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Unraveling “small” on behalf of “big”

Jan 6, 2021 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power

We must learn to be big in a way we’ve never been big – we must claim our right to take up space, to say our words, to claim our desires. We must also learn to be small in a way we’ve never been small – to be in service, led not by our egos or by our desire for material goods or by our fears and aversions, but by our desire to be liberated from these things. And we must do both at the same time. 

I immediately highlighted this quote while reading Holly Whitaker’s book, Quit Like A Woman. I “mmm-hmm’d” out loud. And her words dropped right into my center. You’ve had those experiences, yes? You hear something, read something, see something, and you just know it is deeply, powerfully true. (This happened multiple times throughout: my highest of recommendations!)

We must learn to be big in a way we’ve never been big….We must also learn to be small in a way we’ve never been small… 

Let’s be honest. That first phrase inspires us: We must learn to be big in a way we’ve never been big. ”YES!” we shout to the Universe as we sit up a little taller and feel a little stronger. That second phrase? We must also learn to be small. I’m quite certain it’s on-purpose that it’s named after the first. I’m also quite certain that for most of us, it got our attention, our acknowledgement, and our (re)commitment. No “YES!”, but a resigned awareness, a heavy sigh, and shoulders that slump just the tiniest, imperceptible bit.

So why the different response to each? Both matter – big and small. We hardly disagree with Whitaker’s words.

Here’s why:

Being small is what we default to. It’s what we know to do. It’s what we’ve been conditioned to do our whole lives as girls-then-women. True, at its best, it is a good and lovely thing: to serve, to extend compassion, to put others before ourselves, to tamp down our own desires on behalf of something larger, better, and “other” than us. In many ways, it’s a marker of growth and maturity – this ability and willingness to intentionally choose the higher good over our own.

But…

(You knew one was coming, right?)

We are so good at this that we’ve lost sight of what happens when the “higher good” isn’t anything close and instead, we’re choosing anything and everyone over ourselves, most often without even being aware that it’s happening.

I learned this lesson well growing up and, let me be clear, with the best of intentions; nothing about it was overtly malicious or maligned. You probably learned it, too – among many other things, the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.

My mom had a series of hand motions she taught me so that I could remember. It was like putting on a glove – each word being the slightest tug onto a finger until finally it was completely in place:

Do – thumb
unto – index finger
others – middle finger
as – ring finger
you – pinky finger; then turning your hand around to the other side…
would – pinky finger
have – ring finger
others – middle finger
do – index finger
unto – thumb
you – gently pull the glove down completely, smoothing it out and over your wrist

Translated: be good, be kind, be generous, put others first (because, of course, you want them to put you first…which, oddly, they never seem to do). Don’t gossip, don’t be mean, don’t hit, don’t lie, don’t hurt anyone’s feelings (because, of course, you don’t want them to hurt yours, even though, apparently, they didn’t get the same mnemonic device or memo that I did). And the outcome of this? We become small. The motivation was pure; but over time, it became the very way in which we were diminished and, too often, destroyed – one word, one finger, one glove, one “do unto others” at a time. We look up – now in our teens or twenties or thirties or forties or fifties or sixties (you get the idea) – and wonder how, where, and when we disappeared.

We’ve gotten so good at these behaviors, at being small, that we’ve defined ourselves by their presence and consistency, shamed ourselves when we’ve fallen short, and lost ourselves in the process. 

 

Which is why Holly Whitaker also says this:

Perhaps before we can learn to be both big and small at the same time, we first have to learn to be big…I’ve had to learn to get big, in order to practice being small. 

…practice being small.

This is what we need where small is concerned. Most of us don’t actually know how to be small in ways that don’t consume us or find us constantly complying and compromising. We need to learn.

What if small doesn’t mean losing space or strength or power or voice? What if small doesn’t mean sacrificing self? What if small doesn’t mean apologizing or taking the back burner or being patient (yet again)?

If any of these things are true (note: all of them are), then Whitaker is right: we need lots of practice.

…we first have to learn to be big.

(It’s my next blog post, I promise.)

 

I have learned that before I can even hope to step into new ways of being, big ways of being, sovereign ways of being, I have to unravel and deconstruct my known ways, my common ways, the part of me that feels like DNA. I have to look under the rug and into the dark corners of my mind. I have to be willing to acknowledge (without shame) the lessons I’ve incorporated over a lifetime – from whom and why – and then begin playing those tapes s l o w l y forward – watching each scene unfold. I must look at individual narratives (those I’ve been told and those I tell myself), watch myself within them, and with massive grace, begin-and-continue-to understand how I’ve become who I am.

I have done a lot of this in the past twenty years. It’s not been easy or simple – this thread-by-thread, story-by-story unraveling of all that’s made me who I am.

 

I go through seasons in which I take up either knitting or crocheting – another thing my mom taught me. I love the practice of it, the experience, the rhythm, the calm. It comes to mind right now – as it relates to unraveling.

If I’m crocheting and I spot a mistake I can quickly unravel to that point and nothing is at risk. The yarn and loops and twists all stay in place when you crochet. It only unravels when I unravel it – with little-to-no risk. Unlike knitting…

When I spot a mistake while knitting I now have to make a very difficult decision: do I fix it, or not? To unravel means that I have to painstakingly unloop each stitch and, simultaneously, put its predecessor back on the needle. I can’t pull too hard. I can’t stop in-process. If I succumb to my frustration or impatience, it can’t be salvaged.

Here’s the thing: I often choose crocheting because of this very reason. It’s far easier – both to fix and to finish! But were I given the choice of a completed blanket or sweater or scarf (that someone else made for me), I’d choose something knitted. It is more complex. It is more smooth. It is more elegant. It is more beautiful, at least to my eye.

My life is not crocheted. Nor is yours. We’re knitted together. And to unravel that knitting, those stories, those DNA-level lessons, is precarious work indeed, not to be taken lightly, and requires great intention, patience, and care – as well as a deep commitment to the value of the fixand the finished “product” we’re working toward.

To step into the life we long to live – to be big, we must claim our right to take up space, to say our words, to claim our desires. But that cannot happen, at least at full capacity and glory and amazing-ness, until we understand why “small” feels far more natural, far easier. We must understand why it has been required of us – even demanded (hint: patriarchy). To be big, we must unravel our stories of small. Then we can begin (re)creating; row after row of experiences and decisions and characteristics and ways of being that are informed by how small (at least as we’ve been trained to understand and express it) has not done us enough favors, what being big requires of us, and who we are when we can finally choose both.

 

*****

 

The word I use for all of this – the work of becoming all of who you are, stepping into your deep and inherent wisdom, demonstrating strength, and extending yourself (and others) grace along the way is SOVEREIGNTY.

If you’re intrigued by this conversation, want more of it, and are committed to being 100% yourself, 100% of the time (big AND small), I’d love for you to join my Facebook Group. Let’s do this together.

[Photo by Marina Ermakova on Unsplash]

Why Stories Matter

Dec 16, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Writing

We live in a world of stories. Childhood fairytales shape our dreams and hopes. Family legends, imparted over kitchen table conversation, at reunions, and during road-trips, build our memory and craft our beliefs. Historical narratives inform our understanding of culture, politics, our larger world. Film, music, literature, and poetry mysteriously and continuously
speak to our deepest heart – communicating truths we implicitly know and others we long to grasp. And then there is the media…

Stories serve the way in which we are able to make sense of our world, our relationships, our behaviors, everything. They are how we speak of our circumstances, our deepest emotions, and our biggest questions; how we create and apply meaning. And they connect us to one another, bridging differences in language and perspective, time and place, past and future.

Most of us acknowledge that it’s less about a particular story and more about story, itself. It is the device, the vehicle, the means through which we express, listen, and even participate in our own life and others’. We admit (and even enjoy) that most stories, when told over and over again, not only shift and morph over time, but take on a life of their own.

The fish gets a little bigger, the storm gets a little wilder, the love gets a little stronger, our bravery or disappointment gets a little exaggerated in the telling over time. There is creative tension in story. When we hear it, when we read it, when we speak it, when we write it, we filter words through our own experiences and our need for meaning. We shape the tale to reinforce our understanding of how life is. ~ Christina Baldwin

This is what we love about them. This is why we tell them. This is why we live our lives within them. This is the power of story.

But when it comes to the stories in Scripture, something implicitly and explicitly changes.

Our claws come out and our defenses go up. Or maybe we just shut down. Though told for thousands of years, these particular tales have taken on a life that is not their own. Instead, they have been claimed and co-opted, parsed and paraphrased, interpreted and indoctrinated. Now, seen as either sacrosanct and inviolable or completely irrelevant, it’s no wonder we struggle to hear or tell these powerful narratives in beautiful, meaningful, and truth-filled ways.

Frankly, it is this very tension that keeps me connected to them, working with them, and yes, telling them. Believe me, I feel the pull every single day: the embedded and assumed doctrine that permeates their pages and the deep, rich, yet-to-be-mined wisdom within; the patriarchal God I seek to escape and the shockingly kind, compassionate, and feminine one who pursues me. Further, I am not willing to let our collective seen and felt tension, our theological arguments, our political agendas, our denominational differences, or even our general ambivalence allow us to drift and fall apart when I know that stories (even these stories) are what bring and hold us together. More than all else, I cannot bear to let the stories I love, stories of women, drift and fall away. To even contemplate such a possibility completely breaks my heart.

Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language — this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable. ~ Adrienne Rich

It matters, perhaps more than most else in my life, that these sacred stories not become unspeakable; rather, that they rise up in power and strength, relevance and meaning. And I don’t know how to make that happen without just continuing to tell them – one at a time, even to one person at a time.

Are there days in which I long to abandon the lot of them and talk about something else?

Absolutely. Are there other days in which I wish I long to stand atop a mountain and command entire swaths of civilization to listen to me? Most definitely. Are there more days in which I long to sit in even the smallest, most intimate of gatherings, hands clasped around warm mugs of coffee, and tell you tales of amazing women? All the time.

Here’s why: underneath all the doctrine and dogma are women whose stories have changed me women’s stories; stories and women who change me still.

Nearly every day, whether in the most mundane or significant of circumstances, I think of one or another of them. They come into my mind and heart. And I imagine, consider, and wholeheartedly accept every ounce of wisdom they offer, every word they speak, every strain of strength and solace they sing into me. They are that present, that real, that relevant, that powerful.

Living in the in-between

Apr 17, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Once upon a time, long before women had volition or will as to who they married, a search commenced for the perfect wife. A servant was sent out – commanded to find a bride, but only from particular tribes, with particular lineage, holding particular pedigree. Perplexed as to how this would ever happen he prayed. “O God of my master, please give me success today. I will stand by this spring as the young women of the town come out to draw water. I will ask one of them, ‘Please give me a drink.’ If she says, ‘Yes, have a drink, and I will water your camels, too!’ let her be the one I am to select…”

As the story goes, this is exactly what happened. As she finished speaking the words he had hoped to hear, he adorned her with a gold ring for her nose and two gold bracelets. She took the servant to her family. Negotiations ensued with her father who finally asked her: “Are you willing to go with this man?” She replied, “Yes, I will go.”

The servant began the long journey back to his master with this young woman in tow. One particular evening, after days of traveling, she looked up and said, “Who is that man walking through the fields to meet us?” The servant replied, “It is my master.” She covered her face with her veil as the servant told his master the story of how he had found her. And the text says, “Isaac brought Rebekah into his tent and she became his wife. He loved her deeply…” ~ from Genesis 24

Tell the truth. Even if only for a brief moment, don’t you feel desire stir? The part of you that wishes her story was yours. But if you’re anything like me, that quickly passes, you heave a heavy sigh, and you hear the resigned internal response that says, “Forget it. That only happens in other people’s stories. After all, you’re not the answer to the craziest of prayers. You’re not recognized as the perfect woman. You’re not being adorned with expensive jewelry. And let’s be honest: there are no camels anywhere in sight! What could her story possibly have to do with yours?”

In one swift movement – from desire to cynicism – the in-between is bypassed.

How convenient.

Want some more examples?

  • I could step into my strength, my power, my amazing-ness, but no one will be strong enough to handle it. Better to play small.”
    “Sure, I could write the book and it would be fabulous, but I’m certain no one will buy it. Why bother?
  • Yes, I do have an amazing business idea, but it won’t make enough money to support me. I’d be foolish to even start.
  • Of course, I could tell the truth in my marriage/relationship/job, but it will create way too much trouble. I’ll just suck it up – again.
  • It’s true, I could clean the house / get my eyebrows waxed / exercise, but I’ll just make a mess / have to wax them again / quit. There’s no point.

Brilliantly, this pattern grants carte blanche permission to hold back, not risk, not do. We stay stuck. We leap to the ending we want, witness it in others, assume it won’t be ours, and then wonder why our story doesn’t go the way we had hoped or planned.

Lest you think I’m preaching here, know with complete certainty that this has been my reality more times than I care to count – or admit. The narrator in my brain tells me incessantly that I want too much, that I am too much, that less would be better, smarter, and far less rife with certain disappointment. I stop before I start. And even worse, I get irritated at the stories around me that I want for my own – like Rebekah’s.

Unless…I look at her in-between.

Here’s what I believe: Far before we were invited into her tale, she had learned, loved, lost, tried, failed, laughed, grieved, and then some. Far before she was discovered, wooed, adorned, and loved she was generous, brave, strong, and courageous. Far before she was chosen by the servant and then by Isaac, she had chosen herself; she knew and believed herself to be worthy of love; worthy, period. How could anything else be true? It was all of this – and so much more – that created the perfect and seemingly coincidental circumstances at the well. Far before that day ever came, she was doing the work, living her life, dwelling in her in-between.

There is no other way.

And this is one of the many reasons why I love her story (and those of so many other ancient, sacred women). She calls me back to what’s most true about stories; most true about mine:

After once-upon-a-time and before happily-ever-after there’s a whole lot of in-between.

When I can see this in Rebekah’s story, I can begin to see it in my own. I can stay put instead of wishing. I can choose hope over resignation. I can do the good, hard, ongoing work of being the protagonist in my own story. The one I’m in this day, not someday. I can be strong and powerful and amazing. I can write the book. I can build the business. I can have the hard conversation(s). And I can maybe even clean the house / wax my eyebrows / exercise (though admittedly, some days, those seem about as probable as watering camels). I can live my in-between.

So can you.

Turn your attention from the outcome and fix your gaze on the in-between. Trust that the day-in, day-out work of living, hoping, choosing, risking, being, makes a difference far beyond what you can imagine; that you are writing a story worth being told.

And for the times in which you’re tempted by cynicism more than compelled by desire, listen to Rebekah. She’ll gladly and graciously remind you of her in-between and yours; of who you are: her daughter, her lineage, her kin.

See how amazing your story is already? Wow!

May it be so (with or without the camels).

The Stunning Story that is Yours

Mar 23, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I see the tears behind your eyes. I know about the lump in your throat. I hear the thoughts that swirl in your mind. Every single one of them. Longing for things to change, wishing for different circumstances, wanting to live a more significant story.

In-between the reality in which you dwell and the one you desire, I know about the ache that will not be soothed, despite your best attempts – whether through good soul work or dulling dissociation.

I watch as you persist in the belief that there is something missing; something you’ve yet to attain or manage or get past/through before you can truly step into your place in this world, before you can step into the stunning story that is yours.

All of this breaks my heart on your behalf.

Because I know better. Because I can see the end from the beginning. Because I have perspective you do not. Because I can see exactly who you are, all that you offer and invite.

Right now, not someday. This very moment in time.

Who am I, you ask? I have been in existence since before the beginning of time. I was there when the earth was formed. I breathed your matrilineage into being, whispering the Wisdom that was hers, that has forever been hers. My heart beats within every story of every woman who has ever lived. And I endure no matter the oppression, the silencing, the abuse, the fear. Nothing and no one can keep me down. Not even you.

I am the you that rises above all that restricts, restrains, limits, or binds. I am the crystal clear voice that may, as yet, not speak out loud, but that is no less real, wise, and right. I am your potential. I am your future. And more than all else, I am your present – right here, right now, exactly this day, this life, this you. Always. Endlessly. Infinitely.

Lean into the truth of this. Let the tears flow in relief. Let the lump in your throat dissolve as your voice sings out. Let the thoughts that swirl rest. You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. And you need not wait for things to change. Your right-now story is enough, perfect, amazing. You are.

You can trust me: there is nothing you need figure out or rise above. All that you require, desire, and deserve is already yours. Reach within. Rise up. Then step into the limelight, enter the fray, and embrace the truth of who you are: my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

*****

I am completely-and-without-reservation convinced of every word I’ve written above.

They could be are spoken by every one of the ancient, sacred women whose stories I love; by the Sacred Feminine herself. Easier said than done to accept, but no less yours, mine, ours to claim. Legacy by which to be transformed; the stunning story through which we will transform the world.

May it be so.

Imagination and then some…

Feb 21, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

Imagination is a wonderful, healing, redeeming, strengthening, transformative thing.

I spend a lot of my time in this act, this work, this calling – the privilege of imagining. How lucky am I?

The stories I tell, the stories I love, are filled with imagination. It’s true! Even the stories of women in Scripture. Oh! Wait! Had you heard something else? Like they are actually carved in stone? Oh, well there’s (at least part of ) the problem! They’re not! Like any story, they are fluid, ever-changing, moving, shape-shifting, and offering meaning to their hearer through the lens of their teller.

First told ’round camp fires and in caves, the oral tradition carried their truth through the generations. Later, carved in stone (OK. I admit it: this part is true), then written on scrolls, then translated and transcribed (and imagined) again and again. Printed. Organized. Argued and fought over. And translated even more. Even still, their significance survives: in art, in poetry, in prose, in song. Ancient, sacred stories infused with imagination.

Though many have walked away (if not run screaming into the dark) because of the ways in which these stories have become doctrine have become dogma have become dogmatism, I am not willing to do so.

Because they were reimagined and retold again and again, in ever- changing ways, I can do the same. I get to do the same.

I began to figure this out while in Seminary – not the most common place in which one uses imagination. As part of my M.Div. degree I was required to take a year of Hebrew and another of Greek. I don’t remember a bit of either, but I will never forget what I learned through them: this whole translation thing is SUPER subjective. Always has been. Always will be. And if that’s true (which it is), then I can translate and imagine and tell the stories just as well as the other guys (which yes, most of the time, have been and still are guys).

My imagination. My perspective. My telling.

When I imagine to my heart’s content, I am the one who is healed, redeemed, strengthened, and transformed.

Oh, the stories I could tell you of this; the myriad of ways in which these stories (and the women within them) have changed my life. But we’d be here for days…

“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” ~ Lewis Carroll

You may find it impossible to believe that the stories of women in Scripture could possibly still speak; more, could possibly speak to you (without the doctrine or dogma or dogmatism). I get that.

“Impossible!” you say. And, like the Queen, it is my honor to continually invite you to a world of imagination, maybe even belief, and most definitely hope. Maybe not before breakfast, but hey, I’m always up for a good challenge!

My hope(s) and endless imaginings for you?

  • That you would come to not just imagine, but know and believe that there are stories that long to be heard and known and experienced by you that will touch and embolden your heart.
  • That you would not just imagine, but know and believe that you are not alone; even more, realize that you are surrounded by an entire chorus of your matrilineage.
  • That you would not just imagine, but know and believe that your story matters.

May it be so.