Herstory – Page 4 – Feminism and Religion

A Little Story about Intimacy by Sara Wright

Usually when humans hear the word intimacy they think of human loved ones. When I use the word intimacy it is because I belong to the land and by extension to all of nature beginning with my dogs who have accompanied me throughout my life and remain my most intimate companions.

Recently, after eight months of hospicing my two dying girls – we spend the last thirteen years as one unit – I wondered how long it would be before my grief would allow me to bring in another companion. My two beloved dead dogs orchestrated Coalie’s coming although I didn’t know it at the time, and now that we are together, I can walk with my grief and loss and experience joy even as I am once again initiated into interspecies intimacy that defies explanation.

I still find myself in a state of awe. How is it possible that a 2 lb. dog could become so much a part of me so seamlessly? From the moment I saw her on a machine I knew she was mine. When she arrived, we were already connected on a level beneath words…

Divining Goddess: Tattooed Sawbonna & Serpent by Margot Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks/Heyoka

Tattooed upon my body. Residing in my soul. Sawbonna. Serpent. Snake. SHE who is. Was. Always will be. Like waking from a solemn sleep. I walked with the intention of heading to my home where I have been building houses. Papier-mâché mansions and tiny, tiny shacks. Sheds too, that speak of shelter. Of warmth. Of community.

After time with Jess and Benn in Emma’s office, heading in the direction of my cozy cave of light. My sanctuary. Where silence rarely slumbers. I looked up. Above me there, right there, blue, blue, sky. Fat potent clouds. One errant, silent-speaking breeze redolent with hope. Reeking of Sawbonna. I knew that the time had come.

I knew what I had do.
I did not return home.
I turned left on to Hunter Street.
Wended my way to Simcoe Street.

After conversation with Nelson at Henry’s Barber Shop, Riverside Tattoo and I became acquainted. It was mid-afternoon.

All That She Carried by Tiya Miles: Recovering the Untold Stories of Black Women in America, part 2 by Theresa Dintino

Part 1, appeared yesterday.

There are many women named Rose in the ledgers of unfree people in Charleston around 1850. The defining feature to find the Rose mentioned on this sack is that her daughter is named Ashley, not a common name for Black female children of the time. Miles finally locates a Rose and an Ashley in the inventory of Milberry Place Plantation, a country estate of a man named Robert Martin. When Martin died, his estate was liquidated and thus the mention of the sale of Ashley.

“Ashley is listed among one hundred unfree people in the inventory of Martin’s enslaved property taken in the year 1853. Her attributed value of $300, in comparison to that of other women listed at $500 and $600 in the cotton boom decade of the 1850’s, suggests that she may have been a younger or relatively unskilled worker”(69).

Things were bad enough for unfree people but the disruption that came like a tsunami through their lives when an enslaver died and his property was sold was a fear most carried and trembled at the thought of. Unfree families were always being torn apart in the time that slavery was legal and allowed in this country, but when estates were being divided up, it became particularly excruciating and this is what came to pass for Rose and Ashley.

All That She Carried by Tiya Miles: Recovering the Untold Stories of Black Women in America, part 1 by Theresa Dintino

Moderator’s Note: This piece is in co-operation with The Nasty Women Writers Project, a site dedicated to highlighting and amplifying the voices and visions of powerful women. The site was founded by sisters Theresa and Maria Dintino. To quote Theresa, “by doing this work we are expanding our own writer’s web for nourishment and support.” This was originally posted on their site on November 30, 2021. You can see more of their posts here.

First she was told about a grain sack dating from around 1851 that had these words embroidered on it:

My great grandmother Rose
mother of Ashley gave her this sack when
she was sold at age 9 in South Carolina
it held a tattered dress 3 handfulls of
pecans a braid of Roses hair. Told her
It be filled with my LOVE always
she never saw her again
Ashley is my grandmother
Ruth Middleton
1921

Emergence – Miracle Birth by Sara Wright

When my ‘good neighbor’ sent me the photo yesterday morning I could see the outlines of the butterfly, so my little dog Coal and I walked up to see for ourselves. It was hot – very hot though only around 9:30 AM. The capsule was already twisted and turning though not even the lightest breeze was in evidence. The outlines of the monarch were clearly etched through the now blackened but still translucent chrysalis.

Standing under the porch overhang that the caterpillar had chosen for transforming, a miracle was in progress. Before our eyes the capsule split as the butterfly emerged head-first, feelers extended and waving from the bottom of a rapidly shrinking chrysalis that had so recently been lime green tipped in gold. The wings were still quite small, but the butterfly was already pumping fluid into them readying for first flight. As the wings expanded before our eyes I cried out like a child exclaiming in my joy and excitement – “oh a miracle, a miracle”, and of course it was, the birthing of new life.

Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Who Is Jephthah’s Daughter? The Sacrifice of Women and Girls

This post was originally published on Jan 20th, 2014.

Last week I reflected on Angela Yarber’s insightful essay and painting on Jephthah’s daughter. For those who did not read the earlier posts, the story of Jephthah’s daughter is found in the Hebrew Bible. Jephthah’s daughter was sacrificed by her father after he swore in the heat of battle that if his side won, he would sacrifice the first person he would see on returning home. Angela called us to reflect on who Jephthah’s daughter is in our time.

In my earli carol p. christ 2002 color er midrash on the story, I invoked Daniel Cohen’s powerful retelling of the story of Iphigenia. Cohen concludes that Artemis told Agamemnon that his ships would sail only if he sacrificed his daughter not because she wanted him to do it—but because she hoped this challenge would induce him to realize that the costs of war outweigh any possible gain.

I suggested that these words be spoken whenever the story of Jephthah’s daughter is told: Continue reading “Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Who Is Jephthah’s Daughter? The Sacrifice of Women and Girls”

Let’s Have The Talk – What Does “The Birds and The Bees” Actually Mean: By Zoe Carlin

Recently, I have thought about a common idiom that has been used to refer to sexual reproduction, the birds and the bees. I became curious why animals that appear in most gardens were used as an example to explain where babies come from, until I did some research. It turns out that since the birds lay eggs, that is their representation of the female body and the bees represent the sperm due to pollination. It is a very subtle, overlooked message that can be disguised as being more age-appropriate to young children. However, I decided to dig a bit deeper. Ed Finegan, a USC professor of linguistics and law, has stated that this phrase has existed a lot longer than one might think. There is evidence of it being used in a somewhat sexual context going back to at least two authors, Samuel Coleridge Taylor (1825) and an entry from John Evelyn’s The Evelyn Diary (1644).

In Work Without Hope, Samuel Coleridge Taylor quotes, “All nature seems at work . . . The bees are stirring, birds are on the wing . . . and I the while, the sole unbusy thing, not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.” This separation of the birds and bees is indicating the loneliness and sadness of missing out on a potential romantic connection. When going even further back in time to 1644, it was noticed in the Evelyn Diary that there was an entry discussing the interior design of St. Peter’s in Rome: “That stupendous canopy of Corinthian brasse; it consists of 4 wreath’d columns, incircl’d with vines, on which hang little putti [cherubs], birds and bees.” This description is illustrating that there is a possible sensual or sexual meaning of the architecture in St. Peters.

If I am The Mother* by Rebecca Rogerson

If I am The Mother

then I am holy. Made of moonbeams and shadows, darkness and light, questioned and answered, lost and retrieved;

discovered remains

If I am The Mother

then I am a reflection, a depiction, an inflexion of a cosmos in bliss and chaos, birth and destitution; a primordial sound unleashed to form planet, life, and

you and me

If I am The Mother

then I am fermented in humanity, and sour the illusions of precipices we’re told that

we cannot cross

Cross the trinity of three’s and return to

the magic of all

Hopscotch Spells by Annelinde Metzner

In my work with the folklore and music of children’s games and circles, I’m enchanted by how many bits of magic are interwoven into everyday children’s games from many, many years ago. Our childhood closely intersects with the deep, witchy, magic world of spells, talking animals and whispering spirits.

POEM: “Hopscotch Spells”

One, two, three, O’lary,
four, five, six, O’lary….

I’m pulled like a slingshot’s band
back to those childhood, everyday spells.

Ally, ally, in-come-free!

Each day, we’d open the screen door
and hurry to our witches’ college,
pursuing a degree in the Child’s School of Magic.

One potato, two potato, three potato, four!

What drew us to each other this way?
The circle of street kids, our pals,
our fists beating out the rhythms,
our jumps and our skips conjuring powers.

Lucy’s Light by Sara Wright

12/?/ 13 – 7/21/25 written morning after her death 22ⁿ^d

Purple and scarlet
orange flames
lemon and gold
lavender blue
cobalt hues
we are
dogs,
bees, bears,
butterflies,
hummingbirds too
Innocence seeking
a place
we once knew…
Grief pulled us down
into an old familiar
place. Darkness reigned
hopelessness too.
All we had was each other
At Hecate’s Crossroad
she couldn’t let go
and either could I
Lucy was my dog
you see
A ‘familiar’
just like me.
I couldn’t read her.
Forced to make
the decision
for us both
I let her go…
When we lay together
that one last time
nestled under
a purple shroud
she breathed
Feathers of Light
a Tree circle
marks her grave
Earth took her in
roots, soil, leaves
Hemlock
holds
her body
like
I once did.
Between North and East
Bear Medicine flowed
through a crack
in the Round…
Rising
on the wings
of cool green lights
she lives …
Firefly Nights.