Guest Contributor

Resistance Checklist: Do It Loud. Do It Quiet by Karen Tate

Despite what you’re hearing out there, because it’s outdated information just being repeated in the echo chamber, Trump did not win by a landslide. He has no legitimate mandate. As of this writing one percentage point of the population separates how many votes each candidate got in this election and counting has not finished.

Many of us might still be recovering from the election disappointment and we’re trying to find our way forward. Consider this:

“Many of us have been brought up on stories of praying to God the Father to save us, waiting for our prince to come, submitting to the greater wisdom of our husband or priest to guide us. We need to move from this way of being, into our own agency. But we must also recognise that we cannot do it all, nor do it alone, in the martyr mother myth so many of us have learned to embody.
This is not the time for being nice, biting our tongues or not rocking the boat. And yet these are also not times for making enemies or picking fights. Can we find other ways of engaging and challenging, visioning and contributing to transformation? What might these look like?” From Weaving Our Way Beyond Patriarchy – a compendium of over 80 women’s voices, launching today exclusively from Womancraft Publishing. com

Kamala Gave us a Tremendous Gift by Karen Tate

So I’m going to assume my readers don’t think meditation is a gateway for the devil to enter our minds and it’s not too woke. I mean, it’s a pretty mainstream practice these days going way back. Meditation originated in India, a very long time ago. According to the Live and Dare website, the oldest documented evidence of the practice of meditation are wall arts in the Indian subcontinent from approximately 5,000 to 3,500 BCE, showing people seated in meditative postures with half-closed eyes. In fact today it’s a recommended self help tool and who among us didn’t need some self help after November 5?

So, I was doing a guided meditation and this figure comes toward me and hands me a box with a key inside but the meditation ended without my knowing what the key symbolized. Then a few days later I was in another meditation circle and that box and key reappeared, only this time I got the message. The key was certainty. The key reminded me of a period in my life, some of my darkest days, when the road ahead was not clear, everything I’d planned for my life seemed gone and I had every reason to despair. I felt those feelings again as I touched the key in the meditation, but I also felt that glimmer of certainty I had back then that if I just kept making my famous lists, putting one foot in front of the other, following my logic, everything would work out and in the end, it did. Actually, in the end, there were even unexpected gifts in the troubles. Call it my Higher Self, my Soul, God, Goddess, my intuition – whatever – I was being reminded in those guided meditations of my ability to persevere. Of my resilience. That good things are ahead and there are gifts in the suffering and challenges if we are willing to see them.

MOTHER OAK by Dale Allen

We sat on the in the leaves, my daughter and I, in the warm autumn sun under the Great Mother Oak. Here and there fallen leaves danced lightly in the breeze. It felt good to be directly connected to the ground, bent knees and bare feet on the land. We leaned back and looked up at the tree in all her glory. She was still filled with yellow green leaves… her canopy so high that from up there, she can “see” the other neighborhood trees with many years like she has.

She has been here in this place since the end of the 1700s or the beginning of the 1800s. She was here with the first European settlers of this place. Her mother had been here before that, with the last generations of the people who were of this land for 15,000 years or more: the Paugussett People. We could feel this history. We could feel the tree’s mother. And then, from beneath the ground where their energy remains steady, we heard the voice of the Paugussett. They thanked us for acknowledging their presence. They said that they can feel our profound love for this place where we live, here in Black Rock, Connecticut… our love for the trees, the leaves, the flowers, the osprey, the red tail hawks, the fox, the squirrels, the rabbits, the insects, the shore, the waters of coastal Connecticut (Long Island Sound), the shells, the sand, the sparkles, the historical homes, the families, the new babies. We love this land. We love our home. And the Paugussett saw this love. The Mother Oak saw this love.

Samhain and the Waters of Hurricanes Helene and Milton, part 2 by Susan Foster

Part 1 was posted yesterday

On Samhain we are given the opportunity to come together in community to grieve our losses. We grieve for all those we have known personally who have passed over. But this year we also grieve for all those who lost their lives and homes in Hurricanes Helene and Milton and in the many other disasters around the world. We grieve as well for the other losses that occurred—of homes, of jobs, of community, of pets (many of whom also died or were separated from their owners). The losses are so enormous and overwhelming that we need the support that community provides to cope with them. We need to bind together in the strength of community to express our sorrow. Being aware of the death from so many natural disasters helps us to listen to the earth to see what She is telling us, to hear Her crying because She is weakened and out of balance, breaking apart under the strain.

Feeling the earth’s grief from the hurts inflicted upon Her enables us to take stock of our policies, to change our course while we still can. As we float downstream on our raft, we can ignore what we see around us until we see the rapids ahead and say to ourselves, before we plunge over them, “Why didn’t we change course earlier?”

Samhain and the Waters of Hurricanes Helene and Milton, part 1 by Susan Foster

Moderator’s note: While Samhain is past for this year, we are still in the section of the Celtic calendar which makes this blogpost, and its part 2 which will be posted tomorrow, relevant.

Samhain is an ancient Celtic festival, in fact the most sacred celebration in the Celtic year. Samhain is the New Year of the Celtic calendar. It is one of the eight holidays of the Celtic year—the solstices, equinoxes, and cross-quarter days—all of which mark the turnings of the seasons. Samhain is a time when the harvest had been completed; all the grains and late-maturing vegetables have been gathered in; the fields have been cleared, the old cast off, the fields lying fallow over the cold and dark of winter in order to make room for the eventual springing forth of new life. The New Year, begins in darkness at Samhain, is a reminder that all life emerges from the darkness, that death precedes rebirth. It is a time when the veil between the worlds of the dead and the living thinned, so that the presence of those who have gone before us is more clearly felt or even seen. It is a time to remember the ancestors as well as those newly departed—to grieve our losses, to let go so that we can move forward.

Samhain is the precursor of our Halloween. It was brought to this country by Irish immigrants during the potato famines in the 19th century. They brought their Celtic customs with them, but by that time Samhain was known as Hallows Eve, since the Irish were good Catholics. It struck a responsive chord with the American people, who called it Halloween. They adopted many of its customs, including lighting candles in gourds or pumpkins and dressing in costume. Today Halloween is celebrated as a spooky and fun time, observed with trick-or-treating and mischief-making, but originally it was a solemn holiday—a time to commune with the beloved dead, to honor the ancestors with food and drink, and to acknowledge death as part of a never-ending cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.

Arianrhod; Postnatal Trauma and the Rejecting of Patriarchy by Kelle BanDea

Mothers and sons. The stories that make up the Four Branches of the Mabinogi, a Welsh medieval collection of Celtic legends, are in large part about mothers and sons. Mostly about their separation. Mabon is stolen from Modron. Rhiannon’s son Pryderi is twice captured. Branwen’s baby is murdered. In Arianrhod’s tale, the Fourth Branch, it is she, the mother, who rejects her son.

Unknown History Is My Sweet Spot by Michelle Cameron

“I never knew that,” is a comment I often hear from my readers. “Why don’t I know that?”

Finding what I call my “sweet spot” in historical fiction – writing stories of Jewish history that are relatively unknown to my Jewish and non-Jewish readers alike – was a total fluke.

I had completed my first published book – a verse novel about William Shakespeare and the Globe Theatre, called In the Shadow of the Globe – and was considering my next project. I thought perhaps I could write about the woman I was named for – my great-aunt Masha, who, with her red hair and fiery personality, seemed like a promising subject to base a novel around. My mother had told me stories of how her family had become wealthy with huge forests in an estate on the Russia-Poland border. Mom spoke wistfully about her, recounting the second-hand tale of the diamonds that used to flash in Masha’s hair and how my grandmother had adored her.

But Mom had passed on and I had only one source to call upon – a genealogy that a distant cousin of mine had compiled of the various branches of my extensive maternal family.

And as I opened the genealogy, I stopped short at the first passage.

The Future of Sorjuanista Studies in the Americas: Challenges and Possibilities by Theresa A. Yugar

I had nearly resolved to leave the matter in silence;
yet although silence explains much by the emphasis of leaving all unexplained, because it is a negative thing, one must name the silence,
so that what it signifies may be understood.
Failing that, silence will say nothing,
for that is its proper function, to say nothing.[i]
La Respuesta/The Answer (al Soldado, or The Soldier)
Sor (Sr.) Juana Inés de la Cruz
(November 12, 1651 – April 18, 1695)

Today, I honor the legacy of mid-17th century Mexican Catholic nun, scholar, and poet Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. She was born in the central valley of Mexico in the Viceroyalty of New Spain, now in modern-day Mexico. She was the daughter of Doña Isabel Ramírez de Santillana and Don Pedro Manuel de Asbaje. They had three daughters: María, Juana, and Josefa. Doña Isabel also had three other children – Antonia, Inés, and Diego – with Diego Ruiz Lozano. Sor Juana Inés was raised with her siblings on their family’s hacienda of Nepantla which was managed by their strong-willed mother Doña Isabel.

How Will Catholics Vote?

Will Catholics be “salt” and “light” in the 2024 election? Cardinal Dolan fails to show the way.

Dawn Morais Webster, the Pope off to his summer palace, Castel Gandolfo. He tells the world he will now become just a “humble pilgrim.”

Donald Trump’s parade of vulgarity, racism, misogyny and grift is always on display. He is proud of it. His outrageous lies are his version of “truth,” or as his running mate JD Vance would say, they come “from the heart.” It’s easy to condemn Donald Trump but the more urgent question is how will our vote stack up against our professed values, and for believers, how does it square with our faith?

I am deeply ashamed that Catholics were enablers of Trump’s rise to power. And that Catholics, by a slim but crucial margin, still support Trump over Kamala Harris in seven battleground states, according to a National Catholic Reporter survey of self-identified Catholics.

Filigreed by Diane Finkle Perazzo

Dressed in filigreed art deco daffodils,
dainty and tucked among tailored leaves
held proudly — almost defensively.
Elegant and demure;
your shapely neck flares with grace.

You are such a small and lovely thing:
light as a feather and yet
you carry the weight
of an American woman’s silver-plated dreams.

Like her, you were designed to be admired –
fashioned to be lifted lightly.
Pretty and proper at the table and
placed just so.

Comfortable in your simple life of service.
Polished until your delicate silver skin
wore thin and the truth
within your copper heart could be revealed.

********