Women’s Spirituality – Page 5 – Feminism and Religion

Summer Lessons, by Molly M. Remer

Let us be gentle with ourselves
as we cross the threshold
into summer,
as we both open our hearts to change
and open our hands to choice.
It is now that we both let things go
and celebrate what is flourishing,
what is thriving and growing
and calling us onward.
Let us be soft and supple,
luminous and languorous.
Let us practice the discipline of pleasure
and the liturgy of delight.
Let us protect wide margins for magic,
commit to our own life’s unfolding
and swim freely
in the current of the sacred
that is always available
to receive us
and welcome us home.

Today, I sit missing the orioles and thinking about cycles of change, how things grow and decline, and how we can choose to be present or not with what we see and feel. I tip my head back in the green filtered light of morning and discover berries beginning on the mulberry trees. The wild raspberries and blackberries too are tipped with small, firm caps of green. I am feeling the sort of overdue clarity that descends when I finally realize I can let something go, that not everything is mine to carry or mine to fix. I know that this clarity too will come and go, but for now, I welcome it, feeling the cool wind stirring my hair and brushing my shoulders as I enjoy the sunshine and the sound of hawks on the wing. There is a powerful hope in these blue sky days and for now, I bask in the sensation of both remembering and reclamation.

This year, as we tip into summer in the Northern hemisphere, the temperatures in my own Midwestern biome have been surprisingly cool, peaceful and rainy. In an era of climate change, this slow entry into the heat of the year has felt welcome and encouraging. Something that continues to inspire and teach me this year has been to start where my feet are, to return again and again to where I am on this earth and in my body. In a culture that encourages fragmentation and distraction, distance, discord, and dis-embodiment, this practice of return is an act of both rebellion and reclamation.

I have been writing for Feminism and Religion for 13 years. This year, sitting down to write and reflecting on the life lesson of starting where my feet are, I decided to go back through my past summer posts here to discover the other lessons I have learned from summers gone by. I chose thirteen lessons to share from past summer posts:

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.

Interfaith Womanism and Healing Psychology Embodied Through Art by Chaz J.

A thoughtful gesture from a coworker—complimentary tickets to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—stirred a quiet excitement within me. It’s curious, isn’t it, to reside in Boston, a city so steeped in history and intellectual vigor, yet find oneself so often distanced from its beautiful, intricate past? Time, energy, and finances often conspire to keep such access at arm’s length, even for a history buff like myself. It was a welcome reminder of the stories waiting to be discovered, right here in my own backyard.

I arrived at the museum expecting to immerse myself in the European art showcased on its website. Yet, to my profound surprise, the featured exhibit immediately drew me into a powerful narrative: one that centered the Black struggle for freedom, dignity, and the reclaiming of ancestral roots, in this case Haitian Vodou. These roots, I believe, have always grounded, protected, inspired, and empowered the African diaspora across the globe.

The Furious Sun in Her Mane: Nine Poems to Goddesses by Annie Finch

Poet’s Note: I composed this sequence of poems for performance, for chanting, and for devotion. I wanted people who would hear, read, memorize, and speak each poem to channel the original energetic patterns that the poets who best knew that Goddess used to connect with Her. So for each poem, I researched the meter and prosody of the original language in which that Goddess was first worshipped. Then I carried the exact rhythmical pulse of Her language into my poem to Her in English.

The sequence was set to music by composer Laura Manning and choreographed by Georgia Bonatis, and I directed and performed a devotional dance collaboration version of it in 1994. That archival video of this performance has just been recovered for the first time in 31 years. It is now posted on my Youtube channel.

As a Hen Gathers by Elanur Williams

**Gustav Klimt, *Garden Path with Chickens*, 1916**

In the early years of my childhood, my family lived for a short time on a poultry farm in Bandırma. Hens wandered freely, unconfined. The contours of that land have long since changed, replaced by refrigerated depots and industrial freezers that hum along the highways, the relentless march of capital. In the Gospels of Luke and Matthew, Jesus laments: “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.” These days, I find myself returning to the image of the mother hen—a figure who embodies a special wisdom that is seldom named, yet deeply and instinctively known.

Although I did not have a religious upbringing, I grew up embracing aspects of many faiths. My spiritual background is Alevi, and after inviting the Presbyterian faith into my life following my marriage, I find these layered identities influence each other in ways that are both intricate and transformative. In her sermon Who Is Jesus? Mother Hen, Reverend Agnes Norfleet lingers on the vulnerability of the mother hen metaphor, questioning what strength a hen can possibly offer in the face of the fox—Herod—and, more broadly, in the face of violence at large. Reverend Norfleet asks why Jesus does not invoke a more forceful or fiercer maternal figure—a lion, perhaps, or a bear? What does this choice imply for our activism and understandings of leadership? What unique wisdom does the mother hen offer?

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.

Veiled by Michelle Wahila

Photos by Paige Gribb Photography
https://paigegribbphotography.com/

Springtime in Paris brings the magnificence of cherry blossoms, the scent of sweet crêpes, and an influx of tourists eager to capture their own moment of passion on the cobblestone streets of the world’s most romantic city. I may be biased because Paris is my home, but there’s no denying its magic. With its art, history, cuisine, fashion, and architecture, the city offers extraordinary experiences. It’s no wonder so many couples choose to marry in the City of Light.

Years ago, when I entered the wedding industry, I did so reluctantly, only after leaving the one profession I had ever known – ministry. What I didn’t expect was that I would become a bridge for couples navigating the ever-widening gap between love and institutional religion. The so-called “rules” of tradition are often mislabeled as matters of faith but are more accurately named as remnants of the heteropatriarchy. They place enormous pressure on engaged couples. It’s no surprise that many of the eloping couples I meet in Paris have chosen their path simply because it is less stressful than trying to appease tradition, religion, family, or friends (or all of the above).

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.

Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Shadows Of The Goddess In Greek Orthodox Tradition: Easter And The Dormition Of The Virgin

This post was originally published on Aug. 13th, 2012

While I would not wish to argue that Greek Orthodoxy is in any way a “feminist” tradition, the shadow of the Goddess falls long over the two great festivals of spring and midsummer.

In Greek Othodox tradition, there are two major spiritual holidays– Easter in the spring and the Dormition/Assumption of the Virgin at midsummer. The Panagia, She Who is All Holy, also known as Mother of God, Virgin, and Mary, is a central figure in people’s faith–dethroned neither by the Reformation nor by Vatican II. Indeed when I speak of the need for the “rebirth of the Goddess” in Greece, I am often told, “the Panagia is our Goddess.” This may not be theological orthodoxy, but it expresses a truth of practice. Continue reading “Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Shadows Of The Goddess In Greek Orthodox Tradition: Easter And The Dormition Of The Virgin”

Blodeuwedd; The Flower that Does Not Bloom and the Transhuman Death Spiral by Kelle Ban Dea

Blodeuwedd is often viewed as a Spring goddess, a personification of flower and bud and bloom. And why not; she is made of flowers after all; flowers and magic. It’s only when you read her original myth in the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi that you realise how dark it is.

Of all the famous women – now seen as goddesses by many – in these ancient Celtic legends, Blodeuwedd is the only one who is not a mother, and therefore not seen as an aspect of the mother goddess, Modron. Bloduwedd cannot be a mother, because although she is made of flowers, she is a flower that will never bloom, that cannot reproduce.

In both ancient mythology and in the neopatriarchy we live in today, women who either cannot or will not be mothers (despite these being very different things; one a choice, one a lack of choice) are viewed with suspicion. As the opposite of the nurturing, fecund Mother, Bloduwedd instead brings betrayal and death to the hero of the tale. Yet, it was never Blodeuwedd at fault. She is created by the rapist magician Gwydion and given without her consent to be the wife of Lleu, the king, and our shining ‘hero’ of the story. Lleu has been cursed by his own mother to never have a human wife or children, so Bloduwedd is the best that Gwydion can conjure up, and he is celebrated for this marvellous feat of magic.

No-one, of course, bothers to ask Blodeuwedd what she might want.