As I continue to wander the desert during these 40 days (many before and many yet to come, no doubt), I am struck by my resistance to the religious meanings or inherent theology of the season. The weight of my past is heavy; nearly absent of the voices and stories that speak to me most profoundly – those of other women. Desert sands.
Of course, this is why I re-write and re-tell the narratives of my known sacred text: because I want to receive the luscious wells of water they offer; because after thousands of years of being parched, I want to provide them deep draughts of drink so they can be heard.
Jan Richardson offers a poem that speaks to this, introduced with these words:
“A number of feminist authors have written of the need to construct a usable past, to piece together the fragments of women’s history in an attempt to imagine what the past really looked like…a frame of reference that [makes] my personal history comprehensible…What we cannot remember, we must imagine. And so we read between the lines, listening beneath the layers of suppression and negleect to hear the chorus of voices where we were told there was only silence…I think of the women and want to cry out, they are here, they are here, they are here.“
The Memory of Stars
Outside my window it is full day.
The sun slants across my bed
where the cat named Ezekiel lies,
his white spots warm,
his black spots hot.
Last night we lay with
noses pointed toward the sky,
one of us, at least, watching
the stars that made it
past the glare of city lights.Stretched out beside Zeke
in the light of the day,
I think of the women,
those whose stories were erased
like distant stars swallowed up
by the morning sky.
We soak up their energy
the way Zeke takes in the sun,
yet fail to see the lights
that burn through the day.I think of how the Scriptures
are like the sky at twilight,
the tradition like the sky at dusk:
one revealing some pinpoints
of light,
the other revealing more.I long for full night,
for a brilliant darkness
where we don’t have to work
so hard to see
how they are always there, blazing,
holding up their half of the sky.
I’ve been to the desert. The stars are brilliant in that desolate sky. “…always there, blazing…” That’s a desert in which I can stay; a place where I can hear and see what is often drowned out (or dried up) in the church, in the text, in our world.
I long for full night / for a brilliant darkness / where we don’t have to work / so hard to see…
For your reflection:
- Where have you felt the burden of tradition, of religion, of faith?
- Has that kept you away from (desert-ed) from a part of you that deeply matters?
- How might re-imagining or re-telling those narratives, named and forgotten, be water in the desert for you?
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{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
Ugh…..it would be easier to answer where I haven’t felt that burden. Makes my throat close up thinking about it. I think it keeps me from leaping/diving into what matters most to me. I find that I tip-toe ever so delicately into new experiences to which I am being drawn while trying to avoid the inevitable conflict with family that a dive into that deep water would likely create. I’m not even sure at this point that re-imagining or re-telling is possible. The day will come, but until then, I tip-toe.
.-= Angie Cox´s last blog ..A Yoga Sanctuary =-.
I know. I know. If you haven’t already, read diving in: part 1 (http://thebarefootheart.com/ruminations/diving-in-part-1/) Sometimes we’re ready to jump and other times we need someone to give us a push.
I know, Angie. I know.
Interesting and ironic that you would choose THAT story to make the point. I have my own diving board story. Funny thing is the one who was waiting to catch me when I first jumped off the high board as a little girl is the one around whom I tiptoe and who is encouraging me to play things safe now. Something for me to ponder this cold cloudy Sunday afternoon.
.-= Angie Cox´s last blog ..A Yoga Sanctuary =-.
Ah, of course that’s who was waiting to catch you. Water yes, but mirage in the desert; not a deep, nourishing well. ‘Hoping for much waterplay and far less tiptoeing! That’s what Lent offers you, Angie; I’m certain of it.
Ronna,
I am so taken by Jan Richardson’s lines: “What we cannot remember, we must imagine. And so we read between the lines, listening beneath the layers of suppression and negleect to hear the chorus of voices where we were told there was only silence…I think of the women and want to cry out, they are here, they are here, they are here.“
I, too, have wondered what is real. As you and I have talked about at length, I was not raised with the stories you speak of. Yet, I know I belived stories of some sort… and, growing up in a culture that is Christian-based, one cannot help learning the underlying messages of those stories, even if I don’t know the text. Just today, I was wondering what stories did imprint on my psyche. Stories of not-enoughness, sinfulness and shame, just because I was born a girl.
Thank you, as always, for your renegade heart. I am blessed to be walking this path with you.
.-= Julie´s last blog ..Sacred Flesh and Bones =-.
The conversation continues, Julie – for us together, and in my own mind and heart. Wondering about these stories – those told and untold – and the ways in which they continue to weave their ways into our psyches…sometimes for good, other times for ill. I want, want, want to remember them – and invite them to speak as they always wished they could. I am so grateful for the fresh eyes you bring, as well as for your ongoing support and love.
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