I have mixed feelings about last night’s reports that Osama bin Laden is dead. On the one hand, I understand the need for justice and I ache for those people still living with the deep loss that 9/11 caused. I was in New York City a month after the towers fell and I breathed in the smell of death and shared in the collective grief of that beautiful city in that beautiful country. I understand why people would want to destroy the person responsible for so much destruction.
On the other hand, though, what does this resolve? Does bin Laden’s death offer us any more hope for peace? Does it provide a salve for any of the wounds inflicted by him? Does it suddenly stop terrorism from forming in other parts of the world?
Sadly, terrorism does not operate under the logic that “oh – they killed bin Laden, best not to attack them”. Terrorism thrives on death. Think of the people willing to give up their lives for their cause, who hi-jacked those planes, or who blow themselves up regularly as suicide bombers. They’re not afraid of death. They will not go silently into that dark night.
Vengeance is a frightening thing once it gets ahold of you. And it has gotten ahold of a lot of people since 9/11. I keep wondering how many people will have to die in Iraq and Afghanistan before the need for blood has been satisfied. Sadly, when it comes to vengeance, there is always collateral damage. I was saddened this morning to learn that, in the attack on bin Laden’s compound, a woman was killed because she was used as a human shield. She is only one of the many, many people who have been killed in this decade long fight to avenge 9/11.
Many years ago, when a man broke into my apartment and raped me, my dad’s first reaction was to admit how badly he wanted vengeance on the man who hurt me. It was a primal and fierce reaction, and – I’ll admit – it made me feel loved. I was angry and hurt, and to see someone who loves you take up that anger and hurt along with you feels good at the moment. And so I understand the need of so many hurt Americans to see their country (and supporting countries) rise up and support them in their anger and pain.
But the legacy my father left me was not vengeance, it was peace. If he had gone after my rapist and demanded he pay for his crime with his life, he would have only served to spread hatred a little further. Instead, my father modelled peace and forgiveness in all that he did, even in learning to forgive my rapist. One of the greatest things he taught me in life was that pacifism and love are always better options than war and hatred.
Is it possible that, instead of seeking vengeance for any more hurts, we can learn to model peace for the world, just as my father modeled it for me? Can we quit fooling ourselves into believing that an eye for an eye will somehow usher in peace? Can we learn to forgive those who trespass against us and spread love instead of hate?
This morning I keep thinking this thought… “oh how badly we need Sophia leadership. Oh how badly we need wisdom that is feminine, spiritual, intuitive, creative, visionary, and compassionate in this time of so much unresolved hatred and hurt. Oh how badly we need love.”
Last night was my daughter’s first rugby game, and let me tell you, she was FIERCE! She threw herself into the game just the way I knew she would – with her whole heart and body. She dug her feet in and pushed with all her might against the opposing team in the scrum (what you see in the photo – but that’s a borrowed photo and not her team). She pummelled any opponent who dared to run by her carrying the ball. She dashed across the field whenever the ball was tossed to her… and she SCORED! In the last seconds of the game, she made it across the line to score her very first “try” (like a touchdown in football) in her very first game.
I thought I would be scared to watch her (this is the girl who tore a ligament in her knee and had to have surgery because of a soccer injury – partly because she is such an intense player), but the truth is I LOVED IT!
I LOVED the energy on the field. I LOVED the way that those young girls get to live out their fierceness in such a healthy and fun way. I LOVED the way Nikki would not back down from even the biggest opponent.
I’m a little ashamed to admit this, but I used to be afraid of her fierceness. I used to think it was my job as her mom to help her cage it in some way. I used to cringe when I’d watch her get fouled out in basketball or get penalties in soccer. It was hard to watch that fierce look in her eyes when she’d throw her passion into a sport, because I was afraid she’d get hurt or that she’d hurt someone else. I’d tell her, when she’d come off the field, “can you be a little less vicious? Tone it down a little.”
But now? I am thrilled for her that she has found a sport that honours that fierceness in her. I told her last night, “Honey, don’t ever lose that fierceness. Find healthy ways of using it, but don’t ever let people tell you it’s wrong.”
Because I realized something last night as I watched her. Somewhere along the line, I let my fierceness be caged. I let the expectations that I be a “nice girl”, a “well-behaved girl”, a “quiet girl” put me inside a cage and it is taking me years to break out of that cage. Even now I still fight those bars, trying to break out into freedom. Even now I keep silent when I should be shouting, I make choices that limit me because I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings, I tell little white lies because I hate offending people with the truth, and I bottle anger inside because it scares me.
After the rugby game last night, I read Ronna Detrick’s magnificent post about the vision, the roar, and the muse and I knew what I needed to do. I need to ROAR! I need quit trying to bottle the fierceness inside me. I need to quit letting myself believe I have to be polite and nice and never hurt anyone’s feelings. I need to challenge those people who dare to bottle my truth just because it scares them. I need to let my inner warrior CHARGE forward with courage and strength.
This morning, as I ran, I had a flashback to the birth of my second daughter. In the depths of labour, after I’d let out a fierce, primal scream, a nurse told me, with a measure of impatience, “if you keep screaming like that, you’ll have no voice tomorrow.” Instantly, I went to that place I go when I’ve dared to step out of the role of “nice, respectful, quiet” girl and someone calls me on it – I went to shame. I bottled the next scream deep inside because I didn’t want to cause anyone annoyance, I didn’t want to embarrass myself, and I didn’t want to risk tomorrow’s voice.
But you know what? Later, after I held my daughter in my arms, I thought, “BULLSHIT! WHY would you tell a birthing woman to keep silent? If you can’t scream in childbirth, when CAN you scream? And what kind of nonsense is not screaming today because it might hurt your voice tomorrow? If today needs a scream, well then, dammit, SCREAM!”
I can’t go back to that moment and let out that next scream I bottled, but I can choose to not let anyone bottle the next scream that needs to erupt from that primal place in me.
And I will sit on the sidelines and CHEER as my fierce daughter charges headlong into a sport that may very well hurt her. Because DAMMIT if she can’t relish her fierceness now, then some day she will be lying in a hospital bed and letting a nurse silence her primal scream.
“How do you get to be so free?” Caterpillar asks wistfully of Butterfly.
“Surrender,” Butterfly whispers as she flutters by.
“But… I’ve read all the books, taken all the classes, and I just can’t seem to get off the ground.”
“Surrender.”
“What do you mean – surrender? Surrender to what?”
“To the Mystery. To your Creator. To your own DNA.”
“How do I do that?” Caterpillar frowns.
“Climb up in that tree, let go of the branch, and spin.”
“Spin?”
“Yes, spin.”
“But I don’t know how to spin. Do I need to take a course? Is there a manual?”
“You’ll know. Once you’re up there on the branch.”
“I’ll know? How will I know?”
“It’s written in your DNA.”
“What happens next? Do I have to spin my own wings?”
“No, silly,” Butterfly giggles. “You spin a cocoon.”
“A cocoon? I’ve never heard of that before. What do I do with it once I’ve spun it?”
“You don’t do anything. You just wait. Inside the cocoon.”
“What good does waiting do? I have too much work to do to sit around waiting in a cocoon. I have housework to do and children to feed and… well, that’s just ridiculous.” Caterpillar turns away, her eyes back on the ground.
“Well, then you’d better give up your dream of flying, because that’s the only way to get up here.” Butterfly’s wings carry her a little higher.
Caterpillar glances back at the sky. Her eyes fill with tears. “But… I really want to fly. Can you tell me a little more? Please. What comes next?”
“The hard part. The surrender.”
“So we’re back to surrender again. That doesn’t seem very helpful. And it’s kind of confusing. What am I surrendering?”
“Everything you ever knew. Every cell of your body. Every story you’ve ever told yourself.”
“I have to give up EVERYTHING?! Isn’t that asking a bit much?”
“Yes, but it’s worth it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Oh yes. It hurts.”
“How do you handle the pain?”
“You won’t like the answer.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Surrender. And trust. You have to surrender to the pain and trust the process. You have to give up control and let your body turn to an ugly gooey mushy substance while you wait for transformation to happen. Your friends (those who haven’t learned to spin yet) will turn away because they won’t recognize you. It will be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.”
“I don’t know if I can do it. I can’t handle that much pain.”
“You can.”
“But…”
“Do you want to taste the sky?”
“Oh yes. I really, really do.”
“Then you have to let go of the ground.”
*********
I’m excited to announce a new series called “Let go of the ground & taste the sky”. I’m gathering stories of people who’ve learned what it means to surrender (in big or small ways) to the Mystery. I’ll be sharing those stories here in the coming weeks. To get this off the ground, here’s one of my own stories…
p.s. If you’re learning to surrender, I’m cooking up an offering (I hesitate to call it an e-course, but it’s something like that) where we can learn and practice together. Look for details soon!
A student asked me that yesterday, marvelling at my willingness to put myself out here on this “page” in such a vulnerable way, sharing intimate details of my life like my breast reduction surgery, my husband’s suicide attempt, and the stillbirth of my son.
“It’s partly just who I am,” I said. “I’m a bit of an open book and if people want to read it, that’s fine with me. It’s not always easy, but I’ve learned often enough in my life that if we share our stories, it helps other people who are going through similar stories.”
This conversation took place after a session in class when I’d asked them to do a free write around the question “If I were fearless, I would…” When I asked if people wanted to share, most people talked about their fear of things like base-jumping or swimming in water where there is fish, but one woman dug a little deeper and opened up about how she deals with depression and has actually stood at the edge of a bridge contemplating the jump. “I don’t normally talk about these things,” she said, taking a deep breath, “but… I feel safe here, so I’m going to share.”
“I’ve come through some horrible things and I want to share my stories,” she continued. “If I were fearless, I would figure out how to share my stories so they could help other people.”
“You’ve started right here in this classroom,” I said. “You’ve taken the first step and you’re going to figure out how to take the next one.”
Her words have stayed with me, as have the words of the women who spoke to me after class about my own experience of sharing my stories. “I’m so glad you’re writing a book,” one of them said.
“I’m glad too,” I said, and I am. SO glad these stories that have been burning inside me for ten years are finally finding their way to the page.
I have to tell you, though, there’s a whole other level of vulnerability that I’m having to peel away in order to adequately tell the stories that this book entails. I may be vulnerable and open on this blog, but there are still things that I choose not to share in this place – things that feel too shameful or too personal or too raw to be seen in the light of day. If I am to do this book justice, though, some of those things will have to emerge.
What am I talking about? Well, for starters, today I’m trying to work through some of the deeply spiritual things that happened for me in the hospital. I’m really struggling with how to share those pieces honestly, because some of it will make me sound a little “out there” and some of it doesn’t really fit in any kind of box I’ve gotten used to placing my spirituality in. I don’t know what to do with that yet, but I’m trying because I just have a sense that this is really important and needs to be shared.
Yesterday I re-read the following quote from Jean Shinoda Bolen:
To bring about a paradigm shift in the culture that will change assumptions and attitudes, a critical number of us have to tell the stories of our personal revelations and transformations.
Wow. That was just what I needed to hear. I wrote that quote on the whiteboard that sits in front of my desk. (And just now, as I re-read it again, I had a powerful sense of deja-vu, remembering reading something similar about paradigm shifts while I was in the hospital waiting for Matthew to arrive.)
These stories are important. Not just my stories, but YOUR stories and the stories of the students in my class. Sharing them brings about transformation and change. Sharing them changes us all.
Today on a Skype call, my wise friend Desiree said to me, after I’d shared with her some of the discussion in yesterday’s class, “it sounds like you need to teach a course about writing for social change.”
“Huh, you’re right! I hadn’t thought of that.” I love teaching the class I’m teaching now, but as you can tell, I’m not sticking to the traditional curriculum of Writing for Public Relations. I want to see my students emerge as writers who can impact change, not just get good jobs as spin doctors.
Writing for social change. That’s what we do when we share our stories. That’s what we need to do more of.
That, my friends, is why I’m writing a book, and that’s why I’m going to dig down deep and tell the stories that scare me and that might make me sound a little crazy.
Sometimes, it’s nice to have your paradigms shifted.
I have a “healthy” distrust of conference calls. In my working life, I saw them as necessary evils, and in my last job, I tried for years to make them work with my national staff. But no matter what new ideas or formats I brought into them, I almost always walked away feeling discouraged. It seemed nearly impossible to have meaningful conversations with people spread across the country when some of them didn’t engage and others chose to engage in less-than-healthy ways. They got a little better when I stepped out of the chair position and circulated the responsibility, but still they were seriously lacking. The dysfunctions of our team seemed most apparent when we gathered on the phone and didn’t have the benefit of non-verbal communication.
And so it was that when the organizers of the circle/story retreat I was at in October asked if people wanted to hold a conference call to explore the extension of our community of practice, I was skeptical. “Can anything good come out of a conference call?” I wondered.
At the same time, I was eager to reconnect with the amazing women I’d spent four days with at the side of a lake. There’d been such incredible energy around our circle that I was willing to try anything that might continue to extend that into my life.
The call was on Sunday, and… well, let’s just say that my paradigm was significantly shifted. It worked! Beautifully! The whole time I was on the call, I felt held in the warm embrace of this circle of women. One person suggested we open our photos from our gathering time, and so I did, scrolling through while I listened and being reminded of their faces and what they’d come to mean to me.
It was so beautiful and meaningful in fact, that the next morning, just before I emerged from sleep, I had a dream in which each of these women offered me a little gift of advice, wisdom, or story.
Why did it work? It worked because we had been intentional about meeting in circle during those four days in October.
What does it mean to meet in circle? It’s a beautiful, simple concept that is as old as human communication. Long before anyone dreamed of conference calls connecting us across the miles, our ancestors gathered around fires in the evening to share stories of the challenges and triumphs of their lives.
Here are some of the elements we committed to in circle:
– we are intentional about the shape in which we meet – each person can see each other person’s face and there is no heirarchy or power imbalance
– we are all leaders and all take responsibility for holding the rim of the circle
– we honour the space by adhering to some simple rituals
– we pass a talking piece around the circle and only the person who holds it has the authority to speak
– we use a bell to ring us into and out of the circle, thereby clearly demarcating it from other conversations and experiences
– the centre of the circle is like the hub of a wheel – it holds objects which symbolize the intentions of those around the circle
– we are intentionally inclusive, and honour each other’s contribution to the circle
– we speak into the centre of the circle, and trust that the circle will hold whatever is shared
– we build trust by deeply listening to each other’s stories
Because we had worked hard at establishing this circle when we were together, we were able to transfer the elements of it onto our conference call. Several of us lit candles, one person let her voice function as the talking piece, passing it back and forth around the circle, a bell was used to ring us in and out or to mark a pause when we just need to catch our breath, and we all showed up prepared to honour and trust each other.
For more on the circle and how you can use it in the groups you lead or participate in, read The Circle Way: A Leader in Every Chair by Christina Baldwin and Ann Linnea. (Note: Christina was our teacher when we met in Ontario in October.)
One of my commitments, coming out of this learning, is that I want to host circle conversations. I think they have the power to transform and I want to be a catalyst for that transformation. Talk to me if you have some ideas of how I can serve your group by hosting such a conversation.
Don’t ask yourself “did I make a lot of money today?”
Ask yourself “did I share my giftedness in a meaningful way?”
Don’t ask yourself “did I achieve my goals?”
Ask yourself “did I do meaningful work that brought me joy?”
Don’t ask yourself “did I get a lot of hits on my website?”
Ask yourself “did I offer my heart?”
Don’t ask yourself “did I influence a lot of people?”
Ask yourself “did I offer comfort or wisdom to at least one person?”
Don’t ask yourself “was I successful?”
Ask yourself “was I true to my calling?”
Don’t ask yourself “did I out-perform the competition?”
Ask yourself “did I offer the best work I could do?”
Don’t ask yourself “did I expand my network?”
Ask yourself “did I make any new friends?”
Don’t ask yourself “were people impressed with me?”
Ask yourself “was I authentic?”
Don’t ask yourself “Did I prove how smart I am?”
Ask yourself “am I willing to learn from others?”
Don’t ask yourself “did I make a difference in the world?”
Ask yourself “did I allow God to make a difference through me?”
by Christina Baldwin and Ann Linnea. (Note: Christina was our teacher when we met in Ontario in October.)