Exponent II's Blog, page 154

Sacred Christmas Music Monday

I know that with the inability to sing in large groups, many people are missing their traditional Messiah Sing-along. I participate in the Temple Hill Symphony Orchestra that usually performs in the auditorium up at the Oakland Temple and this year we created a virtual sing-along for you to watch or sing with. It’d be a great FHE activity and something nice to share with your friends and family for #LightTheWorld.

Full disclosure, I play the timpani for this. I joined the orchestra as an oboist, but there already was an oboist and an English horn player so I’ve also picked up some of the percussion parts since I’ve been taking drum lessons for the past 2 years. Recording the timpani part was tricky and you end up seeing a lot of my back when I’m on the screen. I had to get to the stake center to access the timpani and record it all in a single night- which is hard when you mess up and and want to start over! It’s also why I was up at the stake center using the restrooms.

I hope you enjoy the recording. I felt so disheveled recording it and I imagine the other musicians did too- but it came out pretty nice! The link for the choir music is here so you can sing along.

Guest Post: Heartbroken

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By Blaire Ostler

I am heartbroken to learn that the “Radical Orthodoxy” manifesto co-authored by Nathaniel Givens, Jeffrey Thayne, and Jonathan Max Wilson is intended to be anti-queer. I’m heartbroken. I’m utterly heartbroken. The Tribune article clarifying the author’s intensions on the “Radical Orthodoxy” manifesto had me in tears.

I pray the Spirit will be with me as I share my concerns.

Upon reading the “Radical Orthodoxy” manifesto, I had concerns about one sentence in particular.

Radical orthodoxy includes “. . .meticulously heeding and unabashedly embracing the counsel and teachings of prophets and apostles regarding chastity and morality [. . .] —even when doing so runs contrary to popular, worldly views.”

Though I had my suspicions, I didn’t want to read beyond the text. For that reason, I withheld from judgment or commentary about specific in the manifesto. My gut told me this had anti-queer undertones, and sadly, the Tribune article confirms my fears. The document is intended to be anti-queer according to the co-author, Jeffrey Thayne.

The Tribune article states, “These ‘radical orthodox’ believers want to be defined ‘by what we are for, not what we are against,’ Givens says.”

Yet, co-author Thayne openly states signatories of the manifesto are against celebrating queer children, my child, or petitioning to the Lord and his servants for further revelation concerning queer temple sealings.

In Thayne’s words, “For example, if someone [. . .] celebrates gender transitions as compatible with the gospel, or promotes the expectation that same-sex couples will someday be sealed in the temple, they are no longer operating within the paradigm laid out by radical orthodoxy.”

Yet, co-author Givens states, “The key is not to pick a fight with anybody, but to find new things to talk about, and to emphasize positivity.”

It feels disingenuous to state that you are not trying to “pick a fight” and “emphasizing positivity” when “radical orthodoxy” means not celebrating our queer children, or seeking further revelation concerning their place in the temple.

It feels like the author is intentionally trying to pick a fight when he says, “Radical orthodoxy [. . .] requires a willingness to speak out in defense of the divine truths in these documents, when the occasion calls for it.”

Quite explicitly the author’s “for position” is against my child. It is against me. Against queer Latter-day Saints. Against the queer members of the body of Christ.

Adam Miller states in the article that the manifesto is “pretty banal.”

Nathaniel Givens, co-author of the documents asked on his Facebook page, “Why are banalities so contentious?”

To answer Nathaniel’s question, the rejection of queer Latter-day Saints is not banal, nor is it Christlike. Any document rejecting God’s queer children is not banal and promotes unnecessary contention.

I’m so sad. I’m so incredibly sad. People I care about and respect have signed this manifesto, including Fiona and Terryl Givens. I’m just so sad. You’d think after so many forms of rejection over the years I’d be used to it—that it wouldn’t hurt anymore, that I would have developed an immunity—but it hurts every. single. Time.

Bio: Blaire Ostler is a philosopher who is specialized in queer studies, and is a leading voice at the intersection of queer, Mormon, and transhumanist thought. She is an author publishing her first book, “Queer Mormon Theology: An Introduction.” She is a board member of the Mormon Transhumanist Association, the Christian Transhumanist Association, and Sunstone.

Mistresses of Patriarchy

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I grew up in the 70s when the battle over the Equal Rights Amendment raged. My mom, ever obedient and faithful, was encouraged by the Church to support the anti-ERA movement, headed by conservative activists like Phyllis Schlafly who founded the “STOP ERA” campaign (STOP was an acronym for “Stop Taking Our Privileges”—chew on that for a minute!). While I wasn’t exactly sure why I was supposed to hate Bella Abzug and Sonia Johnson, I knew they were dangerous, like running with scissors or swimming after eating.

When I got to BYU in the mid 80s and began my feminist awakening, I started to better understand how patriarchal structures are designed to control who has power, and how, what I’ve come to call “Mistresses of Patriarchy,” are created by such toxic systems, granting status to the few at the expense of the many.

First let’s talk about power. Brene’ Brown observes that there are different ways of viewing power, that some “work from a position of power over” while others “work from a position of power with/to/within.” The former group hoards power and views it as a finite quantity; the latter believe that power expands when shared.

Imagine then, what happens in a patriarchal structure, where power is finite and held almost exclusively by men. If there are positions open to women, those chosen will be the ones who not only share the same “power over” view and who will uphold the status quo, but  will defend the structure and guard the power more aggressively than most men, because they live in fear of being rejected and continually have to reassure the patriarchy of their compliance.

I call them “Mistress” because of that word’s meanings. A mistress is a woman in a position of authority or control–but usually one given that authority by a man. She is also the illicit companion of a man, betraying another woman in the process. Think Margaret Thatcher. Dolores Umbridge. Phyllis Schlafley. Sigourney Weaver in “Working Girl.” Betsy DeVos.

We all know these women and as Mormons, most of us have seen them up close and personal. The Relief Society president who insists on running every decision by the bishop for “priesthood approval.” The temple worker who scrutinizes each woman’s clothing, looking for a ribbon out of place so she can set her straight. The girls camp director who takes pleasure in enforcing rules and may even make them more rigid than specified.

It’s heartbreaking really. When power is exclusive and held only by a few, it is easy to adopt the pie analogy and think that if a slice of power is given to one, then power must necessarily be taken from another. This misconception encourages people to see anyone who’s not them as a threat: men vs, women; whites vs. BIPOC; cis hets vs. queer, and on and on. And makes out-group “token” people who are allowed access to power more likely to support an institution that actually oppresses them. Hence, the Mistress of Patriarchy.

The best way to shift our thinking from power over to power with is to look to at the life of Jesus, whose name this church bears. His first miracle was to turn water into wine, something requested by his mother on behalf of guests. It didn’t elevate him or exclude others. There was no sense that by using power to refill wedding drinks it would somehow reduce the power needed to raise the dead. And when he chose his friends and associates, it was not based on who would advantage him. In fact, his close connection with women was frequently a point of contention, even with his disciples. The Savior’s example is that we should not maintain a superior position over others. In washing the disciples feet he was both humbled and exalted. Even his perception of food was not finite, as he multiplied the loaves and the fishes, providing abundance. None of these acts diminished Jesus, but magnified his capacity and influence. His power empowered others, or as the Bible might say, power begat power.

I believe that if we embrace this idea of abundance can we transform our institutions. We must make space for others and stop using toxic patriarchy as an excuse to perpetuate cultural prejudices and “vain ambitions.” Maybe then we will no longer have to deputize women under a system of false power and self-hatred.

My dream is to one day tune into General Conference and see a true reflection of who we are as a people, in all our glory and variety: male and female, queer and straight, black and white, and all the beautiful inbetweens.

New Editor in Chief of Exponent II

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Exponent II is delighted to announce our new Editor in Chief, Rachel Reuckert. Rachel has been an integral member of the Exponent II staff for several years. She is an accomplished writer and editor and she won the Exponent II annual essay contest in 2018 for her funny and moving essay “Wonder Women.” In addition to a Master’s in Education from Boston University, she will complete a MFA with an emphasis on memoir and creative writing from Columbia University in May 2021. Rachel will transition into her new role with the Spring and Summer 2021 issues of Exponent II. As the outgoing editor, I couldn’t me more happier with this choice. I am confident Rachel will lead this publication to new heights.

Guest Post: Learning to Lament

By Sara Bybee Fisk

I am a student of The Living School. Part of the curriculum experience is an assignment to Circle Groups who meet online to learn from each other and from the curriculum. 

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I chose to join a circle group that is for BIPOC students, wanting to explore my own identity as a brown woman, and to learn from the experiences of other black and brown students. Our first meeting was on a Sunday, everyone flat on the glass surface of my computer screen.

A more seasoned Living School participant led us in an exercise to ground ourselves. My spine straightened and heart opened to the moment I was in; this was familiar and lovely. 

Then, we were led in a practice of lament. The guide explained, “We are unaccustomed to stopping to lament; we carry many things we have not been able to release. What are the sorrows you carry with you? What are the sorrows of the world that we could be open to?”

Answers to the guide’s questions popped up in my head; suffering, sadness, worry…so many things to lament. I hesitated, breath caught in my chest- why go there?

I am not a person who likes to feel sorrow; it looks about as inviting as a dark, black, bottomless pool. I usually skip the sorrow and go straight to anger or decide to not feel it at all. I was unconvinced that this was a good idea.

His voice continued “When we lament, we open ourselves to the truth of what is going on around us in a new way, we willingly feel the pain and suffering of others, and we feel our own sorrow in an honest way. This is part of telling the truth about the world and about ourselves. Trust yourself to lament and to learn.”

I opened to the possibility.

I felt a wave swell from deep in the pit of my stomach and rise through my whole body- sorrow. My chest tightened, and I breathed. My eyes teared up, and I breathed. My head felt hot and clenched, and I just breathed.  I didn’t fight the sorrow, I didn’t shove it down. I allowed it to just come. 

My heart broke; I felt it crack open and the sorrow gushed. So much sorrow; my own, and the sorrow I’ve witnessed poured forth and I could not stop it.  

I lamented the poverty in the world that I see but cannot fix; so many that need and lack.
I lamented the lack of loving spaces for children, for LGBTQ+ people

I lamented prisons burgeoning with humans for whom we have no plan other than to pay and incentivise corporations to keep them locked away.

I lamented the land, pillaged and damaged.

I lamented the fear and judgement I carry for people who don’t think like I do.
I lamented, and lamented, and lamented. 
I let myself just feel all of it, wave after wave.  

“What did you learn?” asked our guide’s voice, bringing my heart back to myself, sitting in my office. I was breathing, raw and surprised. 

I learned that connecting to lament meant mourning in an uncalculated way- it felt both scary and freeing. 

I learned that I could give myself over to lamenting and it could actually connect me to others in shared sorrow that I willingly felt rather than tried to control. 

I learned new meaning in Jesus’ lamenting for those He loved and wanted to heal, and the lamenting of those who are seeking healing and not finding it. 

It didn’t swallow me alive; lament was a guide that showed me the work that there is to do in the world and gave me a way to experience it up close and truthfully, not at a safe distance.
Lament deepened me; deepened my gratitude, deepened my resilience, deepened my resolve to lift the heaviness of the hands that hang down. 

I don’t know that everyone needs to learn to lament the way I did, it’s certainly a mark of my privilege and emotional inexperience. And certainly there are those that live with it every day and need no guide. But there are those who might; so I offer my experience. 

These days, lament is with me in a new way. It is with me when I meditate and I willingly mourn with those that mourn; it is with me in my heart, a new space hollowed out whose only purpose is constant acknowledgment. It is with me in my prayers and yearnings to help in healing the things that I can heal, including myself.

And it is good.   

Essay Prompt

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I am helping my niece with her college applications. This was not an obvious assignment. We did not know each other well before this new partnership. Her father, my brother, is much younger than I am and we have always lived a continent apart. But coaching kids on essay writing is something I do often and she was interested, so we made a date that turned into every Saturday for five months. 

The timing is not ideal for either of us. She is trying to navigate a Senior year on zoom and I am trying to navigate a peak season in retail. But our discussions have become a refuge for both of us. We share a no nonsense, take charge approach to everything. She is open and positive and focused. I love getting to know her and being her guide.  

This process, potentially so fraught for parents and kids, is for me, an opportunity that is singular and ephemeral. An extraordinary, fleeting, Venn diagram slice where childhood and adulthood converge. Spreadsheets, online forms and deadlines are the ruse that force a young person to teeter on the edge of a nest and then flap, word for word, into a new sky. Every teenager has an 800 word coming of age story waiting to be written, they only need the right prompt. 

What does this look like? I see it as a grand, magical journey. But for them, the destination is murky so they initiate the conversation with a shrug and assumption: I have nothing to write about. I have no ideas. I hate writing. They challenge me with apathy, discomfort, doubt. I smile mysteriously. I am not sure that is true. 

I pull out a keyboard and begin to ask questions. They don’t look at me, monosyllabic and resistant. I ask more questions. They start haltingly and then hear the click, click, click of someone listening. What about this? How did you respond? What happened next? And they talk. A lot. Their world is present tense and their past very near. The images are vivid. They remember what people were wearing, what music was playing, who said what, how this other person reacted, what they texted back, with fully choreographed action scenes as if they were living it all over again. I type as fast as I can, running alongside, catching every snapshot flashing backwards and forwards. I type and ask questions. I am a stranger without context and they don’t hold back. Stories fill up the pages. Their stories.  

How someone tells a story is as telling as the language. I also watch and listen carefully. When does their expression light up? When do the words flow faster or slow down or pause? When does their voice rise and fall. I listen for patterns, themes that come up again and again. These are the breadcrumbs on paths that lead to deeper insights. It is hard to describe the moment when the first essay starts to coalesce. There is a swirl of inflection when the weather shifts as cold and hot fronts come together, where ingredients mix into batter, where something that was moving is fixed into place, where a child walks through a door and an adult comes out the other side. I say: oh this is good. Tell me more. 

I hold up the screen and scroll down, showing all the words. These are all your stories. This is enough material for ten essays! My eyes gleam like a dragon at the shining narrative potential. They are amazed at their brilliance. I explain that this is what makes great writing possible, the work before the work, the gathering and celebration of your individual life. They rightly think I am completely bonkers but may be of use to them. We look for stories that have more weight. I ask: what matters to you? What do you think matters to someone who is not you. Then we shape these fragments into an outline. We talk about structural formulas and how their ideas can fit together and flow in a graceful arc that inhales and exhales inherent drama.  

From an outline they go off on their own and write a draft. Do it right away! And they do. We revisit and I have them read the draft aloud. They think this is strange and funny. I say: you need to hear your voice and make your writing sound like that voice. They read. I make notes where they say something different than what was written. What do you like? What could be better? They are always right on. They know. 

We discuss. I tell them editing is play. We move words around the board but they are their words. I say: what more can you say here? What would you take out here? Say this to me like you would tell a friend? Every word counts, what is another word that does more work for you? The conversation goes back and forth and they see it improve. Their words grow polished, the edges smooth, the seams pressed flat. They can’t believe this is their story on paper. A story of what they saw and wondered, what hurt and what made them laugh. I tell them editing is life. They will live and then look backwards and forward and learn what to do more of and what to change. They will listen to themselves and recognize when they are speaking in their own voice and when they are not. They will gather their stories and tell them again and again, adapting their core truth for each new audience, knowing that feedback and response is how we grow into better writers and better humans.  

My niece has a few more applications to go. I am already missing our time together after she submits her last one. She has dazzled me time and time again with a turn of phrase, a way of describing herself or one of her friends or an experience that is unique to her. I think of all the work I do in my life – decisions, meetings, analysis of this or that. Nothing is more meaningful to me than sharing in this world of discovery. Nudging a story from a reluctant teller and then basking in the freshness, beauty, and intensity of their words. This role – transforming the mundane role of editor into cheerleader, fangirl, guide, critic, teacher, confidant and the most unlikely of partners – this role is my best self. The self that remembers what it means to be seventeen. The self that believes we all have plenty to write about. 

Dear LDS Man: I Am Not Your Fetish

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By Ramona Morris

One of my favorite stories to tell the missionaries during my early lessons in preparation for baptism was the tale of how I broke my ex-boyfriend’s arm after finding out he cheated on me with my best friend.

I have always considered myself a vocal person. Before joining the church almost four years ago, I had no problem telling people off. I had no fear of senior members at church who abused the missionaries by taking their kindness for weakness. Most importantly, I never hesitated in speaking up for myself in situations where I felt uncomfortable. Since my baptism however, I’ve found that I’ve somehow grown used to being uncomfortable, even at the risk of my own happiness while trapped in a constant

cycle of toxic positivity.

Recently, with growing pressure to find myself an eternal companion from friends and leaders alike, I threw myself into the crazy world of LDS dating. In time, I’ve found myself messaged by men who were old enough to be my father with messages most would find highly inappropriate.

Still, I pressed on. What good was it enduring to the end and putting my shoulder to the wheel if I didn’t expect it to get sore? I scrolled endlessly through profiles each day, comparing photos and picturing fairytale endings, reminding myself of the importance of seeking the one. In my mind, I held kept hope alive that my efforts would be rewarded so that I could free myself of the revolving cycles of engagements, weddings and baby announcements before I threw up from the anxiety these celebrations brought to my life. I didn’t listen to that silent voice that told me to chuck those expectations of LDS women into the trash to improve my mental health. Instead, against my better judgement and betraying the strong feminist within myself who was screaming bloody murder at the stupidity of it all, I logged into these dreaded dating applications, finding myself consumed by images of young men cuddling babies for the sake of proving they could be a viable candidate for fatherhood.

Now, this isn’t my first rodeo with dating. At twenty-eight years old, I was on the quickly reaching the peak of YSA retirement, which meant that if I wanted to find my future husband, I needed to kickstart my journey if I didn’t want to become a “left-over woman”. Still, I was surprised when I matched with someone who seemed to tick most of my boxes. I wish I knew then that this wasn’t some fairytale waiting to happen but instead was simply one of the frogs I needed to run over on my never-ending quest.

Very quickly I began growing closer to this individual. We exchanged numbers and socials. With my self-confidence lower than ever after being rejected by a Utah boy I had no business having feelings for, I somehow fell into a dangerous trap of wanting someone to care for me…even if I didn’t care much for myself.

Soon, I began to see fractures in the foundation. What had gone from introductory photos turned into this individual asking for photos constantly. In the short space of two weeks, our chats had gone from normal conversations and turned into asking for intimate images of myself. At first, I played along. I would send a headshot of myself but soon these demands became more regular. Eventually, the conversation evaporated entirely. I soon came to realize that despite everything that had gone wrong in previous relationships, I deserved so much more than the basic fetishization that I was receiving.

My dating accounts have remained inactive. Things still haven’t worked on the romance front, but I have truly discovered my self-worth. I recognize that no-one deserves to be fetishized, no matter now nice or charming they may seem. Most importantly, I discovered that being alone in good company is better than an eternity of settling for less than what we deserve.

#GivingTuesday for Exponent II

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DONATE NOW

Exponent II is celebrating #GivingTuesday by sharing our highlights of the year. We are stronger, more inclusive, and more vibrant than ever before in the organization’s 46 year history. Today, as we ask you to invest in and support us, we want to give thanks for what this scrappy, tough, loving group has done. We realize that this may be a hard times for many us, so please just give whatever you can. Thank you.

MAGAZINE: 

We published four issues of our magazine, which includes essays, art, poetry, and features. We explored many issues relevant to our readership, such as:

Our annual essay contest will showcase letters–letters from a parent to a child, fictional letters from scriptural characters, letters of grief and joy, and letters to God. We also invited people to submit postcard art to accompany the letters. In this season of distanced connection, we believe this issue will be a welcome literary hug.The Summer issue featured entirely women of color artists. It is one of the most stunning issues we have ever published.  The Spring and Fall issues looked at a diversity of issues, including racism, ancestral lineage, motherhood, social justice, modesty, and grief.

ONLINE:

We continued to grow our online presence — via both our blog and social media. We post daily on our blog, which was founded in 2006. In 2020, our most popular posts were “My Apology for My Complicity” by Monika Crowfoot; “At the Crossroads of Being Black and LDS” by Dumdi Baribe Wallentine; and our series about the WHO-designated Year of the Nurse and the Midwife.We also moderate a closed Facebook group with over 5,000 members, including over 900 who joined during 2020. This group shares resources, provides connection, and creates a forum for conversation about topics relevant to Mormonism and intersectional feminism. Our new website is about to be released! We’re excited for you to see it.

GOALS FOR 2021

Will you help?

Compensate some of the dozens of women who currently offer free or extremely reduced labor for the magazine, blog, Facebook group, and retreat.Expand our grant program for women of color artists.Increase our scholarships for subscriptions and retreat attendance.Explore options for offering more in-person events, like local meetup groups or an additional retreat.

We’re looking forward to 2021 for so many reasons, not the least of which is continuing to build this vital community. Thank you for your crucial help in that work.

DONATE NOW

Guest Post: On Listening

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“Listening” by Wrapped Up, Flickr

By Anonymous*

At church we talk a lot about developing ourselves spiritually, but we don’t often talk about being better listeners. The church teaches that we have a Heavenly Mother and Father and, though we don’t know all the specific ways they spend their energy, we are taught that they spend a lot of energy being available to us, always ready to listen. (This is taught explicitly about God the Father, implicitly about God the Mother.) I think that’s significant. And I think it reflects godliness when we make concerted efforts in our own lives to listen to each other.

I chose this topic because I care about listening and connecting and understanding. But I’m often worse at it with the people I love the most.

The truth is good listening is hard to do: it requires giving up time and control. It asks us to be vulnerable enough to say, “I don’t fully understand but I want to.” It requires focusing on the other person. But as human beings we often only listen to confirm our biases, or to find ways to feel superior, or only until it’s our turn to speak. In an argument, we might listen in order to build a better case in our defense.

It’s hard to listen when our personal experience is different from the person we’re talking to. It’s hard to listen when our cultural, racial, or economic background is different. It’s hard to listen when we disagree with someone about politics. It’s hard when there’s a generational difference. It’s hard to listen when, say, you feel your dad is being unreasonable, or when your child is resisting you in a way that is triggering, or when your significant other tells you that what you said was hurtful but you didn’t mean to hurt them.

True listening is hard because listening is active, not passive. It requires emotional and mental labor. It demands focus and investment to contemplate what someone else is saying with a completely fresh view. It’s a form of work that is meaningful only if we’re able to leave our mental space of familiarity and self-assurance and be willing to be guided by someone else to expand our current thinking.

Authentic listening is mutually beneficial, a kind of magic where the listener is able to receive and give at the same time. For example, by truly listening the listener gives love, validation, acceptance, respect, and a sense of equality. At the same time, the listener might receive deeper understanding, fresh viewpoints, and expanded empathy. The listener might even become more patient and tolerant.

Perhaps most important, listening is fundamentally about connection—a way to connect deeply with someone else. I think this kind of connection is at the core of the gospel and our very purpose on earth. We yearn to be linked. We yearn for intimate connection. In order to achieve that connection, we need to listen every bit as much as we need to be listened to.

I’ve got a long way to go personally in improving my listening, but here are some ways I’ve been thinking about how to do so:

Set aside baggage & slow down. Set aside strong emotional reactions, avoid acting on impulses to have an answer, or to be “right” or “better than” the speaker. Let go of defensiveness and pride. It’s hard, even scary, to do these things but in the end it’s a way of saying, “I believe more in the power of connecting and understanding than in my desire for control.”
Assume you don’t fully understand. Proverbs 1:5 says, “A wise man will hear and will increase learning.” Implicit in the wise man here is the idea that there’s always more to learn. The wise man is wise because he hears and increases learning. Integral to good listening then is the idea of recognizing we don’t yet fully understand—much like a potter who breaks down hardened clay into powder with the hope of reconstituting it into fresh, wet clay and reshaping it into something better.
Ask follow up questions. For example, “How did that make you feel? Why do you think that is? What do you mean when you say X? How long have you felt like this? What do you think that means?” Sometimes it’s as simple as saying, “I’m really glad you shared that. I”d love to more about that if you’re comfortable sharing.”
Restate what you’ve heard in your own words. Start with something like, “If I heard you right you’re saying . . .” Repeat the other person’s thoughts and feelings. If they didn’t state how they’re feeling, try asking them. And if they don’t have the words to express their feelings, try imagining how they might feel and asking them if you guessed right. Being able to reflect back a full understanding of what the speaker said is key to connection.
Show that what you’ve heard and understood has changed you. Over time, show the speaker over time that what they shared with  you has changed the way you think, speak, and/or act. This doesn’t mean that you have to agree with their perspective or opinions. However, real listening should affect us. We connect when we are willing to show how we are moved by each other.

If we can be better listeners we will connect more deeply. We will grow love—the love we give and the love we feel. By listening we can expand and link and become more godly. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

 

*This post was originally written for a talk in an LDS sacrament meeting. It presupposes that the listener is in an emotionally safe environment which is devoid of abuse of any kind.

 

 

killing my well-behaved woman: critical work of midlife

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As a girl, I learned only to behave. I was timid and quiet. I raised my hand to answer questions, to get permission. I followed the rules. I did my homework. I obeyed my parents. I obeyed the law. I rarely questioned. I learned the order of things. And submitted as asked even when it insulted my own soul. I learned to dream small. I dreamed the prescribed dream. At least that was all I acknowledged.

I wondered why God made me woman. I wondered why my place was below man’s. But also learned the unspoken rule that there are many questions women must not ask. Feelings that must not be acknowledged or expressed. And then I reached midlife and I realized why questions were forbidden, why anger was taboo.

When a woman asks questions, she reclaims a forgotten birthright. Her anger fuels her as she topples hierarchies. She frees herself from the bondage of tradition. When she finds her voice and uses it, she can change her position in the universe.

I am a slow learner. I resist change and growth even as it continues to call me. It speaks to me as depression. It calls to me as a feeling of being stuck. It grapples with me as an overwhelming resentment and never ending exhaustion with life. I tried to dismiss these things. These are not the feelings of a holy woman. These are not the feelings of a nice woman. These are not the feelings of a well-behaved woman. I thought I would banish them. I thought they would go away if I was obedient enough and good enough. But eventually I realized they were coming from deep within me. And I didn’t want to shut her up anymore. I wanted to hear her.

It came to me as a desire to run away. To seek refuge and quiet. To rest and look inward. I wanted a sabbatical from daily life. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to sit on a beach in a hammock and rest with my mind. Or go on a mountain retreat and be nurtured by a spiritual guide. I couldn’t accomplish this desire in days and weeks, but only in fleeting moments amidst responsibilities of motherhood and daily life.

This is the work of midlife. It begins with a deep inward examination. A look at the past and what I’ve accomplished so far. Does any of it matter? Does it matter to me or just to others? Is this the direction I want to continue? Does my life reflect my values? What are my values anyway? Have they changed? Do I still love the path of life that was set out for me? Or is there something I need to change? What are these wounds I see here in the past? The hurts that stem back to childhood, my teen self, my young adult self, others I forgot about? All the hurts of a lifetime, the ones that stayed unhealed because I covered them up and left them in the darkness. They come crying out to me. Again I want to shut the door and leave them there. These wounds are not supposed to be here.
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But eventually I look again. I find out more about hidden pains and listen to them. It is terrible and wonderful. There is a tangled web of coping mechanisms; some old, very old, or new. I take time to get to know them. Who are you? When did you arrive? What do you need? How old do you think I am? What would you do if you didn’t have to do this anymore? Do you think you are ready to move and let me meet the one you are protecting? There are so many here. Some have been so stalwart for so long, they collapse when they are thanked. Others are wary of what I am trying to do.

I learn the meaning of cognitive dissonance and I stare it in the face and I decide to resolve it. Things are falling. Shelves are breaking, and it is scary in here. There are shadows in the closets and dark corners. Strangers I didn’t know lived here. I need to take my time. I am sifting through some rubble and reevaluating everything. Some things I pick up and I love them and want to keep them. Others are no longer useful or even toxic. With relief I let some things go. It is hard and painful and freeing. I am differentiating and coming more wholly into myself. I am slowly claiming sovereignty. I begin to see where I gave my power away. I am coming to see what I really believe and what was inherited.

I was taught a lie that some feelings were good and others bad. So I had avoided negative feelings and tried to have positive ones. I didn’t talk much about my problem, but tried to pretend everything was okay. Even when they really were not. Accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative was supposed to change the way I feel, wasn’t it? That did not work. Giant eruptions of anger began to spew forth in midlife. All the buried feelings had simmered deep below for far too long. I have needed to cry. A lot. With tremors that quake through my body and inhuman sounds that burn at my throat. I have needed to be mad. To fume and rail and shout at injustice. To whine and complain and pout like a child. To get out in the sunlight so many feelings that were decades inside.

Now I am learning to feel and honor a whole range of feelings. I listen to my anger and she teaches me where I have compromised myself. She has demands. She is unruly, but she loves me fiercely and she is on my side. I will not let people speak ill of her. I will not listen to the terrible judgements of others who don’t want to know her. She brings forth friends that I buried long ago, when I thought they were enemies. They have a lot to teach me. I become wary of toxic positivity now that I see it and name it.

I look at my relationships. The great webs of human interaction throughout my life. Sometimes I grieve. Sometimes I reach out. I learn more about what I value. I have a hunger for true intimacy. I hunger for quality relationships, something that was compromised when I wasn’t showing up as myself. My soul demands authenticity, to be known, to be more fully myself. I begin to peel off the mask I carried. I reveal worry lines and wrinkles and an attitude. I learn to love bigger and better and deeper and love myself for real, for the first time. My inclination toward judging is falling away, and I feel protective of myself and others. I am looking for my people to build something new. When I encounter someone who wants me to smile, who wants to see my old mask, I resist. It is uncomfortable and it loses me some relationships, but I feel something inside relax.

I have more work to do on this path of midlife womanhood. I am learning to voice my opinions and to feel rage. I am learning I have a spring of untapped creativity that metastasized into resentment, boredom, and depression. I feel a need to find my gifts and nurture them.  I need to dig out my suppressed dreams and see if they can be resurrected. I feel a need to continue building my new spirituality and readdresses how to tackle the big life questions. I feel a call to meet more of my shadows and continue healing. I understand old things in a new way. The image of the phoenix. The parables about rebirth. The burning. The ring of fire. The pain and the ecstasy. Metaphor and miracles.