fbpx

A late-night text

I’ve been thinking about the wisdom that has shaped much of my life. I’m grateful for some of it, to be sure. There’s been a lot more that I’ve had to intentionally dismantle and deconstruct.

I was raised in the church. Both consciously and subconsciously it inferred, offered, and proclaimed Wisdom – as an institution, within its sacred text, because of its God. And not just a  wisdom, the wisdom. It was the only wisdom that I was to rely on, turn to, and build my life upon. I was dutiful. I was obedient. I was disciplined. And to be fair, it was this wisdom to which I turned, on which I relied, in which I took solace. The darker side was also true: when I didn’t turn to it, rely on it, or took solace anywhere else, I felt vast shame and guilt.

But it wasn’t just the church, religion, or God as wisdom source – it was men. (White) men were seen as the experts, the holders of authority, the ones I could and should trust. In completely transparency, for a very long time, I rarely-if-ever thought to consider anything else! They had the answers. And because that was so obvious, it was just as obvious that I did not have answers – or wisdom; that my thoughts could not be trusted, that I could not, should not trust myself.

Then there was academia. It would have never crossed my mind to question why all of the things I was learning were from (more) white men. Yes, I had a few women teachers along the way, but they were instructing me from textbooks written by white men. Even in college, as a Business and Communications major, everything I learned was from a man’s perspective, man-as-wisdom. I didn’t question a bit of it. I appreciated what I was learning. I took it in as gospel.

By the time I got to my Masters Degree (with a nearly-20-year break in the middle) very little had changed. The professors and authors were still almost exclusively white men – in my studies of both theology and therapy (especially theology). But it was also during this time that things began to shift. I took a class called Feminist Critique (taught by a visiting professor who was a woman and only assigned texts written by women) that opened me up to a wisdom that made me really, really angry.  She systematically revealed the white/male lens everywhere, influencing everything. And that lens was not mine.

At about the same time, probably not at all coincidentally, I began to experiment with the interpretation of women’s ancient, sacred stories through a non-male lens, through a woman’s lens, through a feminist lens, through my lens in order to pull forth something different, anything different. And it was this effort that became a practice that became my everything that enabled me to find, hear, and actually trust my own wisdom. For the first time.

A few weeks back, I woke up in the middle of the night and typed a text to myself – just so I wouldn’t forget the thought that was keeping me from sleep:

We need sources of wisdom that are distinctly feminine. Only they can mirror our experience in ways that allow the wisdom to actually land, to be relevant, to support and strengthen us.

I was pretty happy to see that text waiting for me the next morning.

I’m not opposed to the wisdom of men (well, maybe a little). What I want, though, is the wisdom of women – not in opposition, but as obvious choice.

Without such, it’s no wonder we walk through our lives doubting ourselves, not trusting our intuition, flailing in relationships, putting others ahead of ourselves, tamping down our desires, and wallowing in (often) self-inflicted shame. Everything we learn is not who WE are. Everything we compare ourselves to is not who WE are. This is the patriarchy, of course; the water we swim in, the air we breath, its insipid presence in everything we do, think, and feel.

But…

If we had feminine sources of wisdom – and saw them as reliable, trustworthy, honorable, valuable – we would have a template through which to understand ourselves that syncs with who we most closely are, who we most closely resemble, how we most often act, think, and feel.

Imagine it for a moment.

If I had grown up in a goddess-worshipping coven, it would have been normal for me to trust my body, to eschew anything that smacked of self-contempt, to always look within for answers, comfort, and strength. Even if I don’t take it to that lovely extreme, let’s say I grew up in a Christian home, attending church, going to Bible studies, but everything was focused on women. At church I would have heard stories that were not about a woman’s sin or shame; rather, their magnificence and strength and power. I would have never heard a single message – spoken, assumed, written, or preached – that told me I should be more submissive or more humble or more obedient; rather, I would have been extolled and encouraged to trust my voice, my heart, and yes, my wisdom. I would have grown up reading books written by women, novels about women (written by women), and even if my teachers and professors had remained mostly white men, that input would have been consistently “countered” by the reminder that at the end of the day, what I thought mattered. When I watched TV or read Seventeen magazine, I would not have been inundated by women’s objectification; instead, I would have known and understood that women’s bodies are our own, that they matter, that they are beautiful and perfect  – in every way, shape, and form. And I would have been very clear that attracting me was the end-all, be-all – not attracting a boy, a man, or a prince. Can you even imagine?

We need sources of wisdom that are distinctly feminine. Only they can mirror our experience in ways that allow the wisdom to actually land, to be relevant, to support and strengthen us.

This wisdom allows us to see ourselves in the mirror, to listen to the voice within that not only makes sense, but is 100% true and right. This wisdom teaches us to trust ourselves – which leads to agency and power – which leads to doing the unexpected thing, to rising up, to speaking out, to resisting anyone who tells us anything different – which leads to a disallowing of violence because of race or sexuality or difference of any kind, sickening entitlement because of gender or power, and ignorance based not in wisdom, but foolishness! 

 

So find that wisdom. Be that wisdom. Be that wise. It’s all within you. It always has been – for generations and generations, from the beginning of time. And it’s all yours to offer us. Imagine the world you’ll change, create, and birth along the way.

In tribute to Mary Oliver

At the end of last week, in reflecting on Mary Oliver’s life – small respite in the wake of her death – I ran a search through my previous 12+ years of blog posts to see what I’d written of her before, where her poetry and prose have inspired my own words (and heart).

I’ve chosen one of those many posts as remembrance; more, as tribute.

**********

An edited version of writing from March, 2007.

Though I know unfruitful, even unanswerable, I sometimes find myself asking questions like, Can’t things be easier? Can’t my life go the way I want it to? Does it so-often have to feel like a struggle?

And then I begin to wonder: if the divine were to answer these questions the way I subliminally desire (translate: a tame, sedate, even predictable life) who would that god be?

Surely not the one that Sacred Text portrays.

That god, that understanding of the divine, is one who falls asleep in storms – not one who prevents them from happening at all.

A case in point:

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35-41)

This is no tame, sedate, predictable story. For this is no tame, sedate, predictable god.

So, a better question to be asking is: Why would I ever anticipate, let alone desire, my life to be such?

If I choose to reflect on, and even believe in this god (not to mention being created in the image of such) – one who is nonplussed in a treacherous storm – how then shall I live?

Ahhh, yes. Dangerous. Risky. Unafraid. Hardly tame, sedate, and predictable.

Mary Oliver speaks of this better than me:

Maybe
Sweet Jesus, talking
his melancholy madness,
stood up in the boat
and the sea lay down,
silky and sorry.

So everybody was saved
that night.
But you know how it is
when something
different crosses
the threshold—the uncles
mutter together,
the women walk away,
the younger brother begins
to sharpen his knife.

Nobody knows what the soul is.
It comes and goes
Like wind over the water—
Sometimes, for days,
you don’t think of it.

Maybe, after the sermon,
after the multitude was fed,
one or two of them felt
the soul slip forth
like a tremor of pure sunlight
before exhaustion,
that wants to swallow everything,
gripped their bones and left them
miserable and sleepy,
as they are now, forgetting
how the wind tore at the sails;
before he rose and talked to it—
tender and luminous and demanding
as he always was—
a thousand times more frightening
than the killer sea.

This understanding of, conception of the divine is one I find myself far more able to believe in; a thousand times more frightening than the killer sea.

Then choosing the storm (vs. demanding the tame, the sedate, the predictable) feels right; more, sacred.

**********

Rest well, Mary Oliver – in the arms of the divine you named. In your absence we feel and know what you did: tender, luminous, and oh, so demanding, to be sure.

My Inner Critic = The Patriarchy

I was recently organizing files on my computer (something I do when I intend to write, but instead find busy work…) and came across a piece I wrote just over a year ago. Why I didn’t post it then, why I didn’t work with it more, I do not know…Well, I have a hunch, but I’ll get to that at the end. First, the writing I found…

 

*****

 

Perhaps this isn’t news to you, but I just realized this morning that the voice of the inner critic inside of me is the patriarchy; even more specifically, the patriarchal god.

This actually came as a shock to me – one I am still sitting with and trying to make sense of. But the second I wrote the words (which I will share in a moment), I knew this was true. And now that I know this is true, I have a clarity and certainty about some other things that I didn’t before (which I’ll also share in a moment).

First, how I got to this realization:

As is my normal routine, I journal in the morning. I set the alarm and, with the best of intentions, try my hardest to not look at the emails that have accumulated overnight on my phone. I go to the kitchen, fill the teakettle with water, get coffee measured into my French press, and then open up my 3-ring binder and take out two sheets of college-ruled paper. I take the cap off my very favorite pen and write the date in neat script on the top line.

By then the water is hot enough to pour into the press. I wait the four interminable minutes it takes for the coffee to steep, gratefully pour it into my waiting mug, then return to my chair, my notebook, the paper, my pen.

This morning I was recounting details of my previous day, reflecting on what was ahead in the hours to come, scribing a litany of words and questions and feelings. Nothing monumental. Nothing transformational. Just the practice of pen on paper, page after page, day after day.

In the midst of these musings, I began to write about my writing – this writing – this practice of pen on paper, page after page, day after day. As often happens, I dropped down a level – from information to reflection – and then, not surprisingly, to critique.

Why am I writing any of this? What is the point? What is its value?

And only because I have gotten just slightly wiser to its ways over the years, I began to write out exactly what my inner critic had to say:

What a ridiculous waste of time! How arrogant of you to think that your writing has the capacity to impact anyone. Are you kidding? Just because you’ve filled pages and pages over the years, doesn’t make you some kind of expert. And clearly, it’s not made any difference in your life. After all, you’re still listening to me, aren’t you? Why you don’t finally and once-and-for-all give up fighting me and trying to hear any other voice than mine? You know I’m going to endure, defeat, and conquer. I mean, really! What other voice has this much staying power, this much resolve, this much potency, this much influence? I am undefeatable! I am impossible to silence. I am all-powerful. I am God!

What? What? Wait! Go back. What did I just write?

A smile spread over my face and I immediately knew two things: 1) my daily writing practice which often, admittedly, seems trivial at times, actually matters – made obvious through three small words that are now out in the open and exposed; and 2) that “God” comment needs a LOT more attention!

My writing continued:

There. That’s the bottom line. The critic within me is God. Which is crazy – and not. This IS the God I’ve learned of, at least in part: the God I must fear, the God that keeps me in my place and silent, the God of the patriarchy.

More wheels turn as I speedily scribe and watch myself write these words:

Could it be that the inner critic IS the patriarchy, is the patriarchal God?

So, there you have it. That’s how I got to this realization and awareness. Now, as promised, the clarity and certainty about some other things.

I have understood the voice of the inner critic to come from, well, the inner-me. I have seen it as the collective voice of all those spoken to me throughout the years – negative messages I’ve heard, taken in, and believed. But even more, I have convinced myself that its volume and tenacity is because I have fed and fueled those messages, because I have not had the will or fortitude to disavow them. I have seen the inner critic itself as something inherently within me, as part of me.

And because of such, it is something to be exorcised out of me, something aberrant or wrong about me, something I must be blamed for and ultimately responsible for. The inner critic is clearly and resolutely my character flaw.

The problems with this are so prolific, I don’t even know where to start. Stories flood my mind – each one sticky with shame. And, truth-be-told, shame that has been self-inflicted: I should have done better. I should have tried harder. I should have stopped sooner. I should have said yes. I should have said no. I should have known.

Let me intentionally stop this tirade and go back to my earlier revelation: the inner critic is the patriarchy and even more specifically, the patriarchal god.

This is a big deal. A huge deal. A game-changer.

It’s like the great eye in Lord of the Rings (my VERY favorite movie, by the way). It turns, the focus shifts, and I recognize that the force that has controlled me for far too long and for which I have blamed myself, is something that is not me, something I could have no more stopped or controlled than been able to fly. And this not-of-me external force has allowed my shame because in so doing it has remained undiscovered, off the hook, and fancy free to wreak as much havoc as it likes.

As long as the patriarchy can keep me thinking that I am the one to blame, it has accomplished its greatest feat and highest aspiration.

And oh, how successful it has been.

I write some more.

Now you have revealed your cards. Now I know what I’m dealing with here. And now I know exactly what is needed to soother the beast, to tame this savage, to calm my very soul.

I need the God who speaks just the opposite, who reminds me who I am, who blesses and honors, who loves. I need the God of the women I know and the stories I tell. I need the God who speaks wisdom and grace. I need the God who is mother. I need the God who is feminine. I need the God who is far more fierce and powerful and all-consuming than the little god who isn’t one at all, but has somehow become confused.

And this God, though not often enough named as such, is alive and well and waiting within.

She rises still – and strong. She will yet roar.

Me too.

*****

Do you have a hunch as to why I didn’t post this piece until now, until just happening to stumble across it almost a year later?

Well, there’s this: the patriarchy (and/or the inner critic, and/or the Imposter Complex, call it what you will) is still alive and well – within me. The subconscious messaging that tells me to keep such things to myself, to only say what’s acceptable, to not expose it…ever.

Well, until now.

Maybe you, too?

About Being Ubiquitous

This post could be entitled About Being God Without Realizing Such.

I came across this word while reading a novel a week or so ago and texted myself this note: Look up ubiquitous. (I do this sometimes, no, lots of times: type myself texts so that I don’t forget…because I will.) Later, I did look it up. (Voila! the value of the note!)

u·biq·ui·tous | y͞ooˈbikwədəs
adjective
existing or being everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered

The thought occurred to me that this IS what we are – ubiquitous, or at least, what we are attempting. OK, not you, just me.

This is what I’m attempting – as a woman, an entrepreneur, a writer, a mom, a friend. And more than just attempting, it seems required! Facebook. Twitter (which I finally abandoned). Instagram. Pinterest. Medium. LinkedIn.

And the evidence of my ubiquitousness? After typing out each word in the previous sentence, I then spent the time to find-and-enter hyperlinks for each so that you can see that I’m everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered : ubiquitous. Blech.

The next thought that occurred to me was the idea of God as omnipresent. This is a theological term that even without theological training, you can probably parse out for yourself. But here, I’m happy to help:

om·ni·pres·ent | ämnəˈpreznt/
adjective
widely or constantly encountered; common or widespread

Sound familiar? Like anything else you’ve recently heard? Here’s a big surprise: a synonym for omnipresent is…wait for it…ubiquitous.

So, let me reverse engineer things: we then, in our efforts to be ubiquitous, are attempting to be like God.

OK, not “we,” just me.

As a woman who is an entrepreneur who is trying to run a business and build a platform and write and be a mom and be a friend and simultaneously be everywhere at the same.

It’s no wonder I’m sometimes, lots of times, weary. (Maybe you, too?)

It seems a bit problematic, don’t you think? I don’t need (at least here and now) to have a conversation about God – as omnipresent or not, ubiquitous or not, even existing, or not! I’m merely stating that an attribute we once wholly and nearly-unanimously applied to THE Deity, is now what we all aspire to be.

Even as I type words which might sound provocative, they really aren’t. This is what all of humanity has been doing from the beginning of time – creating gods in our own image. How could we not, really? This IS human nature. And if I wax even a bit more philosophical, there IS no God other than the one we’ve created – in our own image. How could there be? We’re the ones who have described and made sense of (so we often think) every form/version of the Divine that has ever existed! (I’m not saying…yet again…that God doesn’t exist. I’m just naming that WE are the ones who have created, constructed, described, and written/preached/demanded any and every comprehension of any god that has ever existed or ever will. There’s no Plan B on this one.)

OK. Enough of my random thoughts and texts-to-self and dictionary de nitions and theological/philosophical musings.  Here’s my point:

I don’t want to be ubiquitous, or omnipresent, or like God; I don’t want to be God at all!

Though I said otherwise, maybe I am having a conversation about God. For all my ambivalence, ever-shifting opinions, and intentionally unlearned doctrine-of-a-lifetime, here’s what I can tell you: any God I would believe in or espouse would be everything I’m not; a God who is not in my image – at all; a God who
is ubiquitous so that I don’t have to be!

So what’s a girl to do? (Yes, just me; not you.)

One “answer” is to believe and *just* have faith that this God does exist. Because if I did, if I would, if I could, then I would no longer have to work so hard and be everywhere at the same time, right? It wouldn’t be my job, but God’s. Right.

And…this is where the idea of faith gets a bit dicey, yes? What if God (no matter how understood or comprehended, or not) doesn’t have everything in hand? What if God doesn’t care about my business, my platform, my bank account the same way that I do? I can’t actually trust, can’t actually let go, because what if…God forbid…things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to? I must stay in control. I must navigate and engineer my every reality. And yes, I must be everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered : ubiquitous, because who knows what might happen if I stopped?!?

Wait.

That’s a good question.

What might really-truly-actually happen if I stopped?

I’d rest. I’d stop worrying. I’d stop feeling like there’s always more to do, that I haven’t done enough, that if only I work harder, then… I’d be able to sit still. I’d not need my phone umbilically connected to me at all times. I’d trust that all will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well. And then I’d breathe. A lot. I’d step away from my computer. I’d need no Tylenol for the pain across my upper back and shoulders. I’d enjoy where I am and who I am and who I am with and all that I love.

Oh…that.

I looked up one more thing in the midst of all of this pondering: the antonyms to ubiquitous and omnipresent. Want to know what they are?

rare
scarce
limited

In other words, fully human, fully unique, fully present, fully me.

I don’t say any of this to declare my abstinence from social media or any and all of the activities in which I’m engaged to keep my business (and life) going. Nor do I assume anyone else should do the same. But I am going to think about why I ever thought that I could be (or want to be) everywhere at the same time: constantly encountered, ubiquitous. I am going to wonder a bit more about why I ever thought that I could be God (without actually realizing that this was what I was doing). And I am going to think much more about what it means to be rare, scare, and limited – because I am. Which, now that I say it, sounds WAY better than ubiquitous anyway!

God on a Woman’s Terms

For most of us, the word “sacred” conjures some thought of God.

Perhaps you associate this with a positive set of adjectives, ideas, beliefs, experiences, and memories.

Perhaps not.

  • Perhaps your experience or understanding of God is one you’ve worked hard to redefine and redeem (on your own terms).
  • Perhaps you’ve walked away from all you were taught and have chosen to not reconstruct anything in its place.
  • Perhaps you’ve never learned of God in any formal way, but have always known that some greater power or force or energy existed; you just knew, no one had to tell you.
  • Perhaps you’ve known God by another name, by many names.

Whichever “perhaps” is yours or combination thereof, we can agree that it’s a complicated word, a complicated concept, and highly diverse.

As I grew up, in the way that I grew up, a diversity of understanding or experience was suspect. There was only one God and only one way in which “He” was to be understood and all others were misguided, at best, dangerous, at worst. We could only hope and pray that any who followed anything (or anyone) other would someday find their way to the truth.

As I grew up, my understanding of God changed. It continues to – for which I am profoundly grateful. The sacred (on my terms) is hardly static, but ever-evolving, ever-shifting, ever-growing, ever-transforming itself…and me.

  • My grown-up understanding of God allows, welcomes, and encourages a diversity of experience, naming, theology, and expression.
  • My grown up understanding of God recognizes that any attempt to define the Divine is mere folly and in and of itself delimits the very God I might try to comprehend.
  • My grown-up understanding of God encourages any form and comprehension of such because it realizes that if God is real, if God exists, if God actually is, then God’s very self is quite capable of managing a myriad of forms, thank you very much, and hardly needs my opinion or dogmatic stance.
  • My grown up understanding of God has let go of a Deity that deals in judgment, retribution, or shame.
  • My grown-up understanding of God realizes increasingly that God cannot be understood at all, only experienced, trusted, believed in, doubted, denied, and sometimes all of the above simultaneously!
  • And my grown-up understanding of God doesn’t have to be anything like yours.

I ran a quick search on Amazon in the “books” category with the word God. 481,502 entries exist – which is just the tip of the iceberg, given that the number is merely reflective of those with “God” in the title. I point this out because what I have articulated above is hardly exhaustive, hardly conclusive, hardly anything at all in the context of the Divine. As it should be.

Defining God is a paradox.

Any God worth believing in far-exceeds definition. So I prefer to remain confused, lost in mystery, ever-asking questions, pushing boundaries, risking sacrilege (which I don’t actually worry about at all), being dangerous (which I am completely fine with), and leaning- leaning-leaning into my desire.

Because the God I want to believe in is the God who believes in me. And when I encounter that God, I have come full circle – back to the myself which, if you’ve been following along, is the sacred.

Believe me: your experience and expression of the sacred on your own terms will be profoundly enhanced and exponentially more expansive when you decide for you what, how, and even who the Divine is – and isn’t.

The decision is yours. The choice is yours. And you can change your mind as you wish. You have permission!

So…do exactly this!

Carve out some time to create a couple of lists. No pressure. Nothing taxing or difficult or even required. Again, just curiosity and grace and kindness. On the first list write out everything that comes to mind when you hear the word God. No editing. No censoring. No holding back. On the second list write out every good quality, characteristic, and/or experience that you most deeply respect, even desire. Again, no holding back. Where do the two lists overlap? (It’s possible that your answer is “nowhere!”) Where do they diverge?

Now, consider a God who looks and feels far more like the second list than the first. If that list described God, what would your belief look like? What would your faith feel like? How would your trust be strengthened and made manifest? What would the sacred now mean? Who would you now be? Mmmmm. Exactly.

May you always remember the Beloved is your divine and sacred self. ~ Earthschool Harmony

My invitation and endless desire on your behalf:

Reclaim the sacred for yourself – on your own terms, in your own ways, through your own lens, on behalf of your own experience. Because you can. Because you must. Because the sacred is you, you know. The real, holy you. And you matter. A lot.