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No Fairy Godmother

May 30, 2018 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories

There’s a story I love to tell of a mostly unknown woman who singlehandedly won a huge battle for an entire tribe of people by doing the most unlikely thing. In the thick of the fighting, she offered the enemy commander (who was sneaking away) a safe place to hide, made him comfortable, and then, as he slept, drove a tent peg through his head.

It’s a violent story, to be sure. Which would explain why it’s rarely told. But just imagine if it had been, if she was known, if you had known of her…

Imagine if you had grown up hearing Jael’s story instead of Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. If you had been been lulled to sleep by the tale of a shockingly brave woman who overcame every fear and did what had to be done – no matter what others thought, expected, or even allowed. If you’d had a model, a template, a subconscious plot line within that invited courage, boldness, and strength.

Imagine if no part of you ever, whether admitted or not, waited for a prince/ss charming or a fairy godmother or a perfect kiss. If it never crossed your mind to choose being good over being right. If you had no idea what seen-not-heard even meant. If you never compromised yourself on behalf of another. If no part of you held back, played it safe, or waited to be invited into the, arena onto the stage, or out of the shadows.

Hard to imagine, isn’t it?

Well, no imagination is required to hear that same woman’s voice on your behalf; to hear what’s true. Listen.

This is no time for fear. And though it sometimes courses through your every cell, it cannot be given rule or reign. You are braver, stronger, better. You will do what must be done. No matter what. I’m sure of it – and you.

It may not be pretty – this brave act of yours. And it won’t be simple. Messy. Difficult. Exhausting. Even bloody. Still, necessary and right. I’m sure of it – and you.

Perhaps no one sees it coming; sees you as the one who will win the battle and the war. Perhaps hardly anyone expects that your courage, your actions, your clandestine measures will be sung about for centuries to come. And perhaps only a few know that within you dwells more boldness and brashness than can begin to be imagined. I’m sure of it – and you.

I will not be shocked by you. I know you – the real, brave, confident, courageous, defiant, win-the-battle you.

And this is no fairytale. No imagination is required. I am Jael and you, the true you, are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

*******

Just in case you still can’t imagine it (even though I told you that no imagination was required), allow me this:

You are surrounded and supported, cheered and celebrated, held and honored by more than just Jael (though she’s something, isn’t she?). There are countless ancient, sacred women whose stories when told, and voices when heard, will remind you of who you truly are: their daughter, their lineage, their kin.

May it be so.

Before Mother’s Day

May 7, 2018 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

With Mother’s Day less than a week away, it feels appropriate to name and honor our larger, longer mother-line: the women and lineage from which we descend. To do so, the words of a woman who does this better than most – Clarissa Pinkola Estes:

It is not intuition which is broken, but rather the matrilineal blessing on intuition, the handing down of intuitive reliance between a woman and all females of her lines who have gone before her – it is that long river of women that has been
dammed. ~ Women Who Run With the Wolves

For me, the river’s very source and starting point, is Eve. To be sure, there are historical narratives of women that predate hers and it must be acknowledged as “the beginning” in the Western world (whether we want such, or not).

And given how much time I’ve spent over the years working with her story in particular, Estes’ words take me right back to her yet again.

The ways in which her story has been told throughout time has, sadly, caused us to lose the blessing that is ours, to break the beautiful and bountiful line of woman to woman, and to cause distrust in our own birthright and brilliance.

Rather than name, yet again, how this has happened, let’s talk about how to change it; how to bind up your (personal and historical) wounds; how to step forward in the power and strength that is already yours. Here’s the 3-step plan:

1) Heal the line to heal yourself.
2) Find the women – past and present – who long to bless you.
3) Undamn the river and let your too-often-damned intuition flow.

1) Heal the line to heal yourself:
One of the most powerful ways forward is to go back, to do the work of unearthing tales told (or not) in harmful, silencing, shaming ways and invite them into the light; to track down our lineage, to know and love the stories (and the women) who have shaped us, to find a sense of “home” and solidarity in all those who have gone before. When we can heal their past, we are the ones who are healed; we are the ones transformed.

2) Find the women – past and present – who long to bless you.
When we re-imagine, re-tell, and redeem these women’s stories, we are able to be blessed by them. Eve, yes, and so many more. Sojourner Truth. Emily Dickinson. Virginia Woolf. George O’Keefe. Frida Kahlo. Audre Lorde. All these and then some who long to share their wisdom, their perspective, their voice, their comfort, their companionship. And what of your great-great-great grandmothers and the rich female line that runs right through you? Can you imagine their words on your behalf? Will you? Even in places of deep, unwarranted pain (sometimes at these very women’s hands), will you imagine the words they would have spoken if they could; if they had been blessed? And who are the women in your everyday world who would readily and willingly offer you the same if only you would ask? If only you would tell them that you need them. If only you would trust that they are trustworthy and at your beck-and-call for support, kindness, encouragement, and yes, the blessing you most deeply long to have.

3) Undamn the river and let your too-often-damned intuition flow.
When you stand in the river of all the women who have gone before you, in the ever- tugging current of those who swirl around you even now; when you let the rapids carry you; when you float in a place of buoyancy and ease – supported by the stories that make up your legacy and the faces that smile on you every day – it is far more likely that you will trust that you already know what to do, what to say, how you feel, what you want.

Really, who are you not to trust your intuition, your story, your very self when standing in such an illustrious and stunning stream of women; when soaked to the skin with the stories of women – past and present – who just wait to be seen, known, heard, and honored and who long to honor you?

It is my hope and prayer that as Mother’s Day approaches you will feel and believe in the matrilineal blessing that IS yours…and that is yours to give to others.

May it be so.

 

*****

 

One of the ways in which these women and their stories continue to speak is through SacredReadings – my imagining of their voice on your behalf. There is a woman – part of your matrilineal line – who longs to bless you even now. A perfect Mother’s Day gift for yourself…and other women you love.

Nearly 20 years ago . . .

Oct 31, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters

It was nearly 20 years ago that I hastily opened the drugstore-purchased home-pregnancy test, that I tried to pee on that small pink stick without making a mess, that I left it sitting on the counter for the allotted time as I walked into the next room – disciplined and determined to wait the exactly-prescribed amount of time before I looked, that I held fast to my unswerving certainty that no line would appear, no plus mark would be revealed, no wishing, no matter how fervent, would ever be rewarded.

Over the next two days, I took six more tests. (Months later I found them all in a drawer and laughed at the evidence of my highly-honed doubt and disbelief.) And in the early-evening of the third day I went to the doctor because clearly, the over-the-counter tests could not be trusted. I needed an expert’s definitive declaration before I would allow myself the luxury of inhaling, of imagining, of believing that what I had longed for, prayed for, and grieved over for nearly five years could possibly be mine.

Every once in a while I can capture the emotion of being suspended between complete disbelief and overwhelming ecstasy. Every once in a while I can remember what it felt like to breathe in truth, to let in hope. Every once in a while I can recall what it felt like to finally feel whole, complete, and worthy. And every once in a while I will weep as I picture the moment they placed my daughter in my arms – how all the waiting and wishing and depression and despair vanished in an instant, how every fear evaporated, how something in me knew that I was forever changed by this miracle, this gift, this girl.

I was right. Forever and endlessly changed by her.

By you.

Happy 19th Birthday, Emma Joy. I love you. 

Happy 17th Birthday, Abby!

Oct 7, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters

Today marks the 9th year in which I have written a blog post on your birthday – celebrating you, honoring you, loving you.

I wonder if they’re more for me, than you: each year’s addition an expression of my need and desire to somehow capture and
hold onto parts of you that seem increasingly fleeting. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that year-after-year I want you to hear my heart, to know and believe what I know and believe about you.

This year, in yet another attempt to see you for all of who you are, I’ve drawn upon words previously written to prove my point:

Look how amazing you are! 

At 9
You have struggled with your own emotions – the things that hurt, that seem unfair, that don’t make sense. You have raged, wept, sat quietly, and thought things through, often without resolution, without available answers, without any fix. And still you have laughed, played, danced, sang, created, and loved. I love that about you.

As I have walked through this past year’s days with you, Abby, I have been amazed at your tenacity, your demand for the good, your endless hope, your tender heart, your stamina, your strength, your loyalty, your sense of humor, your laughter, your singing, your love. I love all these things about you.

At 10
You have had a hard year, sweet girl AND you are brave and incredible in the midst. You have cried and screamed many times, just like at your birth AND you have just as quickly and spontaneously burst into laughter or invited those around you to the same. You are full of life, Abby – all of it…not just the restrained, what-you-think others-want-to-see kind of life. Though I know that is painful for you, at times, I wish I had learned to do such by the age of 10 vs. 30+ years later. You are stunning and I continue to learn from you – every day.

At 11
In your grieving and writing, your celebrating and singing, your gooffiness and intensity, I see the woman you are becoming. You are a rare gift, Abby – full of life, passion, energy, intellect, and always strength. As of yet, you still don’t know and believe all this about yourself, but it will come. It can’t not. It’s too clear, too predominant, too “you” to be ignored – even by you!

At 12
You are wizened, courageous, and deeply intuitive. You accurately read the hearts of others in a split-second and then set out to do everything you can to bring healing and hope. You reveal a strength that you don’t yet trust, but that cannot be quenched…Though smoldering at times, you can’t not blaze. Perhaps most profound is that you know none of these things about herself. You struggle to maintain a fragile ego. You ache when misunderstood. Your heart bruises at the smallest of wounds. You are a puzzle, confusing, hardly perfect, and brave. Your self-perception does not oft’ include the objective and affirming eyes of those captured by your gaze; rather it is informed and shaped by the subjective and critical eyes of a near-teen, combined with a culture that continues to assert that you’re not good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, rich enough, loved enough. It’s easy for the blaze to flicker under such conditions.

At 13
You have captured all of me. Gorgeous from the day you were born. Strong in ways you don’t see, don’t believe, don’t yet understand. Tender in ways that pierce your own heart and compel you to compassion beyond bounds. Gorgeous in relationship. Strong in intellect, humor, love. Tender in actions, generosity, empathy.

At 14
You are girl and woman simultaneously, in an ever-shifting orbit of emotions and passions and desires and hopes. Though deeply compassionate and longing for the happiness of those in your world, you speak your mind – boldly, unapologetically, and calmly. You hardly ever raise your voice, but under a relatively calm exterior, a fore smolders. Sparks fly, often.

At 15
You are brilliant, beautiful, and have the kindest, most tender heart in all the world. You can size up a situation in a second, know exactly what’s going on underneath the surface, and slice your way through agendas and drama like nobody’s business. You might not always name or say what you see, but there’s no question you understand. You have a gazillion friends who all think you are fabulous, even though you don’t always believe this is so. You are completely lovely, even though you don’t always believe this is so. You are wicked funny. You are talented. You can sing and sing and sing. And you are a bit of a perfectionist! Falling short is not an option. (Given that I know something about this, I also know the dark side of this trait…) You finish your homework, get great grades, and excel at pretty much anything you put your mind to. And when you’re not busy with other things, you watch endless episodes of favorite shows – The Vampire Diaries (which I don’t really like, other than the soundtrack), Grey’s Anatomy (which is probably not the best choice for a near-15 year-old, but I can hardly tear myself away either, so….), and the two of us together, Sherlock, Dr. Who, and of course Downton Abbey. Microwave popcorn, chips and salsa, and Top Ramen seem to sustain you and you can bake a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies without the recipe.

At 16
I have never loved you more than I do this day. Every part of you – seen and unseen. Every emotion – expressed and hidden. Every sadness – revealed and withheld. Every joy – known and secreted away. Every hope – yours to hold, mine to marvel.

At 17
And now, this year, what more am I to add, offer, or say? As I look at this brief and incomplete history, I realize that much more of your childhood is behind you than ahead; that much more of our time together (at least as we’ve known it thus far) is behind us than ahead. My heart nearly breaks at this awareness.

This year, as has always been true, your strength amazes me, your courage undoes me, and my hope on your behalf remains as undaunted as it was on the day you were born – my every cell willing you into strength and sound and life. This, truly, is all I want for you any and every year, every day, every hour, every second: strength and sound and life.

May you, in even the slightest glimpses and sidelong glances, come to see yourself as I do and in such recognize the gift you are to this world…and certainly to me.

Happy Birthday, Abby. I love you.

The Sacred in a High School Gym

Nov 11, 2014 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

Yesterday morning I sat in a high school gym surrounded by teenagers. The Veteran’s Day Assembly. I wasn’t there because of what was being commemorated (though that was worthwhile). I was there because my youngest, Abby, was singing in the choir and I wanted to hear her. It was, she was, as I expected: fabulous.

Something happens to me, within me, when I hear choral music – the haunting harmonies, the familiar melodies, beauty that causes my heart to catch in my throat. I cannot help but cry. Today was no different. What I hadn’t expected was to see my oldest, Emma. She moved all over that same gym, wearing a “School Photographer” badge and wielding her camera. One moment she was taking pictures of a line of U.S. flags, the next a Veteran who stood alone and proud while the rest of us applauded, and in the midst, the faces of her peers who made up the bulk of the audience. Something happened to me, within me, as I watched her see and capture beauty. It caused my heart to catch in my throat. I could not help but cry.

Just for a moment, sitting on that folding chair, I realized that this was the Sacred: two young women, my daughters, their felt/heard/seen presence in the world, their voices and talents shared. Just for a moment, I took a deep, raggedy breath and gave thanks. And then I cried some more.

It wasn’t about them (though of course it was). It was about just that moment. Right then, right there, and completely unexpected, I was part of something Bigger than me, beyond me, and smack in the center of me. The Sacred.

Truth-be-told, I rarely notice these moments. That could be probably is because I am more often, longing for, praying for, working for deep, wide, and ongoing ways in which I can endlessly, consistently feel connected to something of Meaning, of Beauty, of God. And yet, all along, the Sacred is showing up. Today especially. And apparently, exclusively, perfectly, powerfully, tenderly, amazingly – just for me.

That’s grace. That’s God. That’s enough.

May it be so.

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