There’s a heaping pile of pressure on women in patriarchal cultures. Many of us learn from early childhood, to clean up messes we did not make. As quickly and quietly as possible. Trauma has caused some of us to even anticipate those messes. Metaphorically speaking, we walk about on our tiptoes, broom and dustpan in hand. Waiting and ready for the next mess. We never allow ourselves to live our own lives. Instead we focus on keeping things neat and tidy for everyone else.
This pressure is magnified in subcultures, such as the Conservative Mennonite culture I was raised in. It’s been some time since I left that culture. Yet, like a tattoo on my shoulder, it’s never completely left me. And that’s not all bad. There has been much good to come out of my upbringing. But in times like the present, I feel a hundred pairs of eyes looking at me. Expecting me to do what I was taught. To swallow my feelings and forgive my husband and throw all my efforts into saving this marriage.
There’s no space for the necessary in-between. The dark, ugly, messy, UN-knowing space. Where one can’t see the end. Where it’s so dark you can’t see a thing at all. Not even your own hands waving in front of your face. You can only feel what you feel. Where you give yourself permission to forget about the end result. And you breathe in the air of the darkness around you until you realize you’re in a womb, not a tomb.
The Womb
I feel like I'm being born again
This awful infidelity
giving me
a fresh start.
A chance to create
the life I want.
Set my own terms.
Burrow into all the
cracks and crevices
of my tired
worn out life.
Find all the things
that no longer serve.
Give them a boot
kick them out the door.
Yes it's painful to see
these ashes.
But they speak to me
of new beginnings.
And I get to choose
my path forward.
Carve a place
that has room for
all of me.
This obsession with rushing to get things back to picture-perfect normal is killing us. It’s not life-giving or loving in the least bit. Cleaning up messes we did not make, serves no one but those in power. Rushing to forgiveness so that the other person can come home to you, means you may never get to truly come home to yourself. Quickly fixing things to make the other person comfortable means you may never truly be comfortable again.
Learning to be okay with a period of uncertainty and ambiguity is proving to be life saving for me. It’s giving me a much needed pause from the way my life has been. Allowing me to rest and be. Simply be.
And as I rest, realizations come to me. Rising slowly to the surface where I can sift and sort through. See with clear eyes the things that no longer serve me. Knowing deep in my core that as I learn to fully come home to myself, the rest will eventually fall into place.
Standing at the ocean’s edge, I feel like a woman who has lost everything. I am as worn and diminished as the grains of sand beneath my feet, desperate for a tiny scrap of light to break through the clouds. Needing a sunrise like I have never needed one before. It is one of those mornings when it is hard to tell where my tears end and the gray mist begins. This was me in mid-October…
going silent
Let me back up a bit. I know I’ve gone silent. Pulled into myself like a turtle who needs to hide for a bit. As much as I love words, they fled from me. Vanished. Refused to be crafted. I feel like a woman who has lost everything, even my words.
And I suppose it was a good thing, to be left alone with raw and wild emotions. To fully feel them before I tried to express them in a way that can even begin to make sense.
Yet, even now, these words are getting in the way of me going back to where the story of this grief journey began. Back to October. Back when the leaves were in their riotous dance of color and the sky still held enough blue to make one stop and stare in wonder.
Days that reminded me of the moment, twenty five years ago, when I knew Austin was finally going to ask me out. It was a perfectly glorious Fall day in Brooklyn and I had gone on a long walk to process this news that seemed to good to be true. Feet crunching through piles of bright yellow leaves, giddy with excitement, I felt seen and loved in a way I never had before. And the whole world looked different because of it. More alive. Bright with a hope that lingered on every street corner and whispered through the few city trees. Even the light itself seemed golden and alive.
Broken bits
And now, twenty five years later, I discover that he broke our agreements. That I wasn’t the only one he chose to be intimate with. This October, as my feet crunched through piles of bright yellow leaves, I felt as if I’d been shattered into a thousand pieces. While rain dripped down the cheeks of my city, I stumbled in a world gone dark.
I took a week to go to the ocean and grieve. To be alone and think. To move out of shock and begin to process what this means. And I still don’t know what all of this means. I do know that the world has gone very dark and much of what I thought I knew is now as uncertain as the ice on an Ohio lake after the first spring thaw.
listening
One thing I do know is that I am not going to clean up a mess that I didn’t make. I’m not jumping to fix things. I’m developing a practice of listening. Listening to the little girl inside who is surprising me with her insight. Listening to wise and trusted friends. Leaning into the wisdom of my therapist. I am holding my kids the best I can. They may be grown but they’re hurting a lot right now too.
I’m also listening to Austin, curious to know why he cheated on me. It took me a while to get to a place where I can truly listen without being constantly triggered. We are having deep and vulnerable conversations. It’s hard work and often painful. But we are not hiding our truth from each other.
There is much that I’m holding close and not sharing publicly right now. Truth is, I love Austin and have always believed in him. I have no desire to smear his reputation and I don’t feel a need to share details. But I’m sharing this here because you deserve to know there’s been a hard twist in our story.
Please hold our family in as much love and grace as you can. We are all so broken right now. I ask that you honor our privacy. Give us time to grieve the collapse of life as we knew it. The future, no matter what we decide to do or not do, will be difficult.
And, in case you wonder, after a long walk under a gray sky, this amazing ribbon of orange light shone through and reminded me that darkness is not forever.
Have you met my mother's daughter?
hair pulled tight to keep
ears from sticking
out too far
slicked back with
dippitydoo
long skirts over banged up knees
that preferred to kneel
in the dirt
by the creek
run away
by herself
find the meadow of flowers
tucked behind the woods
where her voice could roar and
bounce across the hills
sing songs that were silly
and dance in the dirt
The one who was a little
too much
so they hushed her with rules
and set her up to fail if
she opened her mouth
but gave her a place of
belonging
just for her
IF
she was quiet and
submissive
go to church but
not speak in it
bring casseroles and
jello cakes
in colorful dishes
leave them on the table
for others to consume.
give her body
scrub the toilets
hold the babies
wash the mud and dirt
off the floor and
the shoes
and the clothes
pull that wild curly hair
tighter
pin it into a bun
hide it!
all the wild glory
behind a piece of pleated cloth
cover those once-skinned knees
with pantyhose please
don't let your skin be seen
give up
the things you want
sacrifice with joy
give your life away
but hold on
to purity and
keep those curves covered
work harder, don't stop
wipe the tears of those around you
but hide yours
it's not okay to need or want
when others are suffering
sit here for family photo
hide the disaster that lurks
beneath the picture
perfect smiles pasted
over mental health that is rotting
turn the lights brighter to
cover the darkness that holds us
clenches us in a grip so tight
hold the one who
wants to die
fix her
all by yourself
because you have god
and that is all you need
besides there is no one
who sees you
all alone
carrying a load too big
staggering
stumbling
all for crumbs of praise
recognition that comes
for good girls who
are too much
so they must
give too much
Have you met my mother's daughter?
with the load so big it would crush her
if she tried to lay it down
her only way out then
to just keep going
keep saving others since
she cannot save herself
from a load of being
too much
so she crosses continents
and gives her life away
because there was too much
grief to stay
in the place where
my mother's daughter
had to grow herself up alone
be her father and her mother
knead the bread and
be the bread
until one day
she was all used up
and the sun no longer shown
on her inner landscape
and she had nothing left
with which to pretend
that it was light
and she was all right
so she fell
down
down
down
under the load she had
carried for far too long
and it crushed her
split her
into
a thousand pieces
And then
Glory!
she found her banged up knees
in the beautiful dirt
by the creek
she found her hands
in the meadow of flowers
tucked behind the woods
and there was her voice!
roaring and bouncing across the hills
singing songs that were silly
and there were her feet
dancing in the dirt
and when she looked into the stream
it stilled as a mirror
and she saw
finally saw
my mother's daughter
as she was always meant to be
and there the wind caressed her
tumbled her curls round her shoulders
and under the light
of a sumptuous moon
she found what they were always afraid of
she found her whole self
her too-much not-enough self
that was actually just right
so she stepped fully into her skin
all of it
and the sky dripped
giant tears of joy
while the hills laughed
with relief at
the sheer beauty
of a woman
who finally
stepped into
her whole skin.
When I was 5 years old, we rented a little house next to a pig farm. Beyond the yard and the pig pen was a lovely little creek. Behind it, the woods. I would venture off, exploring, every chance I had. One day I discovered a meadow of wild spring flowers, tucked into a corner of the woods. Some of my earliest moments of happiness were there in those woods.
Time passed and we moved. From house to house. State to state. I was born a granddaughter of a preacher. Later I became the daughter of one. I grew up in a tight community. But I also grew up alone. Learned how to hide the un-health of others. Carried burdens that were too heavy for a child. Some things are not yet speak-able because, contrary to the stories some tell about me, I really do love and care for my family.
But this poem has bubbled to the surface and wants to be given wings. So I release it to the winds that watched me step fully into my own skin. All of it. And know it will be taken to my sisters who still believe they are too-much, not-enough.
And the next time the wind roars past your ears, don’t be fooled. It’s never just the wind. It’s another one of us stepping fully into our own skin.
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If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you’ll know that dreams are important to me. I find they alert me to the things I need to pay attention to. They bring clarity and understanding. Fresh ways of seeing things that help me to navigate difficult situations during my wakeful hours. Opportunities to bring healing to painful events in the past. They help me to find my voice and bring me the courage to refuse to be erased.
I’m a bit jealous of people who can just go to bed and sleep for hours and hours when they feel depressed or overwhelmed. I am not a great sleeper at the best of times, and when I am feeling depressed or anxious, it’s harder than ever to get deep sleep.
One thing I do have going for me, however, is that I dream a lot. And when I start to pay attention to my dreams, it seems as if I dream more often. There have been a number of compelling dreams that have ended up in my dream journal this year, but the one I’m about to share is one of the most vivid and entertaining of them all. And it is so very telling.
The amusement park
In my dream, I returned to a faith community whose leader was responsible for some of my religious trauma. When I arrived, a friend welcomed me, yet, when we tried to find a place to sit, there was no space for me. Even though my friend easily found a place for herself. The daughter of the leader refused to look at me, rendering me invisible. Various creatures filled my dream, both human and animal. But what struck me was the feeling of shame I bore, even though I had done nothing wrong. I found it difficult to look the humans in the eye. Yet, later in the day, I saw some of them either stoned or drunk on the floor. I marveled to myself that hours earlier, they had been the ones who were deemed “holy” and acceptable.
There was a growing sense of danger. Buildings broke apart and were swept away by an unseen force, yet I didn’t leave until I was attacked and bitten by an animal. When I dialed 911, they thought I was at an amusement park. I made it clear that, no, I am at “the church” and I need to be picked up. Now! When he arrived, the first responder thought I was a reporter and wanted to drop me in the special section outside the hospital set up to treat reporters. Clearly, the catastrophe was a big one and was gathering attention.
the reporter
Let’s face it. The church has become something akin to an amusement park where the cost of entry is high and just might be costing more than we think.
Perhaps I am a reporter. One who was almost erased. One who was used and then cast aside.
There is not enough space here to list all the ways this leader and those who worshiped him both wounded and silenced me. Discouraging me from seeking mental health help when I was on the verge of breaking down. Suggesting we may have sinned when my husband and I lost a baby. Denied days of rest that were desperately needed. Shutting down our voices when we suggested that certain policies would be harmful to people we cared deeply about.
During a large gathering of an organization he presided over, this leader brought to the stage a young man who he celebrated as the first volunteer of this particular organization. My husband and I looked at each other in shock, since we had just completed years of volunteering for this very organization. I felt both humiliated and erased in one fell swoop.
the body’s wisdom
When I reflect back on those years, what strikes me most is that I was not allowed to listen to the wisdom of my body. Instead, the body was seen as evil. Not to be trusted. Even basic human needs for rest were controlled and limited. I became so exhausted and burned out that I developed compassion fatigue. But I was expected to keep going.
The ironic thing is, I can remember the leader quoting the verse about the heart being desperately wicked and who can know it. Using it to prove that we can’t trust ourselves. Our gut. Yet we were supposed to trust the things he said. And people did. They responded to his words like eager puppies, desperate for drops of affection from their master.
Refuse to be erased
This has been a difficult post for me to write and I realize this dream has stirred up things that I probably did not have the energy to fully process until now. I found myself starting and stopping more often than usual. It’s one of the hottest days of the year so far, yet I have been drawn outdoors again and again. To plant my bare feet in the grass, walk the backbone of Mother Earth and take in sweet breaths of her warm air. Bare toes curling over blades of grass as I remember the pain and disappointment I felt. First of being so controlled. And then erased. My body is showing me the way to process this old grief.
And the beautiful thing about the human body is that it knows when it is being mistreated or erased, sometimes before our minds comprehend it. There is great danger in any religion or organization that teaches this knowledge as a dangerous thing, rather than the ancient wisdom that it is.
but i refuse to be erased
In my dream, my body took much abuse and betrayal before I was ready to get myself out of the situation. And while this parallels my real life in so many ways, and I wish I had “dialed 911” sooner, I am grateful to be where I am. The tent of wounded reporters is far safer and more restful than the amusement park that the church has become.
I know there are many others like me, who have been controlled and then erased by the church. If this strikes a cord, know that you are not alone. Like the butterfly from an earlier dream, who pulled herself out of the mud and flew across the ocean with giant holes in her wings, the muck cannot hold you down. Keep beating your wings. We will not be erased. We will display the holes that have ravished our wings – and we will fly anyway.
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In my introductory post, Torn Wings, I wrote about my dream of a butterfly. A graceful creature I saw who pulled herself out of the mud and muck, and flew across the ocean. The light shown through massive holes in her wings, and yet, she flew. I knew she was both me as an individual, as well as all of us who give voice to the feminine. That beautiful part of the divine that those in power have tried to erase.
In my dream, I watched in amazement as she flew bravely out over the water. With each beat of her wings she put distance between herself and those who had riddled her wings with holes. She carried a power that shattered the belief that the feminine is more fragile. Weaker. Less than. Something controllable.
Today I carry her on my shoulder. Nestled close to my heart. Her wings have healed and she has found her name. Mukti.
Becoming Free
Mukti is heard in many languages across Southeast Asia and carries with it the idea of setting or becoming free. What began as a dream on a hot summer night in Bangladesh, a few months before my husband came out, has become my Mukti, a symbol of hope and healing. Of both setting and becoming free.
Her journey is far from finished. I have her on my shoulder to remind me of where we have been and where we are going. As the artist knit threads of ink together beneath my skin, I did what she taught me. Breathe through the pain. Slowly. In and out. Again and again.
Finding our Mukti
Many us feel exhausted and brokenhearted today. As if our wings have just been riddled with fresh holes. What the Supreme Court did today shows me that the Patriarchy is afraid. This isn’t about life; it’s all about control. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would almost be laughable. This grasp at control. But the way of the feminine is not about control. It is about love and equality.
We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.
This movement of beating wings has grown massive over the past few decades. And the Patriarchy is terrified. They are trying desperately to control us. And if they can’t control us, to erase us.
The butterfly I saw pulling herself out of the muck and flying out across the ocean, was for me that day. But today it is for all of us. We can’t be controlled and we will not be erased.
We will grieve for today. Hold each other and weep. But this is not the end. The muck cannot hold us down. We’ve pulled ourselves out before and we will do it again. Keep beating our wings until we find our Mukti once again. We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.
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I am finding that the greatest challenge of being the straight spouse in a mixed-orientation marriage has little to do with my husband’s sexuality. Rather, it is rooted in my own insecurities and feelings of self-worth.
Feelings nurtured in a childhood lived under the demands of the patriarchy. A childhood where the little girl in me ceased to exist at a very young age. Instead of being nurtured, she quickly learned to nurture.
One could argue that this little girl was naturally gifted to nurture and was only stepping into her god-given role. Yet little girls, regardless of their gifts, need to be mothered. Nurtured. Protected. Given space to dream and try on… clothes styles attitudes beliefs.
when the feminine is flattened
Little girls are not designed to be poured into a replicable mold. To fill the same role as that of their mother before them. And their grandmother before that. When little girls are required to pick up maternal roles while their chest is still flat, something in their internal landscape is in danger of forever remaining flat and undeveloped.
Little girls are made to dream and dance. But when they are taught to serve from sunrise to sunset, to keep those around them happy and fed, their dreams quickly die and the only dance they perform is learning to anticipate the needs of others and to meet those needs before they are spoken.
silenced
I have struggled for a very long time with the words I want to say. Need to say. I fear I will bring shame and pain to my mother if I voice them. In her book Discovering the Inner Mother, Bethany Webster says,
“Many daughters equate silence about their pain as a form of loyalty to their mothers…. Our compassion for our mothers should never eclipse compassion for ourselves.”
So I am breaking a bond of silence because I must be loyal to myself. If I am to be fully whole, and find my dance again, I must do all I need to do to show compassion for myself.
I love my mother deeply and wish the same for her. I look back over the generations and see how the women in our family carry this wound deep within our DNA.
daughters who are mothers
As a young girl, my grandmother thrived in school. It was her safe, happy place. She loved words more than anything and was a finalist at more than one spelling bee. But tragedy struck when she was barely a teenager and her mother died. Her father, an Amish farmer, had no choice but to take her out of school and have her care for her baby sister. She found herself cleaning, doing laundry, and cooking for her father and a table full of brothers. As a young girl, my grandmother raised herself and her baby sister while figuring out how to keep a family of farmers happy and fed.
My grandmother was an incredibly resilient woman. Yet she had a deep mother wound herself and did not know how to fully embody being a mother to her daughters.
And my mother, having not been fully mothered and nurtured herself, looked to her young daughter to give her the nurturing she craved. I learned, at a very young age, how to be a safe space for the adults in my life. How to listen and hold, and how to be both surrogate spouse and therapist. Like my grandmother before me, by the time I was 14, I was cooking up to 3 meals a day, doing the laundry, cleaning, and caring for my brothers. Unlike her, I stayed in school and also took on a part-time job, sharing 80% of my earnings with my parents.
The Perfect daughter
To anyone in the Patriarchal community, I was the perfect daughter. Groomed to care for those around me and denied my own dreams and longings. Inside, however, I was dying a slow and painful death.
I quickly learned that even my basic, developmental needs were too much. All that mattered were the needs of those around me. In fact, the more I squashed my own inner longings and needs for affirmation and nurturing, the more I was noticed and praised. I share my grandmother’s love for words, so it makes sense that words convey feelings of love to me more than actions. I would do anything to hear words of affirmation spoken to me.
And I did. I worked my fingers to the bone for tiny scraps of affirmation. Because I was only noticed and praised when I sacrificed what I wanted and worked hard to meet the physical and emotional needs of those around me. So I worked harder. And harder still.
I could write a complete volume on the journey from that “good little girl” to the fierce and feisty woman I have become. And perhaps I will do that someday.
But I can’t wait that long to say what burns inside of me. Words that must be spilled onto the page today or I will go up in flames for the heat of it.
the feminine within you
No matter your gender, if you were raised under the Patriarchy, there is a feminine part of you that needs you to sit down and have a good listen. We are all a blend of the masculine and the feminine and yet we have been brought up in a culture that praises and empowers the masculine while silencing, controlling, and shrinking the feminine. This has not only hurt women; men suffer deeply as well.
I would go as far as to say that many of the problems we face are either a result of, or amplified by, the hatred of the feminine. From the war in Ukraine to the war on feminine bodies, the masculine need to control and dominate is making itself known.
hungry for life
But the little girl inside of us is not concerned about power and control. She is hungry for life. Full of love. Concerned for safety. This is why she cuddles babies. Speaks tenderly to tiny kittens. Picks wildflowers for the window sill. She is creator, not taker. And the earth itself heals when we listen to her.
She does not allow us to live in hatred. For ourselves or for our enemies. She is the embodiment of love and inclusion. Equality is the dance floor and she moves with grace.
If you are still long enough, you may hear her. If you can clear the clutter of your mind, and pause your race to the elusive top, you may get a glimpse of her.
We can stop looking for her in other women, in projects, in more work. She’s not in movies or books or famous people we admire and chase after. She’s in us. If we are alive, there is still time to find her. She held us before our mother’s arms found us, and she will hold us long after our mothers are gone. She carries the salve to heal our wounds. But this healing balm cannot be taken by force. We must be still and lean in before that healing balm is given.
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When I was a young girl, it was quite common to hear grown ups tell me things like, “You work like a horse!” Growing up in rural Ohio, where it was common to see Amish farmers plowing their fields with big and strong work horses, the phrase made sense to me.
The phrase, meant as a compliment, told me that I was very capable of hard work. That there was much value in my ability to work hard. It told me I was admired for it.
But there was a dark side to this compliment. One that I did not see for a very long time. Like a dandelion seed blown by the wind, it found a place to settle. Deep in the soil of my ego, a story took root and began to grow.
the problem with work
One day, in my early teens, it pushed its head through the surface and allowed itself to be seen. On this day, when told that I work like a horse, instead of feeling complimented, I burst into tears.
I didn’t want to be a work horse anymore. Strong and capable but useful only in working the fields. I knew I was a very valuable worker but I longed to be valued for more than the free labor I gave to my family and community. The problem with work is that it set me up to be admired for the wrong things.
Truth be told, I was balancing a lot. I got up early every morning and made breakfast for the family before school. Did school, homework, much of the laundry, cooking and cleaning and had a part time job. This is not to fault my family in anyway. Nobody made me do these things. I chose to take on more and more, for complicated reasons.
Finding it hard to rest
Fast forward a few decades and I found myself on the edge of burn out. A place that was becoming more and more familiar to me. I’d find myself dangling on the edge, but somehow climb up and work some more. Then back to the edge again.
The problem with work became a problem with rest. In fact, it was almost impossible to really rest. I’d eagerly plan vacations for the family and the thought of them would keep me going. But when in the lovely places, I would find it impossible to be at rest for more than a short time. I’d feel this urge to put my book down and go find some chore that could be done.
It was like needing a hit. Finding some manual labor gave me something that calmed me inside so that I could go and read again.
So I have a very complicated relationship with work. Truth is, I do get a lot of satisfaction from hard work. I love to clean. Do the laundry. Cook meals. Organize things. I find it incredibly hard to sit still. It’s not long until I feel my body becoming agitated. Like I will explode if I sit here another minute. Give a bucket and a scrub brush. Or, better yet, baking supplies and an empty kitchen and my heart rate slows and my thoughts calm.
when the body screams to get attention
Then one summer, about a year and half ago, I woke up with pain in my shoulder. This felt much different than the stress pain I tend to carry in my shoulders. This pain was somehow connected to my arm and movement. I didn’t think too much of it at first. It wasn’t horrible but it just kind of stuck around. I couldn’t sleep on my side anymore. Soon I couldn’t do things like deep clean my kitchen. Or rake leaves. Or make applesauce. Eventually I couldn’t chop vegetables for dinner without being in pain the next day. So I finally went to the doctor. Then the specialist. Then the physical therapist. Turns out I have both biceps and rotator cuff tendonitis. And a long road to healing.
The problem with work is that I just couldn’t keep up with it anymore. My body had to go into full blown screaming mode before I listened. But I’m listening now.
And one thing I keep going back to is the girl who burst into tears because she longed to be seen and valued for who she was, not for what she did. She wanted to be more than free labor. She had hopes and dreams, longings and needs that were not safe to say aloud.
I understand her tears. In the wee hours of the morning, when I can’t sleep because of the pain, she gets my full attention. And she’s shown me some pretty enlightening things.
truth be told
The problem with work is that I will probably always love it. Find deep satisfaction in sparkling surfaces, freshly folded laundry and the smell of homemade sourdough bread. There is something sacred in those things for me. And I embrace that.
But what I have had to reject is the idea that my worth comes from those things. Which has been hard to separate from because for years I was only noticed when I was working hard. I heard words of affirmation that centered around the work I did. It seemed as if my place of belonging, in both family and religious community, centered around my ability to work. And that is a problem.
Another problem with work is that it made me feel safe. My subconscious self quickly became aware of the fact that while doing hard manual labor, I was safe from the things that were my trauma. No one bothered my while I was working. And I got praised for it. It was a win win situation. No wonder it was hard for me to stop. I literally had no idea how to rest. In fact, rest was not really a safe thing. So work became my identity.
Until my body just couldn’t do it anymore. I am grateful for this pain because it has brought me to a wide open path of possibilities. While I’ve been working for a long time on seeing my worth apart from my work, the physical limitations of my body have broken open a space for something new.
choosing to rest
For one thing, it’s brought about a career change that allows me to work from anywhere in the world. Austin has been completely supportive and has helped us find a solution that takes this weight of my shoulders. Literally. We have outsourced fulfillment for our business because I physically just could not haul those boxes anymore. We have contracted with a very capable team in Chicago to ship out our orders. And, thanks to technology, I can answer questions and email invoices from anywhere that has cell service or WiFi.
I’m currently testing out my new freedom. Honoring my need for green vistas, sunshine and rest by working out of a little cottage in North Carolina for a couple of weeks. I find I can type up orders and answer emails on a screened in porch that hides behind a giant bougainvillea, just as well as when sitting behind my desk in Ohio. Maybe even better.
Is it still hard for me to rest? Yes, sometimes it is. But I am practicing it. Just as I am practicing listening to the longings of the little girl who found her salvation in work. Even then she was intuitive enough to know she longed for more.
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The world on the edge of its seat. Holding a collective breath. Calling out the monsters. Sending up prayers for peace. Linking invisible fingers to push back the violence.
Some of us are seeing bravery for the first time. Raw, pure utter bravery that stems from love. Love for a country. Ukraine. For its children and grandchildren. Love for freedom. For home. Old men who show up at the front lines. Young men who have never held a real weapon before. Doing what they can with what they have. Following a leader who refuses to run and hide. Volunteers from neighboring countries crossing the border to help.
Neighboring countries opening up borders to give shelter to refugees. Changing policies quickly to save lives. Finding ways to accommodate. To welcome.
This is how it should be.
We post pictures of Russian protesters. Peacefully risking their lives for what they believe in. We sit in awe of their bravery. Knowing the world may never see them again. So we pray for their safety.
This is how it should be.
Violence should be condemned. Heroes should be sung. Children should be sheltered. Homelands should be safe.
And I’m so glad the world seems to be coming together to decry this violence. This utter ruthless violence that speaks not of strength but of a bully.
But honestly, there’s a place in my heart that is heavy. For all the other heroes left unsung. All the black and brown children left un-sheltered. The trans kids who even now are having laws made that threaten their very existence. The refugees from countries like Afghanistan, who have had a long history of living under Russia’s violence, being turned away. Black and brown protesters attacked for walking peacefully in their cities. Parents with a different skin tone than ours, criticized for fleeing their own war torn home and told to go back to their country.
Compassion should not be selective.
Like a mother’s womb, it grows and swells to hold and protect the life it shelters. Compassion is marked with stretch marks. Gentle hands caressing the places its been kicked from the inside. It recognizes life and protects it. Whether Ukrainian, Syrian, Afghani, Honduran, Guatemalan, Congolese, Rohingya or Uighur . Straight or queer. Muslim or Christian. Male or Female.
So maybe the next time you see Black Lives Matter protesters holding signs on the street corner of your city, you will remember how you admired the Russian protesters. Maybe you can find the courage to get out of your car and go stand with them. Plant your feet beside theirs. Bear witness to their stories of courage. Their fight for a world that is safe for their babies to grow up in. Like the Russian protesters, they know they too could disappear. It happens. Even in these United States. Maybe you will choose to stand with those who are denouncing violence. Believe their stories. This is how it should be.
Perhaps the next time you see a young mother speaking to her children in a language you do not understand, you will remember the language of compassion. Instead of telling her to go back to her country, you will welcome her to yours. This is how it should be.
I hope that next time you see a person who doesn’t quite fit into any gender box that you are familiar with. Or is wearing their colors and being unabashedly authentic. Perhaps you will remember the bravery of Ukraine. Perhaps you can dig down and find some of that bravery yourself and be a safe person for queer folks in your community. This is how it should be.
You see, you can either be a monster or you can help fight them.
I had to have a little talk with myself recently. I was doing fine. Felt good about things. But everyone around me seemed to be in a crisis. Melting down. Dealing with some pretty big stuff. It wasn’t long before I wasn’t doing so well. Because I let myself get pulled in. I began to carry their heaviness with me.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s important to be able to feel with others. To be a support person that is compassionate. But having lived so many years in an unhealthy codependent relationship, it doesn’t take much for me to get pulled into unhealthy old habits.
I had to pull myself aside and verbalize to the little girl that is always and forever a part of who I am, that she doesn’t need to carry their heavy things. She doesn’t need to fix anything for them. It’s okay for her to live her own life right now. To find things that make her happy even if those around her are not. She does not need them to be okay in order to be okay herself.
what codependency can look like
In a codependent relationship, one person looks to the other to provide care or support that should come from within, or from a therapist, doctor, or someone else. Or it could be something so unrealistic that no human could ever provide. Whatever the case, the other person may need to be needed. Or simply need them to be okay. So he does whatever it takes, to help them be okay. In this way, they both need each other to be needy. They feed off each other’s neediness. It may “work” but it’s dysfunctional and damaging.
Far too often, these unhealthy relationships are fashioned and sustained in tight-knit religious communities. People praise the caregiver for their sacrifice, uphold them as a model of love and service. To the point where they completely forget that their life matters too. That their hopes and dreams have meaning and are worth pursuing.
When religion encourages the starving of the human soul in order to “serve” another, religious trauma merges with emotional trauma and something beautiful in the human psyche is chopped into bits and thrown out as garbage. Divine brushstrokes meant to invoke smiles and joy are equated with selfishness.
Children as caregivers
I’ve been a caregiver for as long as I can remember. I needed to be needed and I needed those around me to be okay. So I did everything I could to help them be okay. Others praised and admired me for it. In fact, I don’t think I was noticed much unless I was serving others.
Children generally tend to be self-focused. With the addition of the illness or disability, that focus necessarily and abruptly changes to one of helping others. Rather than indulging in their usual enjoyable activities, they may decline invitations for age-appropriate activities because they need to “go home and help mom” or whoever they are assisting at home. This increased sense of responsibility, though somewhat overdeveloped due to the unique situation in which they have been placed, overtakes the drive to seek personal enjoyment.
LeAne Austin
Learning to be a child
I didn’t know how to be a child. And, quite honestly, my faith community praised me for it. So I sacrificed more. I gave up things I wanted so everyone else in my life could be happy. Eventually, I equated god’s love with needing to sacrifice. Divine love meant pain.
It’s taken years of therapy and healing, to fully realize that my life truly matters. That my longings, hopes, and dreams have divine sparks in them instead of selfishness. My worth has absolutely nothing to do with my service and sacrifices. I no longer equate god’s love with needing to sacrifice. It’s more like needing to bake or laugh. Walk in the leaves or climb a mountain.
So, somewhere in the middle of everyone else having a crisis, I stepped back. I asked everyone leave for a while. Built a fire and sat outside with a cup of coffee and a stack of books. I reclined in my lawn chair and watched the leaves tango under an indigo sky. I called someone I loved who understood my feelings completely. And the wind whispered my name as it scampered by. It danced with the smoke as what was old and useless burned up. It blew the mosquitos away and whistled ever so softly round the corners of the house. God was in the wind and in the fire, in the clay of my coffee cup and pages of my book. In all that was lovely and breathtaking, even in me.
Maybe I still equate god’s love with needing to sacrifice – the bullshit and the codependency. The belief system that led me to slaughter things that were lovely inside of me. Burn it all down till there are no acts of service to admire me for. No sacrifices to bring me praise. Just a curly-haired barefoot girl with a heart that is kind and a dream to explore this beautiful world.
Daughter of the earth Child of the soil If she fades in the growing darkness drops her leaves as the days grow short Why wouldn’t I?
All summer long I push through the cobwebs of her morning eyelids to see what she sees when she first opens her eyes The stained glass windows of her emerald sanctuary sparkle in the dazzling glory of summer sunshine I sat in the moss that covers her backbone and watch the wind gently rustle her hair I feel life oozing from her every pore All summer long I lose myself in the glory of Mother Earth
Her eyelids stay shut longer and longer The signs of her life her vibrancy fades drops falls from trees and bushes Bright green fades to brown. As I walk in her forests the trees whisper “We’re tired,” they say and the leaves nod their agreement “All summer long we’ve worked, making food to nourish and grow ourselves and give shade to humankind But now it is time to rest”
I know it is true Feel it in my bones Weariness and the need for rest I pass a dying corn field and long to lay in the center and return to the mother who birthed me long ago Autumn rains drip down her cheeks and mingle with my tears as I grieve the lessening of the light the coming days of clouds The descending darkness We bury the green to make room for the cold An unfair trade and every part of me resents it I feel as old and tired as the tree with the hollowed insides Decades of creating nourishment for the hungry around me but never finding my own autumn of rest have left me depleted Scooped out Empty
Now color fades on me Strength a fragment of what it once was but where does a daughter of earth go to find her own autumn? To fall into a pile of her sisters and do nothing but rest Close her kitchen and feed no one But the little girl inside of her
Daughter of the earth Child of the soil If she fades in the growing darkness drops her leaves as the days grow short Why wouldn’t I?
daughter of the earth
I struggle to enjoy fall the way many seem to. I love the vibrant colors of fall and the cooler days, but there’s something about knowing the dark days of winter are almost here, that leaves me a little numb and I’m unable to completely absorb the sheer beauty of fall.
This year I even decided that I am going to fully embrace the season. Soak up every bit of color and crunch. Revel in sweatshirts and bonfires, apple dumplings and candlelight. But even on the most gorgeous of days, when so many things were going good and it felt like I had no reason to feel sad, I still felt this weight pressing in. Things that normally had me up and raring to go, felt like too much. Logically, it made no sense.
I kept pushing through it because, well, we were slammed at work and there was so much to do. When I let myself slow down and really pay attention, is when it dawned on me.
I feel my body is actively grieving the loss of light, warmth, and green. There’s nothing to do but let the grief come and roll with it. Even on the days when the sun is still shining and the leaves are glorious.
Grief does not make logical sense. It has a life and cycle of it’s own. As an ISFJ on the Myers Briggs personality type, I experience life through my senses. Feeling warmth, seeing green, smelling the earth are all so life-giving to me. I dislike wearing shoes and love nothing more than feeling the earth beneath my bare toes. I utterly hate being cold. And cloudy, dull days with no green on the horizon make me not want to live.. I’m not being dramatic. It’s just how it is.
I’m deeply connected to the earth. Feel her changes in my bones. While I know that this will pass, as all seasons do, I am giving space for all that I feel right now.
Daughter of the earth. That’s who I am.
I realize the mention of “not wanting to live” may have been triggering…if so, there’s help. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Call 800-273-TALK (8255) If you or someone you know is in crisis—whether they are considering suicide or not—please call the toll-free Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline connects you with a crisis center in the Lifeline network closest to your location. Your call will be answered by a trained crisis worker who will listen empathetically and without judgment. The crisis worker will work to ensure that you feel safe and help identify options and information about mental health services in your area. Your call is confidential and free.
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