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Rebellion as a Spiritual Practice

Most if not all of us battle with the tension between our own desires, our deep sense of what’s most true, our certain knowing of what is best-right-wise and how that will impact the people around us. It is rebellious to choose ourselves in the midst of so much pressure to conform, to comply, to be perfect, to put others first.

A woman’s rebellion is disruptive, radical, uncomfortable, counter-cultural, even counter-intuitive. Ironically (even gratefully), a woman’s rebellion is the very thing that invites her into a life that is authentic, integrous, sovereign, and whole; a life that is sacred.

For us to be ourselves (in a world that demands we be so much less) means we will inevitably feel the pain of disruption and discomfort both within and without. This tension, this bind, is untenable and frustrating and heart-breaking.

To step fully into who we are — unrestrained, unhindered, unleashed — should NOT be so hard! It should NOT require our rebellion.

But it does. Not just once, but over and over and over again.

*sigh*

And so . . .

Let’s make rebellion a spiritual practice.

The common definition of a spiritual practice is a specific activity one does to deepen their relationship with the sacred.

Contemplative and activist, Father Richard Rohr says, “Practice is an essential reset button that we must push many times before we can experience any genuine newness. Whether we’re aware of it or not, we are practicing all the time. When we operate by our habituated patterns, we strengthen certain neural pathways, which makes us, as the saying goes, ‘set in our ways.’ But when we stop using old neural grooves, these pathways actually die off! Practice can literally create new responses and allow rigid ones to show themselves.”

Most of us practice just the opposite of rebellion. Instead, as mentioned above, our “habituated patterns” are conformity, compliance, perfectionism, and putting others priorities-and-desires-and-perspectives above our own. The result is just the opposite, as well: instead of deepening our relationship with the sacred, we feel distanced from it.

Rebellion as a spiritual practice has the potential to undo every bit of this. It calls us to boldly name that which separates us from all that is sacred (which, quite frankly, is every message culture promulgates and demands via capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchy, and then some), and reconnects us to our very selves, our sacred selves.

Some examples:

  • When the world says I am not enough, rebellion as a spiritual practice says, “No! I AM enough — exactly as I am, nothing more required, fully divine, fully sovereign.”
  • When social media incessantly urges me to buy, to acquire, to continue scrolling (instead of creating or resting or any number of things that would actually restore instead of exhaust me), rebellion as a spiritual practice has me set down my phone, walk away, and distance myself from the lies.
  • When the person I am in relationship with passive-aggressively demands that I meet and exceed every expectation — even and especially when it is at odds with my own priorities and desires — rebellion as a spiritual practice says “No!” yet again. The dissonance and tension is the very evidence I need to stay the course.
  • When the god of whom I’ve learned deals more in shame than grace, rebellion as a spiritual practice, imagines a god who would never think of such a thing, who sees me as practically perfect in every way, who delights in who I am, exactly as I am, right now and always.
  • When I feel the pressure to do more, work harder, hustle faster, grind and grind and grind — no matter the cost to my mental, emotional, or physical well-being — rebellion as a spiritual practice is an intentional choice to step back, to step away, to take a bath or a nap or both, to be quiet, to stop running in order to feel productive, validated, or worthy.
  • When the voice inside my head tells me I’m being selfish to do any of the above, rebellion as a spiritual practice is the disciplined intention to listen to my heart instead, to choose myself, to see myself as worthy, to trust the know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within.

If you have yet to be called an incorrigible, defiant woman, don’t worry, there is still time.
~ Clarissa Pinkola Estés

“A rebel! How glorious the name sounds when applied to a woman. Oh, rebellious woman, to you the world looks in hope.”
~ Matlida Joslyn Gage (1826–1898)

Here is what I hope for you (and me):

When we rebel, when we bravely resist all that holds us back or down, when we are incorrigible and defiant, when we willingly step into the flames of disruption and discomfort — not to burn, but to blaze — we cannot possibly be closer to the sacred.

And that, it seems to me, is a practice worth . . . well, practicing!

May it be so.

*****

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About Being Alone

  1. Tell myself the truth.
  2. Remember that I am never truly alone.
  1. Tell yourself the truth about how you feel (especially when “alone” is the word you’d use to describe such); believe that you are worthy of the deepest and most honest emotions — always.
  2. Remember and believe that you are not alone. Because you aren’t. Ever. Not really.

Your Wild Voice Within

…the shadow of Wild Woman still lurks behind us during our days and in our nights. No matter where we are, the shadow that trots behind us is definitely four-footed. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

The wild voice within that says more and edits less. It digs deep and dives down. It is impossible to embarrass and completely unrestrained. It refuses to keep quiet. It’s not interested in playing nice. It is passionate, risky, even  risqué. It is dark and red and viscous. It weeps. It delights. It knows. It howls at the moon. And on paper – in journals and on documents – it captures all of this and then some…

But that’s about as far as it goes. 

The voice without holds sway. The one that’s required. The one that’s acceptable. The one that others can handle.

But what of the pages and pages that never see the light of day? Notebooks and journals written by hand. Hundreds of documents started then saved. 3×5 cards scattered in the bottom of drawers. Ideas barely captured before they disappear.

Disheveled and raw, desperate almost, this voice pours forth. Never mind the incomplete thoughts, the inchoate sentences, the impossible to deny emotions. Still it speaks. The voice within is wild and will not be tamed. 

Often held at bay by nothing more (nor less) than a lump in the throat – it sits on the tip of the tongue. 

Eventually, always, undeniable truth and endless desire and sheer volume finally tip the scales. 

The wild voice within within is acknowledged, seen, run toward, and embraced – like the Prodigal returned. No longer outcast, marginalized, hidden away. Far from penitent or tame. Fiercer than ever before. Articulate and wise beyond measure. Consonants, vowels, words, sentences, pages, index cards, memories, stories, beliefs, emotions – all tumble forward. Falling, twirling, dancing, taking form. Every stroke of the pen, peck of a key, and paper stacked or saved finally and  fluently coalesce. Alchemy. Magic. Grace. Nothing but pure, unadulterated beauty and strength flows forth. 

On that day and for all that follow, finally reunited and reconciled to your very self, your voice will speak-sing-write-create your way way into a world that has been waiting for you all along.

We are all filled with a longing for the wild. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

May it be so. 

*****

In my own experience and in the lives of nearly every woman I know, we hear the wild voice within, but so much keeps us from letting it speak. The list is long: what it will cost us, the consequences that will undoubtedly ensue if and when we let it loose.

This is why I devote an entire week to risks, costs, and consequences as part of SOVEREIGNTY – my live, 9-week program. It is hard to be 100% yourself, 100% of the time – to let the wild voice within actually show up in all of your world.

Spoiler Alert: I will not tell you how to mitigate or avoid the risks, costs, and consequences. They’re a given when we choose to step into all of who we are – unedited, unrestrained, and in integrity. But I will tell you lots about what sovereignty looks and feels like in the midst of all this. Not easy answers; true ones.

Registration is open. We begin in early September. Learn more and apply today.

Before Mother’s Day

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.

Somewhere between Kali and Jesus

I am Kali Ma.
I stick my tongue out of my once silent lips.
These eyes, no longer mild,
Are furious daggers of fire.
~ a portion of a poem by Tanya Geisler

These words do not describe me. At least not as much as I wish they did and want them to.

My tongue is restrained behind my lower front teeth, afraid to breathe in too quickly for fear of the icy-cold pain that hits nerve endings and makes me wish I’d never opened my mouth. And my eyes? I wouldn’t say they are mild, particularly. I watch. I observe. I see – a lot. But fire? No. Any furious daggers thrown would more likely be at me than at you, others, or this world. In other words, I’m no Kali Ma.

I can still clearly picture various pieces of art that hung on the walls of rooms I frequented – my bedroom, throughout our home, at church. Two come to mind – both of Jesus. In the first he is holding a small lamb in his arms. In the second, he is standing on a flowered hillside, surrounded by small children – all different skin colors, shapes, and sizes. (Red, brown, yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, went the accompanying song.) Both images are gentle. Both show the weak cared for by the Divine, the Divine as male.

And both intentionally served to remind me who I was – the lost sheep, the doting child; to remind me of my place in the scheme of things – silent lips, mild eyes. Hardly Kali Ma.

As I’ve reminisced, I’ve added more images to the queue – not framed and hung, but planted firmly in my mind. Yes, Jesus gentle-and-mild, but also women relegated to the shadows, who “belonged” on the margins, who were subservient and obedient and shamed if not. Added to these, the 60’s and 70’s plethora of happy moms, twig-thin models, and doting secretaries on billboards, in magazines, on TV. Unexposed to Gloria Steinem and 1st-wave feminism (not to mention goddesses of any kind), this infant, then girl-adolescent-young woman didn’t see much – if anything or anyone – who embodied or even considered Kali-like strength. Her antithesis, in many ways, has been my learned ideal.

Along with the pictures were stories told – almost all of Jesus. I rarely think of them these days, but they remain deeply embedded in my psyche. Sometimes for good, to be sure; but often in ways that have kept me sheep-like, childlike, beholding, and in need. In need of a God, a shepherd, a man. After all, he’s the one with the strength; he’s the one with the voice, the knowing, the wisdom; he’s the one with power. Not me. I need to be found, loved, embraced, and saved. (I don’t believe this anymore – the sheep, the child, the need – but that doesn’t mean the roots of such don’t remain and even reveal themselves in ways I’d rather they did not. In ways that are shockingly un-Kali-like – even now, even today, even all these years later.)

I sometimes wonder what it would have been like, what I would be like, if a picture of Kali Ma had hung on those same walls, if hers was the tale I was told.

What if hers was the image I displayed in my college dorm room then in first and subsequent apartments? What if she was the painting I’d kept ever-present in my many homes throughout the years? What if she was the face my daughters grew up seeing, asking me to tell them her story until they knew it by heart, until she was the one who dwelled within theirs?

What if, indeed.

Kali Ma conjures something far different than what I saw modeled, what I was taught.

Aggressive and unapologetic, her eyes gleam and spark. Her red tongue protrudes – ready to hungrily lick anyone who dares to draw near. The skulls that hang around her neck are hardly comforting, but reveal her fearlessness, even of death. All illusion is sliced away. Any wish for greener pastures or nurturing companionship is erased. Though a fierce, mother-like goddess, she does not abide a childlike state. Instead, she compels my strength. She demands my voice, my knowing, my wisdom. She exudes power and insists that it is mine.

She calls me to find, love, embrace, and save myself – and my world.

Oh, that I would.

And of course, I do. But not as much as I wish and want. Especially right now. It feels as though there is no time to lose, no time to waste, seemingly no time at all. As I ponder and muse about my past, all hell breaks loose in my present.

Xenophobia, violence, greed, racism and evil run rampant. Contempt and complete
disregard seem to reign. We desperately need Kali Ma. We desperately need Kali-like women.

Even so, something in me holds back – uncertain, unsure, unable to rise up and speak out.

Maybe the why of it doesn’t matter. Maybe all my attempts to unpack and unravel and understand are distractions from doing and choosing and acting. Maybe there’s nothing to inculcate or imbibe where Kali Ma is concerned. Maybe all I need do is live as if she is already inherent within me. Trusting until I believe. Having faith.

I’ve heard that before.

Do not misunderstand. I am angry. I am resolute and firm on so much that is just not acceptable. I am hardly docile, meek, or mild when it comes to my opinions about the destruction that is imminent, if not already at hand. Still, I feel more like sheep than wolf, girl than goddess, patriarchal-bound woman than pussy-hat wearing siren and seer. I unwittingly reside in this middle place – between contradictory beliefs and ideals, between conflicting principles and values, between faith and doubt, between hope and despair, between keeping my tongue tucked tightly behind my teeth or sticking it out and swallowing whole the ignorance and evil that pervades.

Stuck here, at least for now, I have no eloquent ending or tight conclusion to this piece. No passionate benediction that rallies the troops and calls us to arms. Not even some deeper self-awareness that offers me solace or strength. Which feels right somehow, though uncomfortable.

Kind of like faith.

So even if I can’t come up with a catchy ending, I can keep working on sticking out my tongue and letting my eyes be furious daggers of fire and opening my arms and protecting the weak and loving the children and believing in justice and somehow, somehow holding on to hope – that words will come and courage will sustain and love will conquer all.

In the meantime, I gaze at the pictures that now hang in my home.

Afraid yet fearless. Wise yet playful. Brave yet tender. Imperfect yet loved.
~ Kellie Rae Roberts

It is in the midst of misery that so much becomes clear. The one who said nothing good came of this, is not yet listening.
~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.
~ Audre Lorde

Maybe the message is getting through…

And there’s still plenty of wall space – and time – to find and display a print of Kali Ma; maybe even Jesus.