Jen Violi's Blog, page 2

For the Writer Who Feels It’s too Late to Write

Last night I had a little airport drama that gifted me with an insight and made me want to write to you immediately. So here I am.

My flight from Pittsburgh to Atlanta was delayed enough that when I got to Atlanta, I’d have about seventeen minutes to get from one end of Terminal A to the other end of Terminal B. Anxiety showed up early, before we even landed, not wanting to miss a good party and wanting to ensure I didn’t forget I had a sprint ahead of me.

After a full, fun, and emotional visit with my family and feeling a new sense of anguish about living so far from my mom and sisters and niece and nephews, coupled with the knowing that I still love living in the Pacific Northwest and don’t want to move, I was ready to get home to Portland. I wanted my own bed and Mike’s open arms. I had a class to teach the next day, too. I didn’t want to get stuck in Atlanta.

When we landed, I strapped on my heavy backpack, clutched my slightly less heavy carry-on to my chest, and I booked it–down the escalator to the train, train ride, running up two escalators only to realize that my gate was at the very far end of a very long corridor.

I hoofed it as fast as I could, noticing that the last gate on the left was all but empty. As I got closer, I waved in desperation to what looked like a flight attendant standing at the podium. I felt hot and out of breath, and frankly, old. I wasn’t sure she’d even see me.

She waved back, like she was looking for me, and relief rushed through my chest.

When I got there, she said, “You made it, Jennifer!” Of course she knew my name, since, you know, every other passenger was already on the plane and ready to go.

I smiled.

“I moved your seat closer to the front,” she added with a kind nod, taking my ticket and handing me a new one. “Still an aisle, but you don’t have to go as far.”

“That’s so nice,” I said, touched and surprised by her thoughtfulness.

A second flight attendant said, “Welcome aboard,” with a warm smile. She seemed genuinely happy to see me and not at all put out as she ushered me through the door and closed it behind me. My breathing slowed.

On the plane, I did have an aisle seat, in the slightly-extra-leg-room zone no less, with no one in the middle seat. I glanced to the back of the plane, where my assigned seat had been. It was crowded and loud back there. Throughout the plane, others were still getting settled, putting stuff in overhead bins, and thankfully, not all staring at me because I was late. I was so grateful to have made it, to be there.

The guy in the window seat tossed an uninterested glance my way and went back to his Kindle. I frowned, a little. The flight attendants had set the welcome bar pretty high. But I didn’t really care, because I’d made it. I was on my way home.

I sat down, fanned my shirt away from my wet skin, and took a deep breath.  As usual, after a big spurt of physical movement, I had a moment of clarion insight, and my mind started to write.

I knew in that moment that what had just happened to me was key to what I offer in my work with and support of writers. In the classes I teach, in mentoring, on retreats, in editing. I don’t mean that I want you to sprint through an airport and get sweaty. Mostly I mean the part about how those gracious women greeted me.

I know how it feels to be late–late for a plane, late for a party, late to figure out who the heck I am and what I’m doing and being, a late bloomer in general. It stinks to feel like everyone else has gotten to some grand adventure first, that they’re all in the place you really want to be, that you might not make it at all, that you have such heavy stupid baggage to carry, with stuff you probably don’t even need anymore, and wondering if you have enough energy to get there or if you should just give up and stay in proverbial Atlanta.

I didn’t start writing my first book until my early thirties and didn’t have it published until closer to forty. Now I’m in my forties and regularly slip into puddles of low self esteem about not having published another one yet.

Yes, it helps to be kind to myself, to go easy, to remember why I need and want to write, etc, etc, etc. And I practice that. But you know what also helps?

The graciousness of others. A welcoming committee. People who make it easier for you to be there, no matter when you arrive.

On the four and half hour flight from Atlanta home to Portland, I realized that that’s at the heart of what I most want to be and do for writers. Especially those who, for whatever reason, feel like they’re coming late enough to the flight that they’re not sure they’ll actually make it on board. I want you to feel welcomed into the adventure of words, of writing a book or whatever you want to write. I want you and your voice to feel met and seen with love and kindness and encouragement. I want your process to have breathing room and leg room, for kicking or dancing or napping, as needed. I want you to feel at home.

If you happen to be one of those writers who’s showing up “late,” what I want to say to you today is this:

I see you running with all your baggage down the corridor, and I’m not thinking you look stupid or weak or old. Not at all. I’m thinking you look strong and brave and determined. And holy crap, the stuff you’ve had to carry? That makes you a warrior. Yes, I see you coming.  See, I’m waving back?! We’re not going to leave without you.

It doesn’t matter who else is on the plane already or how long they’ve been there. It doesn’t matter if absolutely everyone but you is on that plane. It doesn’t matter if some guy on the plane looks at you like you’re the last wilted rose of summer or some other inconsequential flower. I’m thrilled that you made it.

I know it hasn’t been easy to get here. That you’re struggling, out of breath or inspiration. Maybe because of where you’ve come from or what you’ve had to carry, or where you have yet to go.

It doesn’t matter. You made it!

And I moved your seat closer to the front.

 

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

The post For the Writer Who Feels It’s too Late to Write appeared first on Jen Violi.

All I Know is to Make Something

In a moment of desperation yesterday, I made crepes. I’m not sure how to write about violence against women, and about it happening directly above where I sleep, last week, in the middle of the night, but I can write about crepes.

I can write about coming back into our apartment after a little walk, about the sadness and ache and belly emptiness so vast that all I could know to do was to make. something.

I can write about having to leave my boots on. How usually, when I walk in the door, after my coat, shoes and bra are the things that immediately need to go. Then jewelry. But I couldn’t take any of it off for some reason. I needed to feel solid, supported, dressed for something. I listened for noise upstairs. Is he around? Did she come back? Everything stayed on. 

I can write about taking down the apron my mom gave me for Christmas a few years back, into which she needlepointed a Chianti bottle and a glass of wine. Red and green on the white apron, made of a thick satisfying, cream colored cotton, one you could wipe your hands on. Two big deep pockets in the front. Another layer, tied at the back of my waist. Suited.

I can write about pulling out the recipe card, in my mother’s handwriting, via my aunt’s recipe. Mothers and daughters and aunts and sisters. Making things. I don’t know much about her upstairs, but I know she makes art, and I know he smashed it apart. I heard it. The smashing. Where does this hatred of women who make things come from? This violation of goddess bodies. This deep anger in men. Rage without boundaries. Disrespect, destruction. I have to make something. What else can I do?

I can write about following the recipe and making the batter. Eggs, flour, salt. Warm the milk. Whisk it. Spoon some into the pan. A little more. Swirl it around. Sand colored circles appearing. Wait. Watch for bubbles. Flip it. When it’s done, put the first one on a red plate. A slice of butter, melting on top. Spread it around. Sprinkle with salt. Eat the moon while the next one rises in the pan. Fill the void with something simple, something my body can understand. Is it helping? I don’t know.

I can write about the circles multiplying. The reassurance of round. Of breasts and hips and bellies. The softness and nourishment. Not asking for a fight. Not asking for IT. Not asking for anything, in fact. Just being. Can’t we all just be and be kindly? My desire for innocence makes me ashamed. I should know better after forty-two years in this world. After being violated myself, years ago. After every new conversation with a female friend who says, yes, me too. This world. This shitty world. But I still want to cradle it. This world that I love anyway. Make a crepe big enough to wrap and feed everyone, to soften the rage. And that’s not the innocent in me. It’s the mother. The maternal, although I don’t have children, won’t bear children, I still have that. I know that. I feel that. I get out the chocolate, and put some on a crepe just out of the pan. To sweeten, to melt. I add strawberry jam. Will it be enough? I roll it up and take a bite while the next moon rises.

I can write about this one that has a silhouette. I can find a deity in there if I look hard enough. A head and shoulders, a veil and gown. I wouldn’t be the first to have an apparition in a baked good. I stare for a long while. Looking for hope. Still hungry. Wanting a crone of protection to rise from a skillet. The crepe goddess, who feels safe enough to walk barefoot and braless. Dusted with flour and salt. Savory and sweet. That sounds dreamy. And a lot like bullshit. Where is that safe place?

I’m sad and I ache, but I’m angry too. I know how to cook and make through my feelings. Would it be that hard for a man to do the same instead of throwing furniture and terror and strangling a neck, stealing a life force? How is the world so fucked up that so many men’s hearts are so bound with chains and duct tape that violence and rage are the recourse? That first a boy learns to beat his own heart down and then as a man so disabled, when he sees an unrestricted beating heart before him, he can’t distinguish between what he longs for and what he hates? What is this mess?

I can write about a counter full of moons and an empty bowl. I look for evidence that something is different. I still feel cavernous inside. Anxiety echoes off of the walls of me. Despite the urge to hold my breath, I let it go. I’m not better. Better is a stretch. My boots are still on. But I did make something. And it will feed me. It will feed the man I love and live with, if not the whole world. And I will let my tears salt our plates, and they will feed us too.

 

 

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

The post All I Know is to Make Something appeared first on Jen Violi.

If you’re dying to know when you’ll finally be worthy…

When, when will I finally be worthy?

That awful corset of a question. It steals my breath, squashes my organs, and dries up my ink.

When will I at last allow myself to be here without explaining why I deserve it,

why my voice has value,

why I warrant your respect, your ear, your investment of time or attention or resources,

why I matter?

 

I am weary of the wicked sticky web of I’m Not Like Them. I’ll Never Be that Cool, that Skilled, that Smart, that Savvy or Sexy or Successful.

And I finally know that I’m weary of it, not because I need to stop believing it, but because it’s all true.

I will never be like them. I won’t be that cool or skilled or smart or savvy.

And here’s what revs my ticker: the idea of seeing the difference between me and whoever else and saying, with an expansive relief, thank goddess. And Hell YES. And following it up with a firm and frilly

It’s good to be me. It’s great to be me. It’s a gift to be me! A crescendo of celebratory me-ness, so I can get. on. with. my. own. damn. work. So I can

share my profoundly silly words with the world,

trust my love for the pure and profane,

flirt with confidence in my own sexy swagger,

wear my heart on my sleeve, my soul on my collar, my lust on my skirt, my hope on the turquoise bra strap I just can’t keep covered up,

eat all the garlic and kiss all the people without hesitation or shame because this tastes like me, this tastes like me, this tastes like me, and I am delicious.

When will I finally be worthy? When will you?

When we say it’s so.

When we say it’s so.

I

say

it’s

so.

You?

 

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

The post If you’re dying to know when you’ll finally be worthy… appeared first on Jen Violi.

Blow the Roof Off of Your Life

This morning I blew the roof off of my life.

It had been too long since I’d seen the sky.

Hungry for blue, for breath, I huffed, and I puffed, and I

blew the house up.

This wolf didn’t want to be let in.

I’d been tucked in for a thousand full moons too long – stewing, brewing, suffocating – and I needed freedom.

 

Sometimes it is that simple, you know –

to meet a need, to blow the roof off of your life,

to seek wider, more forgiving shelter,

to lumber out of your cave and blink into spring, starving and surrounded by new, wide-eyed life, life that looks like you but also looks like itself.

All of you hungry for blue and breath and

something to sink your wet teeth into.

 

Stale underground will no longer do when your milk is dried up and your thirst asks not for slow echoey drip-drops,

but for oceans.

After all, lupine or ursine or human, you must nurse what you’ve created if it is to survive.

 

Look. I know it.  That cavern kept you safe and cozy. Mine did too.

It served a purpose, gave you a landing pad, but now, lover, the roof sags. You can see the cracks, the exact places it will split and fall and crush you if you stay a moment longer.

If you can see the pattern of your own destruction zigzagging above you,

if you hear the upstairs giants stomping, see

bits of plaster float down like false leaves in the wake of thunderous footsteps not your own, may I suggest something?

Get out, get out, get out!

 

And join me in the wild wonderlands,

where blue and breath

and nourishment

is

infinite.

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

The post Blow the Roof Off of Your Life appeared first on Jen Violi.

Litany to Wonder: A New Prayer for the Old-Souled

Today I renamed my blog. I listened to the stirrings of my soul and the hunger in my belly, and I finally dipped my big paintbrush into the pot and wrote it up there in wide, messy strokes, for all to see: Litany to Wonder.

This is a small, brave step for me into a vast territory and topic that’s fully captured my attention and my heart: wonder. Down the path, more steps in, but not so far that I can’t see the curvy shape of it, will come more blogging, and…a book. There, I said it.

For now, I take one more small, brave step, which is sharing a prayer I wrote, with you. I call it a new prayer for the old-souled, one of those rare labels I’ve loved being given. This prayer I wrote is a litany.

If you grew up Catholic as I did, you might remember litanies–prayers that are series of petitions, of naming the divine and requesting support. I always loved them because they included Mary, a hint of the goddess in a religion where I struggled to find feminine power celebrated, where I struggled to find a place for my call to leadership and my own feminine, powerful voice.

The litanies about Mary lit up my heart. They called her Mystical Rose. Morning Star. I ate it up. Those names were the kinds we gave ourselves in the club my sisters and I started with our mom and some of our friends, probably when I was eight years old or so. Rainbow Unicorn. Magical Fountain. Flower Dancer. Like the names of My Little Ponies. Of course those names can get attached to plastic things and lose their pizzazz, but for me, the pizzazz is still in the name.

Of course those names were ridiculous, and they also transported me right smack into the heart of wonder, what I’m coming to understand as my natural resting state.

In the midst of my devotion to and fascination with wonder, a new prayer spilled out last month. One that’s been brewing in me since I was a little girl in church, looking and listening for the sacred feminine.

Now it seems so clear to me how the goddess permeated Catholicism.  Even though she was relegated to supporting roles or best costume or soundtrack, and never up for best actress. She was still there. In the litanies was Mary and Venus. Morning Star. Evening Star. Star of the Sea. Mystical Rose.

 

The goddess is in my litany too, and with rapid heartbeat, I dare to share it with you here. Welcome to my

Litany of Wonder

Lingerer on the couch,

Daydreamer in class,

Pray for us.

Lady who sang with the tenors,

Lover of musical theater,

Queen of Elastic waistbands,

Pray for us.

Giver of compliments,

Teller of tales,

Moongazer, Starwisher, Thighswisher,

Pray for us.

Worshipper of the slow kiss,

Living room dancer,

She of the rolling orgasm,

Pray for us.

Whiskey slugger, wine chugger, Tuaca sipper,

Slipper treader

End of party dreader,

Pray for us.

Story maker,

Sanctuary keeper,

Brownie batter licker,

Sauce concocter,

Inappropriate giggler,

Tear shedder,

Pray for us.

Obsessive reader,

Healer writer,

Wonder sighter,

Fire lighter,

Goddess lover,

Whale watcher,

Pray for us.

Wonder is at hand. And lip. And nose. And eye. And ear. Within and without. Wonder is near.

wonder bud

 

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

The post Litany to Wonder: A New Prayer for the Old-Souled appeared first on Jen Violi.

Spring Wish-List 2015

in progress…

Fresh figs for cold hands.

Green twigs for sad hearts.

Big dreams for short naps.

Savory kisses for sweet lips.

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

Groundhogs, Gratitude, and How We Called Up the Light, Together

In just a week, it will be February 2, a day with quite a buffet of holidays to choose from–Groundhog Day, Candlemas, Imbolc, to name a few.  Although the choices vary, they all come down to light.

Whatever your pleasure, this week prior feels like a grand time to honor the steps we’ve already taken to be mindful of the light, within and without.  On December 18, I took a great big bright step, and I wasn’t alone.

That evening, with the help and support of a wild and wondrous horde of women plus my intrepid beloved, Mike, holding down the male contingent solo, I took my annual winter solstice retreat to a new level.  In the fall, I brainstormed with the brilliant Melea Seward over drinks at Bare Bones Bar, and over the next two months, she generously offered her event savvy to help me dream up something that felt all aglow.

Instead of the usual 6-10 participants in my living room, I rented the bright and lovely main studio at Moxie Studio, enlisted the organizational brilliance of Amanda Hirscht of Life Support, and we transformed it into a winter solstice wonderland, equipped to host forty women for a retreat, a celebration of creative work, and chance to call up the light within our voices, in the midst of dark times.

Five women, including writers whose books I had the pleasure of editing, and all of whom are women I’ve collaborated with and admire, co-sponsored the event with me:  Nancy Thurston, author of Big Topics at Midnight:  A Texas Girl Wakes up to Race, Class, Gender & Herself; Kelly Wilson, author of Caskets from Costco; Jacki Gethner, author of Behind Door #3: Choose With Your Eyes Wide Open; Kim Cottrell, blogger extraordinaire and Feldenkrais practitioner; Vanessa Couto, counseling astrologer; Theresa Pridemore, creatrix of The Portland Tarot and brilliant designer via Cogflower Creative.  What a powerhouse crew.

Plus of course, this star…

For the first hour of the event, as attendees arrived, Mike signed them in and handed out name tags and gift bags.  Now that’s a committed boyfriend, right?

When I thought, oh, wouldn’t it be nice to have gift bags for all of the attendees and started asking around to see who might like to both donate a treat and promote their work, I never expected the burgeoning gift bags it took Amanda three hours to assemble.

These glorious goodie bags included treats from:

Angela Rider of Sensible Mystic
Consu Tolosa
Cheryl Green of Storyminders
Dr. Summy To of Myoptic Optometry
Theresa Pridemore
Kristen Hamilton, Intuitive Eating Counselor
Heather Michet of Iris Healing Arts
Kate Pagliasotti of Inner Court Acupuncture
Molly Thurston-Parker of Queen of Hearts Baking Company
Base Camp Brewing Company
Amanda Hirscht
Ann Eames Editing
Bette Steflik of Shen Men Feng Shui Consulting
Vanessa Couto
Delaram Adyani of Premier Designs
Summer Cranford of Context Salon
Denise Sowden of  EatMeDesserts PDX
Zoe Cryns counseling
CJ McPhee of Energy Moves
Robyn Urbach of Allay Naturals
Jacki Gethner
Nancy Thurston
Kim Cottrell

Gift bags in hand, attendees could then visit the lusciously decorated sponsor tables, where they could purchase all kinds of books and treasures and services.  Or pause and savor the culinary wizardry of Meadowlark PDX,

who catered up a storm of ridiculously tasty appetizers and sweets, like lamb meatballs, butternut squash soup, beet & goat cheese crostini,

 

and ginger stout cupcakes.

Not to mention bonus cookies for the gift bags. Oh my.

Every twenty minutes or so, I gathered everyone around to draw names for prizes.  As with the gift bags, when I asked some of my favorite entrepreneurs and local businesses for donations for door prizes, I thought we’d have a nice handful.  We ended up having enough prizes so each attendee got one.

Wowza.  We gave away:

Bead For Life Necklaces AND Massages from Jacki Gethner
A Chinook Book from Nancy Thurston
Beautiful jewelry and purses and gift cards from Delaram Adyani of Premier Designs
Flower essences from Robyn Urbach
Raven Essences Consult & New Year’s Blend from Andrea Matthieson
Holiday Flasks from Kelly Wilson
Copies of Kate Ristau and Maren Anderson’s Commas: An Irreverent Primer
Original art from Kristen Hamilton

The Dog Lover’s Companion to Seattle from and by Val Mallinson
A Writer’s Self Care Gift Basket from Heather Michet at Iris Healing Arts
An Astrology Reading/Consult with Vanessa Couto
A Deck of The Portland Tarot from Theresa Pridemore
A Divine Archetypes Chakra Misters box set from Candice Covington
Coaching & a subscription to the Elixir of Venus Write-amin, from me

AND, what deeply warmed my heart,

2 bundles of books from all of the authors I’ve worked or am working with on their incredible stories:  Nancy, Kelly, Jacki, and Kim.  Plus books sent in from my brilliant Canadian authors, Jo Dibblee, author of Frock Off: Living Undisguised, and Bonita Lehmann, author of Saving Her. Saving Me.: On My Way to Something Magnificent.  Plus copies of my novel, Putting Makeup on Dead People .

Holy wow.  So focused am I on what I have yet to create, it’s really easy for me to forget to pause and acknowledge and celebrate the work that has been done.  This was a night on which it was impossible to forget.  What a gift to celebrate the work of all of these creative creatures.

I can be a fiercely independent lady, convinced I have to do everything on my own, and often reluctant to ask for help.  This event reminded me of the power of collaboration, the potency of community, and the abundant gifts of connection.

 

For the retreat portion of the evening, I invited Theresa Pridemore to do an innovative group tarot reading with The Portland Tarot, and I suppose we shouldn’t we surprised that The Sun was one of the cards that emerged. Theresa’s reading grounded and prepared us to release what did not serve us, dive into writing, share our voices out loud, and reflect together on how we each would call up the light, that is, whatever we each needed and chose in order to shine, to be beacons, bonfires, lighthouses, candlelit windows, or welcoming hearths.

At the end of the evening, Heather Michet led us all in a round of song, in which we kept adding voices until we all were singing. Looking around the candlelit room full of beloved women & one beloved man, feeling the sound of all of our voices resonate in my heart, well, that was, as they say, something.

My deep sincere thanks to all of the attendees and sponsors and donors and helpers and organizers, and especially Val Mallinson, for leaping in and taking pictures to document this event (included here).  I’m in awe of and humbled by the community I get to be a part of.

Although right now, I’m focusing on making the most of winter and looking to the wonders of spring, I’d like to plant the seed for next year’s winter solstice celebration.  Whatever it will be, I know I don’t want to do it alone.  If you’d like to be involved, please do be in touch.  Together, we’ll create something bright and beautiful.

 

 

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

I Ate All of the Bacon and Didn’t Save You Any

I ate all of the bacon and didn’t save you any.

Well, not ALL of the bacon in all of the land, but all of the bacon we had left, which was three pieces in a large Tupperware container in the freezer, underneath a slip of wax paper that used to hold other bacon that we ate together for brunch two Saturdays ago. I shared that bacon and made delicious eggs and greens for us to go with it.

But this bacon I ate all of and didn’t save you any because I was hungry. I’m still hungry, and although the bacon was delicious, it wasn’t enough for me to feel full.

It was three pieces. Well, two bigger pieces and one small piece, and first, I ate one and thought about saving you one.

But I didn’t.

I ate all three, and I’m still hungry.  And I don’t know why. I fear I have a spiritual tapeworm because no matter what soul food I take in, something seems to eat it straight up.  So I eat more regular food, reasoning that it might fill my soul.

That’s why I ate the bacon. My ravenous soul.

Which might not make any sense, but which is true, and actually, often, the truth doesn’t make any sense, and even less without a specific story detail, like on a May Monday evening, eating all of the bacon, like I did, without saving any for you, because I was trying to save myself.  Which, by the way, no dice.

The point of this is not that bacon saves, because it didn’t. The point of this is not that I saved bacon, for you or anyone else, because I didn’t. The point is that I, like bacon, am beyond salvation.  That I, like bacon, have been eaten entirely, with nothing left but a memory of something salty and delicious, which lasted for a bite and a swallow, and then was gone.

The point is salt, delicious, bite, swallow, gone, memory, although maybe not in that order.

The point is that damned is not the opposite of saved. Eaten is the opposite of saved. Eat is the opposite of save. Wait is the same as save. Hold off is the same as save. Stew is the same as save. Saving does not satisfy hunger. Eat is the same as take in. Eat is the same as choose. Eat is the same as feed. Eat is the same as live.

Why am I hungry?  Eat is the answer.  Live is the anwer.

In the end, I suppose, I do not choose to be saved but to be eaten, which seems a far holier thing.

I ate all of the bacon and didn’t save you any.

If it makes you feel any better–and I hope that it does–I didn’t save me any either.

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

For the Writer Who Hopes…

For the Writer Who Hopes a Story Can Rise Again
This morning on my patio, three winter-crusted plants–
hydrangea, chrysanthemum, bleeding heart–
surprised me with tender buds and leaves.
 

 
Two I’ve seen resurrect before, but I thought I bid the bleeding heart rest in peace when,
at the end of last summer, she withered
to a final brown, from too much sun and too little water.
 
So this unexpected pinkish green,
pushing out of last year’s stem shrouds,
tripped my heart into a softer place.
 
Who knows what else,
after resting for a cold dark season,
might yet be hiding life?
 
 

Thank you so much for reading. You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here. If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.

Why I Use the Word Goddess

This past week, my friend and colleague Erin Donley wrote an article entitled, “Please, stop calling me Goddess!”  It raised my hackles.

I so appreciate how Erin dives right into the topics that many others shy away from and pokes at the sensitive spots where breath and healing and release are needed.  I so appreciate that she reminds women (and men) to stop being “nice” and start being real, and supports people in speaking up clearly and boldly.  I appreciate her own commitment to saying what she thinks and how she feels and opening herself to often sticky conversation about those statements.

In that spirit, I’ve got a lot to converse about, and I’m ready to speak up for myself on this subject.

Just as a heads up, this isn’t fast-paced, sound-bite kind of response.  You might need a beverage and a few shoulder rolls.  Or cinnamon rolls.  Regardless, I think this conversation is vital and worth the time.

In Chinese Five Element philosophy, anger is an emotion linked to seeing clearly, and acting on that.  My anger after reading the article did lead to clarity, and I’m writing to share some thoughts with Erin and you.  I thought about just writing to Erin, but I see this as a word issue, a human story issue, and one deeply connected to the work I do—not to mention the brand new logo on this here website of mine—so I thought it was important enough to share with you, too.

In her article, Erin mentions Georgetown University professor Deborah Tannen’s studies of language and gender, and in particular this quote from Tannen:  “The same effort that young boys put into proving they can top each other, young girls put equal effort into proving they’re all the same.”

Erin goes on to describe her struggle to set herself apart from other women, often having trouble relating with them and gaining acceptance, and in her current life, not minding the division that sometimes still happens.  Erin writes,

“So, when an adult woman calls me Goddess, her intention is to include me and to instantly elevate me to the same status as she. ‘Welcome to the Goddess Club where you’ve already arrived at the highest honor possible. And we all get along because we’re all Goddesses.’

No thanks, sister! That crushes my motivation. It suffocates my individuality and makes me wonder how much greater I’d be if I played with the boys.”

While I totally respect someone requesting not to be called something, whatever it is, and honoring that, I take issue with someone assuming my intentions in using the word Goddess, both because that assumption is incorrect, and because it leads to a response that seems to be based in other problematic assumptions.

It seemed that in “Please stop,” the assumption about me as a user of the word Goddess is that because I buy into an idea/reality in which boys work hard to prove they can top each other and girls work hard to prove they’re all the same, that then of course, when I use the word Goddess, I intend to include, approve, and prove we women are all the same and all get along.

Not at all.

In part, I use Goddess as another in a series of terms of endearment.  I also often use words like Lover & Beauty & Creature.  It’s fun for me to greet people with what feels like some extra word love, and it feels natural.  If someone requests that I don’t personally address them that way, I will oblige.

I also use Goddess as a way to intentionally resuscitate and honor, for both men and women, something essentially feminine in a hyper-masculinized world, which has led to suffering for both men and women (and of course calls for its own focused discussion).

It seems to me that “Please stop” uses Tannen’s research to show that the stereotypical boy approach is better or more appealing than the stereotypical girl approach, and if that’s the case, I don’t buy into that.  That glimpse of Tannen’s research shows me that the way many young boys act and the way many young girls act reflects a screwed-up system that propagates stereotypes that belittle both men and women and denies them the fullness of human experience.

What if being a human wasn’t about either domination or subservience and sheep-i-fication?  What if there’s more?

I’m not interested in playing the top-each other game of patriarchy or a one-rule economy, the kind of thing which leads to concentrated power and power-over, from the top.  I’m in the midst of reading Frances Moore Lappé’s incredible book, Getting a Grip: Clarity, Creativity, and Courage in a World Gone Mad, and I’ve been edified by her call to get clear on the core assumptions which shape our often troubling reality, so that we can reframe to create a reality we believe in.  Lappé writes about Lizzie Maggie, a Quaker who invented a famous game she hoped would entertain people but also teach a lesson about one-rule capitalism: “It may take all night, but the rules of the game eventually drive property into the hands of one player, ending the fun for everybody.”

Can you guess the game?  Monopoly.

To me, this Goddess conversation also demands we look at core assumptions that create the reality in which it becomes a hot topic.  It doesn’t matter as much to me whether people use the word Goddess or not as it does to look at why it might appeal or repel, what that response reflects about core cultural assumptions, and start there.

When I use the word Goddess to address other women, I don’t want to call attention to our sameness or fence anyone in with language.  I don’t want to be the same.  I value my unique self.  I use the word Goddess to point to something essentially beautiful and powerful about women and femininity.  To be clear, when I say power, I’m not talking about the kind of power of young boys or girls or adult men or women topping each other.  Not power over.  But power from within, which has a particularly feminine wisdom and quality to it.

In the comment thread for the “Please stop” article, one woman wrote that she couldn’t imagine men going around calling each other God, and I laughed.  I didn’t have to imagine it.  I lived that reality.

Growing up Catholic, I got to participate and witness a religious ritual each week wherein Father or Son were the only acceptable images of God and the priests, exclusively male, were also called Father, as God’s in-the-flesh presence here on earth.  In my world, men were constantly called God, in church and otherwise.  Not only that, but I was expected to just include myself as part of the term “men” in prayers and creeds and texts of all kinds.  I always felt like something was missing or off, but found no place for my doubts or questions.

The message was delivered: woman was only good enough to be a vehicle for the divine; it was enough for the ladies to be support personnel.  And, if I wanted to be Godlike or powerful at all, I was going to have to do it just like the boys (and don’t even get me started on how confusing it was that I also shouldn’t be too assertive or aggressive or intimidating, because then the boys wouldn’t like me).

Looking back, it’s not surprising that as a young woman, I sucked down Greek mythology like it was oxygen, poring over this foreign word and concept:  Goddess.

I was hungry for it, but Goddess was relegated to the realm of myth, whereas God was constantly reaffirmed as substantial reality.

When I call someone Goddess or use it on Facebook or in email or in person, I’m not using it to say “let’s all be the same” or to include anyone in some club.  I’m using it to elevate language, to shift meaning, to honor and recognize the essential beauty and power of the feminine.  To affirm it as substantial reality, too.

So much language has been used to belittle, shrink, or even erase the feminine.  I don’t mind at all language that builds and empowers and highlights feminine power, divinity, and beauty.  I don’t mind hearing Goddess flung about and that children, girls and boys, get to know that something gorgeously divine can be associated with women too, so that maybe, via language, ideas and reality might shift as well.

I’m glad and grateful that Erin brought up this topic, and for the chance to push myself to get clear on why I use the words I use.  Like Erin, I want to create understanding and connection.  Language is important.  Mindful language even more so.  Mindful language can turn into mindful life.  And that’s something I strive for every day.

Honestly, I’ve struggled with the word Goddess, too, and have been shy and embarrassed about using it.

As much as it appeals to me, I can also see why it repels. 

Over the last twenty years, I’ve gotten looks and reprimands and judgments for saying Goddess.  I think Goddess can make me and likely others squirmy because it sounds flaky, not because it is, but because of our culture’s fundamental view of things feminine AS flaky.  Wishy washy.  Touchy feely.  Silly.  Because our culture has instilled in us that playing with the boys = getting to be powerful, getting to have more fun, getting to be richer, getting to stand and preach at the pulpit, run the country, etc.

And Goddess has come to = drowning in myth and glittery flaky fantasy, lacking substance, and worst of all being suppressed, tortured, and burned into secrecy and silence.  Flaky, disappeared, herded off into oblivion.  With that history, who would want to be called a Goddess?

No wonder many women who feel called to leadership don’t relate with or want the term.   It has the same kind of deeply ingrained history that makes being “girly” or “throwing like a girl” or “acting like a woman” insults.

Why would you want to be called Goddess?  It’s not only dangerous.  It’s ridiculous. It makes you disappear rather than standing out.

I was a girl who didn’t want to disappear.  Like Erin, I wanted to stand out.  So, I tried for a long time to work within the Catholic Church and to “play with the boys.” For a while, I fought for it.

Eventually, I didn’t want to fight to be part of a system or game I don’t actually believe in.  I couldn’t put my precious life energy into it anymore.  So I didn’t.

Even though I’ve left that system, I’m not immune to other systems.  I’m still tired of wanting to play with the boys and wanting to fit in with the girls.  I’m tired of someone having to win all of the money and land and everything by the end of the night.

Playing with the boys leads to a huge sacrifice:  agreeing to the rules of that game of one-upmanship.

For me to be unique, I don’t need to one-up someone else.  I need to one-up myself, to allow myself to grow up a little bit more, to reconsider both the masculine and feminine in myself and how I want those energies to play out for my highest good.

In my own life, which still vibrates with the consequences of a world aching from shadow masculine energy—a life in which, if I’m not paying attention, I can still easily work until I’m sick, value action over being, feel less than or like I’m not keeping up—using the word Goddess happens to remind me to do just that.

I want to play with everyone, integrated humans at their fullest and best.

Maybe I’ll change my mind and heart at some point.  Maybe there’s a different way to ponder and hold all of this.  Obviously, Goddess doesn’t work for everyone the way it works for me.

At the moment, using the word Goddess helps me to create more balance and contribute to a full understanding and experience of humanity.  At the moment, the beautiful new logo (thank you Robin C. Reel) I’m proud to display on my website, came from a desire for an image that expressed feminine power, something of Goddess, and reminds me every day of my own commitment to balance in my life’s work.

Although I will not call my friend Erin Goddess, I find her openness to conversation and desire for clear communication and mutual understanding to have a most helpful and needed feminine energy.

Despite the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about this for three days, I hesitated to write a response and once I had written one, to even post it.  I worried I was veering into an aggressive debate rather than a conversation.  I worried I might not be smart enough to express the fullness of what I felt and thought.  I worried I was missing the point, that I might be blind to some problematic assumptions of my own. I worried that this might be too long and require too much time to read.

It’s not too surprising to realize all of those worries happen to stem from my old insecurities and desires about “playing with the boys” and keeping up.

I decided it was okay that I have those insecurities, and that I don’t have to hide because of them.  I decided it was okay if I didn’t perfectly or logically express everything.  I decided that just because a topic is so huge that it might require a thousand essays to even scratch the surface of it, that doesn’t mean I can’t jump in from right where I am.  I watched Erin be brave and put herself and her words out there, and I decided to be brave, too.

I decided to share these words because I want the conversation to be bigger and rounder, for everyone.

 

Thank you so much for reading.  You might notice that I don’t have a space for comments, but I’m certainly open to conversation about what’s written here.  If you’re so inspired, feel free to start a conversation with me via the contact form on the homepage of this site.