Women’s Voices – Page 21 – Feminism and Religion

Patriarchy as Primer of Cruelty by Janet Maika’i Rudolph

This was a hard post to write. When I write about my personal trauma, it is not only healing for me but adds to the canon of stories of other women that help all of us navigate trauma. That makes it easier. When writing about the trauma of women in a whole culture, I feel a sense of helplessness, especially here in the United States. We are all experiencing a group trauma and it is digging in deep.

January 5, 2024, will live in the Patriarchal Hall of Infamy. On this date the Supremes agreed to allow the rapist, misogynist, trying-to-be-dictator former President an opportunity to have his rights heard. But this same date, the Supremes also told we women that our lives are insignificant. No that’s not right, less than insignificant, a mere distraction to what they consider to be more important issues. They allowed an Idaho abortion law to go into effect that doesn’t allow an abortion even in the case of a medical emergency when a pregnant woman in life-threatening distress has been rushed to the emergency room. The split screen exhibits patriarchy for what it is. I want to use the word, “culmination” but that means the height. I don’t think we’ve reached a culmination because there seems no end to the cruelty that patriarchy seeks to inflict.

The Sky Dancers by Sara Wright

December is a poignant month for many people, including me. Although I find the darkness comforting, winter stillness a gift, I do not celebrate the season as others do.

I begin December by bringing in the dawn each morning (if it’s clear) by standing outdoors in the cold watching Sirius, the dog star fade…Some mornings the sky turns rose, tangerine, or gold as clouds slide over the horizon or billow up like cottony balls of fluff. The air is fresh, fragrant, and clean. I listen for the first birds, the female cardinal’s chirp, the chickadees, and doves have yet to appear – these daily ‘morning mysteries’ are spontaneous and acted out in gratitude without thought.

This month is a time of remembrance … I think of people I loved, some I did not, those I lost…

Kairos Time by Beth Bartlett

I love the time between the Winter Solstice and New Year’s – a time of suspended animation, a reprieve from the demands of daily life, a respite from the woes of the world, from needing to pay attention to the time of day, days of the week, and tasks that need to be accomplished. A whole week with nothing scheduled on the calendar. Simply presence. It is a liminal time on the threshold between the old year and the new – whether measured by the turning of the planet from dark to light on the Solstice or of the Gregorian calendar year – a time when many of us pause and reflect on the year past and our hopes for the year to come. It is a moment of what the Greeks called Kairos time, as opposed to Chronos time, by which we measure most of our lives — in seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years.

In the years I spent in academia, my life was governed by Chronos time that often forced me to live in the future rather than the present. Course scheduling and book orders needed to happen far in advance. Course syllabi planned students’ readings and assignments for the next several months ahead. Learning was to occur in specific blocks of time, which always struck me as such a bizarre way to teach and learn, when we’d have to break off discussion and deep learning simply because the hour was up.

Public Goddess Gatherings by Caryn MacGrandle

I swat at her like an annoying fly. ‘Stop it. I’m good. I’m very happy. Go away.’

I took a part time security gig on the weekends to bring in some extra cash, and they sent me out to direct traffic at a holiday outdoor market here. 150 booths of incredible, local, organic, home-made, natural items. Right up my alley.

The festival started at noon. And the steady stream of cars started. By 12:45pm, the entire parking lot was filled, several football fields long: a Dave and Busters, a Wahlburgers and a Trader Joe’s sharing the same area. All their spaces filled too.

Back Off Wednesday by Caryn MacGrandle

Moderator’s Note: This was clearly written closer to the Thanksgiving holiday but we feel that it has a message that still holds strong.

Owens Cross Roads, Alabama. Long before Owen’s claimed his crossroads, the Land I live on was stewarded by the Shawandasse Tula, the S’atsoyaha Yuchi and the Cherokee.

We just got through another Thanksgiving an American holiday built on domination and patriarchy. Several years ago, I became vegetarian, but my adult son’s boss bought all his employees turkeys. An estimated 46 million turkeys give up their life every year so that we can celebrate our heritage as Pilgrims.

I cooked the turkey so that this one would not have given up its life in vain. I will make sure that my children who are still carnivores enjoy it.

The Unbearable Sweetness of Being by Vibha Shetiya

I watched with confusion and a guilty sense of disgust – maybe this was the way things were done in India? My aunt had reached across to the cluster of letters strung together by a single piece of wire twirled around a nail on the wall, and gently dislodged one of them. They were from my father to his mother. I didn’t know what to think. After all, she went on to say, Your father is so good with language; just listen to this, just how beautifully he writes, before reading out aloud a lengthy passage. She was a good reader; gentle, perfect cadence with pauses in the right places. But I wanted to turn away on this intrusion of privacy, on this emotional voyeurism, but then thought, Wait, just last evening and the evening before that, and the many evenings before that she had spent the only free time she would get – from the large extended family who, hearing of her generous spirit, had congregated in her home in Bombay, that city of big dreams but of tiny square footage (blissfully unaware that they were now indebted to her for life) – on her rudrakshamala, deep in meditation, in union with god. So pious a woman! So pure a heart! Such a giving soul! Surely then there can’t be anything wrong here. Especially if it’s to say something nice about someone you cared for. And, after all, those letters were right there in the kitchen above the dining table, weren’t they? Not tucked away in some corner of a chest of drawers hidden from sunlight.

The Dark Tunnel by Sara Wright

Recently I had a very strange experience. I had fallen and was dumped into a nursing home to ‘recover’.

Since I have written about other aspects of this terrifying experience on this blog and published some pieces elsewhere, I am turning my attention to what happened to me after being drugged senseless, and then being stripped of every aspect of personal autonomy.

After I refused the 17 drugs, I incurred hostility from some nurses and aides who blamed me for having diarrhea and many other infractions none worth mentioning (one of the consequences of stopping the drugs was loose bowels).

The one medication I needed was routinely withheld. Each time this happened I became more frightened and anxious. Shaky. These same caregivers either ignored me or intoned “all you have to do is relax, breathe”. They dismissed my PTSD/Anxiety disorder as some kind of psychological problem or were too ignorant or indifferent to care.

Keeping an Open Heart: My Ode to Father Ted by Janet Maika’i Rudolph

***Trigger Warning: Discussion includes sexual violence***

Father Ted and his friends helped me move in 1978. I have a bandanna on my head and Father Ted is behind me.

In early 1977 when I was 21 years old, I was followed into a building and attacked with a knife. I was raped. It is hard to express the rent in your soul when something like that happens. And yet it is a common trauma in our patriarchal world, used as a weapon of war and, in general, to control women’s bodies. When I think of Israeli women being raped even as they were murdered, I don’t even know how to process that level of evil. As for myself, I was an easy mark as victim because I had been groomed to be meek by childhood abuse.

The Road Back Home, part 1 by Terry Folks

Review: In my first four posts sharing my recent Goddess Pilgrimage to Crete, I combined Joseph Campbell’s mono-myth with Maureen Murdock’s feminist version.

In this post and the final one to come, we complete the journey home. In Murdock’s feminist adaptation, I am now poised to Integrate the Feminine and Masculine within. My hybrid combines Campbell’s Reward (Seizing of the Sword), the Road Back, Death and Resurrection, and my Return with the Elixir.

Briefly: Having tested positive for COVID on the first day of the pilgrimage, I was required to quarantine at Hotel Idi near the village of Zaros near the Psiloritis foothills in the bosom of Mother Mountain Ida. Four other sisters eventually joined me and we formed the Avocado Sisterhood, meeting daily for support and encouragement. However, I spent much of my time alone, moved inward, became very still, and underwent a personal spiritual transformation during this liminal time. My sisters left before I did as I still had not tested negative.

Stage Ten – The Road Back – Integration of the Feminine and Masculine

Archive of Silence by Sara Wright

It is well documented by conservative science how a human being deals with trauma.

Trauma first overwhelms and then destroys the body’s nervous system.

It affects cognitive ability –

the ability to translate experience into meaning –

it steals the ability to imagine a different way of being in the world.*

Trauma affects memory creating blanks – holes in the fabric that cannot be recovered except perhaps through dreams visions, sensing, intuiting, having experiences with Nature that the rational mind does its best to resist.