herstory – Feminism and Religion

Holding Our Brokenness by Elizabeth Cunningham

Dear FAR readers, here is a selection from my new collection Holding Our Brokenness, a gathering of poems. I chose these particular poems for their connection to feminism and/or religion. I hope you will enjoy them.

The Old One Speaks

You must be unmade here
inside my grey cloak
inside my cold womb
here where the ice forms
and breaks
at the river’s edge.

What Kali Tells Me

It’s all in the rhythm.
Falseness throws you off beat.
Rhythm renews your strength
with every step. That’s how time
becomes timelessness.

The Echo Makers 25 by Sara Wright

When I first heard the ‘trumpeting’ and ‘brrring’ it was less than an hour before dawn, but one aggregation was already on the wing headed west, away from the fields. Because their direction led away from the fields, I feared we would not see the Sandhills at all. It was All Saints Day, a time to give thanks to those creatures and people who have helped us along the way. (Sandhills have been been a beacon of Light in my own life). A bloody red sky turned deep rose as the sun shattered the charcoal outline of distant mountains, turning them carmen red. The wind was fierce as I walked up and down the sides of the open agricultural fields listening intently. Gunshots rang out and I wondered where these might be coming from. In Maine it is illegal to shoot migrating cranes. The sunrise was spectacular. Clouds spun themselves out of ruby, slate, and violet hues. Indescribable.

Although snow buntings, red winged blackbirds and two harriers were scrying the skies around the fields after dawn I only had eyes for sandhill sightings!

The Second Skin: Lipstick, Lies and Lead part 1 by Sabahat Fida

A woman’s body has become a site of commodification to such extreme that even her most basic necessities are not spared. Products meant for hygiene or comfort ; razors, deodorants, tampons, shampoos are packaged, scented, and coloured in ways that signal femininity, pushing them into a hyper-aesthetic zone of the departmental store. This creates a glaring economic contradiction: men’s products, often identical in function, are sold cheaper, while women pay a premium simply for their gender. But the exploitation is not merely financial. By demanding that her essentials adhere to socially approved standards of beauty, the market sends an unambiguous message: a woman’s needs, her very body, are only legitimate when they are commodified, beautified, and consumed in accordance with society’s expectations. The Pink Tax is thus not just a matter of inflated prices, it is a subtle enforcement of control, conditioning women to invest continuously in an ideal that is neither natural nor negotiable.

But this exploitation extends far beyond commercialized markets and seeps into the routines of everyday life. A tailor may charge different rates for the same shirt depending on the gender it is intended for, while a simple haircut at a salon can cost women far more than men, despite the identical service. Men’s consumption remains largely practical, functional, and unembellished, whereas women are expected to pay for aesthetic compliance at every turn. This raises the question: is the female market driven merely by trends or gullibility, or is it a reflection of deeper societal pressures — an unspoken demand that a woman’s body and appearance must conform to rigid standards of femininity in order to be socially acceptable? Is the answer in the very language and design of advertising Taglines like “You’re worth it” or “Strong is beautiful” which carry a psychological imperative, subtly instructing women to compare, conform, and continually invest in their appearance as a measure of worth ? These subliminal marketing strategies are deeply rooted in social comparison theory, objectification and fear appeal/protection motivation theories.

Three Poems by Harriet Ann Ellenberger

I Resolve To Speak

There’s a fascist in the White House —
a malevolent clown and front man
for a cabal of the hard right.
Their takeover of the US government
proceeds rapidly, a stunning succession
of defeats for democracy.

The nightmares of fascism
are taking shape in waking reality.
Now is the time, I tell myself,
to speak up, speak out,
name the perpetrators,
name their games.

The bully in the White House
has been called a rapist,
and fascism is patriarchy on steroids,
waging unremitting war on nature,
people of color, and women.

FAMISHED—ON FOOD, SEX, AND GROWING UP AS A GOOD GIRL by Anna Rollins: Book Review by Esther Nelson, part 2

Part 1 was posted yesterday.

MARRIAGE

“He looked at me without judgment. With him, I didn’t feel the need to perform.” Both her future husband (first year medical resident) and she (now studying applied linguistics) disliked fundamentalism’s legalism, but they were still committed to Christianity. Both were “devoted to [sexual] abstinence.” Sex did not even happen on their wedding night, but when it did, it hurt. For years, the pain continued. Vaginismus. “I didn’t know there was a name for it. I didn’t know that…it was twice as common for those who had grown up in religiously conservative households.” It took years to get through the pain. “It’s not until we can believe that our bodies are inherently good and worthy of pleasure and joy that we can begin to heal.”

A new pastor arrived at Rollins’ church armed with Christian nationalist ideas and fervor. It didn’t set right with her. She was moving toward progressive positions beginning with “my body, my choice.” She adds, “If there’s anything someone who’s struggled with an eating disorder understands, it’s the concept of bodily autonomy.” She began to research the Reformers beginning with Martin Luther who said this about women: “If women become tired, even die, it does not matter. Let them die in childbirth. That’s what they are there for.” Rollins’ husband pushes back, though, quoting Scripture—“there is no male or female…we are all unified in Christ.” Why then, Rollins wonders, does sexism run rampant in the church?

FAMISHED—ON FOOD, SEX, AND GROWING UP AS A GOOD GIRL by Anna Rollins: Book Review by Esther Nelson, part 1

In her Preface, Rollins writes, “Hypercontrolling my food and using exercise compulsively had always been how I coped with life, stress, expectations, and fear.” Many people (usually women) use this coping technique in their day-to-day lives. Controlling your body’s needs and desires allows you to feel powerful. I know. I am one of those people.

Powerful or being in control was not something the author felt able to achieve in any “normal” way given her upbringing “in an Appalachian [West Virginia] church that fully embraced purity culture [sexual abstinence before marriage] and rigid gender roles.” Rollins continues, “…I’d bought into the scripts offered to me by both diet culture [controlling food intake to achieve a better-looking body] and purity culture [controlling your sex drive] … [knowing] that if I controlled my appetites, I could control my world. That if I made myself smaller, I would be better, safer.”

Rollins interviewed scholars, psychologists, and an array of women while writing FAMISHED. She states, “When women worked to heal from body shame, their relationship to religion was intricately involved.”

The author divides her work into three sections: Girlhood, Marriage, and Motherhood.

Autumn Light by Sara Wright

Where are they?

September’s light
illuminates one butterfly
in flight
Bittersweet losses
cast slanted shadows
pierce cool nights

morning mist
lifts as
light streams
through translucent
leaves

one acorn falls…

autumn’s breath
a gift of
primal scent

Sea Glass by Elanur Williams

Image Credit: Seascape, 1879, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (available on public domain).

I am drawn to the sea not for its grandeur, but for what it returns: small, broken things that once had sharpness. As a child, I remember walking along the shore searching for glimmers, glass fragments dulled into misty greens, smoky ambers, pale blues. I wanted to gather the pieces of what had once been whole and what had once been contained. I collected the way a child collects secrets, each piece a contradiction. Maybe I thought I could make something from these fragments; after all, I was the kind of child who looked for meanings and signs in everything. It is in part what drew me to literature and writing.

There is a piece of sea glass I remember more than the others: an opalescent shard, a piece of moon. That piece became a metaphor for the self I hadn’t yet become. Like those fragments, I too had sharp edges once. Pain teaches that: the need to defend, to protect oneself from further breakage, carves us into angular shapes. I learned early how to brace for fracture, and there was a comfort I found in control, a fierce desire for wholeness that was often mistaken for strength. But there is a brittleness to that kind of armor, and eventually, it begins to break. It took years of undoing for my edges to soften.

Elemental Grannies: Snippets from Over the Edge of the World, A Fairytale Novel by Elizabeth Cunningham

Introduction: An old woman, Rose begins spinning the tale the children never tire of hearing. Grannies Sweep, Spark, Dirt, and Brine, were old, so old, they forgot who they were and how they came to live where they did: a sheer pinnacle, a walking forest, an old shoe, a ship moored off a hidden shore.

But Rose has never told the whole story—to anyone. The story of a world these children have never seen, where the rich lived inside a vast dome, protected from heat and cold, rain, wind—and hunger. Nor do the children know about madness or cruelty. She has never told them about Noone, the power behind the dome, his obsession with immortality.

If she never tells these stories, who will remember the bravery of the beauty singers who daily risked the ultimate penalty—being thrown over the edge of world. Who will remember the intrepid children who danced defiantly on the dung heaps. If Rose does not tell her own story, who could imagine her birth deep inside the dome, the dangerous secret of her existence. A secret guarded her two huge aunties, once ragged outside boys, who became outrageous bodyguards in towering wigs and heels. To protect the new world and the people she loves, it is time for Rose to tell…

Divining Goddess: Tattooed Sawbonna & Serpent by Margot Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks/Heyoka

Tattooed upon my body. Residing in my soul. Sawbonna. Serpent. Snake. SHE who is. Was. Always will be. Like waking from a solemn sleep. I walked with the intention of heading to my home where I have been building houses. Papier-mâché mansions and tiny, tiny shacks. Sheds too, that speak of shelter. Of warmth. Of community.

After time with Jess and Benn in Emma’s office, heading in the direction of my cozy cave of light. My sanctuary. Where silence rarely slumbers. I looked up. Above me there, right there, blue, blue, sky. Fat potent clouds. One errant, silent-speaking breeze redolent with hope. Reeking of Sawbonna. I knew that the time had come.

I knew what I had do.
I did not return home.
I turned left on to Hunter Street.
Wended my way to Simcoe Street.

After conversation with Nelson at Henry’s Barber Shop, Riverside Tattoo and I became acquainted. It was mid-afternoon.