Thursday, September 3, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Starts early on when we are open and vulnerable."Shame shame shame on you" emanating from that ominous finger pointing at us from that smirksome face. We don't even know what it means, just that there is something scrunchy about it.
Hiding out, finding out, then afraid to tell. We all have learned to cover over our beautiful faces.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Now, like most of us she embarks on a new journey.
Funny how so often we pray for change, adventure, new things, and "Poof" like magic it appears. The Painted Lady at the carnival inviting us into the fun house, into a ride into the darkness where odd and sometimes bizarre images pop out. Some of us come out laughing and others come out crying. Life is like that-a concoction of joys and sorrows conjuring up an image of a laboratory with all sorts of beakers and maybe, just maybe cauldrons bubbling, boiling and wafting smoke.
The Painted Lady calls us. We think she is just a muse for the carnival. Little do we know she is the Goddess of the 'dark' taking us to those places we dare not go on our own. She willingly accompanies us when we summon her; and summon her we do when we embark on journeys into the unknown.
How do we face the unknown? We have all been taught, practices handed down from the ages to proceed toward the unknown with trepidation. Yet, when Dorothy followed the yellowbrick road to OZ and finally met the great and powerful wizard, she discovered through the help of her animal friend that the great and powerful wizard was just a simple man operating a smoke machine.
Isn't it funny how, sometimes, simple men operate smoke machines??? Just a thought.Now, the message for Dorothy was that her truth, her home, lived within her.
"Believe in yourself, imagine your home, click your heels three times and there you will be,"
Or, for a more religious version,
After the whale spit Jonah out on the shore, the Angel of God, a Painted Lady, I believe, pointed and said, "Ninevah is that way!"
So Ms. E, your journey has begun. Put on your goddess ware: blue eyeshadow, bangle bracelets, and your tie dyes, remember to take your zills and shuffle your fip flops to Ninevah..........and while you're shuffling...Remember the Truth of Your Soul!
Now, for anyone who knows me, me and myth are synonymous. Life is a story. Humans are living narratives...authors of our existence (except when we let others author our lives). Yet, nonetheless, we do the writing. We star in the living drama called our life. We set the stage; find the props; call forth the other actors; write the script; direct, edit; and otherwise produce our 'realized narrative' called "My Life". Many acts to this play..or..chapters to the book....the metaphors are endless. (I personally like to jump betweeen several at one time.)
So, I responded to a discussion on birth stories as folllows:
I think birth stories, myths are the template for life, at least for my life. I have heard and lived the birth story told to me by my family...one of excitement, anticipation, and joy over my mother's delivery of me. One of no pain experienced by my mother due to the doctor's use of forcepts...and many other 'enlivening' details. This story helped me to carve out a life of being a "goddess' in process which has been a very rich and exciting life adventure.
Then I grew into adulthood and discovered cultural myths i.e. the stories told and handed down with all cultural judgments interwoven about unwed mothers, teen preganancies, adolescents having babies. My mother had just turned 19 when she delivered me...18 when she got pregnant. Wow!
I had an ah-ha moment that has lasted for many years. I have come to understand with much more depth, and I must say, at times, some anguish, the intricacies of our relationship...my mother and I...when these 2 myths met.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
It seems I've been learning this lesson for a long time....how to slow down and wait for the full creation. Often what appears to be a weed at first glance, transforms into a splendid display in the fullness of summer.
Residue of my mother's training, I suppose. The race for thoroughness and efficiency often overwhelms and kills a mid summer bloom. Sounds like one of those proverbs that people quote. However, I have searched to find my own pace, my own discernment, my own voice, my own thoughts, my own ideas, my own creations, my own mistakes, my own shortcomings, my own errors over these many years I've spent on the face of this earth and truthfully it has been quite an enlightening process. Some parts felt like the trip down the rails after the roller coaster crested, I must admit, but nonetheless enlightening.
To sort myself out from that which I absorbed from my family of origin and culture has been an adventure. I remember when I lost all my hair during chemotherapy seeing for the first time a scar on my scalp that I received from being burned with hot grease when I was ten months old. How about that! To see a part of myself that I had never seen before after.....48 years.
I viewed the scar through my "Mother" eyes. It was horrible. How this infant girl must have screamed when she was burnt. The size and depth of the scar told that tragic tale. I wept for that ten month old baby who was me. I wanted to run back and scoop her up, hold her and rock her and ease her pain. She and I were one in that moment. This breast-cancerous, chemotherapy generated return to my infancy allowed an embrace, a meeting, a union. A time traveling moment that allowed me to see first hand a piece of my early life of which I had only heard stories. I was transfixed.
Over the years many times, family members, friends, therapists worked to pluck this memory covering it with other story versions and other people's perspectives. Some even credited me for having the determination, curiosity and impetus to climb up and pull this skillet filled with hot grease down upon myself, (quite an accomplishment for a 10 month old). Fortunately, the phlox kept growing and bloomed for me that mid summer morning I looked into the mirror as clumps of deadened hair fell to reveal that white blossomed scar.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Life in the early wisdom days seemed so wrought with thoughts that just kept bumping up against a pre-ordained reality like a bird flying into a freshly windexed glass. Splat! Dazed! Dropped! I had the hardest time trying to understand how others thought; how they made sense of the world I lived in which never made sense to me. All around me the same kind of simple minded...one level...dualistic...fault finding...looking for the lack on the surface of everything....kind of thinking. I remember being a new first time mother, listening to the doves sing their morning identity song...."Who? Who?Who?"...and my response came as wisps of tears falling onto my sweet baby's cheek..."Yes, Who?" So lost was I in those moment between young budding woman and mother that I surfaced not for some eleven years. I found out later from Marion Zimmer Bradley that I really had been captured by the Faery King. Like Morgaine,I had a wonderful experience, yet I knew this was not my home......