Feminism and Religion

Prison Doors Open: Poetic Justice of Elizabeth Fry by by Margot Elizabeth Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks

Elizabeth Fry, also known as Betsy Fry (1780-1845)

Voices as One
HER glory showers
Tremendous poignancy upon
Our persistent walk. We are
Joined. Siblings in Spirit.
Imbibing the hymn of
Reformation. The song
Of justice. The canticle
Of joy and freedom.
©Margot Van Sluytman

First Call to Ceremony by Sara Wright

I prepare for winter by tipping sweet balsam to make my wreath. Always an intentional undertaking, I honor all evergreens during this month and next as I weave myself into the Circle of Life with fragrant boughs…

I gather my balsam candles and put lights on my little Norfolk Island Pine in preparation for the Festival of Fire, scattering crimson cranberries around her base. Adding acorns, hemlock cones, moss and lichen attach me to ‘All There Is’.

Inside and outside are One…

“I am a lady in waiting”… I have learned that Nature decides when it’s time to engage in any ceremony that helps spin the wheel – I listen for the call.

Legacy of Carol P. Christ: In the Web of Life — No Exceptions

This was originally posted December 2, 2011

Does God love me more than She loves my doggies? Does She love animals more than She loves trees and flowers? Does She love trees and flowers more than She loved the first cells that formed in the waters of our planet? Did She not also love the atoms and particles of atoms that coalesced to form the earth?

In her books Sacred Gaia and Gaia’s Gift Anne Primavesi questions the notion that the dialogue between God and the world began with “our entry onto the scene.” Primavesi argues that “human exceptionalism,” the view that the world exists for us, and that we are an “exception” to the world, has been and is the predominant Christian view. In the stories of Adam and Noah, God gives dominion over the creatures of the earth to man. Theologians asserted that of all the creatures that inhabit the earth, only man is in the image of God, and the image of God in man is found in his rational intelligence, which is shared with no other creature. Because he is in the image of God, man will escape death, which is the lot of every other living thing. Rather than challenging human exceptionalism, modern science furthered it, asserting that “matter” was “dead,” and that therefore it was right and just for man to subdue “nature” through technology and to harness it for his needs.

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.

Ariadne’s Dancing Floor by Arianne MacBean

As the story was told to me, my parents were listening to composer Claudio Monteverdi’s Lamento d’Arianna when my name was decided. I would be called Arianne, after mythical Ariadne’s melancholy refrain, sung to the heavens after being abandoned on a deserted island by her lover, Theseus. Raised on the Greek myths as bedtime stories, my father regaled me nightly with tales of gods, goddesses, and mortals twirling in the maelstrom of life. I was in awe of Cyclops and Sirens, but it was the myth of Ariadne and the Minotaur that I requested most often.

Meeting the Melissae: The Ancient Greek Bee Priestesses of Demeter by Elizabeth Ashley, Book Review by Carolyn Lee Boyd

The Mysteries at Eleusis, a nine-day festival in ancient Greece based on the myth of Demeter and Persephone, has fascinated and baffled us for millennia. Here thousands of people from all over Greece and beyond came to understand, in the words of Plutarch, “an undoubted truth our soul is incorruptible and immortal” (277). Producing this festival was the task of the Melissae, the bee priestesses of Demeter, powerful and honored women in a society in which women had few rights, famous in their own time but almost unknown in ours.

In Meeting the Melissae: The Ancient Greek Bee Priestesses of Demeter, Elizabeth Ashley offers us not only facts about the Melissae and other ancient Greek priestesses gleaned from archaeology, art and literature from the period, and modern academic research but her own glimmerings of their deepest spiritual life. She explores what is known about the priestesses and their everyday lives, the goddesses whose temples they presided over, and bees themselves. An aromatherapy researcher, she began her journey to discovering the secrets of the Melissae when she kept reading references to them in ancient botanicals about the herb lemon balm (Melissa officinalis) but nothing more. (The connection between lemon balm and bee priestesses? Pheromones. That’s all I’m going to say).

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.

La UVA: The Union of Gossipy Women by Xochitl Alvizo

My mom lives in Mexico part of the year. She lives in a beach town that we first visited as a family back in 1979 when I was about five or six years old. It was a random pit stop during a road trip from Los Angeles to Guadalajara as we drove south to visit our relatives. My siblings and I loved it so much that we begged our parents to bring us back the following year. They did, year after year, as it became our family vacation spot—spending almost every summer there as I was growing up.

As my parents planned for their future, they ended up buying a house there and deciding to make it their part-time home during their retirement years. My dad didn’t get to enjoy that kind of retirement for very long, barely six months, before a heart attack ended his life. Still, because of their return to Mexico year after year, my parents developed a strong and connected community of friends with whom my mom still gets to share daily life. And when I say daily, I really do mean daily.

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.