A Woman’s Fight

Oct 26, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

There’s an old, old story told of the patriarch, Jacob, who wrestled through the night with an angel-man, the Divine, God-revealed. Many say he won that fight, but I am not so sure. He demanded a blessing, was given a new name, and left with a limp that haunted him the rest of his life.

There is another old, old story told of a woman who wrestled with God. Not an angel version, but flesh-and-blood, the one they called Jesus. She stopped him on the road, created a scene, and begged him to heal her daughter. He said no. She said yes. He said no again – almost rude; patronizing, inexplicable. Like Jacob, she stood firm and demanded his yes, his blessing, the miracle. And finally Jesus gave in. She won the fight, no scar; only the spoils.

The man gets blind-sided, not anticipating a fight. He demands a blessing before he’ll let this God go. Received, but wounded. The woman doesn’t pick a fight, but enters the battle willingly. She demands the wound be healed, no battle scar allowed. Received, period.

The man fights until he gets the blessing and a bone out-of-socket. The woman does too, but for her very blood and bone.

The man fights for the principle of the thing. The woman fights for what she loves.

The man wants to know who he’s fighting with. The woman already knows with whom she duels.

The man heard God’s voice and still asked who he was dealing with. The woman used her own voice and knew who she was dealing with.

The man demanded a blessing and left with a limp (and a new name). The woman demanded a miracle and left with both heart and daughter healed (we never know her name).

Jacob’s story has been told as proof of his status and stature, a template for what it means to be a man of God: chosen, honored, worthy, a fighter. Buy ringside tickets. Place your bets. Be amazed.

Her story has been told far differently: Who did she think she was to argue with God; with a man? Incorrigible. Ridiculous. Unheard of.

Still, Jacob leaves with a lifelong wound.

She leaves with a life-restored.

May it be so.

What a Healed Woman Sounds Like

Oct 5, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Once upon a time there was a woman who had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had been treated by many a doctor, spending everything she had to pay them over the years, but never getting better. In fact, she had gotten worse. And so when she heard about the Healer, she knew she had to hope just one more time. She found him in the crowd, came up behind him, and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately her bleeding stopped, and she could feel that she had been healed of her terrible condition. Immediately the Healer realized that power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?” His disciples said to him, “Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” But he kept on looking around to see who had done it. Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:25-34)

The voice of a healed woman sounds a little something like this:

“You live so much of your life at varying levels of weakness. Not quite yourself. Not quite up to par. Not quite 100%. Not quite all-in. Making matters worse, you feel just on the outside, just on the edge, just on the margins. And you wait for someone else to invite you in. The invitation is yours to both extend and accept.

“You are the one who can offer yourself healing. You are the one who can offer yourself worth. You are the one who can move from not quite and just about to completely whole and all in.

“Push your way to the healing you long for. Do not listen to the crowd, the cacophony, the voices within and without. Do not pay attention to those who shame you, who will not look you in the eye, whose feet are more familiar than faces as you’ve been bent in pain, hindered in movement, not allowed in.

“Keep moving forward, knowing what you know, trusting what you feel, holding fast to your belief that healing awaits you, that wholeness is yours, that just one touch will enable this to be so.

“And when you reach out to grab for what is, by right, yours to have, do not shirk back. Stand and face your healer and healing eye-to-eye. Name what you have done. Acknowledge what you have believed. Stand. Stand. Stand.

“It’s not about the power another has to heal you. It’s about the faith you have to seek the healing you deserve. It’s not about the authority or granting another gives to you. It’s about the sheer determination and will you have to seek it for yourself.

You are the one with the power. You are the one with the will to push through. You are the one with the strength to persevere. You are the one with the touch that heals. You are the one that turns the very heart of the Divine with your plea, your will, your longing, your deserving, your determination, your strength, your desire.

“Yes, your desire. Just like mine. And ours, just like Eve’s. Of course.

“She reached for the fruit – her desire compelling her to trust that something more awaited her, that limits did not serve, that eyes opened were better than those closed. And like her, I did the same – my desire compelling me to trust that something more awaited me, that limits did not serve, that a body healed was better than one broken.

“Now you: reach for what you desire, trust that more awaits you, believe that limits do not serve, open your eyes, let your body lead you, and grab hold of all that will usher you into new worlds, new strength, new realms.

“What crowd of naysayers must you fight your way through to get to all you deserve and desire? What voices do you need to silence to leave the margins, enter the fray, and pursue strength? What limits do you need to surpass to stand tall, strong, healed, and whole? What crowds withhold? What rules bind? What dis-ease sickens? What hemorrhaging weakens? What despair consumes? What faith sustains and compels?

“And this question – the one that matters most: What healing do you desire?

“I already know. Wholeness and strength. The freedom to live, move, and be in expansive, miraculous ways. Causing crowds to part, skies to open, and angels to sing. An expression of sheer, raw faith, your faith in yourself, that causes the Divine Itself to stop in its tracks.

“All of this is already yours.”

May it be so.

Letting Go is NOT Falling Apart

Jul 13, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

A wise woman tells me she gets this strong sense that I am unable to really let go; like I’m afraid of letting my hair down. I hear her words, feel the lump in my throat (a marker that truth has been spoken), and in
my mind’s eye can already see the story, her story, the one I need to hear.

~~~~~

The town harlot. Marginalized, unseen, shamed, and scorned. And not one bit of that matters. Not to her. She leaves the margins and enters the fray – walking into a room full of men – the insiders, the censors, the judges, the jury. They look up from their feast, reclining interrupted by the shock of her presence. Head held high, she ignores every incredulous face, sidelong glance, and whisper of contempt. There’s only one goal, one guest, one man that matters. No amount of shame or scorn will stop her. She will be seen.

And she will not bow or scrape. Not today. She will stand. Eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to- toe with this God-man, this healer, this miracle worker, this Love enfleshed. Jesus.

So she did. Time slowed. Din silenced. Shame dissipated. Scorn dissolved. Only the two of them existed. And maybe this is what enabled her next move: the visceral and complete awareness that this moment and this man were all that mattered, that she mattered.

She let go.

She wept. So much that she rained down tears on his feet. Then, in front of all her accusers – those leaders, law enforcers, and rule-followers – she let down her hair. Literally. She opened an expensive perfume, an aromatic oil, the fragrance of which filled the room and confused the senses. She poured it on his feet, mixed it with her tears, and dried them with
her hair – her let-down hair.

She let go. Of ramifications, risk, (broken) rules, created ruckus.

She let go. Of their responses: unheard of! disallowed! scandalous! extravagant!

She let go. Of everything.

Because she knew she could. Because she knew she was safe. Because she knew she was seen. Because she knew she could not be stopped. Because she knew her own heart would not lead her astray. Because she knew…

And in letting go, she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

He spoke of her with such fierce love – condemning those who had not offered him even the smallest portion of what she had; who had stingily gripped their pride, their power, their position; who refused to let her anywhere near them (at least in daylight), let alone into these inner chambers; men who refused to let go.

“Truly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.”

~~~~~

But that has not happened. Not really.

Why would I think my story (or my telling of hers) would be any different?

~~~~~

I am not like her. I sit tight and hold back. I clench my teeth, my fists, the muscles in my neck. I won’t enter the room. I won’t take the risk. I won’t bear the ramifications. I brace myself for the scorn and shame. Because I’m convinced it’s coming.

I refuse to let go.

Letting go has meant being wanton, irresponsible, and foolish. Letting go has gotten me into trouble. Letting go has been what I’ve done when I have not held onto myself, and ultimately compromised myself. Letting go isn’t prudent. Letting go isn’t smart. Letting go might get me hurt.

Letting go has gotten me hurt.

~~~~~

What does this mean: “I can’t let go.” What am I holding on to? What am I unwilling to release? What do I fear will happen if I do? What do I grip so tightly? Why do I feel like I balance on tip-toes while a noose chafes my neck? What room won’t I enter? What faces will I not face? What old-tapes play?  What taboos am I unwilling to break? What tears do I refuse to shed? What expense do I spare? And all the while, what words and stories am I unable/unwilling to speak, to write, to live?

All these questions exhaust me. I dwell on the margins instead of entering the fray. The wise woman says to me, “It feels like oppression. Sacrificing words because someone made you feel like you’re not good enough or you don’t fit in or you’re too different. You’ve got to let go. Reflect on where those messages of perfectionism and being outside the norm come from. Then you can contain that energy and get out of your own way. The floodgates will open.”

Even this exhausts me (though it rings true). So much time spent trying to figure everything out, to understand my own psyche, to analyze my own stories, to endlessly push against the obstacles that refuse to let me pass.

~~~~~

She sings to me. She seduces. “You know my story is yours. You know the rooms that are yours to enter. You know the courage required. You know the focus, the intent, the determination with which you must move. You know of the whispered contempt, the shouted scorn (or at least your fear of such). You know who waits for you at the head of the table. You know of the tears you’d shed, the emotion you’d express, the offering you’d give, if your heart was exposed – and received. You know what’s true: this God allows, welcomes, and honors you. You know…”

I see her outstretched hand, her dazzling smile, her yet-glistening tears. “Here’s what I know,” she says. “You are extravagant. You are safe. You cannot be stopped. You know this. And you’re not alone. I am with you.”

~~~~~

Letting go is not falling apart.

It’s not falling, at all. Rappel, free-fall, skydive, stop worrying about the net beneath, leap, spread your Phoenix wings, fly. Of course.

~~~~~

Of course. I’ve written of her before. I know this! It was in letting go that she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

Her story and mine (and yours, as well) is about being a woman who risks and believes and has faith – in herself; who stands eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to-toe with the Divine and then makes the extravagant choice to pour out everything she has – because she can do no less.

Letting go is not less. It is more – the most – the best – and all I can ever hope to do; it is the fullest expression of who I am.

(And you, as well.)

May it be so.

Get Out of that Kitchen!

Dec 15, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

There is an ancient sacred story told of two sisters – Mary and Martha. It goes as follows:

As Jesus and the disciples continued on their way to Jerusalem, they came to a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. Her sister, Mary, sat at Jesus’ feet, listening to what he taught. But Martha was distracted by the big dinner she was preparing. She came to Jesus and said, “Lord, doesn’t it seem unfair to you that my sister just sits here while I do all the work? Tell her to come and help me.” But Jesus said to her, “My dear Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details! There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her.”

I can hear Martha’s voice yet today and now, speaking directly to me – maybe even to you.

“So desperately I wanted to sit and listen at Wisdom’s feet as she did; to play and dance and dream. Everything in me wanted to run free and speak up and laugh endlessly. My very cells were shouting. My body was all but moving. And I knew that if I let go, I would propel myself forward with force beyond imagining. But I held back. Worse, I critiqued her.

“You know this scene, don’t you? Like me, you’re standing in the kitchen, seeing all the “work” that needs to be done, and keeping yourself from all that you long for, the person you most want to be.

“You hear the same voice, don’t you? ‘Dear Martha, you are worried about many things. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.’”

“No shame. No scolding. Just invitation. Listen:

“Dear One, you are worried about many things. Choose the better part and it will not be taken from you.”

The better part. Playing. Dancing. Dreaming. Reflecting. Listening. Sitting at the feet of Wisdom.

The better part. Loving yourself. Seeing your beauty. Writing with abandon. Loving with passion. Letting effort go. Letting tasks go. Letting fear go. Letting restraint go. Letting decorum go. And going forth. From the kitchen and into your world. From the trap of responsibility and must-do’s and duty to a place of freedom and creativity and love.

The better part. Not a call to obedience or doctrinal adherence. No, this is a call to trust a Wisdom that is older than time. This is a call to trusting your wisdom, your knowing, yourself.

The better part. It will not be taken from you.

“Get out of that kitchen. It is not the place you are destined to stay.”

May it be so for me – and maybe even for you.

The perfect way to stop a woman.

Oct 18, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

“I’ve seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write…. and you know it’s a funny thing about house cleaning… it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola
Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

“Perfect way to stop a woman.”

Ouch.

For me, this is not about the cleaning. It’s about the metaphor: all the things that keep me from doing what I say I most want to do. All the seemingly important tasks that clamor for my attention. All the distractions. More to the point: all the inhibitions and insecurities that crowd and clamor and consume.

I’m not naive, nor am I an idealist. There are things that need to be done. Responsibilities that beckon. Important work that is required. But for me, those tasks, burdens, and endless lists tend to become excuses, delays, even weirdly-grateful-for hindrances that keep me from the better part.

There’s an old, old story told of two sisters. One day a renowned Teacher graced their home. One of the sisters sat contentedly at his feet while the other scurried about in the kitchen – managing the critical details of hospitality. Eventually the sister in the kitchen complained. “Don’t you care that she has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The Teacher said to her: “Dear woman, you are worried about many things. Your sister has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

Ouch!

A few examples of my own stuck-in-the-kitchen reality?

  • I must be losing subscribers because they don’t quite understand me. I should re-tool my “About” page.
  • My social media strategy needs attention, time, and work. Surely, that will help me turn the corner.
  • I need to create some kind of passive revenue stream; something that would be a fail-safe income generator so I can focus on my real writing.
  • Maybe I should craft this blog post in a way that allows everyone to resonate instead of just some. Yes, that seems wise.

This is only the tip of my iceberg. Each of these – and so many more – keep me “in the kitchen” and busy with details that matter on some level, to be sure, but that deflect me from my true desire, true calling, the better part. I grouse about the way things seem to be for everyone else. And I justify lack of movement, avoidance of risk, aversion to exposure, uncertainty, insecurity, and fear. How convenient. How neat and tidy.

The better part. What is that exactly?

  • Doing the hard(er) work of putting myself out there, others’ opinions (and my own self-critic’s) silenced.
  • Trusting that I actually know.
  • Not giving one more thought to “perfect clients” or platform or market share or SEO-optimization.
  • Letting people in, no matter how messy my kitchen, my mind, my heart, my world.
  • Writing, saying, being in ways that might probably go against the grain, but that feel so true, so right, so real, so me.

The better part, the better choice, the only choice, really, is to allow for and invite the messiness, the risk, the passion, the unbridled creativity, the unrestrained voice, the rampant imperfection. The better part is to listen to wisdom within and without. To stop fussing and laboring and yes, cleaning. To come out of the kitchen and sit, stand, and stay in places of meaning and beauty.

The better part is to not be stopped at all, ever, by anything.

Perfect!

May it be so. 

[Deep appreciation to Martha and her story for connecting me to my own. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need
and so love.]