Women’s Agency – Page 2 – Feminism and Religion

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.

Me and the All American Girls Baseball League by Winifred Nathan

During my grade school years, I was a passionate fan of the Belles, the Racine, Wisconsin team in the All-American Girls Baseball League. My aunt and I would travel across town to Horlick Field to cheer them on—an experience that took place during the challenging times of World War II. Racine proudly carried the nickname “Belle of the Lake.” I don’t remember the players fitting the conventional idea of “Belles”; what stood out was their competitiveness and the exciting baseball they played.

Later in life, the movie *A League of Their Own* became a cultural touchstone for me, although I formed my connection to it years after its first showing. I first watched it during a twelve-hour flight across the Pacific Ocean in 2023. Expecting only nostalgia, I was surprised to uncover a profound connection to my past as I watched it two or three times during the journey.

The scenes reminded me of the evening games played just a few blocks from Lake Michigan. The cool breezes from the lake enveloped me, and I recalled how the ballpark served as an oasis, providing a blissful escape from the harsh realities of the war effort. There were no distractions—just baseball—a stark contrast to the Brewers games I attended later with my grandson, which were filled with Jumbotrons and entertainment gimmicks. Back then, the focus was solely on the game itself, although I must admit I secretly looked forward to the Brewers’ sausage race.

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

Seeing Double by Esther Nelson

I’ve often thought that we (in the USA) have been somewhat, albeit reluctantly, willing to discuss and perhaps even change our minds, behavior, policies, and laws when confronted about the long-lived presence of racism in our local and national institutions. However, when it comes to misogyny—not so much.

Shirley Anita Chisholm St. Hill (1924 – 2005), was an American politician who, in 1968, became the first black woman to be elected to Congress. “Chisholm represented a district centered in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, for seven terms from 1969 to 1983. In 1972, she became the first black candidate for a major-party nomination for President of the U.S. and the first woman to run for the Democratic Party’s presidential nomination. Throughout her career, she was known for taking ‘a resolute stand against economic, social, and political injustices’ as well as being a strong supporter of black civil rights and women’s rights” (Wikipedia).

Chisholm noted that “…she had faced much more discrimination during her New York legislative career because she was a woman than for her race” (Wikipedia). Why are not more of us aware of Chisholm’s confession?

We Don’t Have to Live Like This by Trista Hendren

A Tribute to Carol P. Christ’s Legacy of Peace

Rawan Anani, The Melody of Freedom, Gaza Palestine

Carol P. Christ was a feminist scholar and thealogian I deeply admired from afar for many years. That changed when I read her post in Feminism and Religion describing “washing wet clothes cast off by refugees who crossed the Sea of Death.”[1]

In that moment, she became a woman I connected with on a soul level. What could be more profound than washing and folding the clothing of tiny dead children? What other metaphor could be more vivid for how desperately we need to change the world?

“A tiny pink long-sleeved shirt with a boat neck, for a girl, size 3 months.

A pair of leggings with feet, grey with pink, orange, brown, white, and blue polka-dots, to be worn over diapers.”

The week before, she asserted that “the only ‘solution’ to the problem of people leaving their homes in fear for their lives is TO END WAR.” She continued, “No one takes this suggestion seriously enough to engage it.”[2]

I remember sitting inside the Idean cave with our Goddess Pilgrimage group when Carol read, “We Need a God Who Bleeds Now” by Ntozake Shange. I knew the poem well, but hearing Carolina read it so forcefully shook something deep inside me.

While I have had the privilege of having several wonderful female pastors, they were never particularly affirming of my womanhood—or my divinity. They certainly never celebrated my period.

The Loving Tree By Janet Maika’i Rudolph

from Egyptian tomb of Pashedu *ca.* 1314-1200 BCE

Once there was a tree who loved two young children, twins, a boy and a girl.

Thay came everyday to play under her canopy.

Gather her leaves and play fairies of the forest.

Climb her trunk and play in her branches

And sleep with their backs against her trunk

They loved the tree and the tree loved them.

Time went by and the twins grew older.

They didn’t come to visit the tree as often.

One day when they did come, the tree asked them to play but they responded they needed money because they wanted to go on dates.

The tree responded, take my apples to sell. But leave enough behind for the squirrels and birds and other animals so they can eat too. Leave enough behind for the seeds.

Kedoshim: On Women, Patriarchy, and Respect.

The Torah portion for today’s blog is Kedoshim (Leviticus 19:1-20:27), which was read by Jewish communities yesterday, May 10, 2025. Among scholars, it is part of what is often referred to as the Holiness Code, Leviticus 17-26 (Note 1). Kedoshim covers all manner of topics: from what fabric to wear to how to treat one’s neighbor and from keeping Shabbat to when one can eat the fruit of newly planted trees. These, what I will call prescriptions, all fall under the general reasoning that one does these things so that one can be holy like the deity is holy. In a way, the Holiness Code then is an apt name for this section. But, what can we take from this parshah from a (eco)feminist point of view? To answer this question, I will be using the methodology I have laid out in a previous blog and ask three questions.

33 Years of Wisdom by Chaz J.

As the celestial clock turns towards Sunday, April twenty-seventh, at the luminous hour of 9:12 PM, I shall step into the sacred circle of my thirty-third year. And for a soul who once walked the hallowed halls of the church, as I did, the echoes of a profound resonance surely sound. For Jesus proclaimed his divine lineage and embarked on his earthly ministry around his thirtieth spring, only to ascend three years later, at the very age I now approach?

Thus, this year unfolds as my very own ‘Jesus year,’ a time ripe with potent transformation, reinvention, remembrance, and the blossoming of my inner wisdom. I present this wisdom, aligning it with the seven sacred wheels of energy, the chakras that map the landscape of my being. Each chakra, a vibrant note in the symphony of my soul, accompanied by a song that, for me, hums with the exquisite harmony of its balanced state. This is a profound and poetic offering of the journey I have walked and the radiant being I am becoming.

Presenting Feminine Courage by Cheryl Petersen

Madam C.J. Walker was born Sarah Breedlove in 1867, to sharecroppers who had been slaves before the American Civil War. Sarah married at age fourteen. Six years later Sarah was a widow with a daughter. For income, Sarah did laundry and cooked. In 1905, she remarried and became Madam C.J. Walker. With little more than a dollar, she began her own line of hair products for African American women and prospered humanity beyond imagination or expectation.

Nearly two decades back, I read “On Her Own Ground: The Life and Times of Madam C.J. Walker,” by A’Lelia Bundles. The author describes Walker’s journey from desperation to inspiration. The narrative impressed me with an exacting respect for the womanhood that embraces other women.

An Omer Calendar of Biblical Women by Jill Hammer

Right before Passover every year, my wife and I visit a botanical garden to look at the spring flowers: daffodils, tulips, cherry and apple blossoms, magnolia. One year, in 2004 or so, we were on our way there when I had an idea. I grabbed a pen and started scribbling long lists of biblical women.

“What are you doing?” my wife asked.

“Making an Omer Calendar,” I said.

Since biblical times, there is a Jewish practice of counting the forty-nine days between the holiday of Passover (the barley harvest and festival of freedom) and the holiday of Shavuot (the first fruits festival and the season of receiving Torah). These forty-nine days were the time of the barley and wheat harvest and were a fraught time for biblical farmers. According to the Talmud, each day of the Omer must be counted along with a blessing. One must count consecutively each day (usually in the evening) and one loses the right to say the blessing if one misses a full day of the count. The Omer is often understood as a time of semi-mourning because of plagues said to occur during this time, but it is also a joyful season when nature’s abundance is at the forefront. This seven-week period embodies both fear that the harvest will be damaged and gratitude for the harvest.