All my facebook friends are arguing about Rob Bell. I don't want to get dragged into the fray. But I almost can't help it. I grew up in a conservative religious tradition that I have left theologically and emotionally, but not yet completely physically. There is still a tiny part of me that thinks if I just hang in there long enough, say the right things, give the right input, stand the right ground that I might be able to change things. But that's an illusion. The system is old and huge. Thinking I can change it seems rather arrogant. Wanting to destroy it doesn't respect those who believe and benefit. But still... but still... I want to comment. I've mostly avoided the conversations, only encouraging a few friends to keep asking questions. I'm not a Rob Bell fan per say, but I do like his tag line. Love wins.
I posted this comment on Elissa Elliot's blog today:
What if there is no need for redemption? What if the message Jesus actually tried to bring to the world was a recognition of the inherent worth of every life? What if his living challenged religious systems and authority and showed ordinary people that they were not beholden to those systems in order to ensure their fate? What if his death was the heroic death of messenger sent from God that points us to the sacrifice necessary to bring God’s kingdom here to earth each and every day? What if the texts quoted out of the bible to disprove any of the above were cobbled together by the very system Jesus came to disempower? What if we all chose to spend our lives in love instead of arguing about absolute truth?
Maybe it’s a risk. The system I grew up in would have me believe that’s so. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.
A workshop I attended this weekend, for helping professionals, closed with a statement that it is our job to help people achieve self-love. I think a huge part of the reason we resist loving others is that deep down, we do not truly love ourselves. Those who oppose Bell would cast humanity as depraved and set up a gruesome sacrifice to appease a "just" God. Working with human suffering and beauty on a daily basis, I no longer believe in that theological premise. Jesus offers us an example of how to love. If I can learn to love myself in the presence of love, and my love can help another to wholeness, and so on and so forth, well that looks like redemption to me. And love wins.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Re-Membering
Working in the bloody mess
The aftermath of dis-memberment
Painfully, tirelessly working
To put the puzzle pieces back together
To Re-member
To bring that which is dead back to life.
So many pieces, so many parts, so much trauma and pain.
So tired. So sick. So afraid.
But all the pieces must be in place,
Not a single one unnoticed or forgotten.
And then - resurrection.
I am taking a seminar this weekend studying Fairy Tales and how they speak to our process of individuation, of becoming whole. These words came to me reflecting on an image from Fitcher's Bird, a Grimms' brothers' tale, which speaks in part about the process of healing trauma. And it's in honor of everyone who has ever done the hard work of re-membering themselves. A process I know from the inside out and one which I watch others walk through with unbelievable courage on a regular basis.
The aftermath of dis-memberment
Painfully, tirelessly working
To put the puzzle pieces back together
To Re-member
To bring that which is dead back to life.
So many pieces, so many parts, so much trauma and pain.
So tired. So sick. So afraid.
But all the pieces must be in place,
Not a single one unnoticed or forgotten.
And then - resurrection.
I am taking a seminar this weekend studying Fairy Tales and how they speak to our process of individuation, of becoming whole. These words came to me reflecting on an image from Fitcher's Bird, a Grimms' brothers' tale, which speaks in part about the process of healing trauma. And it's in honor of everyone who has ever done the hard work of re-membering themselves. A process I know from the inside out and one which I watch others walk through with unbelievable courage on a regular basis.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
While We Wait
We debate Heaven and Hell
while we watch floating houses and spent fuel rods go up in flames.
We fight over the definition of rape and turn survivors into accusers
while we close our eyes to the plays of those in power.
We cry over bullets ripping through the innocent inside our borders
while we pour our dollars into the bullets that shred souls around the world.
We teach true love waits and abstinence only
while we expose and exploit the very image of the divine.
We cut and scrimp and save
at the expense of the young, the weak, the ill, the poor.
We preach and pray to a Father God we presume to be good
while we debate the ever increasing damage we do to Mother Earth.
And I...
I tell myself the same old story: I'm too weak, too afraid, too helpless, too damaged to matter
while I sit in silence, treasures buried, unwilling to speak.
But a new way calls me. A way I know deep in my bones, my heart, my gut, my loins. The way of singing. The way of poetry. The way of dance. The way of trust and hope and healing. The way of love. My body knows the way. My intuition knows the way. I hold the wisdom of the ages inside of me. And so do you.
If we join our voices and hands and hearts and souls together, we can make one another whole
while the world watches in wonder.
while we watch floating houses and spent fuel rods go up in flames.
We fight over the definition of rape and turn survivors into accusers
while we close our eyes to the plays of those in power.
We cry over bullets ripping through the innocent inside our borders
while we pour our dollars into the bullets that shred souls around the world.
We teach true love waits and abstinence only
while we expose and exploit the very image of the divine.
We cut and scrimp and save
at the expense of the young, the weak, the ill, the poor.
We preach and pray to a Father God we presume to be good
while we debate the ever increasing damage we do to Mother Earth.
And I...
I tell myself the same old story: I'm too weak, too afraid, too helpless, too damaged to matter
while I sit in silence, treasures buried, unwilling to speak.
But a new way calls me. A way I know deep in my bones, my heart, my gut, my loins. The way of singing. The way of poetry. The way of dance. The way of trust and hope and healing. The way of love. My body knows the way. My intuition knows the way. I hold the wisdom of the ages inside of me. And so do you.
If we join our voices and hands and hearts and souls together, we can make one another whole
while the world watches in wonder.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Afraid of My Shadow
Look at you down there, distorted and grotesque.
Sometimes small, other times stretching beyond imagination.
You seem so separate, so other, so dark.
Can you really be a part of me?
Yet you move when I move.
You follow me everywhere.
Or do I really follow you?
The lines and angles and curves resemble the me I see in the mirror,
But with a twist - bending, stretching, shrinking - moving in ways I cannot.
I like you better behind me, not stretched out crazily in my path.
Sometimes I wish you would just disappear.
But the only time I can't find you is in the dead of night, when the whole world turns to shadow.
A breath of light, and there you are, again
Beckoning me to follow you to places unknown or stalking me from behind.
You frighten me with your strangeness.
But maybe I would be less afraid if I got to know you a little.
If I understood your crazy angles and your secrets.
Could learn to love you if I stood still long enough to really see you?
If I asked, would you teach me to dance?
Sometimes small, other times stretching beyond imagination.
You seem so separate, so other, so dark.
Can you really be a part of me?
Yet you move when I move.
You follow me everywhere.
Or do I really follow you?
The lines and angles and curves resemble the me I see in the mirror,
But with a twist - bending, stretching, shrinking - moving in ways I cannot.
I like you better behind me, not stretched out crazily in my path.
Sometimes I wish you would just disappear.
But the only time I can't find you is in the dead of night, when the whole world turns to shadow.
A breath of light, and there you are, again
Beckoning me to follow you to places unknown or stalking me from behind.
You frighten me with your strangeness.
But maybe I would be less afraid if I got to know you a little.
If I understood your crazy angles and your secrets.
Could learn to love you if I stood still long enough to really see you?
If I asked, would you teach me to dance?
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Mixed Messages
"Life in Lubbock, Texas taught me two things: One is that God loves you and you're going to burn in hell. The other is that sex is the most awful, filthy thing on earth and you should save it for someone you love."
-- Butch Hancock
I read this quote yesterday. Butch Hancock writes songs. Lots of songs. I don't know many of them, but I did a little research on Butch and found out he staged one of the longest running concerts of original music ever held. I want to check out some of his music. Because, from the sound of this quote, Butch understands.
I laughed when I read this quote the first time. And I've chuckled when I think about it as I go about my day. But the words have also made me think. Deeply. I'm thinking about the many mixed messages we send to those around us - to our children, our spouse, our boss, our friends, our enemies. And I'm thinking about the results of those mixed messages.
Sometimes the messages overtly contradict one another. Sometimes the meanings are much more subtle, a difference in word and action. Sometimes, they are so subtle, we even fool ourselves.
I'm a master at mixed messages. I say a lot of stuff. True stuff. But if you look at my life, you might get the completely opposite idea from the message you hear coming from my mouth. The disparity, when I see it, either gives me whiplash or makes me feel like a fraud.
Some of the messages appear simple. "I don't care what we do for dinner." And when I say something so innocuous, I may even believe it. But if what we DO for dinner doesn't suit me, then pretty quickly I'm proved guilty of mixed messages. My irritation belies the fact that yes, indeed, I did care.
Some of the messages carry much more weight in many facets of my life. I want my daughters to be able to explore their limitless possibilities, but I restrict their participation in some event because of my own fear.
The confusion transcends the personal realm. I send mixed messages. My family sends mixed messages, my community sends mixed messages, my church sends mixed messages, my government sends mixed messages. It's easy for me to parse apart the mixed messages coming from those powerful groups. Often I point an accusatory finger. I rail about the mixed messages I see and hear and notice from somewhere else. But how often do I take a hard look at myself and the mixed messages I send?
When I hear mixed messages coming from somewhere, especially repeatedly, the effect those words have on me causes me to be cynical. I stop believing anything that person or entity says. If I'm being offered such mixed messages, obviously the message giver either doesn't have a clue or practices intentional deception. And that gives me pause. Because, if I turn off the message giver when I receive those mixed messages, I have to wonder what reaction I create in someone who hears a mixed message from me.
Ronna is talking about Revealing What Is today over at Renegade Conversations. Sometimes (always?) that's hard. It's especially hard for me when I'm playing a tape of mixed messages about myself in my head. I play mixed messages about who I am, what I want, where I stand, why I do the things I do, how I live my life, and when I'm going to make a change. And just like when I hear mixed messages out there in the world, those disconnects in the messages I'm feeding myself make me distrustful. I don't know what to believe.
I want to stop the mixed messages. I want to be clear with myself. Admit where and who I am, whether I like that place or person or not. Because it's much easier to change something when I see what needs changing clearly instead of muddying the water with contradictory noise. I want to be clear with my husband. I want to be clear with (and for) my daughters. I want them to be able to trust the messages they receive from me. To believe me when I tell them I believe in them with all my heart.
The mixed messages fly all around us in the world. I SAY I want to effect change, but I am often too afraid to look myself in the eye and change what needs to be changed. Until I stop sending mixed messages, how can I expect clarity from anywhere or anyone else?
What are the mixed messages you send? What would be different without those messages?
-- Butch Hancock
I read this quote yesterday. Butch Hancock writes songs. Lots of songs. I don't know many of them, but I did a little research on Butch and found out he staged one of the longest running concerts of original music ever held. I want to check out some of his music. Because, from the sound of this quote, Butch understands.
I laughed when I read this quote the first time. And I've chuckled when I think about it as I go about my day. But the words have also made me think. Deeply. I'm thinking about the many mixed messages we send to those around us - to our children, our spouse, our boss, our friends, our enemies. And I'm thinking about the results of those mixed messages.
Sometimes the messages overtly contradict one another. Sometimes the meanings are much more subtle, a difference in word and action. Sometimes, they are so subtle, we even fool ourselves.
I'm a master at mixed messages. I say a lot of stuff. True stuff. But if you look at my life, you might get the completely opposite idea from the message you hear coming from my mouth. The disparity, when I see it, either gives me whiplash or makes me feel like a fraud.
Some of the messages appear simple. "I don't care what we do for dinner." And when I say something so innocuous, I may even believe it. But if what we DO for dinner doesn't suit me, then pretty quickly I'm proved guilty of mixed messages. My irritation belies the fact that yes, indeed, I did care.
Some of the messages carry much more weight in many facets of my life. I want my daughters to be able to explore their limitless possibilities, but I restrict their participation in some event because of my own fear.
The confusion transcends the personal realm. I send mixed messages. My family sends mixed messages, my community sends mixed messages, my church sends mixed messages, my government sends mixed messages. It's easy for me to parse apart the mixed messages coming from those powerful groups. Often I point an accusatory finger. I rail about the mixed messages I see and hear and notice from somewhere else. But how often do I take a hard look at myself and the mixed messages I send?
When I hear mixed messages coming from somewhere, especially repeatedly, the effect those words have on me causes me to be cynical. I stop believing anything that person or entity says. If I'm being offered such mixed messages, obviously the message giver either doesn't have a clue or practices intentional deception. And that gives me pause. Because, if I turn off the message giver when I receive those mixed messages, I have to wonder what reaction I create in someone who hears a mixed message from me.
Ronna is talking about Revealing What Is today over at Renegade Conversations. Sometimes (always?) that's hard. It's especially hard for me when I'm playing a tape of mixed messages about myself in my head. I play mixed messages about who I am, what I want, where I stand, why I do the things I do, how I live my life, and when I'm going to make a change. And just like when I hear mixed messages out there in the world, those disconnects in the messages I'm feeding myself make me distrustful. I don't know what to believe.
I want to stop the mixed messages. I want to be clear with myself. Admit where and who I am, whether I like that place or person or not. Because it's much easier to change something when I see what needs changing clearly instead of muddying the water with contradictory noise. I want to be clear with my husband. I want to be clear with (and for) my daughters. I want them to be able to trust the messages they receive from me. To believe me when I tell them I believe in them with all my heart.
The mixed messages fly all around us in the world. I SAY I want to effect change, but I am often too afraid to look myself in the eye and change what needs to be changed. Until I stop sending mixed messages, how can I expect clarity from anywhere or anyone else?
What are the mixed messages you send? What would be different without those messages?
Thursday, March 10, 2011
What's the Deal?
Today I'm spinning around in an idea I've talked about before. On the eve of my daughter's 12th birthday and in the midst of all these strong posts about strong women, I'm pondering the lack of rites of passage and rituals of initiation in our culture. This train of thought seems to revolve around the anniversary of the birth of my child, an event marking transition in and of itself. Two years ago, I was thinking about the onset of puberty. Today, prompted by many things - the looming experience of Jr. High, the state of the world, the blog conversation around the feminine and oppression, a presentation I heard last night by a renowned sex therapist - I'm thinking mostly about sexuality. About how our introduction to sexuality is skewed by the inability to speak the truth.
Recently, lawmakers debated changing the definition of rape to only include incidents where a man physically threatened and forced himself on a woman. Women (and men) around the country protested this change and won. But even though the law wasn't changed, how often do we really call abuse in every form what it really is? How often do we call sex between a man in power and a woman afraid of the consequences that power could impose by it's name? It's rape as surely as if the man had a gun or a knife. Do we recognize that the education or lack of it that we give our children contributes to imbalanced, unhealthy sexual relationships and that those relationships help define and destroy intimate relationships somewhere down the line? Do we consider that our provincial attitudes toward sex education, sexual development and birth control force our children into unsafe and sometimes even desperate situations that sometimes scar them for the rest of their lives?
Here are some of the things I wonder, some of the things I want to change:
Why does initiation into sexual intimacy have to be done covertly and then condemned? Why can't we have overt initiations that are celebrated?
Why can Charlie Sheen parade around with his goddesses on his arm yet we can't advertise condoms or provide sexually active teens with access to birth control?
Why do we want to encourage our kids' development in every area - social, academic, sports, career - but we want to deny appropriate and healthy sexual development? Do we really think if we pretend their sexuality doesn't exist that it will somehow prevent normal development?
Why do we treat the sacred gift of our sexuality as a sin?
The speaker I heard last night answered a question from the audience about where we needed to grow in our sexual development as a nation. He said that a teenage girl in Denmark can expect that her first sexual experience will be in the pleasant, comfortable surroundings of her own home, sanctioned by her family, often ending in breakfast together around the kitchen table. Compare this to an American teenager, at a secret party or in the back seat of a car, pressured by her peers or her boyfriend, and unable to share the experience and get support from the people who love her most for fear of being ostracized or punished. Which experience would you choose for your son or daughter?
I know which experience I'd rather choose for mine. But I also know the stigma that speaking out, speaking the truth about the issues can cause. But I'm tired of sitting in silence. I'm tired of living with the consequences of not speaking up, speaking out, speaking the truth. Words have the power to change the world. These may not, but for me, for now, they are a place to start.
Recently, lawmakers debated changing the definition of rape to only include incidents where a man physically threatened and forced himself on a woman. Women (and men) around the country protested this change and won. But even though the law wasn't changed, how often do we really call abuse in every form what it really is? How often do we call sex between a man in power and a woman afraid of the consequences that power could impose by it's name? It's rape as surely as if the man had a gun or a knife. Do we recognize that the education or lack of it that we give our children contributes to imbalanced, unhealthy sexual relationships and that those relationships help define and destroy intimate relationships somewhere down the line? Do we consider that our provincial attitudes toward sex education, sexual development and birth control force our children into unsafe and sometimes even desperate situations that sometimes scar them for the rest of their lives?
Here are some of the things I wonder, some of the things I want to change:
Why does initiation into sexual intimacy have to be done covertly and then condemned? Why can't we have overt initiations that are celebrated?
Why can Charlie Sheen parade around with his goddesses on his arm yet we can't advertise condoms or provide sexually active teens with access to birth control?
Why do we want to encourage our kids' development in every area - social, academic, sports, career - but we want to deny appropriate and healthy sexual development? Do we really think if we pretend their sexuality doesn't exist that it will somehow prevent normal development?
Why do we treat the sacred gift of our sexuality as a sin?
The speaker I heard last night answered a question from the audience about where we needed to grow in our sexual development as a nation. He said that a teenage girl in Denmark can expect that her first sexual experience will be in the pleasant, comfortable surroundings of her own home, sanctioned by her family, often ending in breakfast together around the kitchen table. Compare this to an American teenager, at a secret party or in the back seat of a car, pressured by her peers or her boyfriend, and unable to share the experience and get support from the people who love her most for fear of being ostracized or punished. Which experience would you choose for your son or daughter?
I know which experience I'd rather choose for mine. But I also know the stigma that speaking out, speaking the truth about the issues can cause. But I'm tired of sitting in silence. I'm tired of living with the consequences of not speaking up, speaking out, speaking the truth. Words have the power to change the world. These may not, but for me, for now, they are a place to start.
A Tale of Two Treasures
Once upon a time, a beautiful princess was born. Her mother and father loved her very much. She had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends all around. Each one of them brought her a jewel to mark her arrival. As she grew, her parents and the other wise ones around her taught her to love and treasure her jewels. They encouraged her to play with them, enjoy them, marvel at their richness, display them with pride. They explained each jewel's name, it's purpose, it's magic. If she ever grew careless with her jewels, someone helped her recover the ones she'd misplaced, and reminded her how special her treasures were. At times, she grew self-conscious about her jewels and thought about hiding them away. But her teachers helped her see that the jewels were a gift to be celebrated, not something to be ashamed of. As she grew older, she made many friends, and every once in a while, she would gift them with one of her jewels. Sometimes she traded, sometimes she simply gave a jewel away, but others reciprocated and added to her collection of jewels. When she became old enough to marry, she sought out a prince who appreciated her jewels as much as she did and who had a healthy collection of his own of which he was also quite proud. The two of them married and merged their collection of jewels. People came from far and wide to admire this jewel collection, the likes of which they had never seen.
OR....
Once upon a time, a beautiful princess was born. Her mother and father loved her and wanted to protect her from all harm. Friends and relatives brought the baby gifts of jewels, but her mother and father were wise and knew the jewels would attract unwanted attention, so they hid them. They meant to tell the princess about them and started to talk to her on several occasions, but never got around to it. One day, the princess, poking curiously through the castle, discovered the stash of jewels. She asked her parents about them and her father reprimanded her harshly. Still her curiosity persisted and finally they explained the jewels were hers, gifts she'd been given, but dangerous because they would attract unwanted attention, robbers, thieves and evil doers. Because her curiosity was so great, her parents agreed she could look at the jewels, but she must do it alone, and she must tell no one about them. One day, the princess disobeyed and took one of the jewels from the treasury. When her mother saw her with it, she immediately took it and punished the princess severely. They even enlisted others to try to explain to the princess how dangerous displaying or even admitting to owning the jewels could be. The princess continued to be drawn to the jewels, so eventually, for her own protection, the king and queen took some dull paint and covered all of the jewels, tarnishing their beauty. Still the princess was determined, and would sneak in and take a single jewel and scrape the paint off as best she could and carry it around with her. Once she had several with her and made the mistake of revealing them to a stranger. Immediately she was robbed and she began to understand the danger. As she grew older and wanted to marry, she asked her parents if she could use the jewels to help attract a suitable prince, but again they said no. Finally, after the princess searched for a long time with no success, they relented and gave her a few of the jewels. After much searching, she eventually met and married a handsome prince, who also had a few jewels. They combined their treasure, but made sure to keep it well hidden, and thought sadly about the riches that each of them had been forced to leave behind.
OR....
Once upon a time, a beautiful princess was born. Her mother and father loved her and wanted to protect her from all harm. Friends and relatives brought the baby gifts of jewels, but her mother and father were wise and knew the jewels would attract unwanted attention, so they hid them. They meant to tell the princess about them and started to talk to her on several occasions, but never got around to it. One day, the princess, poking curiously through the castle, discovered the stash of jewels. She asked her parents about them and her father reprimanded her harshly. Still her curiosity persisted and finally they explained the jewels were hers, gifts she'd been given, but dangerous because they would attract unwanted attention, robbers, thieves and evil doers. Because her curiosity was so great, her parents agreed she could look at the jewels, but she must do it alone, and she must tell no one about them. One day, the princess disobeyed and took one of the jewels from the treasury. When her mother saw her with it, she immediately took it and punished the princess severely. They even enlisted others to try to explain to the princess how dangerous displaying or even admitting to owning the jewels could be. The princess continued to be drawn to the jewels, so eventually, for her own protection, the king and queen took some dull paint and covered all of the jewels, tarnishing their beauty. Still the princess was determined, and would sneak in and take a single jewel and scrape the paint off as best she could and carry it around with her. Once she had several with her and made the mistake of revealing them to a stranger. Immediately she was robbed and she began to understand the danger. As she grew older and wanted to marry, she asked her parents if she could use the jewels to help attract a suitable prince, but again they said no. Finally, after the princess searched for a long time with no success, they relented and gave her a few of the jewels. After much searching, she eventually met and married a handsome prince, who also had a few jewels. They combined their treasure, but made sure to keep it well hidden, and thought sadly about the riches that each of them had been forced to leave behind.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Tiptoeing Back into the Water
I've been gone a while. Sitting in silence. Letting self-doubt and fear do a number on the words pent up inside. A friend told me recently my absence in this world of words made her sad. And her words were like a blow to the center of my chest. Another lets the subject of my worldlessness lie silently between us in our conversations, all the while asking me the question with her eyes.
And now, on International Women's Day, I find myself surrounded, inundated by words from women who refuse to be silent any longer. And I feel the fire lit by their words, burning deep inside my gut. Words about oppression and privilege, silence and truth, position and power. The conversations spark emotion, passion, pain and I feel the words surging inside me for the first time in a while.
Julie Daley is hosting a series on Silence. The result of her words has been a push to end my own silence. Silence I've held, costing me the power of my own truth, because I'm afraid of losing the privileges my silence buys.
Heather Plett over at Sophia Leadership asked the question "how can women change the world and how can we change the world for women?" There have been a lot of wonderful words of wisdom. But for me, the most important thing we can do, for each other, is to share our stories and listen to the stories of others.
The conversation over at Julie's site has touched on the topic of the comparison of pain and suffering. It's an easy game to play - I've suffered more, or less than you. Your suffering is so great I can't possibly understand. My suffering has been silent, and so, non-existent to some. Class or category or description or disability simply separates. But our stories bring us together.
We have lost, in this modern world, safe places to share our stories. We don't honor myth and ritual and story and dreams. I busy myself with all manner of useful activities and starve my soul for lack of real community. But there is energy moving in this world of words on the web. Women - and men - are connecting across miles and cross categories and groupings that might otherwise keep us separated. Stories are being shared. Pain is being held. Victories are being celebrated. Dreams are being honored. And something sacred is being born.
So my contribution, on this International Women's Day, is to break my silence, in spite of my fear. To put my toe into the water. To rejoin the conversation. The blog site needs a little maintenance, so I'll be working on that in the next few weeks. In the meantime, thanks to all of you who have held me in this silence and who have encouraged me to begin again to find the words. I've never been one to dive right in, but the water feels warm, so maybe I'll be fully immersed again before long.
And now, on International Women's Day, I find myself surrounded, inundated by words from women who refuse to be silent any longer. And I feel the fire lit by their words, burning deep inside my gut. Words about oppression and privilege, silence and truth, position and power. The conversations spark emotion, passion, pain and I feel the words surging inside me for the first time in a while.
Julie Daley is hosting a series on Silence. The result of her words has been a push to end my own silence. Silence I've held, costing me the power of my own truth, because I'm afraid of losing the privileges my silence buys.
Heather Plett over at Sophia Leadership asked the question "how can women change the world and how can we change the world for women?" There have been a lot of wonderful words of wisdom. But for me, the most important thing we can do, for each other, is to share our stories and listen to the stories of others.
The conversation over at Julie's site has touched on the topic of the comparison of pain and suffering. It's an easy game to play - I've suffered more, or less than you. Your suffering is so great I can't possibly understand. My suffering has been silent, and so, non-existent to some. Class or category or description or disability simply separates. But our stories bring us together.
We have lost, in this modern world, safe places to share our stories. We don't honor myth and ritual and story and dreams. I busy myself with all manner of useful activities and starve my soul for lack of real community. But there is energy moving in this world of words on the web. Women - and men - are connecting across miles and cross categories and groupings that might otherwise keep us separated. Stories are being shared. Pain is being held. Victories are being celebrated. Dreams are being honored. And something sacred is being born.
So my contribution, on this International Women's Day, is to break my silence, in spite of my fear. To put my toe into the water. To rejoin the conversation. The blog site needs a little maintenance, so I'll be working on that in the next few weeks. In the meantime, thanks to all of you who have held me in this silence and who have encouraged me to begin again to find the words. I've never been one to dive right in, but the water feels warm, so maybe I'll be fully immersed again before long.
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