Looking back on the first decade of this new century feels like a daunting task, one I'm not sure I really want to undertake. But I feel compelled to post SOMETHING and stuck between review and looking forward I find myself without other inspiration. But the thought just hit me that while the media recaps a decade - just another 10 years in time - and takes a long historical look, for me right now a decade encompasses more than a quarter of my life. And the decade just ending closes the first adult chapter in my life.
It's a full chapter.
The world is a different place than it was 10 years ago. America no longer possesses an illusion of invincibility. The New York skyline and the New Orleans coastline will never be the same. My children have never known a world without war. Our country's occupation of foreign lands is now their baseline. Technology and connectivity surround us, and they can't imagine a world without computers or cellphones for instant access to information and one another. One of them dreams of driving a Mars rover someday and we all marvel at pictures of the universe previously beyond our imaginations. A black man sits in the White House - something my grandparents can't believe and my children can't grasp the significance of. So much has happened over these past 10 years that I can hardly wrap my mind around it.
Personally, my decade in review consists of incredible shifts in my life. My role changed to include mother of two - after considerable effort and strain. My partnership with my husband survived real challenges. We've been through several job changes and even a stint without (not a lot of fun when you are expecting child number 2). I've gained two step-parents with all that entails. We've dealt with extended family turmoil and parental illness. We lost a matriarch to whatever mystery lies beyond. My faith has been sifted and tried. I have embarked on a new path, one that will continue on into the next decade of my life, and have almost completed a master's degree. I've invested heavily in discovering who I really am and figuring out where I'm destined to be. The decade has been a grand adventure, filled with hope and sorrow, joy and pain, connection and loss, insight and anger. And all of it, as one of my dear friends would say, has woven threads into the rich tapestry of my life - a tapestry shot through with threads of gold.
So where am I headed as we start this second decade of the 21st century? What are my hopes and dreams and plans and goals? I'm not good at making resolutions - but I'm going to dream a little about what might be. So here's a Top 10 for 2010 and beyond.
1. Broaden my horizons. I'm starting this adventure with a trip to Europe in 2010. This trip will be my first venture outside of the good old USA save two quick excursions to tourist destinations in Mexico. My first real international travel. But I hope my adventure doesn't end there.
2. Continue to learn. My return to higher education has whetted my appetite. I want more. I want to pursue more in-depth learning. I want to become an expert in my field. I want the credentials and the degrees to prove I know my stuff. Zurich looms large. Pacifica holds promise. The opportunities are there if I can seize them.
3. Do something with what I've learned. When I review this decade in ten years, I want to be able to see what I've contributed. I want a successful practice that allows me to walk alongside others on the journey. I'm steps away from that yet - I have credentials I'm still in the process of obtaining. But I'm on the road. This next year will hold important steps in moving toward this goal.
4. Create community. My community base has shifted. This year has seen some of the community I've been involved in come to an end. I'm feeling a little isolated. But I've also had glimpses this year of new community that waits out there. I need to find it. And I may also need to create it. I need to spend some time and energy putting my dreams of community into concrete motion.
5. Honor friendships. Over the past few years, I've taken a lot from my friends. Support, encouragement, tangible help in times of need. In some ways, I've taken much more than I've given. I want to find a way to honor the friendships that are important to me in meaningful ways.
6. Know myself. I've spent two years already invested in this grand adventure. I think it's a never ending journey, but I'm committed to the process for as long as it takes. Looking honestly takes courage. I've found a willing and capable guide to help me explore the depths of myself, and I have finally lost some of the fear of looking. Continuing this adventure into the next decade holds promise of unfathomable discovery.
7. Guide my children into adulthood. At the end of the next decade, my kids will be nearly 21 and 16. Embarking on the first adult decades of their own lives. I know I cannot begin to imagine the hills and valleys we will walk together in these next 10 years. Zen practice speaks to me here. Live in the moment. It's all I have. It's too frightening to do anything else.
8. Be a partner. My husband has been a constant support and companion to me through this period of transition in my life. Most likely, the next 10 years in his life will hold some transition for him. I want to support his dreams just as he has supported mine. And I want us to grow together into this life laid out before us.
9. Navigate the losses. This decade just ending has not held many losses. One immediate family member at the end of a long, well-lived life, and two of our extended circle whose lives were cut too short. But the decade to come holds the potential of significant losses. If at the end of the next 10 years, we've simply celebrated the well-lived lives of two more grandparents, we will be fortunate beyond belief. Grieving well will be a challenge. And I must not only do it for myself, I must help my children learn how to do it too. Finding that thread of gold will take all the strength and courage I have.
10. Roll with the unexpected. Ten years ago, I would have never dreamed my life would be where it is today. Ten years from now, I will probably say the same thing. So my goals are broad, my dreams are a bit vague. Because I've learned that no matter how much I script and plan, life brings things unexpected. I want to recognize the shifts and move with them into my larger destiny. I want to live to the fullest whatever life brings in the next 10 years. I want to keep my eyes wide open and take in everything and not miss a single moment.
Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas Tamales
Where I come from, tamales go with Christmas. The two are inseparable. But making tamales from scratch is a labor of love. I don't mean picking up ingredients at the store and putting something together from meat in a package and sauces in a can. I mean from SCRATCH. And making a lot of them takes hands, lots of hands.
My senior year in high school, I watched in awe as the mothers of some of my classmates undertook making tamales for a fundraiser for our class. The senior class sold tamales for Christmas. But these moms did the real work in a steaming hot kitchen, laboring for hours over the course of two days. The meat didn't come from a pre-packaged pork roast. It fell from the head of a hog cooked for hours by these women. The masa was prepared perfectly, the husks soaked to malleable softness - and then the assembly began, only to be returned to the steam bath for a few more hours until the desired end result appeared. I only got peeks into the kitchen. The teens, at least those of us not initiated into the rites of the cooking process, simply stacked and sorted the tinfoil wrapped dozens for delivery. We had the easy job, especially since the homemade delicacies practically sold themselves.
Today, I remember the sense of community evident in the endeavor. Every bite of one of those tamales exuded the care put into their making. They nourished the body, but they also nourished the soul. My dreams call me to create for myself and those around me the kind of community required to make tamales. I have settled for the cheap, easy, drive-through convenience of the Taco Bell available on every corner - barely edible at worst and even at its very best common and commercial. Nothing there nourishes my soul.
I long for a community which encourages creativity. I want connection that recognizes strength and ability and encourages growth while affirming the intrinsic worth and equality of every person. I need a place where vulnerability draws us closer together instead of making us retreat in fear. A place that honors dreams and digs deep into the hard questions. A group that believes in ritual and magic. People who see the divine in every person. Those who remember and reconstruct spirituality in ways long forgotten.
I would love to be able to order these things off a Taco Bell drive-through menu. To take the cheap and easy way out. But the remembrance of those women and their labor of love for the tamales says otherwise. My memories prompt me to recognize that community that produces true nourishment comes at a price. Work, hard hot work in the kitchen where cauldrons steam seems the only way. I am going to have to get my hands dirty. I am going to have to invest time and energy. I'm going to have to stop looking for the easy way out if I want the results to be more than fast-food.
My dreams call me to be brave enough to gather the ingredients and the hands and see what nourishment our labor of love can create. Maybe if we are lucky, the end result will be even more filling than those Christmas tamales.
My senior year in high school, I watched in awe as the mothers of some of my classmates undertook making tamales for a fundraiser for our class. The senior class sold tamales for Christmas. But these moms did the real work in a steaming hot kitchen, laboring for hours over the course of two days. The meat didn't come from a pre-packaged pork roast. It fell from the head of a hog cooked for hours by these women. The masa was prepared perfectly, the husks soaked to malleable softness - and then the assembly began, only to be returned to the steam bath for a few more hours until the desired end result appeared. I only got peeks into the kitchen. The teens, at least those of us not initiated into the rites of the cooking process, simply stacked and sorted the tinfoil wrapped dozens for delivery. We had the easy job, especially since the homemade delicacies practically sold themselves.
Today, I remember the sense of community evident in the endeavor. Every bite of one of those tamales exuded the care put into their making. They nourished the body, but they also nourished the soul. My dreams call me to create for myself and those around me the kind of community required to make tamales. I have settled for the cheap, easy, drive-through convenience of the Taco Bell available on every corner - barely edible at worst and even at its very best common and commercial. Nothing there nourishes my soul.
I long for a community which encourages creativity. I want connection that recognizes strength and ability and encourages growth while affirming the intrinsic worth and equality of every person. I need a place where vulnerability draws us closer together instead of making us retreat in fear. A place that honors dreams and digs deep into the hard questions. A group that believes in ritual and magic. People who see the divine in every person. Those who remember and reconstruct spirituality in ways long forgotten.
I would love to be able to order these things off a Taco Bell drive-through menu. To take the cheap and easy way out. But the remembrance of those women and their labor of love for the tamales says otherwise. My memories prompt me to recognize that community that produces true nourishment comes at a price. Work, hard hot work in the kitchen where cauldrons steam seems the only way. I am going to have to get my hands dirty. I am going to have to invest time and energy. I'm going to have to stop looking for the easy way out if I want the results to be more than fast-food.
My dreams call me to be brave enough to gather the ingredients and the hands and see what nourishment our labor of love can create. Maybe if we are lucky, the end result will be even more filling than those Christmas tamales.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Longest Night
Tonight the sun set just a bit earlier.
The dark descended a few moments sooner.
The earth tilted as far away from the sun as possible.
Tomorrow begins the march toward Spring and light and life.
But tonight darkness rules.
Inside my house tonight, the lights twinkle.
The fire crackles.
The smell of popcorn drifts through the air.
Bells jingle and trains whistle as the Polar Express flies toward it's destination.
And the giggles of little girls resound.
My heart beats divided, between dark and light.
My soul wrestles between hibernation and celebration.
My body struggles
to hold sorrow and joy,
dark and light,
death and life
in the same breath.
And my mind knows not whether to embrace the night or pray fervently for the dawn.
The dark descended a few moments sooner.
The earth tilted as far away from the sun as possible.
Tomorrow begins the march toward Spring and light and life.
But tonight darkness rules.
Inside my house tonight, the lights twinkle.
The fire crackles.
The smell of popcorn drifts through the air.
Bells jingle and trains whistle as the Polar Express flies toward it's destination.
And the giggles of little girls resound.
My heart beats divided, between dark and light.
My soul wrestles between hibernation and celebration.
My body struggles
to hold sorrow and joy,
dark and light,
death and life
in the same breath.
And my mind knows not whether to embrace the night or pray fervently for the dawn.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Healing
The weeping wounds and jagged scars astound me.
Life hurts so much more than we admit.
Does healing exist?
Not with advice nor ideology nor judgment and repentance -
those things act at best as band-aids
and at worst as instruments of torture probing deeper into the open wounds.
But maybe, just maybe...
with space to breathe
and a witness.
Hands to unwrap the bloody bandages used for triage.
Eyes to unflinchingly assess and accept the damage.
Ears to hear the guttural groans that have no words.
And heart and soul to pour divine grace over the wounds.
Maybe these things work better than anesthetic and stitching twine.
Washing the wounds with tears, maybe the healing begins
and the old scars soften
and hearts can find their song.
Life hurts so much more than we admit.
Does healing exist?
Not with advice nor ideology nor judgment and repentance -
those things act at best as band-aids
and at worst as instruments of torture probing deeper into the open wounds.
But maybe, just maybe...
with space to breathe
and a witness.
Hands to unwrap the bloody bandages used for triage.
Eyes to unflinchingly assess and accept the damage.
Ears to hear the guttural groans that have no words.
And heart and soul to pour divine grace over the wounds.
Maybe these things work better than anesthetic and stitching twine.
Washing the wounds with tears, maybe the healing begins
and the old scars soften
and hearts can find their song.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Grateful
I've entered a giveaway for a gratitude journal. I have not kept one before. I know the power of positive thinking. I count my blessings often. But that doesn't keep me from seeing the darker side. Maybe it helps keep me balanced, more so than if I only looked at the negative. But I'm feeling pretty weighed down with the weight of the burdens those around me are carrying tonight.
I am grateful for:
1. My husband, our marriage, and the support he gives me. His love is the closest to unconditional that I've ever experienced.
2. My children - the lights of my life.
3. My health.
4. A roof over my head and heat when it's cold.
5. Enough.
6. The ability to pursue my dreams.
I am heartbroken that not everyone I know has these things tonight, and I feel helpless to do anything about their need.
I am grateful for:
1. My husband, our marriage, and the support he gives me. His love is the closest to unconditional that I've ever experienced.
2. My children - the lights of my life.
3. My health.
4. A roof over my head and heat when it's cold.
5. Enough.
6. The ability to pursue my dreams.
I am heartbroken that not everyone I know has these things tonight, and I feel helpless to do anything about their need.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Bah Humbug
Do the holidays make anyone happy?
I often feel myself lost in a wash of melancholy this time of year. Dark descends early. Important events wind down to a close. Priorities shift and I have little control over what falls down someone else's list. And to the ending of things, we add the stress of trying to get everyone in the same place at the same time, often competing against other just as relevant interests (or relatives as the case usually is for me).
I struggle to help makes lists that will not overwhelm my children with useless stuff and I strain to think of an adequate gift for a parent who already has everything. And we've cut WAY down. My Christmas tree has only been up for a few days. We've finished one gathering, done early so everyone could attend. I really don't have all that much to take care of. Yet I feel this overwhelming sense of sadness, nostalgia for the way Christmas shone in the idealized memories of my childhood.
Families intact. Unawareness of suffering. Childhood bliss. But I'm all grown up now. And I watch the struggle. A mom with no transportation, no money for gifts, and no support from her family. A man who doesn't feel accepted by his family, no matter what he does, and who faces a holiday spent lonely and grieving. Family facing the first holiday without a loved one. These things stay with us all year long. But somehow the holiday season seems to exacerbate the pain, lighting it from within like a gaudy tree glaring with harsh lights. In the gentler light of ordinary days, troubles come and go, but in the glow of the Christmas lights, they blaze for everyone around to see.
I will enjoy aspects of the season, I almost always do. But being true to myself means admitting I don't enjoy some, okay maybe a lot of things about it. All is not merry and bright. Sometimes the snow covers a dirty, icy patch of muddy muck and if you look closely, you can see past the illusion of perfection to what is really real.
I often feel myself lost in a wash of melancholy this time of year. Dark descends early. Important events wind down to a close. Priorities shift and I have little control over what falls down someone else's list. And to the ending of things, we add the stress of trying to get everyone in the same place at the same time, often competing against other just as relevant interests (or relatives as the case usually is for me).
I struggle to help makes lists that will not overwhelm my children with useless stuff and I strain to think of an adequate gift for a parent who already has everything. And we've cut WAY down. My Christmas tree has only been up for a few days. We've finished one gathering, done early so everyone could attend. I really don't have all that much to take care of. Yet I feel this overwhelming sense of sadness, nostalgia for the way Christmas shone in the idealized memories of my childhood.
Families intact. Unawareness of suffering. Childhood bliss. But I'm all grown up now. And I watch the struggle. A mom with no transportation, no money for gifts, and no support from her family. A man who doesn't feel accepted by his family, no matter what he does, and who faces a holiday spent lonely and grieving. Family facing the first holiday without a loved one. These things stay with us all year long. But somehow the holiday season seems to exacerbate the pain, lighting it from within like a gaudy tree glaring with harsh lights. In the gentler light of ordinary days, troubles come and go, but in the glow of the Christmas lights, they blaze for everyone around to see.
I will enjoy aspects of the season, I almost always do. But being true to myself means admitting I don't enjoy some, okay maybe a lot of things about it. All is not merry and bright. Sometimes the snow covers a dirty, icy patch of muddy muck and if you look closely, you can see past the illusion of perfection to what is really real.
Friday, December 11, 2009
My Women
We first came together around Christmas, and then a simple game of dice.
Strangers at first, we wondered what we had in common beyond modest new houses we needed to turn into homes.
But on the second Wednesday of every month, we gathered.
We talked. We ate. We played. We laughed. We competed. We fought. We cried.
And before much time had passed, we found ourselves immersed in one another's lives.
We shared in birth and death, celebrated success and tended illness, mourned endings and marked the passage of life -- together.
Some years, I lived for that night, once a month, never soon enough, just to spend a few hours with the women.
My women.
And now the time has come. We have moved away and moved on -- and we lack the energy to include new faces into our once tightknit group.
But this forward movement (progress we call it?) tastes bittersweet. For without my women, the movement wouldn't have been possible.
And now, once a month, I will find a hole in my schedule that nothing else will ever fill in quite the same way.
At the end, words fail me. But I know my women will speak in my heart forever.
Strangers at first, we wondered what we had in common beyond modest new houses we needed to turn into homes.
But on the second Wednesday of every month, we gathered.
We talked. We ate. We played. We laughed. We competed. We fought. We cried.
And before much time had passed, we found ourselves immersed in one another's lives.
We shared in birth and death, celebrated success and tended illness, mourned endings and marked the passage of life -- together.
Some years, I lived for that night, once a month, never soon enough, just to spend a few hours with the women.
My women.
And now the time has come. We have moved away and moved on -- and we lack the energy to include new faces into our once tightknit group.
But this forward movement (progress we call it?) tastes bittersweet. For without my women, the movement wouldn't have been possible.
And now, once a month, I will find a hole in my schedule that nothing else will ever fill in quite the same way.
At the end, words fail me. But I know my women will speak in my heart forever.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sitting in the dark
The faith tradition I grew up in did not recognize acknowledge or celebrate Advent in any way. Ritual of most any kind garnered at the least a frown and suspicion, and maybe even a tirade directed at any faith tradition other than our own. And yes, I'm simply talking about denominational wars where our beliefs would get us into heaven, the church down the street might get a few people in, and the Catholics across town were all going to hell. Anybody that didn't fall close to us on the Christian spectrum must be a heathen and a terrorist. It was a harsh way to grow up.
The journey I find myself on right now opens my soul to the mysteries from many different traditions. I read someone's description on a blog just today of being a beginning zen-jesus lover - I like that title. The eastern traditions encourage us to be present in the moment instead of longing for some perfectly unimaginable by-and-by. The contemplative traditions help us sit where we are and be quiet so we can hear the breath of spirit. Moving away from a conservative evangelical position brings a depth and clarity to the journey that has been missing most of my life.
But I started this post with Advent. My friend, Jeanie (take a look at her blog - it's on my list) is posting wonderful thoughts about Advent. Reading her posts and pondering them got me to thinking about the dark. I don't particularly like the dark. I live for daylight savings time where I can bask in an extra hour of sunshine every evening. In times past, I've found myself depressed and distressed as the days grow shorter and the dark presses in. But lately, I'm not noticing that dismay nearly as much. I'm more comfortable with moving close to the winter solstice. The dark feels like a warm blanket instead of a strange and scary veil.
All around me are bright displays of twinkling Christmas lights - striving to hold off the darkness, to make everything around cheery and bright. Circumstances this year have slowed our personal Christmas decorating to a non-existent movement - all my lights still sit in boxes in the attic awaiting their electric charge. And I find I don't miss them yet. I haven't sat in the dark long enough yet this year to wrest the blessing from it. Honoring those dark times of year, those dark places within our own souls seems to me to be the key to really celebrating the light. Without the dark - the lights becoming harsh and glaring. But when I take the time to let the dark envelope me, then one tiny light illuminates my world when it arrives, without the need for garish displays.
Maybe our worry about too little light in the world results from our unwillingness to sit in the dark once in a while.
The journey I find myself on right now opens my soul to the mysteries from many different traditions. I read someone's description on a blog just today of being a beginning zen-jesus lover - I like that title. The eastern traditions encourage us to be present in the moment instead of longing for some perfectly unimaginable by-and-by. The contemplative traditions help us sit where we are and be quiet so we can hear the breath of spirit. Moving away from a conservative evangelical position brings a depth and clarity to the journey that has been missing most of my life.
But I started this post with Advent. My friend, Jeanie (take a look at her blog - it's on my list) is posting wonderful thoughts about Advent. Reading her posts and pondering them got me to thinking about the dark. I don't particularly like the dark. I live for daylight savings time where I can bask in an extra hour of sunshine every evening. In times past, I've found myself depressed and distressed as the days grow shorter and the dark presses in. But lately, I'm not noticing that dismay nearly as much. I'm more comfortable with moving close to the winter solstice. The dark feels like a warm blanket instead of a strange and scary veil.
All around me are bright displays of twinkling Christmas lights - striving to hold off the darkness, to make everything around cheery and bright. Circumstances this year have slowed our personal Christmas decorating to a non-existent movement - all my lights still sit in boxes in the attic awaiting their electric charge. And I find I don't miss them yet. I haven't sat in the dark long enough yet this year to wrest the blessing from it. Honoring those dark times of year, those dark places within our own souls seems to me to be the key to really celebrating the light. Without the dark - the lights becoming harsh and glaring. But when I take the time to let the dark envelope me, then one tiny light illuminates my world when it arrives, without the need for garish displays.
Maybe our worry about too little light in the world results from our unwillingness to sit in the dark once in a while.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Rites of Passage
I wrote the following piece this past May as part of a journal I kept over the course of an intensive class on Gender I took as part of my graduate program. The questions have stuck with me - and morphed and expanded. On Tuesday, we had a funeral service for the matriarch of my husband's family. She lived almost 90 full and wonderful years, with the last few marred by illness and disability that took away much of the person she really was to all of us. So we celebrated her life and said our goodbyes. Our culture does have rites and rituals - but I wonder how much meaning we allow them to have. And I wonder why we choose to celebrate or memorialize some events and completely ignore others that have as much if not more significance in our lives. It feels daunting to think about creating rituals for my self and my family that hold the meaning I long for. Would those rites help create the community I seek - or should I focus on finding the community and let the rites come as a side benefit? Or am I longing for something that I simply cannot have?
Rites of Passage
There is a birthday party coming up in my family. My oldest daughter turns 10 on March 11th, and we are marking the event with a celebration with a select group of her closest friends with putt-putt, laser-tag and bumper boats on Saturday, March 7th. Birthdays are special at our house. The first year, we do a big family get together. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, as well as close family friends help us celebrate the day. After that first year, though, it becomes all about the kid. Their requests are considered. Family is always invited, but no longer catered to. If they want to brave the kid friendly venues we've chosen and surround themselves with the other 2, 3, 4... year olds we've invited, they are welcome. Sometimes they come, sometimes they don't. But we spend lots of time with family and birthdays only come around once a year, so large or small – we always try to do something the child will enjoy. We also have ritual celebrations on Thanksgiving and Christmas with our families. The kids also especially enjoy Easter and Halloween each year, and we recognize other holidays in fun and festive ways.
But we are missing something in our ritual celebrations. We as a family, and I think largely we as a culture, have forgotten or failed to create rituals to celebrate the true rites of passage. We celebrate getting a driver's license, prom, and graduation – from preschool and kindergarten and elementary and junior high and high school. But we don't celebrate the events that mark our lives as women and men, as developing human beings.
Ancient cultures celebrated these passages in meaningful ways, more for men, but in some instances for women too. There were rites and rituals to mark first hunts, and first menstrual periods. There were vision quests and naming ceremonies. There were rites and rituals for first sexual experiences and marriages. Births and deaths were marked by ceremony. Some of these ancient rites of passage were truly celebratory, some were undoubtedly cruel and gruesome. But in our modern society where families are often isolated and community is often forgotten, these rites of passage have all but disappeared.
This topic has been on my mind for some time now, with puberty descending upon our household rapidly. My older daughter has begun to develop secondary sexual characteristics. The onset of menstruation is within sight. Crossing this threshold of womanhood was not something that was celebrated in my family of origin. I barely had adequate information and I was certainly left with the impression that the event was something to dread. I am determined that my own daughters will not approach this marker in their lives with anticipatory fear and dread. I began to lay the groundwork early with them, being more open in conversation and casting their femaleness in a much more positive light. But to me, that is not enough. I want them to revel in their womanhood. I want them to embrace the creative power of their ability to give life. I want them to celebrate the goddess within. And I want to help them do all of these things in a real and meaningful way.
Although the thought of renting a limousine and advertising to the world that my daughter has reached the age of menarche seems a little outrageous to me, I understand the desire to celebrate and celebrate as community. Certainly I can plan a special outing for the two of us to mark the occasion, and if that's the most I can do, I will at least do that. But a mom and daughter outing misses the support of a sisterhood, a community of women to mentor, encourage and celebrate. What if we could form a community of women important in our daughters' worlds who would come together to celebrate this transition into womanhood? How life-giving would it be for our daughters to know they had a community of sisters to whom they could turn for support? And celebration of menarche might only be the beginning. In some cultures, a woman's monthly cycle allowed her a period of respite. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could stop once a month and indulge in self-care and celebration of ourselves as women? And what about the rite of passage of a first sexual encounter? Without the guilt imposed by culture and religion, the celebration of the first sexual encounter, maybe even with a partner specially trained to teach a young woman about the pleasure her body could give, would empower women around their sexuality in a way modern culture has never seen. Pregnancy and birth could be celebrated in meaningful ways that supported and celebrated women through these transitions. Aging would bring wisdom, and menopause could be a time to celebrate and revere women in yet another life transition.
But these ideas are radical. They would represent an upending of culture and religion as we know it. I would never dare to broach the subject within my group of friends or with the mother's of my daughter's friends. They would think I had lost my mind. So instead, we celebrate birthdays, and we plan for another graduation, and we buy a dress for prom. We encourage our daughters to either hide or flaunt their sexuality in destructive ways and we withhold critical education to help them make healthy choices. We make them feel ashamed of being a woman and we castigate them for their budding sexual desires. We bring a casserole to a new mom, if she is lucky, and a pink or blue gift for her child and then demand she get back to work in just a few short weeks. We push through a fast- paced life never stopping to breathe. And then we have retirement parties and relegate wisdom to the sidelines and poke fun at old age even as we purport to celebrate it with outrageous red hats. We focus on birthdays and Christmas, acceptable reasons to celebrate. And we miss out on what it could really mean to be a woman. I wonder what if we had that kind of community? What if I was able to help create it? What would it mean for my daughters? What would it mean for me?
Rites of Passage
There is a birthday party coming up in my family. My oldest daughter turns 10 on March 11th, and we are marking the event with a celebration with a select group of her closest friends with putt-putt, laser-tag and bumper boats on Saturday, March 7th. Birthdays are special at our house. The first year, we do a big family get together. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, as well as close family friends help us celebrate the day. After that first year, though, it becomes all about the kid. Their requests are considered. Family is always invited, but no longer catered to. If they want to brave the kid friendly venues we've chosen and surround themselves with the other 2, 3, 4... year olds we've invited, they are welcome. Sometimes they come, sometimes they don't. But we spend lots of time with family and birthdays only come around once a year, so large or small – we always try to do something the child will enjoy. We also have ritual celebrations on Thanksgiving and Christmas with our families. The kids also especially enjoy Easter and Halloween each year, and we recognize other holidays in fun and festive ways.
But we are missing something in our ritual celebrations. We as a family, and I think largely we as a culture, have forgotten or failed to create rituals to celebrate the true rites of passage. We celebrate getting a driver's license, prom, and graduation – from preschool and kindergarten and elementary and junior high and high school. But we don't celebrate the events that mark our lives as women and men, as developing human beings.
Ancient cultures celebrated these passages in meaningful ways, more for men, but in some instances for women too. There were rites and rituals to mark first hunts, and first menstrual periods. There were vision quests and naming ceremonies. There were rites and rituals for first sexual experiences and marriages. Births and deaths were marked by ceremony. Some of these ancient rites of passage were truly celebratory, some were undoubtedly cruel and gruesome. But in our modern society where families are often isolated and community is often forgotten, these rites of passage have all but disappeared.
This topic has been on my mind for some time now, with puberty descending upon our household rapidly. My older daughter has begun to develop secondary sexual characteristics. The onset of menstruation is within sight. Crossing this threshold of womanhood was not something that was celebrated in my family of origin. I barely had adequate information and I was certainly left with the impression that the event was something to dread. I am determined that my own daughters will not approach this marker in their lives with anticipatory fear and dread. I began to lay the groundwork early with them, being more open in conversation and casting their femaleness in a much more positive light. But to me, that is not enough. I want them to revel in their womanhood. I want them to embrace the creative power of their ability to give life. I want them to celebrate the goddess within. And I want to help them do all of these things in a real and meaningful way.
Although the thought of renting a limousine and advertising to the world that my daughter has reached the age of menarche seems a little outrageous to me, I understand the desire to celebrate and celebrate as community. Certainly I can plan a special outing for the two of us to mark the occasion, and if that's the most I can do, I will at least do that. But a mom and daughter outing misses the support of a sisterhood, a community of women to mentor, encourage and celebrate. What if we could form a community of women important in our daughters' worlds who would come together to celebrate this transition into womanhood? How life-giving would it be for our daughters to know they had a community of sisters to whom they could turn for support? And celebration of menarche might only be the beginning. In some cultures, a woman's monthly cycle allowed her a period of respite. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could stop once a month and indulge in self-care and celebration of ourselves as women? And what about the rite of passage of a first sexual encounter? Without the guilt imposed by culture and religion, the celebration of the first sexual encounter, maybe even with a partner specially trained to teach a young woman about the pleasure her body could give, would empower women around their sexuality in a way modern culture has never seen. Pregnancy and birth could be celebrated in meaningful ways that supported and celebrated women through these transitions. Aging would bring wisdom, and menopause could be a time to celebrate and revere women in yet another life transition.
But these ideas are radical. They would represent an upending of culture and religion as we know it. I would never dare to broach the subject within my group of friends or with the mother's of my daughter's friends. They would think I had lost my mind. So instead, we celebrate birthdays, and we plan for another graduation, and we buy a dress for prom. We encourage our daughters to either hide or flaunt their sexuality in destructive ways and we withhold critical education to help them make healthy choices. We make them feel ashamed of being a woman and we castigate them for their budding sexual desires. We bring a casserole to a new mom, if she is lucky, and a pink or blue gift for her child and then demand she get back to work in just a few short weeks. We push through a fast- paced life never stopping to breathe. And then we have retirement parties and relegate wisdom to the sidelines and poke fun at old age even as we purport to celebrate it with outrageous red hats. We focus on birthdays and Christmas, acceptable reasons to celebrate. And we miss out on what it could really mean to be a woman. I wonder what if we had that kind of community? What if I was able to help create it? What would it mean for my daughters? What would it mean for me?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Where are the words?
I've read posts this week that sing. Posts about pain and claiming our power and mindful hugs and standing hopeful in what seems sometimes like a hopeless place. It has been a difficult week for my family. Amidst the celebration of togetherness that marks the end of November, we have also found ourselves grieving the loss of a matriarch. I want to write something profound. I want a poem that captures a life full of the rich mixture of joy and sorrow, creativity and stillness, fear and faith. But I find myself without words.
I also had a conversation with a friend, about how the walls I build around my soul keep my writing in my head. She's right. I have set myself on a path that has me holding pain and suffering, joy and growth for others every single day, but it's easier to ignore my own heart than to hold it gently without judgment. And the walls I build block the words I need.
This morning, as we celebrate a life well lived and already dearly missed, there will be both tears and laughter. My mind will be engaged with making sure my young daughters have what they need during this introduction into the end-life rites we perform. But I want also to be mindful of my own soul and I want to take down the walls and feel the pain without wishing it away and remember the joys and be able to laugh. Maybe then, somewhere inside of me, I will be able to find the words I'm looking for.
I also had a conversation with a friend, about how the walls I build around my soul keep my writing in my head. She's right. I have set myself on a path that has me holding pain and suffering, joy and growth for others every single day, but it's easier to ignore my own heart than to hold it gently without judgment. And the walls I build block the words I need.
This morning, as we celebrate a life well lived and already dearly missed, there will be both tears and laughter. My mind will be engaged with making sure my young daughters have what they need during this introduction into the end-life rites we perform. But I want also to be mindful of my own soul and I want to take down the walls and feel the pain without wishing it away and remember the joys and be able to laugh. Maybe then, somewhere inside of me, I will be able to find the words I'm looking for.
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