Maybe you can relate. You have something to say but you are afraid of your words being minced inside mouths craving attention and regurgitated back at you with foul odor. Or, maybe you find yourself on long Facebook feeds, adrenaline pumping, reading the adversarial banter that has taken away 5–10 minutes, maybe years, of your precious life force. Or, you read something you know will be controversial and you begin to troll for the drama of that person being called out. Maybe, just maybe, you notice a quickening of pulse, a twist in the guts, and a lil something in yourself wanting to call them out, set them straight, make them wrong.
“The Sacred Wound is the critical act in which the mortal achieves divinity.”Jean Houston
What if I told you that you can never fully heal. That you can scratch to the bone, gnaw at your sinew and suckle your marrow and you will still feel an impenetrable, troubling, haunting itch.
But you will continue to scratch. And although it brings temporary relief, the scratching has created a wound. But you keep scratching and covering the wound with “over the counter” tricks in hopes that it will heal. Until one day you slip and fall in the ooze of the wound that is now inhabiting the landscape of your life.
For most of my 30s I would wake in the morning with this underlying anxiety that would hit me with a subtle waive of nausea. The thoughts that accompanied this feeling would all be centered around this theme of “running out of time to prove my feminine worthiness”. In my mind I was racing against time, I was racing against myself and I also felt as though as I was racing against other women- which is a perpetuating factor, I believe, in our current imbalances. Above all, I felt alone. When we don’t connect and learn from one another we also perpetuate a shame around our bodies not working, not being loved, not loving ourselves and so on. This separation just compounds the feelings of unworthiness and embarrassment at being (insert age here) without a man and a baby- a perfect picture of balanced family-career-love.
I was asked by a man recently “how can you support yourself doing what you do?” Why did you choose “these ways?”
I have never heard my Mother’s Voice. It lay in decay under the headstones of her losses. But, all decay can compost itself through worm dreams and seedlings and find its way to the light.
She was silenced long ago and has been riddled with illness all my life. I lost her young when I left my home, her and my three younger brothers behind. It ripped her heart out and, yet, she knew I had to go. I have wandered in the streets of my own dark night for decades in search of her touch, her song and a somewhere we could be together again. Her story has formed much of my own narrative.
Write the wrongs that are done to you in sand, but write the good things that happen in a piece of marble. Let go of emotions such as resentment and retaliation, which diminish you, and hold onto the emotions, such as gratitude and joy, which increase you. ~Arabic Proverb
A couple of weeks ago I was asked by a man in the community, who leads Rights of Passage (ROP) initiations for young men, to gather a small group of wise women to speak with the new initiates and the men who are supporting them.
He asked that the women come forth and speak about a wound, a blessing and share some wisdom around what we feel young men need to hear from us. As the young men are 14 years of age he gave us an hour to honor their attention span.
Here is a picture. It might not seem like much to you. But as pictures go…
It is April 19, 2019, a full moon as well as my 42nd birthday. I have just emerged from initiation- a quest for life, vision and permission.
This is the only picture that was taken. I can hear my mama sayin’- “I can’t see your beautiful face”. Mama, look close and you will see My 1000 faces.