February 16, 2009
False history gets made all day, any day, the truth of the new is never on the news.” – Adrienne Rich
Do you have an opinion to express, or some important information to share? This is the place to bring it. Essays and articles are welcome, so dig into the files and bring us something insightful.
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October 15, 2009
Ellen Haroutunian is a writer, counselor, theologian and deep thinker, living and working in the Denver area. You can read more of Ellen’s thoughts at her blog.
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Seeking the New Feminists: Thoughts on Body Image
As a young girl my daughter was often amazed to hear of how relatively recent the idea is that a woman is free to pursue her life’s work and dreams. She grew up in an era in which it was readily assumed that a smart girl would go to college and that she is just as capable of becoming a doctor or pilot as her husband, if she chooses to marry. Maybe it is evidence of the success of the feminist movement of the turbulent 60’s and 70’s that she and so many other young women find any other way of thinking hard to imagine.
I grew up when that wave of feminism was beginning to find its footing. It was shaped in the wake of Betty Friedan’s controversial best seller, The Feminine Mystique, which explored the “problem that had no name”. Specifically, it was the unspoken lack of fulfillment and quiet desperation that so many women found in their lives. Women were taught and fully believed that they were meant to find all of their fulfillment and meaning in being wives and mothers. Life meant seeking to be the ideal 50’s housewife. “Biology is destiny,” they were told. They felt horribly guilty in admitting that this promised fulfillment was not happening.
The quest of this new feminism was truly a quest for personhood. Freidan encouraged women in their education, and to develop their intelligence and abilities. Who are we, she asked, apart from the roles that we may assume? What do we think? How does a female perspective impact society, politics, the world? From this challenge came the National Organization for Women, founded in 1966, which began to give women a collective voice on many social and political issues.
It was powerful for me as a young girl, to hear NOW quoted on the evening news on what seemed then to be every night. The news anchors would report a political story and then add, “And representatives from NOW say…” because their view on matters was to be respected. In my social studies classes (and often, in very unrelated classes) we’d be discussing why shouldn’t a girl grow up to be a doctor? Or a pilot? Or a Senator? I felt a quiet thrill. I really hadn’t thought that I was incapable of such things, but I believed the assumption that women just didn’t. My mom would look at me at times and say with more than a little envy, “Wow, you can be anything you want to be.” It didn’t understand it fully then, but the awe in her voice and that of her friends spoke loudly.
Of course, feminists were deeply mistrusted and seen as man-hating, child-neglecting, bra-burning bitches who took women away from the family and threatened the sanctity of the home. However, the idea of not working outside the home for the sake of the “sanctity” of the home was only a novelty for those who had not listened to history. It was a decidedly classist fear, as working outside of the home had been the daily reality of women of color and women from low income stations for centuries. Women have always tended to tasks both within the realm of the household and outside of it, creating goods, doing business, and managing employees as well. Conversely, the reality is that today, women who are successful doctors and lawyers and pastors have not stopped caring for the wellbeing of their marriages or families. If anything, they are more educated and bring more skill and commitment to these things. Nurturing and relationships will always be important to women. These are not roles to be enforced, but an essence to be freed, embraced, and dare I say, trusted.
Whatever you may think of the feminists, their 1966 purpose statement said, “NOW is dedicated to the proposition that women, first and foremost, are human beings, who, like all other people in our society, must have the chance to develop their fullest human potential.” The most important thing that has ever been sought through this movement was a full stake in humanness— an elevation to personhood. I will be forever grateful for that. But even as a young woman with so many doors beginning to open before me, I slowly became aware that I needed more than freedom of opportunity. I had truly taken all the rhetoric about personhood to heart, so much so that a counselor friend once said to me, “You see yourself as a person, but not as a woman.” Well, what’s the difference, I wondered? Even so, his statement resonated deeply within me. I needed to discover and embrace the fullness of my female essence: what is unique about being female and what that means for my relationships and my community. It was about far more than roles or what I could or could not do.
In fighting the battle for equality we may have inadvertently lost a bit of ourselves. The truth is, biology does indeed create much of our destinies. But that has too often been looked at in a negative light. It is true that our bodies are more vulnerable than male bodies. Women have paid a greater price in life because of that on many levels. Feminist Lisa Isherwood says that this has caused women to “disassociate themselves from their bodies and even to dismember them through various surgical interventions and in so doing, women are ripped from their bodies as sources of spirituality, wisdom and power.” Women are now faced with more profound ambivalence regarding our bodies than ever. In an age of unprecedented female freedom, we are faced with a cult of extreme, jutting-rib, health-threatening thinness as a standard of beauty along with a proliferation of porn, which portrays bodies that are falsely enhanced as caricature-like representations of the female form. Our bodies are still not our own.
The loss of female flesh and curves corresponded with the movement of women into the corporate boardroom. Apparently female “hardbodies” were less threatening to the powers that be than curvy female flesh. Isherwood says that thinness is ultimately about obedience. Is it not accident that as women have increased in their ability and desire to have a voice and impact in all arenas— corporate America, politics and religion— that our bodies have shrunk in proportion. She adds, “In corporate America, the fleshy, motherly woman is seen as threatening for she represents alternative values, even an alternative way of knowing and understanding. To succeed in the male bastion of power, she needed to reduce and become, as he is, a hard body, devoid of (in comparison to the male body) excess fleshiness. A woman is not to take up too much space.”
This has contributed to the confusion that seems to surround the understanding and treatment of women in our culture today. It had been said by early feminists that women had been controlled and shaped “under the male gaze” and thus we needed to find our personhood in our own right. Woman may have more freedoms now than ever but she is still blatantly objectified in everything from advertising to industry. The message that women constantly receive in this culture is that a woman must change herself according to what others need, but especially in order to fit the male fantasy of woman. Otherwise, our otherness and our uniqueness is too much to contend with. Other than an occasional woman’s magazine article or an Oprah show, there has been a strange silence within our culture on the many confusing and conflicting issues of women’s bodies and body image. Even in the magazines that speak out, there will be contradictory messages, such as pages of ads containing size zero models just opposite of pages of recipes for an easy chocolate torte or dinners fully marinated in butter. One counselor of teens notes that some teen magazines have eliminated the food advertisements altogether, giving young girls the body-denying message: “don’t be hungry”.
We have also been surprisingly quiet about pornography. It had been the “liberated woman’s prerogative” to decide when and how to use her body for sex. The feminist movement had been supportive of nude beaches, for example, feeling that a woman should be able to bear her bare breast as a man does. However, women will always live in their bodies differently than men. The impact and cost for woman is not the same. Under the male gaze she has been utilized for entertainment, measured, rated and given value according to her sex appeal. Naturally, this has served only to deepen our ambivalence about our own bodies. Women are often alternately pampering them and paying excruciating attention to every ounce, and hating them as (we) subject them to the cult of extreme thinness and impossible standards.
The two issues are related, of course. In a culture that tolerates the demeaning nature of porn, women must wrangle and subdue her body to fit standards of beauty that occur naturally in a very miniscule percentage of women. In doing so, we ironically cooperate with a view of woman that asserts that she is available for the male gaze and is subordinate to that. It is no accident that as a woman ages in America, and the years of youth and beauty are behind her, she is seen as having less power and has less voice. Young women are more likely to see a perfectly sculpted young actress as a role model than a stateswoman or a female astronaut. Isherwood says that we are given two ideals – the pornographic and the anorexic. The anorexic is sexually safer.
Maybe this is all evidence that it is an astounding thing to be a woman. Our bodies and our presence have never elicited a neutral response in any time or culture. We create life, which is an ability so amazing that writer Kathleen Norris says that leaders of religion throughout the millennia (another male bastion) have never forgiven us for it. Our bodies tell a story and reveal wisdom about the journey of life as they change with their unique female seasons. We take on extra weight during menses and pregnancy and we may lose that again while breastfeeding an infant. We get weightier as we near menopause, which I see as a beautiful metaphor for that stage of a woman’s life. We have earned our space and our wisdom. Our bodily rhythms reflect the seasons of earth through which we have created traditions for life together that seem to stop time, holding us in the eternal now for the sheer enjoyment of these moments.
This changeability of woman has been measured in a way that leaves us seemingly lacking. Isherwood says that the male standard is unchangeability, hardness, self-sufficient and power. That has set the standard as to how humanity is to be understood. By contrast, the female body brings forth the ideas of vulnerability, adaptability, relationality and collaboration. Our very being is disruptive to power structures and reductionist ideas of what it means to be human. Our female essence brings vital qualities to the human experience. To fully embrace, love and protect our bodies is the means by which we begin to embrace our female essence. And I suspect that to do this is the kindest way to have positive impact on our husbands, brothers and sons, who need some balance for the competitive jungle mentality of power and violence that often consumes their souls. For their sake and ours, we must learn to “be”.
There are still many inequalities that remain, and therefore much more work to be done. But for women to begin to see the life-nurturing power of our being and to offer that in a culture changing way we must each begin to befriend and embrace the wisdom of the female form. Just as important, we must begin to see the beauty in all female forms and celebrate that intentionally and communally. In this culture, to be tall, thin and blond is to have “made it” and to accept a boyfriend or husband’s attachment to porn is “cool”. To cooperate with that way of thinking is to live disingenuously, as those who live for competition, not as nurturers of life and community. In a society that is about control and submission, winners and losers, we must be the voices that encourage each woman to embrace her body, accept, love and live in it, curves— even rolls— and all, as an assertion of full female personhood. For when we push out or diminish others, we lose ourselves.
Ultimately, to love and accept the female body, which includes hormonally-led placement of curves and flesh, is a justice issue. We can help each other to live out full personhood incarnationally— in our bodies, enfleshed and whole, knowing the fullness of what it is to be beautifully human. In that way, we witness and express the female Imago Dei, the very image of God.
article by ellen haroutunian, all rights reserved
September 15, 2009
I am Renee Dargie. I am a mother of three wonderful children and I am a military spouse. I currently reside in Soignies, Belgium where I am trying to carve out a home in the Belgian countryside, this being my 20th move in 43 years. I have lived and traveled around the world and so the concept of “home” is one that remains central to my writing, my life and my passions. I love learning languages, sewing, writing, teaching, tutoring in our highschool and being with my family.
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Where Magic Resides
I always like to start exactly where I am. I just put a beautiful quiche in the oven and then I stepped outside and just stood on my patio and let the wind blow my hair backwards. That beautiful not-quite-winter-yet wind blew my hair off my face and let it flow towards the empty field where the farmer just harvested his wheat. Maybe it was barley. But the wind was magical because it sent me a hint of an idea, a whisper of a story. I think I am becoming friends with that gentle wind.
It whispered magic to me. And I began to think about where that resides. Many boys and girls would tell me that it’s in the pages of Harry Potter. But I am a woman, mother, wife and daughter and I know better. But most of all I am an observer and participant in life. And so I began to list the places where magic resides….or at least where I have seen it in the past few days….
It is in the smile that curls up ever so slightly when a beautiful young girl mentions her very first new boyfriend. It is sandwiched in between middle school grins as a group of young kids from the German school open their lunch boxes, packed with dark brown sunflower seed bread, cream cheese and salami. It lingers around and through the barrettes that pull back lovely dark brown hair and highlights the delicate pauses in their stories that reveal dimples and giggles. And I think that the magical wind reminds me that in this moment there is precious and golden energy and I know that god inhabits their hearts.
I saw a young mother create a special and endearing kind of magic on a different day. Her toddler sat across from her and the sun dappled the table where they sat together. The mother had coffee for herself and another cup of cocoa. She poured the creamers into her coffee and smiled at her son. As the cocoa cooled she poured it magically into the empty little creamer containers and pushed it in front of the boy. He sipped it and smiled and kicked his feet back and forth and waited for another miniature cup to be filled for him. Five little empty creamer containers sat in front of him to choose from. Their moment was magic. It reminded me how easily mothers create joy for their children in random, unexpected and creative ways.
I hope that everyone has at least once in their life been on the receiving end of a running hug! There is extra magic in the kind of hug that comes at the end of a sprint across a lawn or down the hallway to greet you. I have received several running hugs from my children when they see me waiting in the driveway or on the front porch or in front of their school after their school day has ended. If I could store up the magic in each hug, I would have the power of the universe in my hand.
Magic is always present when a child is skipping. It is impossible for a child to skip and feel sad at the same time. Skipping is pure joy in motion. I think each of us should skip more. Silliness is magic.
I am blessed among women because of the way my 8 year old son says goodnight to me. It is the most magical and wonderful time of day. His words are poetry and love and they never fail to evoke a special magic. It creeps under the door and throughout his room and eventually over our entire home as he repeats the same words each night, good night Mom, don’t let the bed bugs bite, you’re the best mom in the whole wide world, I’ll never stop loving you. My own response comes in between so that we share our feelings for each other.
Maybe magic is just love and joy and gratitude for the incredible wonder that exists in our lives. Where does magic reside in your life? I would love to know.
essay by renee dargie, all rights reserved
August 15, 2009
Amber Lane is a writer who happens to be a chemist. During the day she writes technical pieces and during the evening she moonlights as a creative nonfiction writer. She has performed her creative nonfiction pieces at conferences, creative arts events, and most recently at A Night of Short Stories, which featured four of her pieces. She holds a BA in Biology with Chemistry and Theatre Arts from Alverno College, Wisconsin. She is currently a member of the American Chemical Society. She also serves on the leadership team for her faith community, The Refuge.
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Ruby and Wiley
They stand looking towards the front door, attentive and strong. Quickly, their focus changes and they are at the back sliding glass door, peering out into the darkness of the nearly summer night. Ruby settles between the curtain and the glass door, which provides her with a complete view of all the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Wiley paces and stalks. I move on the couch and Wiley jumps glancing quickly back at me. He finally settles in behind Ruby between the curtain and the door. They have taken their posts and lie in wait of the next passerby, to which they will alert me with a wag of their tails.
She is strong and confident, always friendly with people, setting her ears back and wagging her tail in anticipation of a scratch on the head. He is of a slight build, quick to run away and always on alert, never trusting of anything or anyone. They are both handsome and beautiful as I’m informed of on a regular basis. Ruby is a deep true red, huge round eyes that are framed by distinct, expressive eyebrows, long eyelashes, and black eyeliner like rims. Her looks pierce to the heart and often give the impression of sadness. Wiley is tall and lean, a Mohawk spanning his back, and he has very large pointy ears. He is nearly cartoonish with so many exaggerated features, but stops just short of his namesake Wile E Coyote, and in so doing appears regal.
Their personalities are as different as their looks. Ruby is easy going, laid-back. When sitting or laying next to me she always sits or lies very close, making sure that she is in full contact. She is often by herself. She doesn’t express the need to constantly know where I am and in fact doesn’t seem to care much. As long as she gets food and can go outside to go to bathroom she is content. Wiley never stops moving. He paces and whines expressing boredom constantly. Eventually, he flops down in high drama and casts his big brown eyes at me, attempting to elicit guilt. He is very high strung and insecure. He is afraid of all things new and unknown. There are two rooms in the house where he seeks refuge, and outside of those rooms he doesn’t venture too much. He is a sweet boy, always in tune to my feelings. Every night I get into bed and he jumps up, lays nearly all of his body on top of me, looks up at me with his big brown eyes in the most innocent way, and I scratch behind his ears. After a few seconds he jumps off the bed and curls up into his chair for the night.
Nothing makes Wiley happier than to run. Nothing makes Ruby happier than to eat.
You know what they say about dogs and their owners…that they share characteristics. I believe that Ruby and Wiley are my mirrors; they both reflect pieces of me, and between the two of them they provide a pretty complete picture. People often wonder why I got a second dog…I think it’s because I needed both of them. I am a complicated mix of confidence and insecurity, seriousness and humor, friendliness and aloofness, and they both offer a counterbalance depending on where I am. So here’s to my Ruby and my Wiley.
Nothing makes me happier than the two of them.
essay by amber lane. all rights reserved
August 15, 2009
Hello! My name’s Michaela and I’m 12, but people say I’m a fantastic writer. It’s fun, but reading is even more so. I wrote this in the 6th grade, so about 2 years ago, and I thought it might be fun to show it to you. Thanks.
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The Perfect Classroom
In an all girl school, inside the medium-sized half-sphere. This is my classroom, and I love it there. Private school, private room, special children about me. I love my job, the color scheme, the desks, the chairs. Be amazed as I show these details through my words. The sights, the smells, and the sounds suck me in. The children I adore, the children adore me. What are these sounds? Let me present them to you.
Baby soft jazz in the background, to help the girls think. Baby take a bow, and the Backyard Blues. Wonderful sounds, pittering whispers, quiet chitchat. I hear lovely sounds, where others do not. Read, girls, read! It is reading class. Hear these sounds; let them calm you. Large dome, and baby soft jazz.
Sniffing the air I think, “Ah, what a smell!” Cupcake candles, refill them now. Sensible aromas in the air. “Everyone stand up and enjoy this fragrance!” I want to declare. They sniff the air like little puppy-dogs, and relax in their desks with a sigh. Large dome, baby soft jazz and lovely cupcake candles.
Coloring pretty, with a beautiful design. Lavender and cream correspond. Lavender lampshades, creamy base. Ruffles all around, same colors as the rest. All the teachers are jealous, that they are not the best. Nice, creamy pearls on an appealing lavender corkboard make the room seem even more pleasant. Large dome, baby soft jazz, lovely cupcake candles, and wonderful color scheme.
Two very small bubbles, both side-by-side. One’s right side up, the other upside down. Creamy white chocolate chair, along with a charming lavender desk. No one can take this beauty away. The desks are as pleasant as the bright shiny moon and the chairs are softer than a baby’s bottom. When you sit on their soft cushions, you feel at home. Nothing is bland-colored, as it would be boring, but straight up for girls this is awesome. Large dome, baby soft jazz, lovely cupcake candles, wonderful color scheme, and delightful desks.
Look, decorations! You can tell what season or holiday is coming about. For St. Patrick ’s Day, I have a soft green corkboard with very petty details. Petite shamrocks, little leprechauns, and all not very rich in color. For winter, I will have extraordinary lavender snowflakes, because I do not want to be holiday specific. Moreover, these snowflakes will be as realistic as artificial snowflakes can become. For spring, I will have cream and lavender tulips, because tulips remind me of spring. Large dome, baby soft jazz, lovely cupcake candles, wonderful color scheme, delightful desks, and decorations galore.
My special classroom, a wonder, a dream. A very interesting classroom, of relaxation, and happiness is a place that you will want to be if you plan to be free. Be alive, be amazing, set sail from this world, you can be silent, you can talk, but ever so sadly, there are rules. You can talk, but quietly. If you speak out of turn, there are four stages: 1.-Warning 2. Yellow Slip 3. Blue Slip 4. Referral
A yellow slip is a stronger warning, but I will not raise my voice. A blue sheet of paper, I will be somewhat strict with it. A referral is a referral, and I probably do not have to continue with that.
Large dome, baby soft jazz, lovely cupcake candles, wonderful color scheme, delightful desks, decorations galore, and a few rules.
I wish you could visit my special world. This wonderful world inside a girls’ school. A place of joy, contentment, and peace. This place is apart of the world around it. You could come to my classroom someday, it’s 8th period at St. Dorothy’s School for Girls. You can come I want to separate you from the world through my classroom. From the world. To be happy and joyful is a gift, and here it is, offered to you. Large dome, baby soft jazz, lovely cupcake candles, wonderful color scheme, delightful desks, decorations galore, a few small rules, and a gift offered to you.
essay by michaela johnson, all rights reserved
July 15, 2009
Ryan Harrison currently lives in Denver, Colorado–but feels most at home in Morocco. She works for Celebration Community Church, a lovely little place that has helped her find her voice. She blogs, erratically but frequently at polaroidsoftheheart.wordpress.com.
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Stocking Feet on Slick Floors
Stocking feet on slick floors, pink tutus and slippers are favorite childhood memories of mine. I am convinced that much like me, little girls the world over dream of becoming dancers, their spirits twirling with endless, effortless grace, unaware of the shadows just beyond the edge of their world.
But too often the shadows settle in, and dreams are dashed from their hearts. Darkness overcomes some of their stories, and they are prisoners, captives to something bigger than their joy, bigger than their dreams, bigger than their laughter.
This story isn’t as much about the darkness as it is the light: hope, peace, and restoration—and maybe most importantly, abolition. It’s also a story about how, after growing up to be undisciplined, uncommitted, and uninterested in being a dancer, I learned how important it was to dance again.
Every minute—approximately the time it took to read the beginning paragraphs—two children are sold into sexual slavery. Every five hours, the same numbers of children that attend your neighborhood elementary school, middle school, or high school disappear, stolen into the dark underworld of the globe’s economy. Little girls who once danced on their daddy’s feet are whisked away to the great void—the place where dreams die.
I can’t reconcile this idea with my day-to-day life. How do I get up, go to work, or make dinner while humans are bought and sold, while little girls who are hardly old enough to speak become victims to horrors that I will never know? How do I purchase sugar, cocoa, clothing, knowing that slave laborers harvested and sewed my products? How do I host a soccer camp for eighty kids from around the world, sending them all home with a soccer ball stitched together by tiny hands and tired eyes?
How do I throw my hands into the air and dance with my own students, the ones who go home to safe families and sleep knowing they will wake up in their own beds the next morning? I don’t have any answers—but I do believe that in being willing to dance with my kids here, I am teaching them, to live, to laugh, and love—and to be free.
I believe that when they know they are worthy of laughter, of joy, of hope, and peace, that they will become a generation that loves. They will become a generation that stands up for what is right and demands change. They will become abolitionists. They will say no to a child being trafficked every thirty seconds. They will say no to brothels and brokenness. They will say no to the powers of the world that threaten to steal, kill, and destroy.
We need more people to say no. We need more people to stand up and become abolitionists. We need more people to love. We need these things because I have seen what a difference love makes.
This spring, an organization dear to my heart called Love146 opened a safe-home in Southeast Asia. Little girls who had been rescued from brothels, who had horrific, tremendously terrible stories started a new chapter. They came home to this place where love was all around, literally—the house was round, with no corner to get lost in or hide in, no dark space to retreat to the shadows. The house was a home, a place for the girls to live, to grow, to play, and to be restored.
The community of caretakers, counselors, and abolitionists gathered to celebrate the new safe-home and to welcome home its new residents. And these little girls, who once were slaves, did something amazing. They danced.
essay by ryan harrison, all rights reserved
May 18, 2009
I am a 26 year old Master’s student in Littleton, CO. I work in mental health, and I love what I do. I enjoy chocolate, reading, shopping, and spending time with treasured friends.
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The Risk of a Dream
Sometimes dreams are all we have when the world is too hard to face. They can be the hope of all things new, or a desperate prayer that the ones we hold dearest will not be ripped away in one ugly instant. To believe in a dream is sometimes all it takes to live. And to experience a dream we must take the risk of living.
During life’s difficulties, dreams literally become the stuff of which we’re made. By their very nature, dreams inspire the hope that someday the world will look different than it does today. Dreams give us hope that what lies beyond us is not out of reach.
If you ask me how to experience your lifelong dream, my answer would simply be: risk living it!
Dreams are not snapshots. They are ideas and fantasies that propel us forward. Dreams involve all of our senses; what we see and hear around us, what we feel, the tastes and smells that envelope our entire being. Dreams are powerful enough to sweep us away from our current reality, but dreams must also be what anchor us to the present, as we work to implement the deep, internal changes that dreams often require.
Pursuing a dream is not an easy task. It takes courage and perseverance, since it can sometimes be a drawn-out process. Pursuing a dream may result in toil and tears before it comes to fruition; however, the return on achieving such a goal is worth the struggle.
The process of pursuing a dream molds us into the person we need to become in order to make what was once just a thought become reality. Do not hasten the pursuit. Instead, be prepared for pleasant surprises as you look back on a tumultuous journey and discover that you have already begun to live some of the aspects of the life you envision.
A dream is nothing without the pursuit. A dream cannot be achieved without risk. The risk of pursuit is a worthy challenge; it is during this challenge that we find our uniqueness. The risk of pursuit forces us to discover what we’re made of. And, it is in the risk of pursuit that we truly begin to live our dreams.
essay by sarah imbler, all rights reserved
April 27, 2009
Delta Donohue, who lives in Littleton, Colorado, spent 14 years working in corporate America before looking up and realizing that life was calling her! She now co-directs a non-profit working with street Children in India, runs a social business helping to economically empower rural women in India, co-hosts a radio show for Metropolitan State College called Engaging the Ostrich and is an increasingly active poet.
Delta believes strongly in the transformative power of words; those we think internally, those we process through reading and writing, and those we speak to our world.
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Mutant Bugs
I moved to Atlanta from Denver, Colorado. Certainly we have bugs in Denver. However, they are normal bugs. They politely adhere to normal classifications and expectations. While they demonstrate the irritating, but very bug-like, characteristic of popping up when you least expect them, they are of predictable size, shape and attitude.
Southern bugs, at least those that have chosen Atlanta as their domicile, seem to take a different approach. I have seen neon orange wasps, the occasional tiny, fluorescent green spider, and the ever-friendly little ladybug, not unique in itself, but unique in the staggering quantities that have made my balcony their home.
Then there are the dive-bombing bees that may look something like the nice fuzzy bumblebees of storybook lore, but are really evil cousins twice removed. They are huge, black, buzzing torpedoes that seem to have a homing beacon directing them toward your face. After some research, I learned they are actually named carpenter bees, or boring bees, and they are capable of boring into wood sometimes as deeply as 4-6 feet. The website I searched stated they don’t sting people, well, only rarely, but their sheer size and flying aeronautics instill such fear that stinging really isn’t necessary to induce trauma in the human species. And what exactly do those research people mean by “rarely”? It means one of these monstrosities has stung at least one person and I could be next in line. Frankly (a word I’ve only begun to use since relocating to the South) I think, as a matter of principle, anything that can bore through wood shouldn’t be allowed to come in contact with humans.
While learning about the boring bee is fascinating in its own right, my recent close encounter with a different mutant completely eclipses all previous experiences.
Mutant Beetles (well, maybe cockroaches, but I’m really, really, really going with the beetle theory here).
It was 6:15 in the morning – Monday morning no less, and certainly before the required ingestion of any caffeine. Doing the normal routine, getting ready to take a shower. Amazing how much harder it is to fight a bug, big or small, when you are naked. As if the presence of your cellulite somehow makes you much less capable of attack! Or perhaps it is the knowledge that when the monster jumps, which it surely will, by default it will absolutely land on some part of your body and you will be forced to live forever remembering the feel of those skittering legs going places no bug should be allowed to go. But, I digress.
On the corner of my bathtub was an ENORMOUS beetle (again, sticking with that theory). I am talking at least an inch and a half maybe two inches without adding in the antennae factor. Now I am not very good with bugs at the best of times, but naked and facing the Godzilla of bugdom just doesn’t work well for me. Especially after realizing that the bug and I had been sharing a bathroom for at least a couple minutes while I had started the shower and weighed myself, etc. You just know that it saw me before I saw it.
Many screams, high-pitched squeals, hops with cellulite struggling to keep up, book throws, shoe drops and bug sprays later the bug was dead and I was exhausted. I desperately wanted to crawl back into bed and huddle in a fetal position but realized that I would need to shake out all the covers, perform a thorough vacuuming and scrubbing of all exposed surfaces and install netting before I could rest easily (and don’t some people put out tin cans with gasoline or sugar water or something to discourage pests?) – so, after evaluating the amount of effort and corresponding stress required to allow me to relax, I decided going to work was safer and easier. Upon arrival, my first order of business was to immediately call and arrange a pest spraying.
Postscript
The sprayers dutifully came the next day at 8:00 a.m., prompted to schedule more quickly than normal, I’m sure, after listening to the quality and quantity of hysteria expressed during my phone call. Since my “experience” I have seen no further evidence of bugs existing in my ordered world and have decided to write off this one horrific episode as simply an errant beetle that made a wrong, and decidedly unwelcome, turn. My mother, in some misguided, but still quite motherly, attempt to further reassure me mentioned that a 2-inch cockroach is nothing. She explained that Mexico is home to cockroaches that frequently are 4-inches or larger. I quickly, and forcefully, reminded her that that my intruder was a mutant beetle and that she had just helped me narrow my list of potential living locations. Mexico is off the list.
Since sharing my story with others, people seemed compelled to share stories of their own bug traumas. Thus, producing a “my bug is bigger than your bug” competition, while facilitating the healing that occurs through the sharing of pain. It was also a good excuse to pass around therapist cards and names. Some summaries of the best stories, comments, and helpful hints I have received:
The fish bug. Multi-colored roach-like body, fish lips, big eyes designed specifically to stare at humans, and the ability to make a high pitched noise when it senses a man, woman or child, seemingly unaware that it is a bug that shouldn’t be capable of making a sound especially given its protruding fish lips. Granted, this one seems like a bit of an exaggeration but the source is impeccable, not given to drink, and claims she can provide witnesses. Plus, I saw the goosebumps on her skin as she was describing this encounter that had happened several years ago.
Buy RAID or Hotshot. Buy a lot of cans to place in every room and outdoor area of your living space, buy every brand they make, even though none of the sprays really work (my errant beetle might disagree, I think he was well on his way to dying from his RAID drowning even prior to the final shoe drop hitting its intended target with a definite squishing effect). Buy it because it makes you feel better, plus it feels like a weapon that you can hold and wield strongly in the face of your enemy.
Palmetto Bugs/Waterbugs/ Cockroach stories galore. Palmetto Bugs seems to win though as they have the capability of flying which makes them doubly devious. One website lists them as: Palmetto Bugs aka freakyroachflyingthingsfromHELL bugs. Seems accurate to me based upon all descriptions I have heard. Because of their ability to fly, most stories have an element of the Palmetto Bug ending up in a woman’s hair (do they not like men?). A new friend of mine described the moment of terror when she realized this freakyroachflyingthingfromHELL was in her hair. Screaming, pulling out handfuls of hair, running through her house, leading her to run smack into a wall, which caused her to land on her butt on the floor, and the offending Palmetto Bug to be bounced out of her hair. The bug survived the day and slinked off into some unfound hidey-hole. My friend, well, she survived to tell the tale but the damage goes deep.
Helpful hints: Move. Always wear hats, they protect you somewhat. Always turn the light on before entering a room and scan the perimeter. Walk as if at any moment something could drop on you from above, below or from the side. Ears are especially vulnerable. Move. Move. Move.
article by Delta Donohue, all rights reserved
April 13, 2009
Kathy Escobar co-pastors The Refuge, an eclectic faith community dedicated to people in the margins in Colorado. A mommy of five, her life is full of chaos and beauty. She loves helping women (and men, too), find their voices and step into their dreams and passions. She’s also the co-author of two spiritual direction tools for women, Come with Me: an Invitation to Break Through the Walls Between You & God and Refresh: Sharing Stories, Building Faith, and one of the dreamers behind Voca Femina.
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Jump!
A few years ago my family went to El Salvador for a visit. Jose, my husband, was born there and so it’s always lovely to go and hang out with such a beautiful, welcoming family, and experience the warmth of the Salvadorean culture. On this particular trip, my mom went with us. Over the years she’s become quite the adventurer. A risk-taker. A “why-not-you-only-live-once” kind of person. She got her college degree in her 50’s, her master’s degree in her 60’s. She travels when she can. Dances on the weekends with a pack of friends. Honestly, she lives a lot more than many I know who are decades younger.
Part of our El Salvador ventures included a day at a lake nestled up in the mountains. When we arrived, I noticed that there really wasn’t a beach, only a tall-and I do mean tall—dock. Higher than a high dive. My stomach got a little knotted just looking at it. So as we’re all walking around, getting the lay of the land, my mom exclaims “Oh, we have to do it!”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Jump off the dock!” she replied. “We aren’t going to be back here anytime soon. Let’s do it.”
Honestly, I was trying to think of all of the ways I could get in the water without the dock. I seriously had no intention of jumping off. My stomach got a little queazy just thinking about it. But here was my mother, 65 years old at the time, the first in line to take the plunge. I loved her reasoning: “We aren’t going to be back here anytime soon…” It was so true. This was one of those moments when I knew that I’d regret not jumping, for being too chicken, for letting my fears get in the way of giving something new a try.
So we did it. One by one, all of the kids and our other friends who were with us took the plunge, Grandma Karen leading the way. We jumped. I screamed. It hurt a little bit when I hit the water. Yeah, but the ride was fun. And I felt proud that I didn’t let fear get in the way . And after the first jump, the ones afterward definitely weren’t quite as scary.
I wonder how many of us out there are standing at the dock, looking down at the water below, thinking “I really want to jump but I’m just too afraid. What if I break my neck? What if I look stupid? What if I end up belly-flopping? ”
I hope we can learn something from my mom. She admitted she was a little scared to go for it, too. But somewhere deep inside she knew that she wasn’t coming back here anytime soon and she didn’t want to miss the moment. “You only live once,” she said.
I want more of my life to look like “Why the hell not?” instead of all of the reasons why it’s too scary, too hard, too risky, too vulnerable, too embarrassing. I want to be a person who’s willing to jump off the dock, throw my hands in the air, take the plunge and try.
And there’s no doubt, it’s so much more fun when others are plugging their noses & stepping off the edge at the same time. That’s what Voca Femina is about, a place to take the plunge. To risk. To jump. To try. To say out loud “Why the hell not, I may not be back here again anytime soon.”
March 30, 2009
I am a wife, mother of 4, a proud new grandmother, and nurse educator. I love gardening (though I kill more than I grow some years!), hiking, reading and playing poker! I am enjoying a life season of rediscovery and honesty, and am weaving a rather eclectic tapesty of old and new dreams. I live in Arvada, CO and have a home based career, which I love!
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The Practice of Writing (all rights reserved)
I have a folder on my computer labeled “Writings”. In it are a few scattered poems, essays, short allegorical stories dropped there like fertile seeds in a dry, weed-invested and neglected garden. A few years back, spurred to begin journaling as a part of a recovery-based 12 step program, I began filling small blue notebooks with “Notes to Myself”. I could sometimes write for hours, or until my cramping hands compelled me to give it a rest!
These days, I often go for months without even one journal entry…underneath still feeling the urge to sit and write. Some days, I resist the writing urge, because I know if I start….it will be hours before I quit and the daily pressures of life build a dam to hold back the deep running waters. Other days I resist writing, because I know I am not in an honest place, having slipped back into lifelong patterns of superficial living and coping, resisting the vulnerability of honest reflection.
But these days, the dammed up waters are threatening to overflow the wall, as the voice within me longs for the freedom. Natalie Goldberg writes on freeing the writer within, in the dog-eared library copy I am reading, in her book Writing Down the Bones. Early in the book, she writes on ‘the practice of writing’ and likens it to the habitual stretching and warm-ups that runners commit to, before each and every run. She writes:
Like running, the more you do it, the better you get at it. Some days you don’t want to run and you resist every step of the three miles, but you do it anyway. You practice whether you want to or not. You don’t wait around for inspiration and a deep desire to run. It’ll never happen, especially if you are out of shape and have been avoiding it. But if you run regularly, you train your mind to cut through or ignore your resistance. You just do it. And in the middle of the run, you love it. When you come to the end, you never want to stop. And you stop,hungry for the next time. (p. 11)
Goldberg beautifully likens the practice of writing to the running example, encouraging writers to learn to “trust your deep self more and not give in to your voice that wants to avoid writing”. Inspired by her words, I followed her advice, quieted the voice of the critic, and took out paper and pen and began to write. As I wrote, transcendence occurred and the dam broke. Living water surged through my Spirit, and in my tangled, neglected garden, a tiny, fragrant flower pushed through the weeds to offer hope and signs of life underneath it all.
I Will Write
I will write,
I will speak
From my heart, with My Voice,
honest and true!
To set sail on a sea of words, wild untamed and free.
One day, to waters known and beloved;
On another, braver day,
To waters yet uncharted and unknown,
intoxicated with Dangerous Adventure.
I will write, today, this moment in time,
to open the door to my Self,
to the Spirit housed inside this glove of humanity.
I wave,
Spirit in gloved fingers,
Graceful, purposeful, ALIVE.
I write.
March 16, 2009
Rachelle Mee-Chapman is a writer and alt.minister from Seattle, WA, now living the ex-pat life in Copenhagen, Denmark. She is the mother of two school-aged girls, and one teenager adopted-by-affection. Rachelle’s current life motto is: “embrace whimsy.” You can find her at Magpie Girl, friend her at Facebook, or follow her on Twitter.
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photo by shelby mcquilkin. all rights reserved.
The Care and Keeping of Stories
“I can’t quite get it into words what stories mean to me. I guess they make me believe.”
-Silvia DeVires, True Colors
Most mornings this winter, before the sun is up, you will find me walking the dark and quiet lakes of Copenhagen with a story in my ear. This American Life with Ira Glass. Malcolm Gladwell’s eccentric collections in Outliers. Podcasts from the Portfolio Project by Jen Lee. The long unwinding tale of An American Wife. Stories fill my ears and feed my spirit so that later, when I am back in my studio, more stories will pour out from my finger tips.
Since I have started telling my stories in written and spoken word, people—mostly women—have been finding me anyway they can. I get messages from the About page on my blog, notes left on my wall on Facebook, mini stories in 140 characters or less on Twitter, even notes in my Flickr mail. I didn’t even know you could get Flickr mail! These women are contacting me through the ether of the internet to tell me their stories and to point out where our stories connect. Stories of regret and starting over. Stories of memory and its mysterious ways. Stories of pain, 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. Because with all my heart, 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 hold these stories tenderly and let their power sing from the rooftops.
So here friends, is what I know right now about telling stories:
• Embody your stories. When you document a story, you make it less ethereal, and affirm that it is Real. The most obvious way to embody a story is to write in a journal. But you can help them show up other ways as well. You might capture them in a collage made of images torn from magazines and picture books. You could jot them in the lines of a poem. You could document them in smears of color on canvas. Or you could even just distill them into long lists of words. Whatever you do, 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 that they are Real, that you are Real.
• Name your stories. Give your stories titles and subtitles. This will make them feel Clever and Important, and they will stay with you longer and tell you more True Things. 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. When you release it may guide others; or companion other story holders who have otherwise felt alone; or simply slide away past your finger tips, because you no longer need to carry it.
• Speak your stories aloud. Let your voice sound out into an empty room. Tell a friend over tea. Record yourself on you cell phone’s voice mail. Get one of those little hand-held digital recorders and become your own biographer. Giving voice, literally giving voice to your stories can be in turns affirming, empowering, releasing, and healing.
• Give your stories time to grow up. When writers craft a story the tale emerges over time. Stories rarely emerge full formed with all their parts in order. Usually they are a mystery. Stories flit back and forth through time. They don’t always match the present. They play in the field of memory. In spite of this—perhaps because of this–you can use your intuition to tell them as they unfold. Trust your intuitive voice to tell the part of the story you need to tell, when you need to tell it.
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. I know that at times, it is hard to remember—but your story is important. May you sing it from the rooftops.
“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
