Women’s Voices – Feminism and Religion

The Grandmother Way by Sara Wright

The last day of August is upon us. It’s so cool here in the hollow that I decide to winnow the second batch of my elderberries sitting outdoors where Coalie can keep a sharp eye on me from her dog bed on the porch. I note that hummingbirds are thinning out. As I begin this separation of berry from stem, I imagine that I am connected to all women everywhere through what is often called (pejoratively) ‘woman’s work’. Women who were the first seed keepers and berry winnowers like today’s Indigenous peoples that still follow the old ways. Oh, I am grateful to be sitting among them in my imagination. Still, I yearn. I wish I could share this task with just one other woman, and for a moment sink into that familiar loneliness. As I look at my purple stained fingers reflecting on how exquisite a natural dye this must make, I think I might try to collect another batch of berries to experiment with.

I am not sure just when all thought ceased but every year, I experience this phenomenon while plucking purple elderberries with my fingers… and then? Two hours later the winnowing is done, just as I begin to lose the sun. Returning to the house I finish my tinctures in minutes, pouring amethyst berries into jars and covering them with alcohol. After steeping for six weeks this medicine will help me ward off colds and flu. Covid too. I am mindful that elderberries are a gift from nature that I receive each year. Gratitude overflows at this time of the ‘Gathering In’.

Gloria Naylor: Redirecting the Spotlight, American Woman Writer (1950-2016), part 2 by Maria Dintino

part 1 was posted yesterday

Mama Day

By the time Gloria Naylor wrote her the third novel, Mama Day (1988), she was a master, able to infuse the story with such richness, connection and love that the reader is enveloped in a state of amazement while reading. This spell involves the “spiritual vision, or more accurately, third sight, that empowers Mama Day” (51).

The manifestation of the matriarchal lineage in Mama Day creates a dizzying suspension in time, with dubious connections to the past, tied to current happenings, along with the struggle and hope for the future. Sometimes it is hard to decipher exactly what is going on and you are left to decide for yourself what you see, hear, understand and believe. As the narrator says, “Truth is never fixed”(38).

This novel is set on Willow Springs, a fictional rendition of one of the Sea Islands off the coast of South Carolina, “a uniquely maternal island paradise that defies geographic limits”(38).

Gloria Naylor: Redirecting the Spotlight, American Woman Writer (1950-2016), part 1 by Maria Dintino

The Gloria Naylor Archive

I am beyond thrilled to learn of The Gloria Naylor Archive!

This extensive repository of Naylor’s work has been a joint labor of love, respect, and honor between Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Connecticut (where Naylor was awarded an honorary degree in 1994) and Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Suzanne Edwards, associate professor of English and director of the Humanities Center at Lehigh, explains:

“It’s this incredible resource, but it was also a resource that I didn’t see people engaging with in scholarship on Naylor. The materials weren’t easily accessible, and Sacred Heart didn’t have the staff or resources to digitize it.”

As a result, Edwards recommended a partnership that would “make the archive more accessible to fans of Naylor’s work, to teachers who are teaching her novels at the college level, on the secondary level, and to scholars who might find it difficult to make a trip to Fairfield”(Hochbein).

The results: a rich and expanding digital archive, as well as an invite to those doing research involving Naylor to schedule an appointment if they would like to engage with materials in person. (Before scheduling a trip, know that the physical materials belonging to the archive are back at Sacred Heart University in Connecticut as of 2023.)

Soil Stars and Sexuality: Regeneration as an Embodied Spiritual Practice by Toya L Walker

The garden gives me a place to ask what it means to belong to a living world. In Boston, where my growing space occupies roughly 1,000 square feet, that question takes practical form. There is soil to tend, water to carry, a season to understand, and a body doing the work. My grandparents cultivated land in Jamaica. Returning there helped me recognize how deeply that relationship mattered to my life. Growing in the city became a way to carry it forward under different conditions.

In my book, Growing in a Concrete Jungle: From Soil to Soul, I approach gardening through food, cultural memory, everyday wellbeing, and seed stewardship. Here, I extend those concerns into a spiritual question: What changes when regeneration includes our bodies, our relationships, and our capacity to receive care? I understand regeneration as an embodied spiritual practice when tending life teaches us to attend to the conditions that sustain it. Soil, stars, and sexuality offer different ways to examine that attention.

Soil and the foundations of care

This reflection begins with one garden and one family history. Its spiritual meaning emerges through interpretation and practice. I do not assume that every grower shares my beliefs. The garden offers experiences through which I can ask about the sacred while respecting other understandings of life.

Two Poems by Darlene O’Dell

Quiet, Piggy

Though the slur also concerns chickens
and eggs and which came first—
did the master create the puppet
or the puppet the master?

suppose, for instance, one posits
an argument for compassion—
the bare minimum, as in let’s not
disappear people and torture families

a few crumbs under the table
hardly enough for a dog and a widow—
let’s not torment the targeted
and call it Jesus

Executions of Women in Iran in 2026: The Human Cost of State Violence by WNCRI

Today, October 10th, 2026 is World Day Against the Death Penalty

Mothers, Child Brides, and Victims; 54 Killed in 12 Months

As the World Day Against the Death Penalty is observed, the situation of executions of women in Iran presents a horrifying picture of the scale of structural violence against women.

According to information documented by the Women’s Committee of the National Council of Resistance of Iran, at least 28 women have been executed in prisons across Iran since the beginning of 2026. Over a twelve-month period, from October 2025 to October 2026, the number of women executed in Iran reached at least 54. This shocking figure underscores the continued use of the death penalty against women.

These figures have been recorded under circumstances in which, following the nationwide protests of January 2026, months of widespread internet shutdowns, severe communication restrictions, and extensive censorship made the flow of information from inside Iran to the outside world extremely difficult and, in many cases, virtually impossible.

How I Have Been Influenced by Poet Ellen Bass by Charlotte Donlon

“When You Return” by Ellen Bass

Fallen leaves will climb back into trees.
Shards of the shattered vase will rise
and reassemble on the table.
Plastic raincoats will refold
into their flat envelopes. The egg,
bald yolk and its transparent halo,
slide back in the thin, calcium shell.
Curses will pour back into mouths,
letters un-write themselves, words
siphoned up into the pen. My gray hair
will darken and become the feathers
of a black swan. Bullets will snap
back into their chambers, the powder
tamped tight in brass casings. Borders
will disappear from maps. Rust
revert to oxygen and time. The fire
return to the log, the log to the tree,
the white root curled up
in the un-split seed. Birdsong will fly
into the lark’s lungs, answers
become questions again.
When you return, sweaters will unravel
and wool grow on the sheep.
Rock will go home to mountain, gold
to vein. Wine crushed into the grape,
oil pressed into the olive. Silk reeled in
to the spider’s belly. Night moths
tucked close into cocoons, ink drained
from the indigo tattoo. Diamonds
will be returned to coal, coal
to rotting ferns, rain to clouds, light
to stars sucked back and back
into one timeless point, the way it was
before the world was born,
that fresh, that whole, nothing
broken, nothing torn apart.

This poem appears in Ellen Bass’s book “Like a Beggar” published by Copper Canyon Press in 2014 For more information on Ellen Bass and her poetry go to her website https://www.ellenbass.com/ Poem posted here under “fair use” guidance.

While warming up beside an enormous stone fireplace with a dozen other writing workshop participants in western North Carolina, I listened to an instructor read the poem “When You Return” by Ellen Bass. I had come to the retreat wrung out from church trauma and the ache of not knowing where I fit in anymore. As the flames crackled and spit, the reader spoke words that singed the edges of longings I hadn’t yet noticed—longings for crooked paths to be made straight, for broken things to be made whole. I was crying by the time he recited the last few lines— “the way it was / before the world was born, / that fresh, that whole, nothing / broken, nothing torn apart.” The tears surprised me; a snowmelt after years of frozen longing that finally began to thaw.

Spiritual Direction for Writers by Charlotte Donlon

I fell in love with poetry when I began graduate school for my MFA in creative writing. Looking back at the poems I was reading and writing ten years ago, I can connect the dots among my relationship with poetry, my faith, and my rejection of the patriarchy.

Most poems felt like prayers to me back then; they still do. I often say the word “poem” when I mean to say “prayer” and “prayer” when I’m trying to say “poem.” Half the time I don’t even notice that I’ve misspoken because the words and what they represent are so tightly woven together. If I don’t sense much of a personal connection to the themes of a poem I’m reading, I view it as I view a psalm that doesn’t feel especially resonant at the moment–I know that somewhere someone will feel seen and known by the words, and I am in some sense reading on their behalf, as I hope that on my harder days, people are reading and praying on mine. I trust the collective, the mystery, the power of words to connect souls and minds across time and space.

Putting myself in the way of poetry became a spiritual practice while I was struggling to find my place in the conservative evangelical denomination my husband and I had been members of for almost 20 years. We had engaged in conversations about women in the church, racial healing, mercy and justice—topics that we viewed as intimately connected to what it means to be a Christian in our everyday lives. We pushed for change. We led small groups without shying away from difficult conversations. We brought in speakers and coordinated film nights. We tried so hard to make our local church something it wasn’t–something it would never be.

Mabel McKay (1907-1993): “Dreamer” and Master Basket Weaver of the Northern California Pomo Indians, part 2 by Theresa Dintino

part 1 was posted yesterday

The last sucking doctor of the Pomo

Mabel healed people with songs that spirit sang through her. Eventually, she was taught to suck. Into a sucking basket she had woven, she spat out what she had sucked out of her client. People came from all over for her healing and she traveled far to heal others. She needed singers and translators to help her when she worked. Many people came to witness.

When Mabel was raised, traditional healing was beginning to go out of fashion and even be suspect. But Mabel’s work was widely sought after by the local indigenous population from all the various tribes who worked on the farms and lived on the reservations in the area of Northern California.

Sarris describes her extracting a salamander-like creature from a woman’s eye, gallons and gallons of water from a man’s chest and an evil spirit from another.

Faithfully Dissident Daughters Reclaiming Christian Womanhood Beyond Patriarchy by Chelsea Kim Long: Book Review by Esther Nelson

After a beautiful and insightful Foreword by Christena Cleveland, Chelsea begins her engaging book by telling us, “Up until the age of 26, I didn’t struggle to align my identity and my life experiences with the white, evangelical way of seeing the world.” Born in the late 1980s and raised in a nondenominational megachurch, she grew up with a strong sense of belonging. All was well as long as she matched her thinking and experiences with authoritarian expectations. “I was able to exist in those spaces just fine until, quite suddenly, I wasn’t.”

What changed? Pregnancy. “It was the first splinter in a crack that eventually ripped my whole worldview apart, forcing me into a crisis of theology where I felt I had to choose between myself and the church I loved.” Experiences surrounding pregnancy and childbirth opened Chelsea’s eyes to the realization that as a woman in a patriarchal structure, built by men, she didn’t fit. Interpretation of Biblical text empowered men. “I couldn’t see my femininity reflected in and affirmed by the God they made in their image.” She fled her home church.

“I walked through many lonely years trying to wrestle my way into a version of faith that reflected my reality and contained my life experience.” Chelsea, as a child, had memorized Jeremiah 17:9, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” No room in her natal faith for “heart knowledge” since logic and reason superseded intuitive thought. She had learned to mistrust and silence any wisdom that came from within her own Being.