Posts Tagged ‘trauma’

When I made this piece last month (click on the image above to see larger), I was utterly fascinated by it.  Utilizing an old advertisement for “The 50 Ft. Woman” film, I cut carefully around this epic female and placed her in the remote and rocky landscape of the Four Corners area of the American southwest, one of my old stomping grounds.

What has surprised me is how captivated I still am.  When I look at this image, I feel excitement, expectancy, recognition.  I feel it in my body. 

I have walked the ground in this place.  I lived in the southwest for 10 out of my 45 years, enough to get a feel for the magic and history and intensity of this area of our country.  The openness of the skies feels like a direct connection to spirit; the color of the ground and rocks are like an artist’s canvas (have you ever seen pink and purple dirt before?); the quality of light in the dry air makes everything so clear.  There is nothing like it.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I live there for more of my remaining time on the planet; it gets in your blood and in your mind, and calls to you when you are away.

So when this immense woman wanted to be placed in this sacred location, I wasn’t too surprised; what HAS me rapt is the story that is unfolding in my consciousness through this image.

I’ve known for some time (eons?) that the Sacred Feminine enjoyed Her place in the sun on this earth thousands of years ago, then needed to go underground as human consciousness explored the imbalance of power of the immature masculine.  The whispering of this tale started as I began to have children; the keys in my own body began to unlock this ancient knowing as I felt Her awaken.  The awareness has continued to hit home in more conscious ways as I grow older and more trusting of my body and its messages to me.  

I have also learned in my shamanic and inner process work that the rocks of the earth are very much like the bones of the body; they hold memory in their dense structures.  The stone, whether it is on the surface or deep under the gaze of our eyes underground, retains the knowing of what has transpired here.  In indigenous knowing, the “rock people” are said to speak to those who will listen.  I’ve been listening to the rocks for some years now.  They speak slowly, and they are wise.  They are some of my most trusted elders.

This is what has been whispered to me: from the lore of old, a primeval tale begins to spin from the weaver’s web.  The ancient story goes: She of the earth, and the body and the feminine ways of knowing, She-the other half of existence- retreated to the far, remote places due to the imbalance that human consciousness explored.  It wasn’t safe to express Her; many, many lives were lost to drive home the point that She was not wanted any longer.  

And so, She became of the rocks and earth again, She backed away, retreating to the subconscious, a distant memory that has almost faded to nothingness.  And She waited.  Buried under the ground, buried in the depths of the black void of the earth, buried in the cells of our bodies and the collective mind.  Until there were enough of us to hold Her memory again, to bring Her back to life on this earth, to embody Her consciousness again and bring the earth into balance. 

I look at this image and I feel Her eyes open, the crust of sleep falling as pebbles from her eyelashes.  While the ravens caw and circle overhead, I feel Her stiff body disengage from the womb of earth that held Her tenderly and securely while She slept.  While the mountain lion gazes comfortably from its rocky perch, I feel Her stretch under the power of the enlivening sun, the kiss of Great Father, who blesses, welcomes and heralds Her return.  And I feel her intent as She strides across the vast desert floor, the weight of Her immense body shaking the very ground as She walks.  She has a date with the people of earth.

This image, born of my own subconscious, tells me that She is re-born out of memory, and into waking life.  She of the earth, the rocks, cradled while She went to sleep (out of necessity), has been awakened and has re-emerged in humanity’s consciousness.  And She’s coming.

Today my first born turns 16. 

 I naturally ruminate on the events that led up to this day, the anniversary of his birth.  It was a hard day that revealed a lot about both of our most basic traits.

 My pregnancy was flawless…I LOVED being pregnant.  I felt powerful and sexy, the embodiment of Great Mother.  I had none of the issues that many pregnant women do, as if my body was doing what it did best.  As if I was built to make babies (if you saw my hips you would agree!)

I fretted about what to name this baby boy that was coming down the pike.  We discussed some names, but I wanted to be sure to pick the “right one”. 

One night I had a dream that I was with a grown boy, maybe about the age Jess is now.  He was sitting at a white kitchen table in a white kitchen, and I was standing and talking with him.  He looked exactly like Jess does now, with the exception of having very blue eyes instead of the green eyes Jess actually does have.  In the dream, I asked him about his names.  Do you like this one, do you like that one?  He would shake his head at each choice.  When I finally asked if he liked the name “Jess”, he shrugged, and I took that to mean it was the best of the choices we’d presented.  I woke up knowing his name.

As I got closer and closer to Jess’ due date, I wondered how I would get this giant child out of my body.  He was a big baby (I seem to grow big babies); at almost 10 pounds, my doctor was concerned that we would have to go the C-section route if he didn’t hurry it along.  I didn’t know any better, not having given birth before, and not having any mothering influences around to remind me to trust my body’s knowing.

As the due date came and went, I puzzled over why this baby wasn’t coming.  Was it up to the baby to decide?  Was it up to my body?  Was it a dance between the baby, my body, and something larger that made the decision as to his arrival? 

 My doctor gave me an ultimatum.  We would wait no longer than two weeks after the due date, or risk having surgery to bring Jess into the world.  We scheduled a date “just in case”.  I asked a woman I worked with about how to choose a date, and she told me that more animals are born before a full moon than after, so I chose to schedule his birth the night before the full moon.  Those two weeks I prayed a lot.  Please come, Jess.  Let him go, body.  But to no avail.

The morning of his scheduled birth, I was so scared and sad.  Scared because I had no idea what to expect and sad because I felt my body had somehow betrayed me.  It hadn’t allowed the birth process to happen as it was supposed to.  My body wasn’t letting this child go…it wasn’t releasing him into the world.  That was a big clue for me much later in my life about my core emotional wound…the world is not safe.

The birth itself was long and hard.  Pitocin to rush things along, and an epidural to keep me from losing my mind during the birth of an almost 10 pound baby.  I have since learned an immense amount about the often unnecessary “medical menu” experience; my second son was born at home in the water with a midwife.  But that’s another story.   After labor pains of 9 hours or so, I pushed for 2 hours, lost a lot of blood, and Peter thought both I and Jess were going to die.  I felt as if there were two of me; the one that wanted this baby out of my body and the one that was hanging on to him as if life depended on it.

Eventually, the me that wanted him out won by a slight margin.  I remember the moment; the doctor said Jess was in distress…this remarkable baby had been moving his head in an effort to help the move down the birth canal, but he was weakening.  He was stuck and losing strength.  I had been bleeding and pushing for 2 hours, exhausted and freaked out because I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.  The room was filling up with varied medical professionals, and a room for surgery had been prepared.  I thought I couldn’t do any more.  But when I heard her making noises that intimated that he may not make it, something bigger than the me that wanted to keep him safely in my body took over, and I pushed with a strength that came from Source itself.  I was no longer in the room; I was the big bang.  Suddenly I exploded and gave birth to the universe.  And Jess was born.   

He was blue and limp, needing oxygen for a couple of minutes.  His poor little head was shaped like a cone from being in between my pelvic bones for so long.  But he lived. Thank god for his determination.

My body was torn to shreds physically; the inner conflict I’d experienced left me exhausted and ripped open emotionally.  My most basic fear had been exposed, the scab of an old, but very alive wound, ripped right off.  The pulsating well of grief and fear within that was subsequently exposed took me down a rabbit hole of two years of post partum depression, and the re-emergence of my spirit back into my life.  And healing.

So, in a very real way, this beautiful boy who turns 16 today saved my life.  He is a teacher to me every day; wise beyond his years and with seeming nerves of steel, he has a tender heart and genuine caring for all humanity.  When he decides to do something, he does it with mastery.  I am amazed sometimes at the ease with which he moves through the world.

But it was his entrance into the world through my body that taught me one of my most precious lessons. No matter what our fears and doubts, no matter what wounds may seize us up and make us try to prevent flow, life wins.

Like so many GOOD things that have been twisted, misinterpreted, and manipulated, the conclusion that I am coming to about the word “WITCH” is that it needs to be shed of its nasty connotations (at least in my own mind), and that the word needs to be reclaimed.

In the spirit of reclaiming, I invite you to play with me and create an acronym from the word “witch”…several of you have already offered some:

• Wisdom Intuition Transformation Compassion Healing -Peter
•  Woman’s Intuition Touching Communal Heart –Liza
•  Women Inspiring Truth Change + Harmony –Peter
•  Wisdom Interconnected Terra Caring Hope –Licia
•  Wonderful Intuitive Teacher Called Healer –M.

Let’s hear some more!

My last post has struck a nerve for some of you, and I’m glad to know I’m far from alone in critically examining this word “witch” and trying to understand what it means in an original sense, rather than a pop culture, commercial, colonial, Christian or patriarchal sense (did I leave anybody out?)

 I feel the need to explain why being called a witch is something that stopped me in my tracks.  I have been proud to be a rebel or outsider all of my life, not being willing to be defined by any category or fit into the main stream ideas of what a woman is supposed to be.  I have flaunted my independence, and happily yelled “THANKS!” when someone told me I was weird or different.  However, unlike when a fellow yelled at me from his passing car, “DYKE!” in my buzz cut college phase (I was fine with that mistaken label), being called a “witch” felt too close to home, insidious, and brought up a sinking feeling of terror. 

 I couldn’t understand why I would feel that way in terms of my actual life.  I have never identified myself as a witch, although in my spiritual practice I do some things that might raise the eyebrows of bible thumpers (such as meditation, using homeopathy and herbs to treat illness, and dowsing, a very useful skill I learned from an old woman in the mountains of North Carolina). Of course, my shamanic work could be classified as witchy were it not for its connections to the indigenous populations…or are they “witches”, too?

 While I lived in the village where I was “identified as a public enemy” (before I knew anything about these behind-the-hand remarks about me) I had intuitive flashes in which an angry mob would come drag me out of my office, grab me by my hair and drag me down the street.  The intuitive vision would stop there, not revealing the fate of the woman I seemed to be in the inner vision.  But the feeling of cold stones weighing down the innards of my belly did not easily or soon cease. 

This was not an entirely new sensation for me.  Back in Asheville NC, where we lived for 7 years, I had multiple odd spontaneous awarenesses that involved flashes of me being disemboweled, drowned, or beheaded.  One such instance was preceded by a physical break down of my right shoulder…for weeks it got more and more sore and incapacitated.  After many attempts to have it corrected through chiropractic and massage work (and Advil), in a strange fit of inner knowing, I paused in the living room on my way to take some laundry upstairs and asked silently what my body was telling me. 

Giving in to the motion, my body then took over…I began to move as if somebody much bigger than me was rearranging me like a puppet.  My inner eye saw a lovely young woman with reddish blond curls and a long flowered dress being brought forcibly into a crowd of people.  She must have been 18 or 19 years old.  She was pretty, but had a gleam in her eye and a set to her jaw. My right arm went slammed tight behind my back, fist up behind my heart.  I was forced down to my knees.  My head was pushed down so that I was crouched over.  In my mind’s eye, I saw a bloody stump of a tree, where I was now resting my chest.  As my eyes looked down on red ground, I heard and felt a stalwart, “I will never let this happen to me again.”  Then the “memory” faded, and miraculously, my right shoulder was completely cured.  Never another pain.

I stood there in a bit of a daze.  What the hell had just happened?  Was that girl me?  I wasn’t scared; more I had the feeling of knowing that my body had revealed something to me, and because I gave it permission, something had been released.  It was a pivotal experience affirming my life philosophy, which I have incorporated deeply since, that our bodies are the key to so much wisdom.

Was what happened a playing-out of some kind of cellular or collective memory? Or did I actually live through that?  When I was called “witch” in the tiny town in Colorado where I used to live, was it bringing forth another wave of memories that were asking to be acknowledged and released through me?  If so, what did this mean to me personally?  Why is this such a prominent and repeated feature in my life?

And that’s why I am asking these questions of all of you wise people, and why I feel the need to explore this line of thought.  What is a witch, really?  Where did the word come from, what are its origins?  And when did it become a word for something that was evil, scary, and needing to be put to death?  

And do any of you have these spontaneous memories or experiences?  If so, I would be so honored to hear them.

…cause I’ve been called one!  Seriously!

The town we used to live in, small as it was, had several churches.  There is a meeting of the spiritual leaders of those churches called the Pastoral Alliance.  And, as it goes in small towns, there is not a lot to talk about except for gossip. 

One of the more enlightened pastors of this group (who has since been fired from his position at his church and moved elsewhere) spoke to me quietly at a party about something that made me sit up and take notice.  Here was the conversation:

Licia: “I would really like to meet with other spiritual leaders in the community to exchange ideas and support one another.  It gets lonely sometimes to be one that folks come to for spiritual guidance.”

Cool Pastor: (squirming uncomfortably)

L:  “Is there any kind of support group or meeting of spiritual leaders here?”

CP: (falteringly) “Yessssss…”

L: (excited) “Oh, do you think I could come?!”

CP:  (sheepishly) “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

L:  (genuinely puzzled) “Why not?”

CP:  “Because the Pastoral Alliance is afraid of you.”

L:  “HUH?!  …Am I not the nicest person that you know?”

CP:  “Yes, you are a very nice person.  But they have had a meeting recently in which you were identified as a public enemy.”

L:  (kind of laughing, thinking it is a joke) “WHAT?!”

CP:  (looking very sad) “They have read some of your writing, and your beliefs are very threatening to their beliefs.  They feel that you are dangerous to their congregations.” 

L: (stunned) “Wow.”

CP:  “I’m sorry.”

L:  “What century is this again?”

I learned later that my children were taunted at school.  “Your mom is a witch.”  And not just by other children!  Not one person in that little town had the balls (or ovaries) to come say this to my face, but they sure were talking about it.

It’s made me think a lot since then.  What is a witch anyway?  I learned from my early Christian preschool conditioning and the Wizard of Oz that witches are bad, Bad, BAD. When I hear the word and me in the same sentence, my blood runs cold.  But why?

I am writing a long piece about this that will continue, but I needed to get this out there for some feedback.  In my quest for truth, consciousness and challenging the status quo, I want to know:

What is your definition of the word “Witch?”  Here’s what dictionary.com had to say:

Witch –noun

1.	a person, now esp. a woman, who professes or is supposed to practice magic, esp. black magic or the black art; sorceress. Compare warlock.

 

2.	an ugly or mean old woman; hag: the old witch who used to own this building.

 

3.	a person who uses a divining rod; dowser.

I’m not buying it. 

Let me hear from you…I really want to know!

“When a woman tells the truth she is creating the possibility for more truth around her.”  -Adrienne Rich

There is something about having an audience that provokes an artist (of any kind, whether writer, musician, visual artist, actor, etc.) to rise to the occasion and express themselves.  I find this to be what will cause me to sit down and write, sometimes more than the need to express, itself.  But the need to express today is strong.

When I was a little girl, I had a vivid imagination.  I imagined worlds and dramas and tragedies and great tales of heroism.  I sometimes told these stories during show and tell in 1st grade, interweaving the facts of my life with the fictions in my mind.  These acts of creativity were unappreciated for what they were, however.  The era, the lack of knowledge or understanding in the family I grew up in, and the location of backwoods North Carolina where I grew up had little appreciation of normal child development, and so I was labeled a Liar.

That label followed me around for many years….again, doing what normal children do to sometimes cover up their mistakes, to try to look good in the eyes of those who have the power, to try to minimize the punishments for falling down, I sometimes did not tell the truth.  No, I did not take a cookie.  No, I don’t know anything about the candy in Grandmom’s drawer being gone.  No, I did not take the few coins on my father’s dresser.  It is absolutely true that I did those things.

Later in life, as I understood some of the crazier events that happened to me in my family, I began to see that labeling me as a “Liar” was a brilliant, if unconscious, strategy.  No matter what excellent grades I brought home, no matter what awards and accolades, my identity at home would be one of not being trusted to tell the truth.  And so, when I did understand the importance of speaking out about my early life and dealing with it head on, I would have an inner conflict set up even before I started.

I wonder now if there is a different standard for boys and girls when they do the inevitable and make up a reality, or lie.  Are boys expected to be “naughty” and therefore not stigmatized about lying?  Are girls expected to be pure and chaste and innocent, and so if they act out in ways that children do, they bear the brunt of unfair discrimination?

I remember a particular day when I was 11 years old, when I was caught in a lie (I cannot remember what it was, perhaps the stealing the change on the dresser thing), when I was sent to my room.  I lay on my bed and cried for a long time, feeling a sense of injustice and not being understood.  My parents did not give me an allowance, so I did not have money to buy myself little things like candy or toys.  At the time, I didn’t intellectualize the fact that children need to feel a sense of power and control over their lives in some aspects as they begin to enter adolescence, a healthy, normal development, and that my taking the change from my father’s dresser was an attempt to have some power.  I just knew I felt zero support and understanding in my world.

My father came up and sat on the bed with me for a long time, speaking the importance of telling the truth and how all we have in this world is our reputation.  It may surprise some of you to know that this was one of the most beautiful gifts my father gave to me in our twisted, convoluted history together.  While he raged and sexually preyed on me as a drunk at night, when sober, he became the kind of man my inner masculine wanted to model myself after.  His sharing of his concept of honor made such a deep impression on me at that age that I am touched by his teaching to this day, and part of my moral code and devotion to truth I attribute to this conversation.  How interesting and ironic that my dear father, whom I love and hold in my heart despite everything, would coach and prepare me to reveal what he did to me.

Perhaps I was at the age that I began to understand the difference between truth in the consensual reality and the truth of my imagination.  Perhaps at age 11-12 the child’s brain is capable of conceiving what that means.  Already a prolific writer and winning competitions for my essays in school, I had some sense of the worlds that I had access to through my artistic ability.  I began to learn that I was intelligent, and that the way I put words together had an impact and inspired people.  But add the complexity of what had been done to me in the name of satisfying sexual greed in the dark of night, and the desperate need to keep the secrets in an alcoholic family, and you will see how the telling of the truth has become a very loaded topic.  The gravity of the truth began to shine clear, and the heavy weight to burden me.

What is the truth?  Is something true if we don’t want to look at it?  Is it true despite our attempts to deny it?  What are the ramifications of pretending something isn’t true when it is?  These are all questions that I have wrestled with in endless cycles since I began to wake up.

To this day, I have an obsession with truth.  To the point that if I try an experiment and say something that is NOT true, such as “My name is Beth”, I will start coughing.  I can’t do it.  My inner barometer won’t let me speak or write something that I don’t personally experience as true. 

I have examined many spiritual traditions as well as modern physics and understand now that there are as many realities as there are perspectives, and all are valid.  I also know (and experience) that if a reality is unobserved it may as well not have happened. 

Additionally, I understand that there is some modicum of truth that we can all agree to, if we are willing to acknowledge it.  While my family has given slight, grudging acknowledgment of the sexual abuse and no acknowledgement of the alcoholism I encountered as a child, there is great resistance to me talking about it.  Does this make it untrue?

In my desire to be a loyal daughter, I have censored myself for many years, even though the truth has leaked out in ways through my writing and art and conversations.  Even in therapy I have protected my family as a “good daughter should”, revealing only parts of the story, perhaps the parts that I could handle revealing to myself.  I love my family, as people and as having been the sieve through which I arrived in this world.  I would not be who I am without them.  I have even attempted over the 21 years that I have been in conscious recovery and healing work to actually heal my family, out of my love for them and desire that they, too, be free from the sickness that bound us.  They have been unresponsive, however.

Now, the bird that has lived caged in my throat must be freed, and I am going to talk about my life openly and unapologetically.  I will censor no more.  I choose not to become a raging fanatic for a cause, because that would be out of balance.  Yes, I am a survivor of sexual abuse and an adult child of alcoholics, but that is not my identity or the sum total of who I am.  Not by a long shot. 

My desire is to tell the truth in a measured, grounded way, honoring myself, with the intention and purpose to heal and to give permission to others to acknowledge the truth within themselves, no matter how heinous it may be to see.  I know from my own life journey of looking at these truths that therein lays the path to integration and Wholeness.  And an even deeper appreciation of The Truth.

They say in therapeutic settings that we always confront and heal what’s easiest first.  For me, first was to confront the sexual abuse, then to confront my father, and to reclaim my sexuality, my feelings of safety in the world, and my power (and probably will continue to for the rest of my life).  Harder for me was confronting that my mother knew what was going on and did nothing to stop it; that betrayal has been harder to bear. 

Over the 21 years that I have been doing active consciousness and healing work, I have made great strides.  Most recently, in the last 4 years or so I have had the most amazing sense of relationship with the Divine Feminine, or Great Mother as I have called her.  It was my decision to actively cultivate this relationship and even embody Her on earth, to really fully claim my Feminine Self.  It has been challenging at times because this meant confronting and feeling the pain of what my biological mother did to me.  I realized that there is a direct relationship between my relationship with the Sacred Feminine and my feelings about myself as a woman, as well as how I feel nurtured in this world.

These last few years of choosing to embody the Great Mother or Sacred Feminine has been utterly delicious at times….I have distinctly felt Her grace and presence in my life, and I feel how different Her energy feels than the energy of the masculine or angels or Source energy.  There is indeed a distinct quality of energy that permeates the feminine principle.

I was under the impression that if I embodied the Divine Feminine, I would be providing a great service to the Whole as well as providing a wonderful service to myself.  I had always felt that masculine and feminine balance needed to happen in everyone, but for some interesting reason, I did not give a lot of thought to integrating my own Divine Masculine.  

It seemed that things were going swimmingly when I broke my ankle in February of this year (my right, masculine ankle in my case).  My ability to embody Great Mother came in very handy, as my inner immature masculine was very, very grumpy about the ankle breaking and being forced to sit still.  I realized I had used movement and busy-ness to distract me from feeling the painful feelings of my powerlessness as a child (and even as a baby, I am coming to find out).  When I was forced to “sit down and be quiet” for a solid 8 weeks, it provided the opening for me to discover that I had some work to do to heal my inner masculine.

Fast forward to today, when my ankle is mostly healed, I am getting around to some degree, and living a happy life in a new town, surrounded with beautiful family and friends who support me.  I had the most lovely invitation to attend a beach retreat as the resident writer (I am writing an article for the hosts that will be used to market their business), and looked forward to the time with women on the beach with nothing to do except pay attention to my needs and inner life.

One of the activities available to us was to walk a labyrinth that had been constructed on the beach.  My second full day in attendance, I was relaxed and happy, and went out on the beach that sunny morning to do some intuitive movement and breath work.  As I listened and deepened my inner awareness, I noticed that in my body’s experience and my inner vision, I picked up my self as a little girl, and she whispered in my ear “You are such a god mom.”  This delighted me to no end, as I have had a tough time convincing her that I would be a good mother to her!  I smiled and allowed this lovely experience to permeate me, then I felt the prompt to walk the labyrinth. 

As I stood at the opening, I prayed to experience my inherent wholeness.  I was in a very happy place and did not feel the need to initiate any healing process as per my usual stance.  As I walked, I hummed to myself as I felt my inner little girl integrating into me even more than she had before.  When “we” got to the center, I waited in silence for several minutes.  I could not discern anything in particular in terms of a course of action or intention, so I just paused there.  I definitely felt I was at the center of some womb space, far from the outer world of the beach and sun and sound of the surf.  The insulated quality of being inside the labyrinth was reflected in my mind and heart as I listened deeply for any sign of message or instruction. 

I did not feel anything in particular except great, great joy, so began to move out of the labyrinth’s center.  I got a few steps away when I noticed in my mind’s eye that there was a little lump of a person in the center.  I continued to walk forward, not really thinking much about it, when I felt distinctly I was to STOP.  When I get a strong “STOP” message, I am learning to do it on a dime.  I paused, and as I listened, I was told to go back to the center and “pick him up”. 

Him?  When I looked back at what had been a little lump of a person, I saw now that there was a dejected looking little boy in the center of the labyrinth.  Perhaps 3 or 4 years of age, he looked so sad and so lifeless, like he had no energy in him at all.  I was puzzled, but my maternal instinct took over, and I walked back into the labyrinth’s center to be with this mysterious little boy.  I sat there with him for a little while, me next to him on the sand.  He did not look at me except occasionally with a sideways look out of the corner of his eyes…he made no contact and did not speak in any way to me.  As I sat there, I had the distinct feeling that I was to pick him up and carry him out of the labyrinth.  I still did not understand at that point who he was or why I was to help him, but I did lift his limp body into my arms and carry him out of the labyrinth into my life with me.       

I have been carrying this little boy ever since.  I have learned since that day when I was so puzzled about the arrival of this boy that he is a personification of my inner masculine.  Thwarted very early in my life from expressing my power and will, this aspect of myself was arrested and has been in a de-powered state ever since.   In his de-powered but frightened state, he would holdup his fists sometimes, perceiving the whole world to be a threat, and other times he would just lay about and do nothing.  Another symptom of his immaturity has been to force, force, force things when instead some quiet stillness or discernment was needed.  My tendency to push myself relentlessly, as well as to analyze with my head are both outworkings of this immature masculine within.  His anger has been palpable; his rage at having his legs cut out from under him, being belittled and made to be still for unspeakable atrocities have made him a very mad little boy.   The fact that I did not know to acknowledge him within myself for all of these years might have added to his feelings of being so alone in the world.  So focused on my womanliness and my embodiment of the Divine Feminine, I did not see that what was even more broken inside of me was my own inner masculine.   

As the weeks have gone by, he has begun to show signs of life.  The more I get to know him and acknowledge him, the perkier and more animated he becomes.  He is looking at me now, and talking to me sometimes, too.  I am working with “him” every day, listening for guidance about how to support him, to heal him, to help him grow up.  My dreams of tiny babies, just inches long, being lost in my pocket or in a drawer have evolved into dreams of laughing baby boys that are able to morph into full grown teenagers, with full awareness of and delight in their remarkable evolutionary process.  My dreams, messages from my subconscious, are telling me he is healing. 

The pain I have felt as I opened this door into my consciousness has been very real and very intense.  There are days when I am hurting inside so much it feels like leaving the house is too much.  I have also doubted my sanity; in all the years I have done this hard work to reach into and heal the darkness within me, I have always been able to hold myself above the swirling dark waters of my feelings of rage and powerlessness.  A dip into the madness here and there, but never complete immersion…a coping mechanism, to be sure.  I keep reminding myself that I would not be feeling the intensity of the pain if I were not strong enough to do so. 

 And then today, there is light.  Despite the grey skies and downpour of heavy rain here in the panhandle of Florida as a tropical storm passes its eye over us, I feel some sense of a phase completed.  A very dark cloud which has been over me for some time is lifting, and I feel my life coming together in new ways.  A return of my joy, but deeper and more grounded this time.  A sense of wanting to DO in concert with the BE parts of me.  The little boy is now a teenager…he will periodically be a baby or a toddler or an adolescent again, I imagine.  But the evidence shows me that he is growing and learning that he is safe and loved.  Hallelujah. 

I am once again reminded how miraculous we all are in our unique processes, and have a humble, deeper sense of love and appreciation for myself and All of Creation.

 

“I am not a victim. I am victorious.” -Jennifer Schuett

 

(here introduce the Old WiseWoman, the Teller of Stories)

 

Come round ye women, of old and of young

To hear the tale of a Shero sprung

From the heart of a child; a lion emerged

To claim her true power…all factors converged.

 

Come round me, women,

and listen to my tale

Of a woman who spoke up

When no voice was there

 

Come round the fire and lend me your heart

As I show you a vision of your own Lionheart.

A story of the strength you possess

Whether you be healer, sage or sorceress.

 

Listen to me sing this song of triumph and woe

Listen to this song of a true Shero

She who has risen from the ashes,

She who did not bow before the lash.

 

A woman who loved herself so much

that she would not allow the heinous crime

committed against her to claim her life,

and now she is speaking out, loud and proud

so others will have courage to do the same.

 

 

(here introduce Women in the crowd, around the fire, gathering)

 

Let us raise our voices to the Shero in all of us

 

Who perseveres and vanquishes her enemy

 

Let us take heart and dare to feel hope

 

From hearing her song

 

~

 

(Old WiseWoman, Teller of Stories)

 

On this day from the banks of clouds

A mortal woman inspires song

Her trials she bore at the hands of a man

Did undo her, but not for long.

 

As a maiden, but a child, she was plucked

From the warmth and safety of her nightly bed

And stolen away in the dark, beaten and deflowered,

Her tender throat cut open, and left for dead.

 

Oh, what did she wonder as she watched

The stars o’er head, her silent witnesses?

Did she want her family, miss her dolly, 

worry for her life, while the sickness of men possesses?

 

(Women around the fire, incredulous, angry)

 

A child is to be protected, cherished, adored

Not beaten, abused, and made into whores!

A child taken by adult woes

Carries that pain wherever they go!

 

(Old WiseWoman, Teller of Stories)

 

Powerless to overthrow him, powerless to stop him,

Powerless to scream, run, fight, or beat him

A little girl in her nightgown, tendrils of sweet curls hanging down

She was the victim of his madness, prey to him. 

 

Her voice, her sweet voice, it was made obsolete

By his cruel knife, an attempted final defeat.

No way to call, no way to cry

It is truly a wonder that she did not die.

 

He threw her away when he was done, lifeless

Onto earth’s field, her blood spilt on the ground

Did he have a moment’s remorse, a thought to whom he’d laid bare?

Or like so much trash, turned his back on her that made no sound?

 

She lay there until the light of day, almost one with the dirt

Barely alive, semi-conscious; and thus began the true work

Of reclaiming her life from that awful night, when innocence was taken

And retrieving her spirit from the blood, semen, and murk.

 

(The Women around the fire are stunned into silence; the Story Teller continues, quietly at first )

 

The choice to live after one’s heart, mind and body are broken

Is a courageous one, to be sure, make no mistake.

A victim as a child, most certainly; but as she grew,

Her goal to have justice was a thirst unslaked.

 

The burning to find her monster, to put him away

Formed a kind of resolve, a strength, a spine.

To put right what was put asunder

To take back, to reclaim what was thine.

 

How many would cringe, wish for and hold tight to their deaths

Rather than stand up, point and loudly scream his name?

How many would turn the old patriarch over on his grey head

And show him the grit of our spirits, the scars from his shame?

 

(Women around the fire, enraged and feeling their ire)

 

The choice not to die

Despite some men’s wishes

Is a clue to our strength.

In your face, sons of bitches!

 

And well meaning advice is forced upon us,

“Let it go”, “It’s karma”, “Forgive and forget”

Not knowing, they perpetrate

The violence that silence begets!

 

(Old WiseWoman, Teller of Stories)

 

The stories of old would nourish us in these times,

When women and children still bear the brunt of men’s weakness.

Stories of women and goddesses, who were erased from the books

But nevertheless, through their sex, show their uniqueness.

 

There is a power, unspoken, quiet but sure

A thread of life that runs through us, no matter what we endure

If we are but willing to take hold of that thread

The long ancestral line of Woman will tenderly hold our head.

 

And when we feel Her strength and resolve,

We will find our voices again, stand up and behold

Our own significant part of All Creation

So marvelous, precious, fierce and bold.

 

~

 

And now in this day of bombing the ancient face of the moon,

Women everywhere would take heart from Jennifer’s role

To find her OWN voice, to face her offender, no matter the years

To bring eyes, justice, awareness, then freedom to her soul. 

 

“To thine own self be true” was ne’er so bright

As when a little girl overcame fear to set things right.

And while we all may be spiritually “playing our part”,

I will go with the Amazon, true to her warrior heart.

 

 

 

Jennifer Schuett, you are a SHERO.

 

In deep and humble gratitude,

With Love and Blessings,

Licia Berry

www.liciaberry.com

Copyright Licia Berry, 2009, all rights reserved

cells

“You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.” -Albert Camus

 

Why am I always asking the question “Why?”

 

I have done that since I was very young, apparently.  The impression that I received from my mother is that I was constantly asking the question “Why?”, but that if the tables were turned and I was asked a question, that my response was frequently, “I don’t know.”  In my 44 years of searching for the meaning of life and why I am here, I have come to realize that the latter is the most truthful thing I can sometimes say.

 

Having it all figured out is an illusion, that much seems clear.  We can play with spiritual concepts and try them on, and sometimes they make sense to our fragile egoic minds.  Certainly there are a myriad of religions and traditions out there to choose from that claim to have the corner on reality.  But sometimes those spiritual concepts don’t seem to hold up, or they seem to be so harsh when considering what humans can do to each other.  Living through the experience of being powerless to someone else’s violence is something that will test every bit of faith and spirituality you have.

 

I came across the above quote this morning while considering the plight of people who are victimized by violence.  The desire of my contemplation was to find meaning in why these things happen.  I can consider that we choose to be in a certain place at a certain time, and that by some interesting combination of choices a man can rape a woman, and forever alter both their lives.   But going down that path seems to be akin to going down the rabbit hole….there is madness at the center of the illusion that we can know why things happen all of the time.  Perhaps the search for meaning comes out of our desire to control what cannot be controlled.

 

Life is a great mystery….it’s way bigger than can be conceived of by the human mind; I think it’s safe to assert that.  Yet we continue to search for the answers to our existence in a relentless pursuit of some shred of knowing.  When we find an answer, any answer that makes sense in the moment, it makes us feel better for a little while, more in control.  But what does it cost us to be in this constant chase?  If we are always asking questions, does that mean we are not BEING in our life?  Is the meaning of life just to live it?  And does looking for the meaning of life prevent us from doing that?