Women and Art – Feminism and Religion

Female Wisdom in Eden: A Guide for Faith-Formed Feminists By Susie Austin

If you were taught that “men lead” is God’s design, this is your permission slip to ask a harder question: what if that teaching was never Eden’s plan — but a wound the world mistook for a rule?

Many of us grew up inside churches that loved us, baptized us, and gave us language for hope—while also wrapping womanhood in shrinking instructions: be agreeable, be modest, be quiet, be helpful. We learned to make ourselves small so that men could feel large. We learned to translate our leadership as “support,” our wisdom as “intuition,” and our authority as “being difficult.” We learned to carry the room’s temperature without ever touching the thermostat.

Feminism — and the women who lived it before it had a name — has always asked religion to remember itself. Not to abandon Scripture or tradition, but to recover what was true before fear called itself theology. Before we rewrite our lives, let’s reread the beginning.

A forgotten reading of the oldest story

Look again at Genesis: the woman sees that the fruit is “desirable to make one wise” (Gen. 3:6). In Scripture’s own poetry, Wisdom is feminine—personified as Lady Wisdom (Hebrew: Chokma) calling us to life (Prov. 8:1-4, 22-31). And Genesis 3:6 ends with four words we usually skip: “who was with her.” Translation: she leads; he lingers.

How Women Construct And Are Formed By Spirit: She Who Is Everywhere In Women’s Voices, part 2 By D’vorah Grenn, PhD

part 1 was posted yesterday

How God is Constructed

During my doctoral research, I worked in the field with a Lemba co-
Researcher who remains a good friend, Dr. L. Rudo Mathivha of Johannesburg and the Northern Province. When we sat with the women in the village of Hamangilasi, we asked Hanna Motenda, one of the interpreters and a retired schoolteacher, about the women’s concept of God. Throughout the interviews, the women’s conversations both in this village and elsewhere reflected God imaged as male.
I also asked whether the women imagine God as an external force, living in Nature or in Heaven, or as something living within themselves.

Hanna Motenda: Ourselves. God is in us. They say God is everywhere.
Even in Nature, when we look at anything, we see God. Quoting others, she
added, “God is like the wind, He’s everywhere and wherever I am, He’s
there.”

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.

Time Dilates. Directs. Divines by Margot Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks

I am a pupil of this thing we call life. Swelling and swollen with the capacity to transform and to be transformed by language: Logos Incarnate=Word Made Flesh. Fleshy is this thing. And I am fully aware that Word sculpts me. Oft-times seeks an answer to the query: to what is my life tied? My response is bound with choice. I must forever remember choice. Choice that comes ever clearer the more mis-takes I have made, the sharper the dynamic degrees of un-learning weld my heart to my intellect in a new way. Age-ing and Sage-ing too, sturdy accomplices in this rollicking and rocky gavotte HERe on the body of Godde: Earth. Earth HERself ever evolving and unfolding. Mysteriously. Meticulously. With slow and un-seen purpose. Tied we are the HER and our choices. Each expressions of this vitally significant relationship.

On my way to the Keynote I was invited to share with the John Howard Society, I watched the summer heat and haze emboldened by the relentless forest fires in Western Canada, finger its way in Central Canada, brush strokes of clotted air painting the sky a raw grey, causing lungs to feel the squeeze, noting that the beauty of the vastness of the un-burning forests through which I was being driven, was in no way diminished, curtailed, or truncated. Trees. Roots down deep. Sipping moisture. Sharing, far below the Earth, millennia of silent stories. Of as yet un-tapped Wisdom. Breathing us. Beckoning us, who journey upon and with HER to listen. And listen closely. Ask. Listen. Do that.

May Sarton: Leaping the Waterfalls (1912-1995 American Woman Writer), part 1 by Marie 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 July 13, 2021. You can see more of their posts here.

Spending summer 2021 in New Hampshire, I drive through Nelson quite often these days. Each time I do, I think of May Sarton, her years here, who she was, her art, and all she accomplished. I always glance down the road at the cemetery where she now rests.*

This post is one I wrote about May two years ago and it feels right to run it again since I feel so close to her these days. Enjoy!

May Sarton: Leaping the Waterfalls

I’d been duped. The gray-haired writer who moved to the small town of Nelson, New Hampshire in 1958 was not who I imagined. I only discovered this when I began work on this post. Far from the tranquil woman in my mind, May Sarton was an enigma, even to herself.

At forty-six, May Sarton purchased her first and only house, attempting to extract herself. In a destructive relationship, struggling to reign herself in, she sought to settle, to live where only those she wanted to see or those who really wanted to see her would visit. Plus, the dramatic move would provide fresh writing material.

May, high school graduation, Cambridge, MA 1929

So, You Think You’re a Feminist? The Culturally Palatable ‘Feminism’ of The Barbie Movie by Tallessyn Zawn Grenfell-Lee

People are often surprised to learn that I actually love Barbie. Years ago, I heard a BBC interview with Ruth Handler, the creator of Barbie. In a world of baby dolls for mothering creative play, she wanted her daughter – Barbara – to have the opportunity to imagine other things, too. A computer scientist. A top executive. An astronaut. (The film shows a bit of this early intent.) Of course, no one would support her idea. Then, one day in Switzerland, she was walking past a toy shop and saw a small, plastic, adult, female doll. She had finally found a prototype!

Unfortunately, this original Lilli doll had been created to depict an alluring, sassy, provocative “golddigger, exhibitionist, and floozy.” And Ruth specifically didn’t want her doll to be stereotypically ‘beautiful,’ because she didn’t want it to hurt girls’ self-esteem. But the only manufacturer willing to create the dolls was in Japan; their English was so limited, she finally picked up a file and literally filed off the plastic nipples in order to explain that she didn’t want the doll to have nipples.

Poetry by Mary Saracino

Mary Saracino’s statement on poetry: Poetry is based on intuition, emotion, something that is not really express-able other than through the poem. It’s a dialogue or conversation between the poet and the Soul (the collective unconscious, in my opinion), which then presents itself to the world. It can be a powerful medium for restoring, reviving, and revitalizing the memories of the Divine Female and reclaiming female sovereignty. Our planet, humankind and our plant and animal kin are in dire need of a paradigm shift, returning us to the time before patriarchy defiled women and usurped the natural order of the world.

Resurrection By Mary Saracino

Deep in the coils of memory our DNA
sings ancient songs of life, death, regeneration.
We each turn on our own axis,
as the Earth turns through her seasons,
winter’s fallow followed by spring’s eternal greening.
All sacred litanies arise from her soil,
take to the sky, return their blessings
to the wells, the rivers, the oceans.
Why can’t we remember?
Our souls are hung on crosses,
our limbs bound, our hands and feet
nailed to unrelenting dogma,
our tender ribs pierced with thorny spears,
our vulva-wounds ooze with bloody amnesia.
We have forgotten where we come from:
the dank caves of consciousness
littered with the bones of
stone age lovers painted ochre-red
to honor menstrual blood, the original river,
to honor, too, its womb-source, our primal passageway
the portal from which we all emerged, mouths open, wailing
for our mother’s breast,
seeking the milk that sustains us.
Like spring we are born again and again;
we circumnavigate our lives, spiraling forward,
circling back, orbiting our hearts
until we open to the sun
like red tulips in a once-fallow field,
dancing in the breeze, loose with joy,
sharing our subterranean secret,
reviving the buried bulb’s dormant hopes,
reveling in our resurrection.

Previously published: “Resurrection,” April 5, 2013

Subterranean Rage By Mary Saracino

Deeper than bone
deeper than muscle or sinew
or tenacious tendon
this howl of ages
rivers through bloodlines, ancient as oceans
salty as the primeval seas
this is what happens to women who
out-step their bounds
dare to be bold, brazen
speak up, name the subterfuge
women who grit their warriors’ teeth
fight on, for their children
their lovers, their nation
their homes, their hearts’ desires
branded as heretics: witch, bitch, cunt, whore
they race through forests and fields
trying to outrun the acrid scent of their own sweat
running from the hellish hounds
the priestly proclamations
the wrenching bite of the strappado*
running for their lives
caught between sinner or saint
rarely allowed sovereignty over Self
over mind & womb, over laws meant to undo them
Thousands of straggled cats launched the Plague
tender necks swinging from tree limbs
flaccid, cold paws an omen: the rats will have their day
Crucibles of change, cauldrons
of sorrow, voices stymied for ions by the threat of extinction
womb-wisdom silenced by public outcry
burned at the stake of cultural conditioning
the subterranean outrage
seeps out, sharp as knives
sharp as memory
sharp as justice denied
sharp as the bloodied knives
eviscerating their midnight powers
Deep is this grief
Deep this anger
A dirge of rage lost to the winds of time.
The weeping memory wails, still.
Hear it the moonless night sky,
touch it in the hot light of noon
smell it in the poisoned soil
taste it on your remembering tongue
see it in the burning irises
that bear witness to this unyielding genocide.

* Strappado is a form of torture, employed by the Inquisitional tribunals against women accused of witchcraft. Victims were suspended in the air by means of a rope attached to their hands which were tied behind their backs, causing their arms to be dislocated.

Previously published: “Subterranean Rage,” October 30, 2013

Tharros, Sardegna By Mary Saracino

The stones share their secrets with the sea,
the brilliant blue sky, the tasseled grasses,
the trees—and any humans who will listen—
defying history’s edicts to remain silent.
Parched by the wind and the rain,
the stones speak fiercely of love and of times lost
as outcroppings of brilliant wildflowers
sing sacred songs in the sunlight.
This ancient place is nestled
against a rugged shoreline,
its far-away culture castaway like a forgotten dream,
buried beneath rocks and earth;
here, the outcast souls bloom once more
in the red poppies
whose bloody tongues
whisper: “Remember, remember, remember.”

Author’s note: This poem was inspired by the ruins at Tharros, Sardegna during a visit I made in 2004 as part of a Dark Mother Study tour of that island led by Lucia Chiavola Birnbaum. I think of these ancient places as sanctuaries, containers, wombs, collecting and holding the memory of the Great Cosmic Mother; I see the flowers, the red poppies (sacred to Astarte) sprouting up among the archeological ruins, as Her resurging; blood red poppies, blood lines, blood flow; menstrual memory, carriers of life of memory, of lineage—blood-red, like flowery blooming tongues, telling their stories; reclaiming their truths; waving in the breeze, bending into the wind, but not submitting, allowing the wind to carry their message, carry their poppy seeds of memory out across the fields; kernels of memory—like an amnesic remembering, then speaking.

Previously published: “Tharros”, June 19, 2015

Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet, and memoir writer who lives in New Mexico. Her most recent novel is Heretics: A Love Story (Pearlsong Press 2014). Her novel, The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards Finalist. She is the author of the novels, No Matter What and Finding Grace, and the memoir Voices of the Soft-bellied Warrior. Mary’s short story, “Vicky’s Secret,” earned the 2007 Glass Woman Prize. Her poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction have been published in a variety of literary and cultural journals and anthologies, online and in print.

Witches and Queens in C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia by Elanur Williams

Jadis, The White Witch, by Leo and Diane Dillon. Front Cover for *The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe*.

When I first encountered the Narnia novels as a child, the Christian symbolism was lost on me. I grew up in Istanbul, and what captivated me most was the magical world of Narnia, where one of my favorite characters, Aslan, had a Turkish name—a rarity in the British children’s books I read at the time. I also loved the mention of Turkish delight, which I did not consider to be “exotic;” rather, it was an ordinary reference to the rose, lemon, and pistachio flavored confections I often enjoyed at home. However, the character who truly fascinated me was Queen Jadis, also known as the White Witch. Her cold, regal majesty—draped in furs and gliding across a snowy landscape in her sleigh—was enchanting. I preferred witches to princesses and was drawn to stories where characters defied the roles they were expected to play, so it’s no surprise that I found the Witch’s character far more compelling than Lucy’s or Susan’s. I even had a picture of Jadis pinned to my bedroom wall. Yet within myself, I suppressed the Witch’s more admirable qualities—her anger, conviction, and sense of personal power. It took me years to reclaim, heal, and integrate these aspects.

Much has been written about C. S. Lewis’s restrictive and problematic portrayal of female characters. He perpetuates misogyny in Christian thought by depicting women who are idealized, distracted by ‘nylons and lipstick,’ in need of protection, or portrayed as liars—like Lucy, whose discovery of Narnia is initially dismissed as a childish fabrication, even though she is a truth-teller. Traces of paternalism run throughout his works, particularly through his reinforcement of a rigid gender binary. He perpetuates the view that women must suppress their own desires and dreams, in favor of being useful and serving others. Although the Narnia novels may appear to position women like Lucy and Susan as capable and responsible leaders (especially when they are crowned co-rulers of Narnia), this vision of female leadership is complicated by the presence of villainous witches and Queens.

Journey to Freedom: Harriet Tubman Still on the Move, part 2 by Maria Dintino

Part 1 appeared yesterday

Additional Developments

Although there’s a significant dearth of statues depicting real women in our country, Tubman’s image and legacy have done much to address this gap and put a serious dent in the bronze ceiling.

There are said to be at least 9 full-figure sculptures of Tubman with others in the works, along with plaques, busts, parks and museums named in her honor. Also, three commemorative coins have been released, each depicting a particular phase in Tubman’s life.

Speaking of currency, the plan to replace President Andrew Jackson’s image with that of Harriet Tubman’s on the twenty-dollar bill is still in the works. It’s an important endeavor that’s taking far too long. Annie Linskey with The Philadelphia Tribune explains:

“There has never been a Black person on the U.S. currency, nor has there been a woman on a bill in the modern era, despite repeated attempts to diversify the currency.”

Journey to Freedom: Harriet Tubman Still on the Move, part 1 by Maria Dintino

Moderator’s Note: This post is brought to you by a collaboration by FAR and Nasty Women Writers written and hosted by Maria and Theresa Dintino. This post originally appeared on their website on Feb. 20,2024. It has been updated to reflect recent events. the post is subtitled: Nasty Women Writers: Breaking the Bronze Ceiling – Statues of Real Women in Public Spaces

It’s quite fitting that the 9-foot bronze statue of Harriet Tubman, named Journey to Freedom is still on the move, as was Tubman for much of her life.

Since 2020, the statue has traveled around the country. It’s currently on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, in Historic Mitcheville Freedom Park. The monument will remain on Hilton Head through April 2025 and from there be transported to Vienna, Virginia.