Category: Feminist Awakenings

Not My Story Anymore by Esther Nelson

The meaning we derive from stories—especially religious stories we’ve heard and become familiar with since infancy—shape how we perceive and understand the world.  Our beliefs are an amalgam of “my story” (my individual life experience in a specific context) shaped by another story.  Who I am is heavily informed by particular narratives and their (often) codified interpretation.

I was raised on the doctrine of substitutionary atonement.  Doctrine is an interpretation of story, the substance of which is thought of as “truth” by believers.  The story informing substitutionary atonement is a familiar one, especially to those in Christian circles.  Jesus of Nazareth, a Jew living during the Roman occupation of much of the Mediterranean region, was crucified circa 30 C.E.  Jesus was a teacher who attracted many followers and often spoke (according to the writers of the gospels) of a coming Kingdom of God.  This threatened Roman rule so the Romans killed him.

Is the story factually true?  Perhaps.  As with so many narratives that are passed down through generations, there are many versions.  We find meaning (or not) in the story we have at hand.  On one level, Jesus’ crucifixion demonstrates the lengths governments will go to in order to keep themselves in power, showing the oppression, fear, and suffering people endure under despotic rulers.  On another level, substitutionary atonement (Jesus died to pay for humanity’s sins) is an interpretation of that story.  So often the stories we carry with us, along with a specific interpretation (doctrine), become conflated.  Rarely do we stop and unravel the story from the meaning we’ve been given and sometimes appropriated. Continue reading “Not My Story Anymore by Esther Nelson”

Are Your Shackles Showing? Hyperbole, Metaphor or Shades of Reality? by Karen Tate

Note: These Comments Might Trigger You
You’ve been held in a windowless room for a long time.  So long, you can’t remember how long it’s been.  You have shackles on your ankles.  Sometimes you can see beyond your sleeping pad, sometimes not so much.  You’re instructed to perform tasks assigned to you according to the will of your captor.   Most days you work so long you feel as if you’ll drop.  Sometimes you have enough food to eat, other times not.  It’s cold and damp in this holding cell where you’ve lived most of your life.  You’ve been sick here, but you have no access to a doctor.  You’ve been beaten regularly, physically and verbally,  for infractions perceived by your captor.   You still have the bruises.  You’ve not been outside this place for so long you’ve stopped scraping the number of days you’ve been held captive onto the walls. 
But, sometimes, you can faintly hear a voice whispering to you from the outside.  It’s a voice that calls to you in quiet moments when the usual crushing noise more easily heard doesn’t drown it out.  It’s hard to understand the words the voice is speaking.  They sound so foreign to you.   The voice suggests there is something else outside this cell.  When you ask your captor about it, the reply is always the same…laughter, mocking, anger.  So you become afraid to listen.


Then one day your captor gets careless.  Or maybe you’re listening closer.  The incessant noise seems less.  Your captor forgot to lock the shackles on your ankles and bolt the door.  You hear the voice outside.  It offers you something else.  It sounds too good to be true.   You’ve heard your captor say as much.   You’d been told that the voice offers empty promises that will never become reality.   But you ask yourself how much longer you can go on here?  So, you stand up at your sleeping pad.  Your legs are shaking.  The hair is standing up on the back of your neck  and carefully, timidly, you walk toward the unbolted door.   You reach out.  Your hand is shaking as you place it on the knob.  You see the red marks from old bruises on your wrists.  Something inside you knows you no longer can tolerate this cell.  Only, it’s all you’ve ever known, or it’s all you remember.

It’s your moment of truth.  You might not get this chance again in your lifetime.  Do you turn the knob?  Do you step across the threshold and move toward the voice?  Or do you shrink back, fearfully choosing the familiar, the devil you know?  Do you choose the somewhat reliable crumbs  laced with indifference and resentment your abuser has been dishing out for years?  Can this really be all there is?  Or can you find it in yourself to take a leap of faith?  Are you going to continue a life of institutionalized abuse and exploitation or are you going to walk across the threshold into a different  life?

Continue reading “Are Your Shackles Showing? Hyperbole, Metaphor or Shades of Reality? by Karen Tate”

Women’s Circles Need Well-Established Structures to Ensure that Everyone’s Voice Is Heard by Carol P. Christ

In a recent blog on Feminism and Religion, “Insights on Sisterhood,” Eirini Delaki opened a dialogue about problems that arise in women’s circles. According to her, many of us are reacting against the poisonous pedagogy of control which is all too familiar in patriarchal families and patriarchal cultural, religious, and economic institutions. Desiring to be free of hierarchical structures that inhibit our growth and happiness, we often react against all structures.

We imagine that groups without structure will provide a space where we can learn and grow together. We begin with a vision of sisterhood in which everyone’s voice will be heard. In practice, however, groups without structure usually end up being dominated by those with the loudest voices and the biggest egos. The quieter and less sure members of the group find themselves dominated again. When the vision of sisterhood is not realized, the group is likely to dissolve. Continue reading “Women’s Circles Need Well-Established Structures to Ensure that Everyone’s Voice Is Heard by Carol P. Christ”

The Matricide Basic to Patriarchy’s Birth by Carol P. Christ

About 20 years ago I witnessed a performance of the 3 plays of the Oresteia (the Orestes plays) by Aeschylus. I was stunned. Watching them in sequence, I understood that the plays were one of patriarchy’s “just so stories” and that their continuing performance was part and parcel of patriarchy’s perpetuation and legitimation.

According to the myths, Helen, the wife of King Menelaus of Sparta, ran off to Troy with its prince, Paris. In revenge for his lost honor, Menelaus called the Greeks to attack Troy and bring her back. Agamemnon, brother of Menelaus and king of Mycenae, assembled his ships, but the wind refused to fill their sails. He was told that his army would be allowed to depart only if he killed his daughter Iphigenia. He lured his daughter and her mother Clytemnestra to the place where his ships were waiting with the promise of marriage to Achilles. When they arrived, he killed his daughter and the ships sailed.

The myths do not tell us that in matrilineal and egalitarian matriarchal cultures the mother-daughter bond is the sacred because it represents the continuation of life. Continue reading “The Matricide Basic to Patriarchy’s Birth by Carol P. Christ”

ERA—Equal Rights for Women—in the US: Has Our Time Finally Come? by Carol P. Christ

On August 26, 1970, I borrowed an old VW bug from my mentor and summer employer Michael Novak to drive from Oyster Bay, Long Island to New York City to take part in the Women’s Strike for Equality march down Fifth Avenue. Some 50,000 women attended the march and another 50,000 took part in sister actions around the United States. The march celebrated the 50th anniversary of the passage of the Women’s Suffrage Amendment that gave women the right to vote. The ERA was on our minds, but it was not the only issue on the feminist agenda. We believed that all the walls created by patriachy would come tumbling down, and soon! Continue reading “ERA—Equal Rights for Women—in the US: Has Our Time Finally Come? by Carol P. Christ”

Endings, Beginnings, and Dreamings by Carol P. Christ

my dream home in Molivos

Fifteen years ago, I bought my dream home in Molivos, Lesbos, one of the most stunning villages in the world. Over the next two years I renovated a listed Neoclassical house that had been neglected for over thirty years, restoring it to its original beauty. One of my friends who visited exclaimed that it looked like a movie set. Someone else said that the final result was “more Greek than Greek.” I thought this would be my forever home. But, as I have discussed in an earlier blog, I came to feel isolated in a small village.

Two years ago, I followed my heart to Crete, renting a lovely apartment in Heraklion, followed by a house near the sea. Then back to Lesbos, travel to the US and Canada, and Crete again after Christmas. I would have been happy to move back to the apartment I had rented the previous year, but this time I would bring my little dog. The apartment under my friend’s house outside Heraklion seemed like a good compromise, but the drive to Heraklion proved treacherous and parking difficult. Continue reading “Endings, Beginnings, and Dreamings by Carol P. Christ”

This is for colored girls who are movin to the ends of their own rainbows: Ntozake Shange’s Choreopoem of Spiritual Healing by Carol P. Christ

Ntozake Shange’s choreopoem for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf has reopened at the Public Theater in New York City to rave reviews.

A scene from the new production of for colored girls

I first saw for colored girls in 1976 after my friend Carolyn Broadaway, who was visiting me in the city, insisted that we must see it.

Here is what I wrote about that experience:

Each of the three times I saw for colored girls performed on Broadway and each of the many times I read it or heard it performed [on the original cast album] on my stereo, I have felt chills of recognition up and down my white woman’s spine—shocks of recognition that tell me that something deep within me has been unlocked as I hear my experience voiced. (103)

Continue reading “This is for colored girls who are movin to the ends of their own rainbows: Ntozake Shange’s Choreopoem of Spiritual Healing by Carol P. Christ”

Pain and Pausing, by Molly Remer

“I pin my hopes to quiet processes and small circles, in which vital and transforming events take place.”

—Rufus Jones

Last year in August, I wrote here at FAR about my own pattern of getting sick each July and 67552265_2390846147794260_5776927048312291328_othe steps I have been taking over the last three years to change that pattern for myself. This year in a surprisingly literal twist, I fell and hurt my ankle in June, and now, eight weeks later, am still recovering from that fall, thus inadvertently continuing my pattern of spending July of every year “out of commission.”

There is no dramatic story associated with my fall, I was quite literally just standing still on the front porch, waiting for my kids to open the front door after getting home from a Girl Scout meeting, when my foot slipped off the short front step and I came down hard on my ankle, twisting it beneath me at a 90 degree angle inward, as if I stepped down onto the end of my leg bone instead of my foot. I knew immediately that this was not a “normal” misstep or simple twist of the ankle, my leg hurt in a different and deeper way than I’ve ever experienced before, the swelling instantaneous and visible through my sock before I could even crawl inside. My husband Mark came running to help me and all I could say was, I think I’ve really, really hurt myself. Continue reading “Pain and Pausing, by Molly Remer”

The Earth Heals by Xochitl Alvizo

This post makes more sense if you read my most recent post first, “Grounding My Love.”

It’s been over a year now since I started my community garden at the encouragement of my friends Tallessyn and Trelawney. The earth heals, they told me–and I needed healing. I couldn’t seem to find my place, my sense of home, in L.A. (I never have transitioned well), I had left my community in Boston and in many ways I had left my heart there also.

Tallessyn has written before about how the earth brings healing. In her article, “Can Creation Help Heal Society’s Wounds? What grass and garden pets teach us about the gift of grief,” published in Focus, a publication of the Boston University School of Theology, she shares that, “nature is the great equalizer. No matter our power or privilege, the truth we need to remember, perhaps, is that we never left–we still are earth, and to Earth we shall return” (PDF pgs. 17-18). She writes that time spent in nature is “medicine” (something my friend Edyka Chilomé has also taught me recently). Tallessyn explains, “anyone who has spent any length of mindful time connecting with nature, from wilderness to window garden” knows that “Creation confronts us with our deepest wounds.” And I have found that, like with other medicine, we are often afraid of it – mindful time with nature may reveal to us wounds we would rather not see and we sometimes have the terrible habit of turning away from our wounds and grief. However, I appreciate what Tallessyn writes: that if we are willing to see grief as a gift, we can then begin to move through it toward healing—and mindful time with the earth helps us discern our way through this process and begin to be released from our anguish. Continue reading “The Earth Heals by Xochitl Alvizo”

Grief and Rebirth by Gina Messina

Rebirth is challenging. It demands that we be accountable, acknowledge failures and fears, recognize the ramifications of our actions, and the ways we impact those who share our journey. We often don’t realize that denying self-love and care in favor of sacrifice for others results in a double negative. If we don’t care or ourselves, we cannot care for anyone else. 

Warning…TMI ahead. I’ve thought a lot about writing this piece. I believe in the spirit of sharing experience; learning from one another—recognizing our own stories and finding we are not alone—when someone is willing to speak her truth. My gratitude to Carol Christ whose courage to share experience has empowered me to brave (I feel an overwhelming urge to insert emojis to express my emotion and gratitude; and although I am desperately trying to restrain myself… 🤗❤️🙏).

Being vulnerable is scary. It is uncomfortable. It requires us to share our deepest fears, that for which we feel shame. It can be embarrassing. We don’t want to be judged. And yet, our vulnerability can also promote our own healing and offer a sense of comfort to those who share in our struggle. And so, I feel like I should shout out Geronimo…

This month marks eleven years since losing my mother to violence. It also marks fours year since I chose to leave my seventeen year marriage. I hadn’t before made the connection about these two events occurring the same month until this very moment of my writing – but it occurs to me that there is a significance in finding strength during a time when I was grieving the anniversary of my mother’s passing. Perhaps a reflection for another post…

I remember the moment I knew that my marriage was likely going to end; I felt like I was dying. I begged my husband to stay. I recited prayers that have never brought me comfort. I went to a church that offered me no community. I sought counseling from a priest who devalues me because I am a woman. I turned to the traditional interpretation of my religion to keep me firmly placed in an unhealthy marriage. Power structure enforcing power structure.    Continue reading “Grief and Rebirth by Gina Messina”