Wednesday, September 24, 2008

What the hell?!

Having recently finished Kidd's "Dissident Dance," I can only say it was so amazingly powerful that I cannot fully share about my experience. It has to simmer for awhile.

So I thought I'd share today's "WTF" that came up on Amazon's 'Today's Deals' page. Whoever buys this has too much goddamn money and too much free time and too little social consciousness. . .


So when you hit a bump on today's road, be grateful you're not the dumbass who thinks he or she NEEDS this. Now go in peace, my bloggy friends . . .

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Finding my road back to Her

Some are aware of my reading Sue Monk Kidd's "Dance of the Dissident Daughter." I've mentioned how amazed I've been to read someone putting to words feelings I've had about the inadequacies of mainstream religion in its approach to the Sacred Feminine. Inadequate is really an incorrect term, though, because to be inadequate would indicate some attempt to be adequate. There is none. Through my personal studies as well as the research of others, the Feminine Voice has been shut up, stomped down, locked away, and silenced. But not destroyed.

Unlike Kidd, I don't receive many spiritual messages in my dreams. Minus those nightmares about me drinking again (trust me, it's pretty ugly), my dreams are just the incoherent babblings of an asleep brain. But I do see the signs in life, especially when I look backward.

I cannot remember the first time I experienced the lack of Sacred Females with whom to relate. Sure, there's the Virgin Mary, but who can relate to her? I couldn't. Then there was Mary Magdalene, but my 4th grade catechism teacher said she was a sinner, no one to worship. When I reminded her, "Aren't we all sinners?" She told me, "Not that kind of sinner."

So I resigned myself to the fact the Virgin was all I had. Sure, I got pretty good at the rosary, but I didn't feel a longing to know her. The lack of spiritual role models who were of my gender festered in me. As I grew, so did my anger. When I turned 16, I finally had the freedom to skip church. I'd take the car, lie to my parents that I was going to the late mass, then spend the next hour driving around. Anything was better than hearing that bullshit, male-focused, fear-based doctrine.

It wasn't until my senior year of college while taking a "Women in Antiquity" course, did I learn that early pre-Christian cultures worshipped a female deity. It was before the Bronze Age, before "man" wielded weapons and learned that brute trumped fertility. I felt on fire when I learned this! Yes!!! There is a Feminine God out there. But I lacked the ability, the wherewithal to find her.

Then Dan Brown came out with that beauty of a "fictitious" tale about Mary Magdalene's womb being the Holy Grail. Brown's "DaVinci Code" renewed my sense of hope that there was more out there, kind of like my own personal X-Files. Looking at his bibliography, I was lead to other authors.

Margaret Starbird's "Woman With the Alabaster Jar" propelled me even deeper into this growing belief in the reality of a Feminine Sacred. I read another of her works, "The Goddess in the Gospels" and moved on to translations of the "Pistis Sophia," "The Gospel of Mary Magdalene" and "The Gnostic Gospels." To be honest, I haven't made a deep effort to muscle through the last three, they're on my self, waiting for me to be ready.

But reading Kidd's "Dissident Daughter" is confirming beyond any doubt that the Feminine Sacred is real and it doesn't replace the male image of God nor is it relegated to the slightly lower status of Holy Spirit, but is a spirituality in combination with the patriarchal view held for thousands of years.

Some people roll their eyes at me, others blow me off as a bitch; there are those who aren't comfortable with it, and still others who don't care. All of these reactions are fine. All I know is that patriarchal religious doctrine DOES NOT WORK FOR ME. All I ask is to continue my search without your judgement because I know I'm onto something. I can feel it in my bones and sense it in my heart and gut. And I see the signs.

Just 30 minutes ago, listening to some quality Bob Edwards public radio, he interviewed musician Joan Osborn on her new disc, "Little Wild One." He introduced her by playing some bars from her one-hit wonder: "If God Was One of Us" and those bars included the lyrics, "If God had a name, what would it be and would you call it to his face, if you were faced with him in all his glory? What would you ask if you had just one question?" Immediately I thought of a question, "Where's the women?" Then Bob proceeded to play the opening bars of the lead track, "Hallelujah in the City," from her new disc. While the disc pays homage to her home-away-from-away, New York City, I cannot deny the messages I heard in both songs:


I have been unfaithful.
I have been untrue.
How'd I find the road that brought me back to you.
Hallelujah!


I have spent my life yearning for the Feminine Sacred, but refusing to do the work to find Her. And in spite of myself, I found the road that is bringing me back to Her. Hallelujah!

Saturday, September 13, 2008

McChange? NOT!!!

Friday, September 12, 2008

Go forth and march!!!


Who can concentrate in an atmosphere like this? I mean, really? With all this political bullshit, crazy-muggy air, a Cat 3 aimed to take out Galveston, and a hedgehog acclimating himself to a new home.

I have to admit, I've been avoiding my blog. It just doesn't seem to make sense to me anymore. I haven't been checking on other blogs as I normally do, thus not leaving messages and encouraging all those other bloggers out there. Life just feels out of sync.

But I keep on reading, and it's "Dissident Daughter" with which I march on. I continue to be filled with gratitude and hope, fear and uncertainty as I follow Kidd on her journey from the mainstream, patriarchal rule of Christianity to the self-discovery of the Sacred Feminine. I feel so aware, right now, of the Feminine Wound, this ageless piece of our souls that contains all the shutup voices, the kept down spirits, the women who went before us and were trampled by the patriarchy of this planet.

And Kidd's tale is reminding me of the power of coincidence. Make no mistake, there is purpose behind every happening, which is why I was so moved when Wooly Daisy emailed me the following:

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-Grandmothers; they lived over 90 years ago.

Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.

The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the right to vote.



In June 1917, after months of picketing the White House for President Woodrow Wilson's support of their movement, arrests began to occur. The usual charge: obstructing sidewalk traffic. But they kept picketing and marching until finally on Nov. 15, 1917, 40 prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'

By the end of the night, they were barely alive.

(Lucy Burns)
They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.

(Dora Lewis)

They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror,' when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia (already under investigation for reports of inhumane conditions for and treatment of the female prisoners) ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote. For weeks following Nov. 15, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.

(Alice Paul)

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

At a point in the HBO movie, "Iron Jawed Angles," Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. The doctor refuses. "Alice Paul was strong," he said, "and brave. That didn't make her crazy." The doctor admonished the men: "Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity."

This message came as a reminder to hold close this dearly-fought for right to vote, but there is so much more to it. I think to myself, how friggin' lucky am I?!


I pull a Munch and let loose a silent scream over all that has been done in an effort to be equal. My throat squeezes shut and my palms begin to sweat and I get fidgety and angry over past harms done. And then there are the current issues of inequality. I voice this and am labeled 'one of those.' I speak of the Sacred Feminine and many, even women, shuffle away or roll their eyes. Is the receiving of this message on suffragists linked to my spiritual journey? I have never been more sure that this was no coincidence. Not only am I responsible to continue scratching away at the patriarchal surface, but I have a duty to continue what was started by those who came before me.

And this is no male vs. female battle, it is a quest for both sexes to throw off those old beliefs and causes and to "trust the gut" and go forth.

Fear will only keep us paralyzed and immobile. Now go forth, my loved ones, and do good work and make yourselves proud and march!!!!

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

It's a Wanker!!!


Yesterday began like any other day, can't get outta bed, running late for work, wasting time at work once I make it in . . . and then, around 11:30 a.m. a co-worker begins talking about her mother's pets. Starting with what she thought were two 'females' multiplied into 6 when one of the she's turned out to be a he. And what are these pets, you may wonder?


Just what every family needs, right? A hedge hog. As if 4 cats, 2 dogs, 2 kids, and 1 husband weren't enough.

So far, I've been bitten, puked on, licked bunches and shat upon. And that was Day One.

Tentatively going by the name of 'Wanker,' hopefully he'll settle down enough to get some pictures. Right now, my fingers are too punctured to work a camera. Love hurts.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Ideology & Religion Shit List

I just received this in an e-mail and had to share because I think it's totally funny! No, I am not the genius who came up with it ... but I play one on, oh screw that!

Taoism: Shit happens.
Confucianism: Confucius say, 'Shit happens.'
Buddhism: If shit happens, it isn't really shit.
Zen Buddhism: Shit is, and is not.
Zen Buddhism #2: What is the sound of shit happening?
Hinduism: This shit has happened before.
Islam: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah.
Islam #2: If shit happens, kill the person responsible.
Islam #3: If shit happens, blame Israel.
Catholicism: If shit happens, you deserve it.
Protestantism: Let shit happen to someone else.
Presbyterian: This shit was bound to happen.
Episcopalian: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve the right wine with it.
Methodist: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve grape juice with it.
Congregationalist: Shit that happens to one person is just as good as shit that happens to another.
Unitarian: Shit that happens to one person is just as bad as shit that happens to another.
Lutheran: If shit happens, don't talk about it.
Fundamentalism: If shit happens, you will go to hell, unless you are born again. (Amen!)
Fundamentalism #2: If shit happens to a televangelist, it's okay.
Fundamentalism #3: Shit must be born again.
Judaism: Why does this shit always happen to us?
Calvinism: Shit happens because you don't work.
Seventh Day Adventism: No shit shall happen on Saturday.
Creationism: God made all shit.
Secular Humanism: Shit evolves.
Christian Science: When shit happens, don't call a doctor - pray!
Christian Science #2: Shit happening is all in your mind.
Unitarianism: Come let us reason together about this shit.
Quakers: Let us not fight over this shit.
Utopianism: This shit does not stink.
Darwinism: This shit was once food.
Capitalism: That's MY shit.
Communism: It's everybody's shit.
Feminism: Men are shit.
Chauvinism: We may be shit, but you can't live without us...
Commercialism: Let's package this shit.
Impressionism: From a distance, shit looks like a garden.
Idolism: Let's bronze this shit.
Existentialism: Shit doesn't happen; shit IS.
Existentialism #2: What is shit, anyway?
Stoicism: This shit is good for me.
Hedonism: There is nothing like a good shit happening!
Mormonism: God sent us this shit.
Mormonism #2: This shit is going to happen again.
Wiccan: And it harms none, let shit happen.
Scientology: If shit happens, see 'Dianetics', p.157.
Jehovah's Witnesses: >Knock< >Knock<>
Jehovah's Witnesses #2: May we have a moment of your time to show you some of our shit?
Jehovah's Witnesses #3: Shit has been prophesied and is imminent; only the righteous shall survive its happening.
Moonies: Only really happy shit happens.
Hare Krishna: Shit happens, rama rama.
Rastafarianism: Let's smoke this shit!
Zoroastrianism: Shit happens half on the time.
Church of SubGenius: Bob shits.
Practical: Deal with shit one day at a time.
Agnostic: Shit might have happened; then again, maybe not.
Agnostic #2: Did someone shit?
Agnostic #3: What is this shit?
Satanism: SNEPPAH TIHS.
Atheism: What shit?
Atheism #2: I can't believe this shit!
Nihilism: No shit.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

My one true love

My pal, Liberal Redneck, is one to often post a YouTube video from 'the day'. You know which day I mean, that great old era of series premiere Sesame Street, The Electric Company, Big Blue Marble, and The Muppet Show. Kermit doing his news reports, Oscar being such a pain in everybody's butt, and Mr. Snuffleupaguss (I know I wasn't the only kid screaming at the tv for the adults to "Turn around! He's right there!!!!"). My dear Redneck picks the best ones, and much like an old scent getting those crazy neurons firing, zinging you back to some long-forgotten moment of bliss, I was recently whisked back to the memory of my one true love...



I'll never forget when we met. No, it wasn't an episode, it was in a Kay Bee Toys. As a kid, the one divorce perk I remember was the schwag: at the end of a weekend with Dad, my sister and I'd usually score something. In kindergarten, I snagged a stuffed white poodle and took it several times to show-and-tell ... that is until my classmates started heckling me for bringing the same thing every Friday (bitches).

A few years later, I remember choosing a couple of Nancy Drews that I never read. But Grover was the big one ... the one I just loved so much I wanted to cut him up and eat him. Not in a Hannibal Lecter kinda way. More like Buddy popping cotton balls.


I used to love it when he'd do his "Near" step, step, step, step "FAR" bit. And his little, "It is I, your little friend, Grover." Mmmmm. I'm getting misty just thinking about him. There was just something about him that made me all soft and giggly, made me squint my eyes and squish up my nose and curl my toes and hold my breath and jump around. I loved the deep indigo of his coat, the mess of his fur, the great fuchsia of his bulbish nose and small line of a mouth, the lankiness of his slight arms and legs always ready to wrap around me. And this was just his stuffed, reproduced self!

I spent several months last year searching on ebay for a replacement to my long-lost Grover, but I just couldn't find him. Don't s'ppose I ever will ...

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Fruits of their labor

As I continue with my read of Kidd's "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter," I cannot believe how someone could really know how deeply broken and flawed I feel. I'm without the ability to share, so I thought I'd share in a different way. A couple week's ago, Miss Wooly Daisy shared how her garden grows. While these picks are not from my garden, they are the result of the combined effort of my husband and daughter, who, by the way, sailed through surgery and returned home the following day. (If anyone has advice on keeping an 8-year-old busy for the next THREE months, I'm open for suggestions.)

I've heard from many people in Iowa that tomatoes have sucked this year. My husband, a man of the earth who prefers to grow his plants from seed, was quite disappointed with this year's garden. From flood to drought, it was not a good growing season...unless you were a pumpkin or a gourd. We have beautiful round pumpkins coming out our ears, but they're still hiding under leaves right now so no good pictures were had. And the gourds? These little things are EVERYWHERE!!!

Then there are the sunflowers. Marty and Moira planted these smack dab in the middle of the garden. Aren't they blinding?!

And they planted these over the graves of Tuttle and Zeke, our two wonderful dogs who are chasing that big bone in the sky.

Every other year, our plum tree blooms and this year's been another bumper crop. Unfortunately I started eating them about a 10 days too soon and my mouth is still tore up from the tartness.

And then there's my attempt at a flower garden. Help...

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Me, a dissident daughter?

I always know when I've been watching too much CNN. I get all frothy about the jowls and adamant that "we" stay up on the presidential race and Gustav and the other stuff that normal people can handle staying up on. But me? Emmmm, I'm not that normal, I go mental. So I've shut off the tele, folded up the paper, and cracked open a new book: "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter" by Sue Monk Kidd.

I'd happened upon it during one of my many Amazon visits. I was initially put off when I saw the author. Kidd's latest book, "The Mermaid Chair," was one I really did not like. But then I remembered her "Secret Life of Bees" and how it set off in me a hunger to know more about the 'black madonna' of whom she wrote. So I've decided to leap into "Daughter."

What I understand thus far is that this is a tale of Kidd's very personal journey from the rigors of religious observance to a more intuitive relationship with self through the Feminine Sacred. I can only speak of my own experiences, not to other women's, when I say I have spent my 37 years very pissed off not only at catholicism, but the patriarchy of our planet!

Unlike Kidd who speaks of toeing the line, minding her manners, swallowing insults, and biting her tongue, all in an effort to be a good girl, I continue to spend so much of my energy letting everyone know how much of a good girl I am not.

Being a good girl has never worked for me. Being a bad girl? Hmmm. Well, at least I can say I've not gone quietly into that dark night.

I look at my relationship with my husband. And for better or worse, it is so insanely clear how I'm the Alpha Dog in this matrix. He spends the weekend canning, making salsa, drying plums. I spend the weekend caulking windows (and building Lego spaceships with the kids). And while we both seem to enjoy the stuff we do, I cannot help but feel like Al Bundy. I am not a Becky Homecky goin' all nuts over dust and laundry, but I wish I was. And while it may seem unrelated, it's all part of the same frustration for me. I'm not a good girl, keeping a perfect home, making the pies, and ironing the sheets. And while I know this about myself, I have yet to accept it and it's why I keep reading because I really think it's a spiritual thing.

It's not my intention to sound whiny and bitchy, though I do both very well, and it's also not my intention to hang an entire gender by their short-and-curlies. I'm just grasping to find a sense of self and a sense of focus that will work for me.

So, cheers to another leg of the journey.

Monday, September 1, 2008

More Mr. Stewart