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Use Your Imagination

Jan 6, 2023 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality

There is something incredibly powerful about good fiction, yes? The craft of it. The story itself. And the imagination required to make it come alive.

I have a long and torrid love-affair with imaginative writing; an infinite and ever-expanding list of “sacred” texts:

  • The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis.
  • The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
  • A Wrinkle In Time by Madeline L’Engle.
  • Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.
  • The Book of Longings by Sue Monk Kidd.
  • And despite my disappointment in J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter.

I could easily and endlessly go on…

What is it, do you think, that makes these novels, these texts, more permissive of imagination than traditional sacred texts?

Not surprisingly, I have some thoughts.

Many of us have been taught to think about sacred or spiritual things (and texts) as “absolute truth.” Concepts are concretized and imagination is, for the most part, disallowed.

My go-to example is the Genesis story: The Garden of Eden. Eve and Adam. The tree. The serpent. The fruit. The bite. It is an imaginative answer to the question of why (not how) the world was created. No committee or panel of experts sat down to write it. No one debated about what should be included or not, what was allegory and what was literal, what was to become rigid rule vs. remaining narrative technique. It was first imagined, then recited, then recited again. It changed every time it was told based on the storyteller’s imagination, perspective, mood, language, and audience. As every good story should!

Somehow though, over time, this story (a poem, actually) became a text and the text became a treatise and the treatise became a theology and the theology became something to enforce. (This sounds a lot like the nursery rhyme, “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly…”)

Even though I know exactly how all of this happened, it breaks my heart.

What happens when our imagination is no longer encouraged, even allowed as it relates to our spirituality? My quick answer: We lose interest and leave it behind. And though this may be the healthiest and best of decisions, there is still a loss. A gap exists where these set-in-stone beliefs once resided. It’s hard to heal.

What happens when we reintroduce imagination into the spiritual aspect of our lives, into the deepest and most sacred aspects of our very self and soul? My quick answer: We are passionate, connected, and deeply moved by any and everything that touches our hearts and others’.

All of this is on my mind because I just completed the final edits on one of the chapters in my upcoming book (which still feels strange and amazing to say…and…if you’re keeping up with the countdown, will be published on 10.3./23). It’s the story of a woman who is desperate for Jesus to heal her daughter. Rather than just doing so, he is incredibly rude. (I don’t know how else to explain it.) He says things that are both dismissive and derogatory. Nevertheless, she persists. She demands. She will not be deterred. And in the end, he heals the girl because of the woman’s faith, a mother who fiercely loved.

As you might imagine, endless effort has been extended over the years to rationalize Jesus’ behavior — everything from naming his responses as a sophisticated rhetorical device to saying that he was *merely* testing her faith. Bullshit. (Sorry.)

No question about it: this is an incredibly confusing and unsettling story. But what if we stopped trying to make it fit some rubric of sensibility and instead, saw it as expansive opportunity to imagine something different, something more, something profoundly sacred? What if we let go of the demand for solid answers when it comes to things-spiritual? It’s almost as though we can’t allow the divine to be anything other than perfect. We’re nervous about tarnishing God’s image. Which, ironically and ridiculously, assumes that it’s up to us to maintain! What if the sacred, in any and every form, can handle its own PR? Imagine that!

OK. I digress. Well, not completely. This is my point, after all.

What happens when our imagination is no longer encouraged, even allowed as it relates to our spirituality? We cannot handle ambivalence or contradiction or complexity (all of which, in my personal opinion, are the stuff of life almost all of the time).

And what happens when we reintroduce imagination into the spiritual aspect of our lives? Even into the sacred stories that we’d often far-prefer to leave behind? We can handle so. much. more. We can feel so. much. more. Our spirituality becomes so. much. more.

Here’s the so. much. more. that shows up for me when I give myself free reign to imagine this story (and the divine/sacred) in new ways:

  • I imagine a god to and with whom I can actually relate when all requirement of perfection disappears.
  • I imagine a spirituality in which I can argue, fuss, and fight for what I most deeply desire and deserve.
  • I imagine a life that is like this woman’s: passionate and heartfelt and persistent and alive and awake and deeply, deeply committed.
  • I imagine an experience of the sacred that is shaped by the stories of the women — their voices, their lives, their faith.

Even this cursory imagining spins me into a million more imaginings beside. Every one of which feel sacred and spiritual and divine and real and true and worthwhile. Now that I think of it, it feels a lot like the novels I poured through this week. Immersive. Impossible to put down. Transported. Transformed.

Mmmmm. As it should be, yes? As we would want and hope and intend when it comes to the deepest and most sacred aspects of our very self and soul… I thought about taking this further, but then thought again. Your imagination (and thought) is way more interesting and what matters. So, I hope you’ll do just that! Imagine. Imagine. Imagine!

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All the wisdom you’ll ever need…

May 27, 2022 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I recently (re)watched The Matrix. It’s one of my favorites, to be sure. Even so, I’d forgotten about the Oracle.

She’s an aging woman in an apron who bakes cookies while she smokes cigarettes, tssk-tssk’s at various things, makes jokes, and surreptitiously, almost nonchalantly supplants her wisdom into Neo’s mind.

This wisdom of hers — its transference — hardly seemed spectacular, but that made it no less true. It was what eventually enabled Neo to step into his role in profound and world-saving ways.

We often wish for an Oracle, don’t we?

We’d like to be able to sit at the feet of wise and beautiful crones, soaking up their wisdom, asking them questions, getting their advice, reveling in their presence, and hearing exactly the words we need in order to be compelled into our future, our destiny, our life’s work in profound and world-saving ways.

Believe it or not, I have an Oracle.

Actually, I have lots of them. Countless women who surround and support; and who, when I’m willing to listen, tell me what I most need to hear.

So do you.

Let me introduce you to just one of them.

She lived in a time long, long ago, or maybe it was yesterday, or maybe it is yet to come.

84 years old at the time of this particular story, she had lived countless stories beforehand. Married only seven years until her beloved had died, she sought solace and refuge in the only place she could find: the temple. And every night and day since, she’d never left; endlessly worshipping, fasting, and praying.

People came and went. Sacred feasts. Sacrifices. Praises uttered. Alms given. Baby boys consecrated and circumcised. Some parents looked away while others looked for miracles. But all of them came seeking. She could see it in their faces. She could feel it in their souls. And she both knew and had what they sought. But rarely was she asked, so rarely did she tell.

Until one particular day.

She spotted the couple immediately — walking through the maze of activity and din of noise. And she saw Simeon, the old priest, talk with them as he held up their son for all to see. Their son. She saw him.

Time stood still. Silence enveloped. Everything stopped.

Words came from deep within her. She hadn’t anticipated them, hadn’t rehearsed them, hadn’t thought them through in advance. She didn’t need to. The deepest truths require none of this.

*****

Were you to ask her what she said that day, she would tell you it was only one thing, just a small thing, and just the right thing…

In The Matrix, after all the build-up and anticipation of what the Oracle would say to Neo, it came down to this:

“I wanna tell you a little secret. Being the One is just like being in love. No one needs to tell you you are in love. You just know it, through and through.”

The prophetess Anna said almost exactly the same thing.

What she saw and named in that child so long ago, was no different than what the Oracle named in Neo. That young boy held within all he would ever need. Full of the divine spark. A birthright of wisdom. Profoundly gifted. Whole and complete. The sacred in our midst. On the planet for a distinct purpose. And his only work, just like hers, would be to live what he already knew, through and through.

Anna whispers (and sometimes shouts) the same to you:

“You hold within all you will ever need. You are full of the divine spark. You have a birthright of wisdom. You are profoundly gifted. You are whole and complete. You are the sacred in our midst. You are on the planet for a distinct purpose. And your only work is to live what you already know, through and through.”

It’s not a secret: this deep, before-the-dawn-of-time, Oracle-like wisdom that this prophetess (or any wise woman) holds and offers. It is simply and profoundly this:

You already know, through and through.

That’s it.

Your wish for the wisdom of the (s)ages and the seeress, the accumulated brilliance of all women throughout time, and certainly Anna’s, is encapsulated in these few words. This one sentence. All that you will ever seek, everything you long to find, the only thing you will ever need.

You already know, through and through.

So sit at the feet of any and all women you can find. Soak up every word they have to offer. And realize that all of them, every one, whether mythic, legendary, archetypal, or even apron-wearing-cookie-baking-cigarette-smoking, will tell you the same thing:

You already know, through and through.

There is only one catch: you have to believe that it’s true.

May it be so.

*****

I write a long-form letter every week. Aptly named Monday Letters. I’d love for you to have it…from my heart to yours. SUBSCRIBE.

About peanut butter, shame, and old stories

May 13, 2022 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I was journaling the other morning and flashed on a memory from close to 50 years ago…

I snuck into the kitchen when I knew my mom wasn’t there, opened the fridge, and got myself a spoonful of peanut butter — then devoured it and disposed of any evidence before I got caught. This was hardly the only time I took on such stealth activity related to food; this scene is an amalgamation of countless such moments. 

So, the questions you might be asking are these:

  1. Why did she need to sneak in the first place? What was wrong with having a spoonful of peanut butter?
  2. Why did she know to anticipate shame, if caught? What about the shame she felt in getting away with what was not allowed?

My behavior was hardly limited to peanut butter, nor did it end when I was young. I can conjure up memory after memory in which I was convinced that I needed to hide my behavior. Yes, around food, but also money, sex, anything not deemed “good” or “right.” And it persists. 

I am now 61 years old, have been in years of therapy and spiritual direction, am deeply familiar with self-reflection, have grown in profound ways, and am far, far from that young girl in a small dairy town in Eastern Washington. Somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter. All of these core fears and beliefs remain. No, they don’t hold the same power they once did, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t present, functioning, and often running roughshod.

How about a current example: 

When I order something on Amazon, both of my daughters receive a confirmation email. If they click on “details,” they instantly know what is coming my way. As you might imagine, this is distinctly problematic around birthdays and Christmas, but above/beyond those obvious and appropriate “secrets,” here’s what happens within me: I actually think about what I’m going to purchase (or not) based on my anticipation of their response.

I know! It sounds completely crazy. Cuz it is!! It doesn’t function as powerfully as it once did. I don’t give it a ton of credence. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still there. The pattern persists — and remains — at a DNA-level, it seems:

  • what I want is disallowed or “wrong”
  • not getting caught or hiding is my response
  • shame is a given

It would be really, really easy for me to launch into the story of Eve right now — all the ways in which that telling (not the story itself) has created and reinforced why I feel this way; why you probably do, as well.

There’s another story I want to tell instead. Back to the other morning, my journaling, and the remembered story of the stealth peanut butter…

As is my ritual, I type for about 45 minutes and then draw a card from my deck — just to see what woman/story/wisdom might show up on my behalf and speak to what I’ve written up to that point. The card I turned over? 

I swear: I can’t make this up.

The Unaccused Woman

Do you know her story? If you have heard of her, she’s been called The Woman Caught in Adultery. I despise this “name” for a myriad of reasons: she continues to be objectified, the man is not responsible at all, her “sin” is our focus, it perpetuates the belief that a woman’s desire is dangerous…I could go on and on.

So, I’ve renamed her The Unaccused Woman. Here’s the gist:

Jesus was traveling from town to town, drawing larger and larger crowds — much to the dismay of the religious leaders and teachers. In order to trap him, they brought a woman before him and said, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?” He bent over and wrote in the dust with his finger as they kept demanding an answer. Finally he stood up and said, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone.” Then he returned to drawing in the dirt. When her accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one until only Jesus and the woman were left in the midst of the crowd. He said to her, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?” “No, Lord,” she said. He replied, “Neither do I.” 

This story makes mine about peanut butter (or money or sex or Amazon purchases) seem relatively inconsequential. But we have much in common — this woman and me (and you). Centuries and centuries have spoken of her sin. Centuries and centuries have guessed about what he was drawing in the dirt. Centuries and centuries have pondered and preached and pontificated about “he who is without sin throw the first stone.” Centuries and centuries have made this story about his power to forgive. Centuries and centuries have assumed she was guilty — and just “lucky” that Jesus happened along to save her. 

What has not been spoken of, asked, or considered (at least not nearly enough) is who she was in the first place, let alone who she became when all the old stories suddenly disappeared, when she was seen without shame, when she stepped into an expanse of grace. And we’ve certainly not asked what wisdom she longs to offer on our behalf when we find ourselves caught in old stories, reeling in shame (imagined or real), and repeating old patterns that no longer serve.

Perhaps it’s time we did. It’s what she deserves. It’s what we deserve — and desire and need! Whether it has anything to do with peanut butter, or not. 

“It helps me to be in conversation with the women who have gone before us because understanding the past illuminates how we got to where we are and how we might walk a brighter path into the future.” ~ Elizabeth Lesser, Cassandra Speaks

What might she say to you today, knowing what she knows?

The shadows are not your home; step into the light.

Imagine if this was the refrain, the over-arching truth, the wisdom that was inculcated into you from the earliest age. Imagine if her voice was the one you heard in bedtime stories, read in your favorite books, sang of in houses of worship…

You do not need to sneak. You do not need to hide. And you do not need to feel shame. Every part of you is wanted, allowed, and welcomed. Walk through your days in full expression of your desire, your wants, your opinions, your hopes, your emotions, your beliefs. Those hints of accusation, the possibility of risk, the fear of being caught? Never deserved, never appropriate, never yours to take on. And the shadows? They are not where you belong. So now, at last, step into the light and stay there. Stand in the spotlight, center stage, visible and glorious — making your own choices: wise, full-of-desire, and sovereign. It’s time. I am with you.

You are draped with dignity and grace. 

Imagine if this was the blessing spoken over you at birth, repeated at each meal, whispered as prayer while someone soothed your brow and tucked you in at night…

See yourself as I do — robed in velvet, beautiful beyond compare, shoulders back, strength revealed, no questions asked. And in moments and seasons when this vision feels far away, almost impossible, ask yourself: “What does dignity look like right now?” “What does grace feel like right now?” Both are givens. Both are yours. These two — as faithful companions — offer you a way of being that eliminates shame (by self or others), reminds you of who you truly are, and removes all judgment and fear. This IS who you are. Always. From the beginning of time and still today. No matter what. I promise.

Freedom and strength define you.

Imagine if this was reinforced at every turn, repeated in every moment of doubt, tattooed on your heart, the index card on your mirror, the magnet on your fridge…

Freedom defines you — not second guessing or holding back or being small of staying silent or enduring shame. Freedom defines you — so choose, and choose, and choose again: what you want, what you desire, what you believe in, what you know. Freedom defines you — not a man or a job or a culture or your social media numbers. Strength defines you — not compliance or compromise or peace-making or your bank statement. Strength defines you — so risk and speak and give and love. Strength defines you — in the most fierce and tender of ways. Knowing you have complete freedom is what gives you strength. Trusting in your strength is what gives you freedom. Both are yours. By divine right. By inheritance. As impossible-to-ignore truth. You are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

My experience as a young girl is a small story. Not hugely significant, necessarily. But it offers me a glimpse into so many more stories that were yet to come — and still do. The peanut butter itself is not the cause or to blame; rather, it’s a symptom (and a source of discernment/wisdom) of something far larger, older than time, in my bloodstream…and in yours. 

We have been trained to see ourselves at fault, the ones to blame, deserving of being drug into the center of town and stoned. We assume that pursuing what we want — from the smallest thing to the largest — is going to get us into trouble…or cause it for others. We are fairly certain that we will somehow, some way, be punished. And in truth — every bit of this is all-too-often true! We’re not imagining it or making it up! Centuries and centuries have taught us these lessons, we’ve experienced their pain ourselves, and we’ve certainly witnessed them in others. 

Which is why a story like The Unaccused Woman matters so much. Which is why paying attention to the seemingly-smallest of stories in our own lives matters so much.

“You may think these stories are the stuff of ‘once upon a time’ and have nothing to do with you or your times. But ‘once upon a time’ is now, because the past is laced into the present on the needle and thread of stories.” ~ Elizabeth Lesser, Cassandra Speaks

Indeed. 

I hope you will pay attention to your own memories, that you’ll wonder about what they invite, and maybe even listen to the voice and wisdom of an ancient, sacred woman from long ago who has so much to say, so much to offer, and who longs for so much on your behalf. 

And definitely eat peanut butter by the spoonful!!

I write a letter every week — and email it every Monday morning. I’d love for you to have it: my thoughts, truth-telling, not skimming the surface. From my heart to yours. SUBSCRIBE.

See yourself as a miracle

Oct 1, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

When I was 8 or 9, my newborn sister went into the hospital. I don’t remember the details. I don’t remember ever visiting her there. I don’t even remember what was diagnosed. What I do remember is seeing my mother cry for the first time. She and my father stood in a corner of the living room — her shoulders hunched over as she shed close-to silent tears; his arms around her — trying to console. And I vaguely remember one of them telling me that Lorri was sick.

I can imagine they would have done anything remotely possible to have her back. I can imagine that their desperation would have driven them to cling to the smallest of options. And I am certain that they prayed — asking for her healing, longing for a miracle.

There’s an ancient story told of a father and his daughter. She was only 12 years old and dying. Desperate, the father went in search of a healer he’d heard rumor of, then begged him to come back to his home and heal his girl. As they set out together, messengers arrived saying, “Don’t bother the teacher any longer; she has already died.” The healer paid no attention, saying, “Don’t be afraid, only believe.”

When they arrived at the man’s home, there was nothing but confusion and wailing. Again the healer spoke: “The child is not dead — she is only sleeping.” When people started making fun of him, jeering at what he’d said, he sent them all away and went into her room — along with three of his disciples and her mother and father. He took her by the hand and said, ““Little girl, get up!” She got up at once and started walking around.

I imagine her skipping out of her room and into the crowd of people, all smiles, oblivious to both their shock and overwhelming joy. She probably asked for a snack and then wanted to go play with her friends. Just like that — all was as it should be.

She was a living, breathing miracle. From the age of 12 and for the rest of her life, this would have been her identity — the way in which she was known by others, the way in which her parents would have seen her, what would have been whispered about her as she walked down the street, grew, lived her life. In some ways, we might guess this was a burden to bear: others expect too much of you; an average life will not suffice.

What if she had a different perspective? What if being a miracle was what opened her up to a life of possibility and joy and expanse? And what if that’s exactly what she offers you today?

*****

Yes, you.

Imagine it. Dream big. Dig deep. Ask yourself: If I believed I was a miracle, I would…

Every answer that shows up is your wisdom speaking; your desire, your heart, your longing, your truth. And you can trust it. Because you are a miracle. Now…to believeing it and being it!

May it be so.

In tribute to Mary Oliver

Jan 21, 2019 | Sacred Stories, Writing

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.