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The Divide between Silence and Speaking

Jan Richardson, one of my all time favorite writers and poets, has a poem called Having Taken the Fruit. Here are the last two verses: 

It took a long time to figure out
that my stifling silence
was not a path
back to a paradise
where I could never live. 

I finally learned to listen
to the hissing in my breath
that told me the roots / of my own soul
held the healing that I sought
and that each stilted syllable
I let loose
was another leaf
on the tree of life. 

I could stop here. Invite you to read it again. And then close with “May it be so.” That would be more than enough for this post…for a lifetime. 

But, not surprisingly, I have more to say…

Which is the point: speaking, saying what I think, not allowing “stifling silence.”

Believe me, I’ve known much of just the opposite. More stories, experiences, and moments than I care to count in which I did not speak up, did not use my voice, was not fully myself. 

Here’s a recent one:

I left my corporate job in September of last year. It was not an easy choice, but it was a clear one. One day, an average day, nothing out of the ordinary, I realized that I had (once again!) come to believe that my silence would save me. Surely, if I held my tongue, kept my thoughts to myself, put my head down, and just worked, I could survive. 

Even more, I had talked myself into believing that surely, over time, things would get better. I just need to be patient, bide my time, wait things out. Eventually I’d be able to come up for air and use my voice and speak my mind and make a contribution and be acknowledged for the brilliant contributions that were mine. Right?

(I cannot tell you how many times I’ve had these exact thoughts over the years: in my marriage, in other jobs and other relationships, in justifying every denial of my own wants, needs, and desires…)

Did I mention I left my job in September? 

[Perhaps it’s worth naming, at least parenthetically, that though there was dysfunction in my job – and my former marriage and and and – what I’m most curious about and committed to is understanding my own behavior in the midst, my own patterns, the ways in which I show up – or don’t. Dysfunction is probably a given everywhere; how I choose to “be” in it, is always up to me. OK. Back to where we left off: me leaving my job in September…] 

Choosing my own silence became more painful than the costs that would surely come with speaking up. There just wasn’t enough ROI (return on investment) to make it worth the price I had to pay. 

And therein lies the struggle, yes? 

To cross the divide between silence and speaking always carries risk and cost! (I am convinced that both are always part-and-parcel when a woman chooses to use her voice.) 

We keep wishing for a way to speak, a way to be, without having to bear the consequences that will undoubtedly ensue: the apple carts we’ll tip over, the ache of putting boundaries in place, the backlash that’s unavoidable, the misunderstanding that’s certain, the loss, the fear, and the unanswerable question of “what if…?”

Sorry. I don’t have a a three-step plan or easy-fix for you. Through instead of around. Deeper instead of skimming the surface. Awareness instead of avoidance. Yep, all that…

Thankfully, Jan Richardson offers much encouragement in this regard. Just two stanzas from another poem she wrote called The Magdalene’s Blessing

I tell you
this is not a banishment
from the garden. 

This is an invitation,
a choice,
a threshold,
a gate. 

This is your life
calling to you
from a place
you could never
have dreamed
but now that you
have glimpsed its edge
you cannot imagine
choosing any other way.

Not a three-step plan, or easy-fix, but true and rich and wise:

  • Your stifling silence is the opposite of your life calling to you.
  • The path back to a paradise where you could never live is the opposite of a place you could never have dreamed
  • And listening to the hissing in your breath is what enables you to choose another way, to choose yourself, to heal your very self and soul.

[Perhaps it’s worth naming that this does not always mean that you have to leave a job or a marriage or a conversation. But what’s almost always true is that when you cross the divide between silence and speaking, risks and costs are present. What’s always true is that your voice, your words, your heart – all these and then some – are worth every single cost, every single time. “…you cannot imagine choosing any other way.”]

May it be so.

*****

I send out a letter every Monday morning – with bits and pieces of my story, the telling of stories I love, and every bit of encouragement and support I can muster on behalf of your story. I’d love for you to have it. SUBSCRIBE

Easter and Eve

What if Easter was about Eve? What would it be like if the entire “Christian” world celebrated the day that Eve ate the fruit and exited the Garden? What if we painted eggs to symbolize the embryo of all women yet to-come, her “birthing” of a new world, her breaking free? What if we covered the ham with apple slices instead of pineapple? What if we wore snakeskin shoes instead of patent leather? What if we wore hats adorned with  fig leaves?

Does all this seem scandalous, sacrilegious, shocking? I’ll admit it does (a bit) to me, too. But here’s the thing:

You get to decide what you imbue with meaning and significance. You get to decide the symbols that hold sway. You get to decide the stories that speak. You get to define the Sacred – for you!

To have it prescribed, decreed, or demanded never works out all that well.

Believe me: this is not to decry the beauty and mystery inherent in the resurrection story. Not at all. Nor am I arguing that centuries of religious tradition should be abandoned.

What I am saying is that were we to hear and embrace other stories, especially those of women, we might just have a different affnity for the Sacred – both within and without.

This is what I most want for you: an experience and understanding of the Sacred that is unbound and imaginative and extraordinary.

 

  • Perhaps that comes through remembering the empty tomb, Jesus’ resurrection, and the glorious singing of Handel’s Messiah.
  • Perhaps that comes through painted eggs and chocolate bunnies and family ’round the table.
  • Perhaps that comes through a morning of incense and yoga or a cup of coffee and the New York Times.
  • Perhaps that comes through a walk in the sun and the spotting of Spring’s return.
  • Perhaps that comes through holding close the story of a woman who was created in the image of the gods and infinitely loved by the same; who risked everything for the life she imagined was just on the other side of boundary and border and rules; who made dangerous and bold choices; who trusted the know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within; who survived and persevered and labored and birthed and lived outside Eden; from whom we all descend – her daughter, her lineage, her kin.
  • Perhaps that comes by believing that it is possible to be freed from all that binds (like the darkness of a tomb) through stories and symbols and all-things Sacred; that maybe impossible-to-explain faith somehow endures (like a resurrection).

Ultimately, that is what Easter and the Sacred and Life are about: being loosened from the grip of hopelessness and despair and ushered into the profound awareness that life and joy and miracle not only await, but actually exist.

May it be so.

The other woman

Every once in a while, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the other woman. She looks so much like me, but wilder and darker. She’s who I imagine myself to be in my dreams, on my walks, when I feel especially free. She laughs boldy. She dances in the dark. And she slips stealthily through the shadows of my day. She never really leaves; but sometimes inches even closer. Or maybe it’s me that moves toward her…

Always I look for her, the other woman, so hungry for more of her presence. I spend time doing all that calls her forth. More present when I take tender care of myself; when I bathe in warm, womb-like waters; when I sip dark and blood-red wine; when I light a candle and stare into its flame; when I soak in the beauty of sea and song; when I nurture my love of words and mystery; when I gather with other women who have seen glimpses of her, too.

Always she comes, the other woman, when I listen – increasingly, trustingly, even brazenly to the voices – the ones that swirl and seduce, that beckon and call, that cackle and crackle and know; the ones within me that speak deep, before-the dawn-of-time truth. A mother tongue. I write down what they say, certain that when I do, it is She who swirls across the page, comes into my line of sight, and takes up ever-more permanent residence in my soul.

One day, not long ago, I know I saw her reach out and pull a piece of fruit right off the tree in my back yard. She took a bite. Her head leaned back, her eyes closed, its juice dripping down her chin. And time stopped. Everything beautiful and trustworthy and safe and exhilarating and holy sang and shone. The sky was more blue, the sun more bright, the birds more rapturous than ever. And then time moved on. Nothing bad happened. No Voice spoke from on high. No lightning fell from the sky. Nothing and no one fell apart. There was no Fall at all.

Hardly banished, this other woman always stays. A visceral embodiment of the wild and true woman I really am. Now, blessedly, I see her more and more, this dark goddess of my dreams and companion of my days. Not just in the shadows, or only in the Eve, but every-once- in-a-while in the mirror. She winks, as if to remind me that fruit is for eating, that desire is good, and, most of all, that I am.

I’ve heard it said that to be the other woman, this other woman, is about the worst thing one could do. I beg to differ.