Click here to listen to this post!
editor’s note: the closing blessing in the audio version is attributed to clarrisa pinkola estes as below

Since I’ve let the cat out of the bag regarding what I truly believe about sexuality and faith (or at least some bits of it) women are finding me anyway they can. Through the comments and contact info on this site, via facebook and twitter, even in my flickr mail. Not to argue with me, or to tell me I’m wrong. But to give me the gift of their stories. Stories about receiving messages of shame regarding their bodies. Stories of regret regarding about not having sex, or feeling bad about it when they did. Stories of pain and loss and confusion. And best of all, stories of recovery and hope.

Dear ones, we must to do something about taking care of all these precious stories.

My soulsister Jen Lemen has embedded the importance of stories deep in my being. Like her, I am “helplessly in love with the idea that stories can change you and me forever.” Furthermore, this I believe: it is within our power to allow our stories to shape us for the good, to bring us healing, and to draw us towards shalom.

I am still relatively new to this world of stories and am I’m learning to harness their redemptive power. Still, I am sure, that together we can we can hold these stories “in all tenderness,” and let their power sing from the rooftops.

So here friends, is what I know right now about telling stories:

• Embody your stories. Write them in a journal; capture them in images torn from magazines and picture books; jot them in lines of poems; create them in smears of color; or distill them into lists of words. Just sit down with a pen, or a keyboard, or a paintbrush and say “I don’t know, I don’t know…” until the knowing comes and the story flows. The first step is acknowledging they are real, that you are real.

• Name your stories. Give them titles and subtitles. Let them have a one-word identifier. Line them up in a number system. Naming is powerful. When we name something we can better hold it in our hands. When you hold a story cupped in your palm you can decide to continue holding it like a treasure –or you can let it slide past your finger tips and release it: to let it guide others; or to let it companion other story holders who have otherwise felt alone; or to watch slide away past your finger tips, because you no longer need to carry it.

• Speak your stories outloud. Let your voice sound out into an empty room. Tell a friend over tea. Record yourself on you cell phone’s voice mail. Giving voice, literally giving voice to your stories can be in turns affirming, empowering, releasing, and healing.

There is more here, waiting to be formed into words and continued into practice. There’s something about what to do with painful stories. How to say “this really happened.” How to know “I am bigger than this story.” How to let your painful stories catapult you onto bigger, better tales. I can’t quite get it into words yet, but it’s marinating. In time—with your help, with your stories and comments and ideas and intuitive know-how—we will find it together. In time, it will come.

Will you do this work with me? Will you be brave –a little or a lot—and let your stories sing? Start writing. Start blogging. Start painting. Start giving birth to the poet on your tongue. Start making lists of words you do not understand, drawing lines–literally, on the page with a marker, drawing lines–between things you did not know were connected. Start commenting. (Use a pseudonym if you want. I’ll screen all the comments. I won’t let anyone yell at you. I’ll do my best to keep your story safe.) In the worlds of my soulsister, “Something healing this way comes.”

I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you and that you will work them, and water them, with your blood and tears and laughter ‘till they bloom, ‘till you yourself burst into bloom.

-Clarissa Pinkola Estes

a small sketch from my travel journal

It’s the night of Summer solstice. At home in Seattle the sun is at its highest right now, and hopefully the skies are clear to give the locals some much-onged for warmth during this cold Summer on this, their most treasured day. Here in Copenhagen–which is not yet home—the sun is starting to set, though the light has barely ebbed. Well after ten o’clock I can still read easily in the twilight glow that’s stretching over our high city balcony.

John Mayer is in town, the poet whose blues have sustained me through these strange and wrenching times. I searched for tickets—begged, borrowed and threatened to steal in two languages—but alas, none were to be found. Instead I’m sneaking smokes and playing all the live songs I could download one after another too loudly through the open windows of the living room. Message in Bottle (which I once heard Sting perform on an awkward date in an enormous arena). My Stupid Mouth (The Blogger’s Lament.) 83 (whimsical. nostalgic.) And finally, Gravity, my touchstone, my anchor.

I have been dreading this day, alone and away from my community on one of our most holy days. Paul is at a work party. One which has a reputation for being a bit of an orgy. One to which spouses are not invited. The girls are asleep after what for me was an exhausting night of homemade pizza, sing-a-long movies, and reading aloud extraordinary long chapters of Harry Potter. The grand finale for mom was one of those long, drawn out bedtimes only clever children can create, and enough dishes to make a restaurateur cry. But now that I’m here, alone with the dog, listening to John and watching the swallows dart after invisible insects; I find that I am actually okay in with this solitude, watching the sun slip into sleep, being grateful for the light.

At Stonehenge this morning the sun crested over softly arching hills, struck the blue-hued Heelstone, and drove its light between the arches of the great trilithon. Hundreds were there in dreadlocks and druid robes, smelling of travel and patchouli, trying to name something unnamable, making it up as they go along. Isn’t that what we all do? Cobble something together from shards of history and intuitive pull? Look for the meeting point between what we know and what we hope to be true?

I was at Stonehenge not long ago, fresh from the opulence of Europe’s finest cathedrals, ready to be unimpressed by a ring of stones surrounded by security fencing. I was surprised to find such holiness there, walking in a round where people have paced for thousands of years; waiting for the shard of light to crack the sky; hoping for a life continued. I followed the tour and when I reached the Heelstone, paused to touch its side. As I felt the warmth of the sarsen stone under my hand, I noticed a young woman walking counter clockwise to the organized tour, her shoes in her hand, her feet on holy ground. Seeing her example, I wanted suddenly to sink to my knees. It was all I could to do still my voice, to not incant ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’ But I was unaccustomed of being a stranger in a strange land for so many long months, worn down from always sticking out, from always being obvious. I did not have the confidence to kneel in front of so many tourists in windbreakers and cameras. (Who knew the bending of the knee could be an act requiring so much strength?) Iinstead I stayed my hand on the stone, leaned my weight into my palm, and let my soul pour out thanks. Gratitude for the light. Gratitude for continuance. Gratitude for all that we need to go on.

It was not, and this is not, the Solstice I have come to remember. It is not the riotous and ridiculous parade; the familiar and homespun pageant built with our own hands; the silly, colorful crowd of thousands. Instead it is a new lesson in holy moments—stumbled upon alone (yet with casts of thousands now past); a mishmash of vices and virtues, of new songs and old stones. I feel as though I am soaking somehow in this history, in this present, and in the sun—always our promise of a future. I am melted. I am melded, somehow, me in this chair alone. And I think—held in this mystery of solitude amidst the companionship of souls—I think as the sun now fades, “Dayenu, it is enough.”

Cate was yelling at me. Again.

Every day it’s the same story. I pick Cate up from school and she happily shows me the new trick she can do on the peddle car; the stone she dug up in the sand pit; how many times she can hop the jump rope on one foot. We find Eden and start the ten minute walk home. By minute seven Cate is screaming about something. Anything.

We started with sympathy, then moved on to time outs, and I’m sure at some point there’s been some yelling on my part as well. Clearly Cate was struggling with the transition between school and home. Clearly she was angry. And clearly whatever she was yelling about was not what was really bothering her.

Finally, I sat her down at the kitchen table and got down at eye level. I addressed her very calmly and very seriously, “Cate. This isn’t working. You’re having trouble moving between being at school and being at home. I can see that you are angry, right?”

“Yes! I. AM. ANGRY!” (also crying)

“It’s totally okay to be angry. But screaming at Mommy is not okay, right?”

“RIGHT! OKAY? OKAY? RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!”

“Did you know anger is a cover-up emotion? It covers up some other emotion. Something else is hiding under there.”

“It is?” (now backing down to mere sniffles)

“Yes. And I need you to think about it and tell me what it is that’s hiding under there.”

With that, the floodgates broke open. She missed all the friends she left behind when we moved. She didn’t have any friends at school. And she missed BF Day (her old school.) And some of the kids said mean things. And she doesn’t know Danish yet. And her only friends who speak English live far, far away. And did she mention, she didn’t have any friends at school?

Well, I’d already addressed all of those things. We talked about how making friends was her superpower, but that it took time. I had reminded her that we had only been at the new school for 2 weeks. I had explained that it would take a little longer than usual because we don’t know Danish yet. But, I had assured her, friends would come.

Knowing I’d already said all of this, and having a not unsmall amount of parental wisdom, I did not go into this again. Instead I asked her a question of clarification, “Cate. Do you want Mommy to talk about all these problems with you, or do you just need someplace to put them all.”

“Like what place?”

“Like a shrine.”

“I could make a shrine?”

Sure could. I dove under my desk and came up with three or four odd little boxes and tins. Cate chose a tin that used to hold bandages – Jesus bandages to be exact. After asking for stickers, tape and some scratch paper, Cate went to work. Soon she had a bonafide Shrine for Hard Feelings. It consisted of the bandage tin, a sticker of a sacred heart Jesus, some fortune cookie sized strips of paper cello-taped to the side, and one of those tiny golf pencils. Cate wrote her hard feelings down on the pieces of paper and tucked them into the tin.

“If I put these in here, Jesus will make the sad feelings go away.” she said.

“Well,” I fine tuned, “Jesus might not make them go all the way away, but at least he can hold them for a little while.”

Cate has been faithfully using the Shrine for Hard Feelings for a week now. Sometimes she’ll start ramping up into a yell-fest, but then you can see her sort of visibly pull up, and she’ll say “Wait a minute,” and go find her shrine. I’ll see her scribbling away, then tucking the paper into the tin and snapping it shut. A few minutes later she’ll be back with me, or her sister, or her dad, and the steam will have been vented.

Sometimes I wonder what all my ad hoc spirituality is teaching my children. I’m trying my best — but so did my parents, and my church, and my religious school — and I sure ended up with a bunch of crap mixed in there with the goodies. If I make up random sacraments, if my children spend their lives building Shrines for Hard Feelings and hurling plates at Anger Altars, will they regret it? I am not sure. But this I believe; my attempts, though small and flawed and most assuredly open for misinterpretation, these humble attempts at caring for these precious souls will teach them these true things

Your feelings are real.
Someone loves you enough to help in hard times.
God is big enough to handle your anger.
There is a place for you.

That seems like a good place to start.

Cross-posted at BlogHer with links to other great blogs about children’s spirituality.

We’ve had various kinds of celebrations for Spring over the years. But I have always hoped to have a gathering for May Day—or what the Celts call Beltane—in celebration of the good earth. In my dreamy gathering we could stand on some patch of soft ground and use our bodies to say ‘thank you’ to Mama and to give her some honor.

So far, this hasn’t come to pass. I tried once, and my children totally derailed me, moving the evening from a night of Om-ing barefoot in the grass, to a night of painting toenails for the upcoming sandal season. Apparently, when you are 4 and 6 it’s way more fun to welcome the Spring with flip-flops and pink polish than to follow your breath while holding a backbend.

Now that I’m here in Denmark and far away from all my friends of the feminine divine, this little dream isn’t likely to come to past anytime soon. But this morning while I was hanging out in Shavasana, it came into my monkey mind that I could get one step closer to this dream by writing the series down. (You know, instead of just holding it in my head and hoping someone will invite me to teach yoga.)

An hour later when I sat down to write my BlogHer editorial about Earth Day, I realized that if I posted said yoga series perhaps, in some small way, we might all be connected just by doing the same practice—even if it is in different times and different places. We are all standing on this same round earth, this big blue marble, right? We might as well call it a party.

So here is my short series of Yoga Poses for Mama, from me, the wannabe priestess, to you my sister friends. May they connect your spirit to the creative, nurturing energy of sand and soil, sea and sky, meadow and mountain. Namaste! Read the rest of this entry »

Eden, then five, sits pretty and pensive at our passover table.

This is the first time in eight years that we won’t be celebrating Pesach (Passover) with our community. Our dishes and haggadah (prayer books) have arrived, but we’ve yet to gather the kind of friends that would want to take part in a 4 hours meal with this electic goy girl. I’m treating my Passover jones by writing about how I got started celebrating with a Seder. You can find that story over in my weekly post at BlogHer. And here’s some pretty pictures, taken by my friend Emily Button, from our first Passover with Monkfish Abbey, back in 2004.

Anointing everyone at the table before going in to dinner.

On Passover, we eat reclining on a pillow to show that we are free. (Slaves weren’t allowed to eat reclining.)

A full glass is sign of joy. Here we diminish the wine in our glass to signify solidarity with those who suffer.

Paul serves up matzo ball soup to Catie. (3 yrs)

is it enough
this story,
this ideal,
this wistful thing—

the teacher speaking soft in the garden,
mouthing my name,
warm-blooded and real.

when I grow tired of picking,
sorting fact from fiction,
lies like stones among the lentils,
truths as yellow bulbs among the rocks,

when I tire of this painstaking plucking

i hold instead,
one smooth egg
one round stone
one child, with chocolate on her mouth and songs on her tongue.

he is wisen, comes the lisp
he is wisen indeed!

tell me true things, i whisper,
my face held close,
warm against her neck.

she sings to me
an edict, a lullaby,
ubi caritas, maman,
ubi caritas et amor
ubi caritas, deus ibi est.

where there is charity, there is love
where there is love
there god is.

enough, i think,
to hold this egg
this stone
this child
enough, to say ‘amen.’

May you have warm words on a cold evening,
A full moon on a dark night,
And the road downhill all the way to your door.

(An Irish blessing from an Irish lass. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!)

One year in college, a couple decades ago, my girlfriends and I decided to wear black on Valentines’ Day. We were all boyfriendless at the time, and Spring had hit early so couples were coming out the dorms like moths from a wardrobe. We rebeled against coupledom in all it’s sacchrine glory. And what else is a rebel to do, but wear black?

Many years later at graduate school a professor of mine asked me to tell her my life story. I told her all the basics: where I grew up, what my undergraduate degree was in, when I got married. When she asked me how old I was when I got married, and the age “23″ came out of my mouth, this wise woman nodded her head and said, “Oh, so you’ve never been single.”

No, I have never been single. I went straight from a small Methodist college, where (almost) everyone was not so much single as just not-married-yet; on to graduation; and then straight to “Here Comes the Bride.” I never lived a day in the life as a single gal.

But she had been a single woman, my 50-something thesis advisor, and many of my girlfriends have as well–either as women who have not married, or who have married and are single again. And there’s also those girlfriends who have had long-term partners and common law unions, only to find themselves on the single side of the chart once again.

These women do not live lives of bereavement. They are not bereft. And whether they are single by choice or by circumstance, all of them have built lives that are as full and rich as any woman with a ring on her left hand and someone else’s clothes in her closet.

So every year, on Valentine’s Day, I remember that year in protest-black, I recall that a-ha moment with my professor, and it prompts me to post this blessing. I wrote it out of love for St. Lucy, for my single friends, and for the passionate heart of St. Valentine. If you are single, I hope it is a gift to you today. Thank you for living lives of admiration, and for putting up with all of us who go all gooey under the influence of paper hearts.

With Love and Respect,

Rachelle
______________________

I bless you in the midst of your singleness,
In the ebb and the flow of it,
In the hot and the cold of it.

Amen.

A big ‘thank you’ to everyone who commented or emailed me about the Budding Feminist reviews.

Writing about those two books got me to thinking about just how much those authors have influenced me. Reading them opened a flood gate, and new ideas and rituals came to me by the fistful. To honor that experience, and to express gratitude, here’s a list of posts from my first blog that are representative of what came out of my spiritual feminine awakening…

__________________

A Guided Meditation on the Feminine Divine.

A Healing Rite with Hot Stones

Opening Blessing for the Powerhouse (communal art studio) at the Summer Solstice

Saying Goodbye to the White Guys

Little Altars Everywhere: Up in Smoke

Little Altars Everywhere: Recovering She

The Womb of Life and the concept of We

There’s probably more filed under rites and rituals. If I can, I’ll hunt down the good ones for you.

Thanks for being with me on the journey!

-Rachelle

One of the realities that captures me most at Christmas is the meaning of Emmanuel - “God with us.” I love thinking of God as an infant, God as a fellow traveler, God as our sibling and friend. It’s one of the unique traits of Yahweh — this willingness, even eagerness, to be near to us. In reality, or as a truth-bearing myth, this concept brings me peace.

Our modern mystic, Brennan Manning, captures God-with-us quite wonderfully in one of his Advent pieces. Here it is for you now, a little present from me to you.

Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas
Orbis Books, 2001

“Shipwrecked at the Stable”

Do you think you could contain Niagra Falls in a teacup?

We all know how difficult it is to receive anything from someone who has all the answers, who is completely cool, utterly unafraid, needing nothing and in control of every situation. We feel unnecessary, unrelated to this paragon. So God comes as a newborn baby, giving us a chance to love him, making us feel that we have something to give him.

P.s. I also recommend listening to Bruce Cockburn’s tune Big Circumstance, which references this piece, and Cry of a Tiny Babe, which is one of my favorites. Peace to you this Christmas day.