women’s journeys – Page 5 – Feminism and Religion

Three poems by Rebecca Rogerson

Don’t Take Me to Church

He never let me eat communion because I wasn’t a catholic, but it was okay for me to eat his dick. My tiny palms forced to stroke him, the same dextrous hands that coloured in the lines.

I knew his God wasn’t my God. I knew she saw everything there was to see and that he wouldn’t reach salvation; no matter how many Hail Marys he said at mass in Ireland.

The Virgin Mary knew what he stole from me, what they steal from all of us.

I couldn’t fall apart on Sundays at noon when he took me to church—before he took me home after he did what he did—to the little Jewish girl who didn’t know she was Jewish.

I couldn’t remember it because I buried it in Survive, until, it was resurrected by nightmares and demons who professed caring and brought me to altars of despair to vomit up all the darkness, and when there was no more left to cleanse or tear out; light ripped in.

No one talks about the embarrassment that goes along with the telling, sharing and surfacing of sexual violence. How it comes up, how it comes back. How we’re always haunted by the deadbeat dead and grabby grandfathers who try to reach from there into here, pretending they are made of heaven.

I fled a friend’s choir concert because perpetrators keep stealing time, moments, sleep, joy, and friendship, in churches and baths. On my flight, I hunted for nature, soil and anything else that felt most alive in the hilly town of Nelson. Pretending I was like everyone else, I hid the panic that strikes broken hearts.

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.

Reflections On Bone Black: Memories Of GirlHood by Zoe Carlin

Bell Hooks explores in the memoir Bone Black: Memories of Girlhood the extreme effects of race, gender, and class on her identity and self esteem as a Black woman. Each chapter of Bone Black showcases stories of Bell Hooks’ childhood experiences growing up in a racially segregated environment. Through these experiences, she shares how the mainstream beauty standard, the racism towards Black people, and the limitations imposed by class and gender have shaped her perceptions of herself and her worth. Hooks also discusses how white supremacy, the patriarchy, and societal neglect intertwine.

What particularly stood out to me is how her story and the themes mentioned connect to spirituality and are offering further ideas on resistance and empowerment. It also touches on connections with identity formation and our sense of self. For example, the memoir shared insight of how the beauty standards at the time were typically associated with being white. As a Black woman, Hooks shared how she had felt undesirable due to not being included in these standards that were set in place. She does not just reflect on the pain of being marginalized but she also delves into the complexity of being a Black woman in a masculine dominated world. Hooks had to navigate both the oppression of racist behavior by others around her and the misogyny of a patriarchal system that was determined to define her worth based on her appearance.

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.

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.”

Sacred Secrets: The Legacy of Women’s Wisdom Across Generations by Rabbi Nadya Gross

From my earliest memories, I saw things that others didn’t see and knew things I had no business knowing. But at the time, I didn’t realize that others didn’t witness the dance of light around their bodies or the life forms at the base of trees. I didn’t know that the insights I had into people’s emotions were not universally shared. My curiosity led me to ask questions about these things… until my grandmother, Savta (Heb), took me into the kitchen (where everything important happened), closed the doors, and told me never to talk about these things with anyone except her. And so, my training began.

Savta was gifted in ways different from mine. She had grown up in a circle of women and their daughters, a circle where women educated each other, shared their unique gifts and insights, and passed down a legacy of wisdom.

The wisdom she shared with me was as ancient as the land on which we lived. We began with reverence for the Earth and all her elements—pre-patriarchal Goddess wisdom. We explored what it means to be intimately connected to all aspects of Creation, understanding that we are interdependent. Harm to a tree, an insect, or the water harms us. We learned that the respect we wish to receive from others must first be shown by us. I learned to never pick up a beautiful stone that caught my attention without first asking permission to remove it from its resting place. When harvesting fruit from one of the many trees in my grandparent’ yard, I expressed deep gratitude to the mother-tree whose body nurtured that fruit to ripeness.

Practicing Mistakes in Karate by Xochitl Alvizo

One of my earliest lessons from karate, which I am still working to integrate, is about the necessity of making mistakes. I used to apologize every time I make a mistake, “I’m sorry,” I’d immediately say to my instructor. She would smile at me and at the end of class would say, “You don’t have to apologize for making a mistake; your body is just learning to do this for the first time, so of course you’re going to make mistakes. Mistakes are part of the process.”

The necessity of making mistakes was something I needed to learn to embrace. As with other areas of life, making mistakes in karate made me feel like a fool. I would get frustrated with myself and would feel embarrassed, and would feel like my teachers were disappointed in me too. But one of the things that has helped me embrace my mistakes is seeing how I have indeed improved in my practice. The mistakes I now make are new ones and are about higher level forms and techniques—things that used to absolutely seem impossible for me.

The Flesh and the Fruit by Vanya Leilani, PhD: Book Review by Janet Maika’i Rudolph

Subtitle: Remembering Eve and the Power of Creative Transgression

I have learned that every good story of spirit has many layers of meaning and pathways of understanding. Dr Leilani has found particularly relevant and even beautiful aspects of the biblical story of Eve. She uses Eve’s actions as a template of her own spiritual journey. Her pathway begins in obedience (listening to the voice of authority), travels through transgressive acts (eating of the fruit), and finally results in a self-knowing that had not been possible at the beginning of her journey. In this book we follow along on her quest to learn about herself with Eve as her inspiration.

This is a luscious book. Vanya Leilani’s insights are not only profound but are written with a poetic sensibility. I found myself speaking some of her passages out loud because the vibration of her words are powerful and feel so sensuous on the tongue. I wanted to take them into my body, as well as read them on the page.

Love Without Want by Arianne MacBean

I have only felt love without want twice in my life. The first time was when I was invited to my therapist’s funeral. The summons arrived without surprise. Strangely, my therapist and I had talked about it, before dying any time soon was a thing either of us thought would occur. After my own mother had just received her second breast cancer diagnosis, I impulsively asked my therapist during our session, “How will I know if something happens to you? Will someone call?” Someone would call. I was on a list – a list of people to call if my therapist died.

In session, we talked through how her unexpected disappearance might go – playacting for therapeutical reasons, but not knowing we were setting the stage for a true and imminent exit. She asked me if I would like to come to her funeral. There was no hesitation. Yes. I had been seeing her for twelve years. She had gotten me through life, she had gotten me through me. Of course, I wanted to go to her funeral. Then, we talked about what would happen if I died. I asked her if she would come to my funeral. Yes. I asked her if she would give the eulogy. She laughed, “That might be a little weird.” Just two months later, she received her own gut-wrenchingly aggressive cancer diagnosis. We needed no list. She told me herself. The funeral was planned and when it arrived, I sat in the back row not knowing anyone there, listening to stories about a woman I didn’t know but knew. Because as much as I didn’t know anything about her, I knew her so fully through the way she loved me. The funeral invitation, her last selfless gift.

WHEN I SAY THAT I MISS MY MOTHER (THIRTY YEARS AFTER HER DEATH), WHAT PRECISELY AM I MISSING? by Rebe Huntman

On the eve of my 50th birthday, I found myself longing for my mother. She’d been dead thirty years—so long that I’d forgotten the sound of her voice or the temperature of her skin. And yet I missed her. Desperately. Shamefully.

The shape of that missing had something to do with the fact that I was nearing the age she’d been when she died. As a child, I’d watched my mother dress for a night of dancing with my father, lining her lips with red and stringing her neck with beads—sure signs she knew the secrets of being a woman: self-possessed; striding through the world with confidence and self-assurance; a real badass!

By now, I’d expected to feel that same sense of largesse. But the truth was that I still felt like the nineteen-year-old version of myself who had lost her mother, a child still waiting for someone to show me the way.

~*~

I wasn’t alone. My whole country seemed to have lost our way. We were surrounded by images of the feminine—pop icons and underwear models, feminists and porn stars, soccer moms and saints—all of them flashing large but pointing in different directions, unglued from whatever architecture might give them a coherent narrative: A blueprint that might hold us through the waters of our deepest anxieties. A guide who might answer our deepest questions: Who am I? Am I part of something larger than my own life? And if so, how do I fit within it?

~*~