illumination

She did not cry, "I cannot,
I am not worthy,"
nor "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth, raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light, the lily glowed in it,
and the iridescent wings.

Consent,
courage unparalleled,
opened her utterly.

--Denise Levertov

There are multiple layers to this post--as always there are--and time for writing is in short supply this morning. I hope you will visit Abbey of the Arts where you will see an invitation to poetry as well as a brief and beautiful explanation of what this day represents (The Feast of the Immaculate Conception and the Enlightenment of Buddha.) In addition, she speaks of the amazing retreat of which I was a part. Words? Where can I begin?

Here is my own photo as well as the line from this poem that was highlighted in my journal from a few days ago. I believe it speaks volumes.

"Consent illumined her."

May you find this season of Advent filled with your own illumination and "yes" to the sacred in your life! Peace.

powerful women's motto

this is dedicated to all of the amazing wonderful women in my life. (if you are reading this, that means YOU!) you rock!!!

Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, Satan shudders & says...'Oh sh!#....she's awake!!'

(this was sent to me from another strong courageous grace-filled woman. thank you!)

Eyes of My Ancestors

My quiet time continues to bring more and more new results. The most recent in the form of a poem prompted by Christine @ Abbey of the Arts. Part of me hesitated to even post this here, because it feels a bit melancholy. However, there was something very powerful in writing it that gave me a new way to look at things.

When I think of my ancestors, I am reminded of stern faces and more often than not words of criticism rather than kindness. Maybe it was due to the serious times they were raised in or possibly the influence of the Bible belt, but there never felt like there was much, if any, room for play or imperfection.

In penning this reflection, however, I became very aware of the many dimensions of these ancestral women . While their words may have stung me deeply, I believe I can bring something new to the world by breaking their ancient patterns of hiddenness and propriety. I pray that through the realization of my own dreams and forgiveness, these women can be honored in new and glorious ways.

the eyes of my ancestry.
hollow & vacant. cold & elusive. barren of love.
are they my eyes? my fate?

do those eyes still watch & judge?
or do they weep for their veiled dreams?

might I be their eyes today?
might I see things differently & shed grace where once was derision?
might their eyes be washed clear by my tears?

the eyes of my ancestry.
are they watching now?
were they ever?

photo by christine.

Refusal of Silence

“Being a Silent Woman is not about being quiet and reticent, it’s about stifling our truth. Our real truth.” --Sue Monk Kidd, Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

A few days ago I wrote a post called “Simmering.” Many interpreted it, including myself, as a poem about anger—my anger. And, yes, of course that is true and yet it is not. For as I wrote those words I could envision a specific time and place, I could see the room, feel the tension in my young body, and witness the face of the one who was simmering. The words were about that face and that time and place AND the words were bigger than that with a parade of other faces, times and events being added along the way. They were not simply “simmering” faces. They were faces that attempted to "silence."

Ah, but the beauty is. This woman; that little girl; refuses to be silenced.

Last weekend I was drawn to create a collage using my own picture as the base. When I started, I envisioned layers of color ranging from dark to light with an emphasis more on the darkness that I felt had been surrounding me for several days. But as I worked, the darkness began to recede and colors of life and light arose. A lioness emerged with her power and courage. Jewels began to cover the page. The process was amazing, because even as I had selected dark rows of background, I found myself covering them with flowers and diamonds and kisses; with sweetness and bubbles and butterflies. Something very real emerged. Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled.

"Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled." I believe that is something truly worth pondering. How about you?

Connected...Yes? No? Maybe?

“What she is dismantling is the woman who was once asleep in her relationships, her religion, her career, and her inner life, the woman who never questioned any of it but blindly followed prevailing ideas and dictates. She is the woman severed from her own true instinct and creativity.” from Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd

Whenever I feel the pull of two seemingly unrelated things, I must begin to wonder how and if they are connected. The predominant pull for me lately has been toward a greater understanding of what it means to be a woman and more specifically a woman of God. I have been reading Sue Monk Kidd’s, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter which is her own personal journey from a traditional Christian background toward the Sacred Feminine.

The second topic that keeps popping up for me is that of grief and maybe more accurately “unresolved grief.” Mind Sieve had a provocative post talking about shielding grief for a child and how it moves with us into adulthood. Yesterday at a counseling session, my therapist asked me, “How much have you really grieved?” I wanted to say, “Lots” which is probably accurate, but then I must follow with “Is that enough?” “Enough” does not seem like the appropriate response, because it feels like however I grieve today will be different rather than just more of the same.

And then this morning, Christine’s post spoke of “a fear of darkness in our culture – a denial of death and a resistance to the work of grief.” So as I pondered that post, the thought of unresolved grief and my new awareness of the sacred feminine collided. At first glance I would call the two unrelated. Given a moment to think, however, my answer seems different.

For a few years now I have grieved for a little girl (me) who felt silenced throughout her life. Consequently, I have begun to connect with the woman (me again) who feels alive and vibrant in her own skin. As journeys go, however, the path must continue forward. And thus today, I believe I am being called to consider more deeply the missing pieces. It may include a visit into the darker sides of life, but it feels like light will greet me along the way like sunrays filtering through the heavy forest.

What path are you being called to follow during this changing of the seasons?

photo by lucy