Herstory – Feminism and Religion

Poems for My Motherline by Carolyn Lee Boyd

November is a time when the veil is thin between the worlds of the living and the dead. As I slip into the magic of this time of year, I think about my motherline: my mother, my mother’s mother, my mother’s mother’s mother, and so on down myriad generations to the beginning of humanity. I am lucky that I am able to trace my motherline back to 15th century England and discover some of the stories of these women whose labor and sacrifice gave me life. These three poems are some of the thoughts turned into poetry that I have had about my motherline over the years. They are chronological, beginning with my experience of being at my mother’s bedside as she died. Next is an ode to the generations of my motherline who migrated over and over again, seeking homes where they could find well being and peace for themselves and their children (while acknowledging in this note that, with each migration, they displaced people already living there, destroying their well being and peace). Finally, a poem about our generation’s place between those who lived before us and those who will live after us and what we have to offer each other. May we all gaze through the thin veil at one another, no matter which generation we are, with compassion and love..

Gratitudes by Beth Bartlett

After several stressful and demanding weeks, I had five days ahead of me with no responsibilities except to my dog, who gives as much if not more than he gets. I had a long drive ahead of me, but it was the peak of the autumnal bouquet that filled nearly every moment of the ten-hour drive. Plus, I was headed to my soul’s resting place. Only an hour into my drive I could feel the tension in my bodymind melt away. I actually felt lighter. The spaciousness of the days ahead emptied me of every bit of negativity and in its place — gratitudes.

This was not the practice of recognizing and writing down three things I was grateful for at the end of the day, something I have practiced as a discipline off and on for many years. It was instead much more spontaneous and spirit-filled. Throughout the day the gratitudes simply arose in my being.

The audiobook I was listening to filled me with appreciation for all the people in my former workplace who had done all the unseen work for the decades I had worked there – the ones who did the bookkeeping for my paychecks, my retirement fund, my healthcare; the ones who helped keep my computer running and the heat and lights on; the ones who cleaned the hallways and the classrooms; the ones who plowed the parking lots.

The Grandmother Way by Sara Wright

The last day of August is upon us. It’s so cool here in the hollow that I decide to winnow the second batch of my elderberries sitting outdoors where Coalie can keep a sharp eye on me from her dog bed on the porch. I note that hummingbirds are thinning out. As I begin this separation of berry from stem, I imagine that I am connected to all women everywhere through what is often called (pejoratively) ‘woman’s work’. Women who were the first seed keepers and berry winnowers like today’s Indigenous peoples that still follow the old ways. Oh, I am grateful to be sitting among them in my imagination. Still, I yearn. I wish I could share this task with just one other woman, and for a moment sink into that familiar loneliness. As I look at my purple stained fingers reflecting on how exquisite a natural dye this must make, I think I might try to collect another batch of berries to experiment with.

I am not sure just when all thought ceased but every year, I experience this phenomenon while plucking purple elderberries with my fingers… and then? Two hours later the winnowing is done, just as I begin to lose the sun. Returning to the house I finish my tinctures in minutes, pouring amethyst berries into jars and covering them with alcohol. After steeping for six weeks this medicine will help me ward off colds and flu. Covid too. I am mindful that elderberries are a gift from nature that I receive each year. Gratitude overflows at this time of the ‘Gathering In’.

Gloria Naylor: Redirecting the Spotlight, American Woman Writer (1950-2016), part 2 by Maria Dintino

part 1 was posted yesterday

Mama Day

By the time Gloria Naylor wrote her the third novel, Mama Day (1988), she was a master, able to infuse the story with such richness, connection and love that the reader is enveloped in a state of amazement while reading. This spell involves the “spiritual vision, or more accurately, third sight, that empowers Mama Day” (51).

The manifestation of the matriarchal lineage in Mama Day creates a dizzying suspension in time, with dubious connections to the past, tied to current happenings, along with the struggle and hope for the future. Sometimes it is hard to decipher exactly what is going on and you are left to decide for yourself what you see, hear, understand and believe. As the narrator says, “Truth is never fixed”(38).

This novel is set on Willow Springs, a fictional rendition of one of the Sea Islands off the coast of South Carolina, “a uniquely maternal island paradise that defies geographic limits”(38).

Gloria Naylor: Redirecting the Spotlight, American Woman Writer (1950-2016), part 1 by Maria Dintino

The Gloria Naylor Archive

I am beyond thrilled to learn of The Gloria Naylor Archive!

This extensive repository of Naylor’s work has been a joint labor of love, respect, and honor between Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Connecticut (where Naylor was awarded an honorary degree in 1994) and Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Suzanne Edwards, associate professor of English and director of the Humanities Center at Lehigh, explains:

“It’s this incredible resource, but it was also a resource that I didn’t see people engaging with in scholarship on Naylor. The materials weren’t easily accessible, and Sacred Heart didn’t have the staff or resources to digitize it.”

As a result, Edwards recommended a partnership that would “make the archive more accessible to fans of Naylor’s work, to teachers who are teaching her novels at the college level, on the secondary level, and to scholars who might find it difficult to make a trip to Fairfield”(Hochbein).

The results: a rich and expanding digital archive, as well as an invite to those doing research involving Naylor to schedule an appointment if they would like to engage with materials in person. (Before scheduling a trip, know that the physical materials belonging to the archive are back at Sacred Heart University in Connecticut as of 2023.)

Tortured Turtle by Sara Wright

Yesterday I attended a community event where someone from a rescue organization was holding up the biggest painted turtle that I have ever seen. More than a foot in length. An equally large snapper was lying on the grass surrounded by people.

The point this woman was trying to make is that turtles grow up into large turtles that can end up in rescue organizations. I froze in horror as I took the pictures, tried to get details but the woman was occupied with someone else while she held this creature in the air.

This morning I gazed into a forest that is dripping with dew. Astonishing golden autumn light is gilding the trees as tears fall through the leaves. Achingly beautiful until I see an image of the turtle in my mind. Remembering times when I was young and didn’t pay attention to what a sensitive child KNEW.

All creatures are sentient; all feel pain and fear. The image of yesterday’s turtle highlights everything that is wrong in a world when most people believe that only humans are sentient. Once I thought I believed that too, although the child in me did not. I couldn’t deal with the terrorized child, so I left her behind as soon as I could. As a young adolescent my second (rejecting the child was the first) crisis of faith occurred when the religion I adhered to created no space for the rest of nature or geological time.

Soil Stars and Sexuality: Regeneration as an Embodied Spiritual Practice by Toya L Walker

The garden gives me a place to ask what it means to belong to a living world. In Boston, where my growing space occupies roughly 1,000 square feet, that question takes practical form. There is soil to tend, water to carry, a season to understand, and a body doing the work. My grandparents cultivated land in Jamaica. Returning there helped me recognize how deeply that relationship mattered to my life. Growing in the city became a way to carry it forward under different conditions.

In my book, Growing in a Concrete Jungle: From Soil to Soul, I approach gardening through food, cultural memory, everyday wellbeing, and seed stewardship. Here, I extend those concerns into a spiritual question: What changes when regeneration includes our bodies, our relationships, and our capacity to receive care? I understand regeneration as an embodied spiritual practice when tending life teaches us to attend to the conditions that sustain it. Soil, stars, and sexuality offer different ways to examine that attention.

Soil and the foundations of care

This reflection begins with one garden and one family history. Its spiritual meaning emerges through interpretation and practice. I do not assume that every grower shares my beliefs. The garden offers experiences through which I can ask about the sacred while respecting other understandings of life.

Samhain Slowing by Molly M Remer

Today,
I sat and let both my breath
and my thoughts be soft,
extending my hands
and feeling my life and mind unclench
if only for these moments.
On Samhain morning,
we saw a buck
in the road,
trees still clad in autumn color
lit gold behind him
as he stood at the crossroads
before leaping away
between the trees.
On Samhain evening
we saw five bucks in the road,
young males teamed up
for this season of seeking and claiming.
On the drive home
an orange moon was on the rise
cresting dark trees
and peeking between hills
like something out of mystery.
I lifted my hand and blew it a kiss
this, my own solitary rite of Samhain.
On the first of November,
I sat with my memories,
naming off my most recent ancestors,
each face briefly coming to mind
as I felt grateful
for the oldest child privilege
of knowing each of them
in the flesh
and carrying the memory
deep inside me
of how my birth was celebrated
by so many loving people now lost.
We’ve had two frosts,
the hydrangea leaves
wilted to black,
the mulberry trees bare
and so we seek
the pines once more,
watching the sinking sun
illuminate the needles
and listening to the wind whisper
in the way it does
only through tall pines.
I feel my inner cauldron bubbling,
new ideas popping up
and beginning to rise.
But,
I stop and listen.
Now is not the time for production.
It is time for pine whispers
and slow mornings.
Time for tea and quiet reflection.
Time to be curious
about what might yet arise,
and yet,
patient
as it steeps.

Two Poems by Darlene O’Dell

Quiet, Piggy

Though the slur also concerns chickens
and eggs and which came first—
did the master create the puppet
or the puppet the master?

suppose, for instance, one posits
an argument for compassion—
the bare minimum, as in let’s not
disappear people and torture families

a few crumbs under the table
hardly enough for a dog and a widow—
let’s not torment the targeted
and call it Jesus

Executions of Women in Iran in 2026: The Human Cost of State Violence by WNCRI

Today, October 10th, 2026 is World Day Against the Death Penalty

Mothers, Child Brides, and Victims; 54 Killed in 12 Months

As the World Day Against the Death Penalty is observed, the situation of executions of women in Iran presents a horrifying picture of the scale of structural violence against women.

According to information documented by the Women’s Committee of the National Council of Resistance of Iran, at least 28 women have been executed in prisons across Iran since the beginning of 2026. Over a twelve-month period, from October 2025 to October 2026, the number of women executed in Iran reached at least 54. This shocking figure underscores the continued use of the death penalty against women.

These figures have been recorded under circumstances in which, following the nationwide protests of January 2026, months of widespread internet shutdowns, severe communication restrictions, and extensive censorship made the flow of information from inside Iran to the outside world extremely difficult and, in many cases, virtually impossible.