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About Rest

In her book, Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto, Tricia Hersey says this:

“Rest is radical because it disrupts the lie that we are not doing enough. It shouts: ‘No, that is a lie. I am enough. I am worthy now and always because I am here.’”

It’s easier said than done . . . resting, disrupting the lie, believing that we are enough.

It’s the polar opposite of what the world promotes and pushes. It flies in the face of capitalism and hustle culture. It is radical. And it’s what I hunger for. Not just in terms of time, but deep within.

I’m asking myself some questions toward rest’s end. I hope they will serve you, as well:

  • Where do I feel the opposite of rest? What causes such, who causes such, and why do I persist in any of it? No shame. No pressure. Just awareness. (And rest.)
  • How might I choose rest as state-of-mind and way-of-being instead of succumbing to what others expect? WAY easier said than done, but it feels critical to growth and wholeness.
  • What are ways of being, practices, and rhythms that will call me home to myself, that give me permission to rest? No efforting. No harshness. Just curiosity and grace.

I fully intend to repeat Tricia Hersey’s words, again and again, “I am enough. I am worthy now and always because I am here.”

Deep breath.

Rest.

May it be so.

*****

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For now. Not forever.

I have felt more like a passive observer, than riled-up revolutionary since Donald Trump became president. Yes, I blogged the day of the election and the day after that. I have shared others’ videos and posts on Facebook. I participated in the women’s march. And I have engaged in deep and difficult conversations with clients, family, and friends. It’s hardly as though my head has been buried in the sand.

But somehow, it feels like it. No, that’s not quite it. It feels like that’s what you will think, that you will judge my reserved presence and restrained voice as willful, entitled, and privileged withdrawal, that I will not be seen and understood for who I am: a strong woman with passionate opinions, a good heart, and a powerful voice who chooses to not act and not
speak. For now. Not forever.

I am deeply distressed by Trump’s election, his rhetoric, his actions. But I am also deeply distressed by the social-media induced demand that I rise up and speak out; that if I do not, implicit and explicit shame is amply applied.

Believe me, I am all for rising up and speaking out! Rising up and speaking out have enabled the most significant aspects of my own change and transformation.

Rising up and speaking out are what I long for and invite in the lives of my readers, my clients, my friends, and my
daughters in every aspect of life – relationally, emotionally, professionally, creatively, physically, spiritually.

Rising up and speaking out are what women, in principal and by birthright deserve to do without fear of reprisal or consequence.

Rising up and speaking out are manifestations of the feminine at its
strongest and most fierce.

But so are standing still and being silent. In strike. In solace. In sadness. In solidarity. In the wake of all this election has threatened – the potential loss of freedoms, rights, and dignities that so many have fought so long to secure and uphold – may no collateral loss occur because we lose sight of that which cannot be taken from us, that which cannot be legislated, disavowed, or signed away by executive order: our strength and fierceness for one another – in all our complexity, difference, diversity, expression and sometimes even lack thereof.

I am not a passive observer. Whether I rise up like you, or don’t, speak out like you, or don’t, I am actively, tirelessly, and endlessly standing steadily and (for now) silently by your side – in advocacy, in loyalty, in hope, in love.

Forever. For you.

Inspiration Incarnate

I used to believe that the words, verses, chapters, and books of Scripture were composed by God – the writer’s hand merely the conduit for Divine Script.

All Scripture is God-breathed . . . ~ 2 Timothy 3:16a

Now I know them to be a human (albeit, inspired) attempt to sustain an oral tradition of signifocant narratives that defined a particular people within a particular culture within a particular time.

We write to remember our nows later. ~Terri Guillemets

Still, I wish I could return to my earlier belief. Maybe it’s the mystery. Maybe it’s the miraculous. Maybe it’s allowing for and trusting in something larger, something more powerful, Something, Someone, God.

And maybe, no, most definitely, it’s because I long for the same: I want my writing, my creativity, my articulated, expressed heart to be God-breathed.

Divine inspiration, please!

The work-work-work of writing can be tedious, to be sure, and often uninspired. In such times, the idea of a muse, a dæmon or genius, a creative sprite who inhabits me, even if only temporarily, and imbues me with mystery, miracle, and brilliant prose, sounds heavenly.

I ever wish for a Divine hand that can make sense of my jumbled thoughts, my tumbling heart, my endless hope, my cycling doubt. And to remind myself that I’m not crazy, I watch, yet again, Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk on the elusive creative genius. Her words are like communion wine: exactly the warming libation I need to press on; to be reminded that it is in the act and art of writing that I am connected to something larger, something more powerful, Something, Someone, God.

No matter what I believe (or don’t), here’s what I know: I want to dwell-without fighting in the mystery and miracle of text – sacred and my own. I want to be Divinely touched, through its stories and the writing of my own. I want to feel the igniting spark of the Divine flow through me, onto the keyboard, into my computer, and out to the world.

I also know this: the battle is epic. There are more days than not in which my angels and demons are at war with one another, in brain and heart. And truth-be-told, the demons often have the edge. I am tempted to despair, to doubt that anything worthwhile will ever move from my oft’ tormented brain into form or function, meaning or manuscript.

The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell whether he knows it or not. ~ Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

And then – mysteriously and miraculously – explainable as nothing other than God’s grace, I am reminded that I am not alone; that all creatives throughout all of time have fought the same fight and suffered the same wounds – maybe most certainly even those who wrote the Texts we now understand as the Divinely inspired Word of God. And that makes me feel a little bit better, breathe a little easier, and head back to the words imbued in that Text and the ones I form, create, collate, and offer.

Lastly (at least for now), I wonder if we are not, at least in part, that muse, that sprite, that hope and inspiration for one another. Because, of course, we are the carriers of the Divine Spark and the Divine Story. Our voices and hearts on behalf of one another are the very thing that remind us – whether writers or not – that our voices and our very selves matter.

We are inspiration incarnate.

Still and always a writer . . .

Just one quick phone call and my entire week’s schedule unexpectedly, miraculously, and graciously cleared. Upon hanging up, the very first thought that went through my mind was, “Ahhhhhh, writing.”

And yet, I struggle. My mind looks for nearly any glimmer of resistance, any shiny object, any distraction it can possibly find. 

I am, at once, distracted, impassioned, committed, flighty, determined, insecure, prolific, stuck, compelled. I am a writer.

Elegance & Crudeness

A quickly-composed and deeply-felt post in the middle of my day…

Despite all obstacles placed in my way, many of which I erected myself, I am writing today.

I am writing about the Divine Feminine.

My history in regards to such, misconceptions that abound, and ways in which She is experienced both within and without. I am writing about my own religious tradition and the ways in which even the uttering of Her name would have well been understood as heresy from the pit of hell. I am writing about the ways in which that has confused me for so many years. And I am writing about how my movement toward Her has invited me into expansiveness, empowerment, and faith beyond-compare.

As I write, I have been reflecting on words spoken by artist and activist Callahan McDonough:

“I look for that balance of elegance and crudeness in my work and the daily reference in the ‘doing’ of the work. My desire is for my work to be experienced out in the world, to make a difference that touches people’s lives.”

Yes, this.

There is a balance of both elegance and crudeness in writing. Even more, in life. When I allow for both, I then extend myself grace and forgiveness. When I allow for both, I am compelled to higher levels of creativity without incessant second guessing. When I allow for both, I find myself in a place where darkness does not overcome light, nor does shadow or resistance overwhelm.

I am writing today. About some of the hardest things: my own story, my own doubts, my own fears. But in each, allowing confidence and doubt, hope and despair, and yes, elegance and crudeness; the jumble of emotions, talents, insecurities, and stories that are me.

Oh, that we would live our lives in such a place: aware of the elegance and crudeness innate in us all – allowing for both and calling forth ever-more. What might we yet create? What might we yet imagine? What might we yet birth?

Yes, this: birth. The primary and original place in which elegance and crudeness coexist. The primary and original place in which women bring forth their innate and particular power. The primary and original place in which miracles occur and the Divine Feminine makes herself known. The primary and original place in which God is made manifest in the world. Elegant. Crude. Beautiful.

I’ll take more of that, please.