very heart.

12 years ago I would have never dared articulate my deeper feelings; it all seemed way too risky, way too fraught with consequence, way too vulnerable. Still and clearly, something in me wanted and needed to at least begin, to try, to speak (even if quietly and almost completely off the radar). If that were not the case, I would have never created the site in the first place. But I did. And I dared – bit by bit, slowly, tentatively, and in less-than-eloquent form to somehow be honest with myself.

When I look back at those early writings, I feel my heart’s ache all over again. Not so much in what was said, but in what was left unsaid. In between the lines I find and recall my every question, doubt, and as-yet unexpressed grief. I look back and recognize just how many of these were yet to grow into full expression and lived experience. Hardly pleasant, all of them; but no less true.

Isn’t that almost always the way of it?

Hindsight…

But there’s this, as well:

When we get closer and closer to our own edge, to the place that is calling us (even begrudgingly) into more strength, more courage, more capacity, and yes, more voice, we tiptoe all the more gingerly. We are afraid that the slightest misstep will cause all manner of disaster to befall. And we pull back. Unless we don’t. Unless, as we look out over that seemingly-treacherous and cavernous ledge, we lean forward. We risk the fall, the bruising, the shattering, the breaking – all on the slight chance that there will be a miracle, a soft landing, the ability to fly, much grace.

What enables the latter?

In my experience, it’s been the scary-but-consistent voicing of my thoughts, feelings, desires, beliefs, doubts, arguments, anger, and fear(s). It’s been the naming, the truth-telling, the achingly-slow movement toward honesty. It’s been being heard. Yes, this:

When we are heard, we are healed.

I do not mean to deny the value in good, self-reflective work. Of course, there is much healing and growth to be gained in the silence of our own minds and hearts. But if these past 12 years have taught me anything (and they have taught me more than I can possibly recount), this rings truest:

When I step out of the shadows (of my own mind, my own secrets, my own hidden stories) and into the light, most of what I fear does not happen; rather, just the opposite. The light remains – and grows. The shadows lessen. And strength surges, restores, and rebuilds.

And why? Because when I speak, when I let myself be heard, when I allow myself to be seen, then and only then do I realize that I am not alone. I never have been, of course. Not really. But when in my hardest, darkest places, you couldn’t convince me of that. Now you can’t convince me otherwise,

Now I know that the tougher the emotion, circumstance, or reality, the more I need to speak, be heard, and be seen.

And I am. Beautifully. Graciously. Kindly. Powerfully. Over and over again.

Not because I’m so amazing – but because those who surround and support and witness and mirror and call and invite and pour me coffee or wine or champagne are!

How would I know any of this if not for this blog? If not for this virtual platform through which one evening, long, long ago, I began to take the smallest and nearly anonymous of steps? If I had not allowed myself to speak, be heard, and be seen? I shudder to think…

So, the takeaways in all of this? Well, there are (at least) two:

The first one is for me: There is further to go, more distance for me to travel, stories yet to tell, darkness yet to expose. That is just the way of it for all of us – always. And being here, staying here, writing here is at least part of what invites more and more of the light (not to mention the miracles, the soft landings, the ability to fly, and the grace) again and again and again.

The second one is for you: May you speak or write or blog or call a friend or send an email or have the conversation that needs to be had. May you recognize that until you step into the light (no matter how tentatively, quietly, or timidly), the shadows remain. And most of all, may you believe this: the shadows are not your home. Then. Now. Ever.

OK. Maybe one more takeaway for us both:

WHEN we step into the light we’ll be seen – and met and surrounded and supported and loved. How can it be otherwise?

Here’s what I know-know-know to be true (learned through 12 years of blogging and MANY more years of life): we are not alone. Ever.

*****

I am profoundly grateful to so many of you – for reading my words (and hearing the many left unsaid, the many housed between the lines), for staying with me and standing by me, for offering me such encouragement over the years, for becoming my dearest and deepest of friends (you know who you are), for helping me, increasingly, to stand in the light – unblinking.

The deep and ever-present wisdom…

Nov 11, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power

HEARING VOICES

We all have at least one – often a legion of them. They speak when we least want them to. They show up when we most wish they would disappear. They whispers into our ear when we venture into new (and necessary and powerful) territory. They shout when we start to speak the words that need to be said, must be said, that we can’t not speak.

Not one bit of what those inner voices have to say comes as a surprise. Not remotely novel or unique. An old, old saw that still cuts.

So, those of us who continue to grow and transform, seek to name them for what they are and move past their reach.

  • We hear the negative statements and reframe them positively.  “You’re so stupid!” becomes “I may make mistakes, but more times than not, I make the right choice.”
  • We recognize the voices – and their power – but choose to not respond to their incessant harping.  We separate from the destructive thought and (hopefully) become stronger.
  • We look at what we are hearing with acuteness and specificity – acknowledging what just is NOT true: “I’ll never be successful” just isn’t an accurate statement.
  • We pay attention to what the voice is saying, identify the “who” it most closely represents, and choose to learn from it.

It’s this last one that I want to speak to, that I utilize (with far more success than the other three), that I want to invite and encourage in and for you.

LISTENING TO THE VOICES

Instead of just disregarding them, reframing what we hear, or even naming them as inaccurate and untrue, we gain immeasurable wisdom from paying attention to what they are actually saying. And maybe it’s just me, but immeasurable wisdom is what I want.

IMMEASURABLE WISDOM IS WHAT I ALREADY HAVE!

As do you…

When you listen – closely, carefully, and with great attention – to the voices within that whisper, speak, and shout, you will discover an even deeper truth – the one that has been evading you but which has been present for decades, the one that offers you the very healing you long for most.

And underneath that deep truth? Well, that is where we want to go.

Underneath, deeper down, deeper still, is a far wiser truth, the you who always has and always will exist, a far wiser voice that has always been there and never leaves.

What is this voice? Where does it come from? How can you trust that it is there, that it operates within you, that it still speaks?

I’m so glad you asked.

It is the voice of every woman who has lived before you – and who dwells within – in your memory, in your subconscious, in your lineage, in your very DNA. It is in the air that you breathe and the unknowable-unnamable water in which you swim. It is embedded within every archetypal story that has ever offered you strength. It is speaking through every “mysterious-but-undeniable” experience you’ve ever had…but might have never talked about. It is present in every glimmer and glimpse of The Feminine Herself that does not, will not abandon you, no matter how many stories, circumstances, emotions, and core-beliefs cause you to think or feel otherwise. It just is. Because you are you.

Beautiful. Resplendent. Glorious. Wise. Amazing. Sovereign.

‘Don’t feel any of these things? ‘KNOW that they are somehow true, but cannot, for the life of you, step into them with any consistency or compelling commitment?

I get it.

AND this is what needs to happen, what must happen, and what you most long to have happen, yes? You: stepping into and standing in the you you truly are, always have been, and long to be.

May it be so.

Why do you write?

May 16, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Writing

“Why do you write?” was a question recently asked of me. 

Here’s my answer:

I write because it is the space in which I feel most creative, most challenged, and most
compelling. Here on the page – whether literally with paper and pen or document open and cursor ashing – everything that swirls within me finds a place to land.

I write because at least for these minutes and sometimes hours, I feel calm and sane.

I write because I have something to say, lots to say. My thoughts are my own, but I long for them to take shape and form that will make their way into the world on others’ behalf, on behalf of the women’s stories I tell and love, and yes, on behalf of me.

I write because the craft of choosing particular, perfect words and then deleting them in favor of others thrills me. To realize that paragraph five is really paragraph two, that the sentence with which I started is actually my ending, that seemingly disparate threads can weave themselves together under my care, time, and attention; this is delight beyond
compare.

I write because sometimes magic descends, ascends, enters in and I become a channel, a vessel, a conduit of something other, something more. It’s of me, to be sure, and not. It’s a voice that mirrors mine, but knows and says things in ways that bypass my ever-processing mind and sometimes even my inner critic.

I write because it feels like, no, is, the place in which I feel capable and strong, wise and certain, creative and alive. All heart. Less head. All together. Less disparate. All me. Less less.

I write to name, to not ignore that which is true. I need this: my ego’s skill at disguising my every proclivity and pathology as normal and logical, convinces me it is unnecessary to do anything of the kind. When my words – my words – show up on paper, or pristine screen, I see my soul; it is grateful to finally be seen and heard, acknowledged and loved.

I write because it is a space that is bigger than me. No one asks me for money. No rides are needed. No lunches must be packed or dinners cooked. No demands are made. And all I hear is “yes.” I am allowed – all of me. My tears, my rage, my fantasies, my frustrations, my desires, my doubts, my big and brilliant thoughts, my expansive heart, my heartbreak, my strong love. There is no one I have to convince or cajole, no one for whom I have to dumb myself down, no one who can’t handle me. It is rare: this space, this respite that restores.

I write because somehow, no matter how much pours forth, there is always more. It offers me the miraculous glimpse of what the best relationship could potentially be: complete honesty, no hiding, and days, weeks, months, years, centuries needed to ever exhaust every word/thought/idea/feeling that is there to be expressed, invited, and loved out of me.

I write because it is the felt and known-with-certainty place in which I discover the discrepancies between who I truly am and who I sometimes become; between the me who stays strong, soars high, dances seductively, loves passionately, speaks boldly and the me who does not a whit of this. Writing brings me back to myself – over and over again. It stands tall, bows low and winks mischievously, then opens its arms, draws me in, holds me tight, promises me everything and means it. I am home.

Mmmm. That’s at least a start to my answer.

And you? Why do you write?