humble beginnings | hopeful future
THAT I WOULD BE FREE
Who is Heavenly Mother?
Now that I better understand the feminine divine, I see that, because of her nature, she doesn’t fit easily into organized religion. She is too big and complicated for that. There are no instructions for breathing! How would you teach someone to inhale? Yet, I notice very quickly when I am becoming oxygen-deprived.
Note: This post is a throwback, originally published in June 2019, and it still feels true. Feels relevant to the LDS community right now. Feels relevant to the ongoing struggle for the sovereignty of women. But most of all it feels relevant to my role as mother at this point in my life, as co-creator and a witness to the life of my little one (as he become increasingly bigger!). Happy Mother's Day to the divine feminine in each of us.
I’ve been trying to understand, FOR ME, what is the most useful way to think about God. In the Mormon theology I was raised with, God is male and usually referred to as Heavenly Father. Mormonism has the beautiful, and added, benefit of a female counterpart to the male God, termed Heavenly Mother. The idea is that we are all part of a massive human family with Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother and all of humanity as our siblings. There’s a lot that I like about this model. It’s reflective of the family structure most of us have experienced so it’s familiar (it can also be fraught for the same reason).
Little is said of Heavenly Mother in Mormon doctrine and culture. This has usually been explained to me to be because she is so sacred that Heavenly Father protects her from the profanity of human conversation. From a feminist perspective, this explanation is infuriating and degrading. From the perspective one who views herself as a child with heavenly parents, it’s confusing. Kids need their mom. Why would you withhold that?
Maybe strangely, this issue has been of little bother to me for most of my life. My religious persona has been quite accepting of these sorts of problems and explanations, pushing them under the umbrella of, I’ll understand that better someday. Sometimes that umbrella is useful because some of these topics can only be explored with time and life experience. They live like little ghosts in the back of my psyche until an experience brings them to the foreground.
This past week, I was talking to my parents about a problem, I’ve been trying to figure out for months. I presented them with my current thinking about it and my dad said, “That seems really sensible.” To which I replied, “I’m not going for sensible! That’s not how I’m making decisions anymore. I want it to FEEL right.” And he, so humbly and happily said, “Oh! Well that’s your mother’s domain.” He’s so great! I can’t remember what my mom said to this, but I remember the energy of it, and it was something about self trust. And I’m going to come back to this in a minute.
I want to write a little about what I’ve observed in the nature of the feminine. And to use Elizabeth Gilbert’s term, I don’t want to get “gender-freaky” about this. I’m talking about the iconic feminine.
The feminine creates. This is the energy in the universe that calls to us to experiment and imagine. To me, the feminine creative energy feels like lying on my back looking at the clouds and seeing figures of airplanes and unicorns. It’s not overtly practical or directional. It might even feel superfluous, but, like air, its necessity is recognized mostly by its absence.
The feminine is the ether. I like to think about this from the perspective of a child in the womb. We are swimming in the feminine. She is all around. Think about the idea of mother earth. She is the rock, the water, the sky and everything in between all of it. Maybe this is why we feel close to the divine as we connect with the natural world. It’s like pressing a fetal hand into the wall of the womb, becoming slightly aware of the being that is carrying us. The problem is not locating the feminine, it’s becoming conscious that she is all around me.
The feminine nurtures. The feminine says, I will go on doing all of this, holding all of this, whether you notice or not, because I am doing it for my own purpose. This is the subtle strength of feminine care. All of this carrying and holding and love is not contingent upon outcomes and results, it is intrinsic.
I’m sure there is more that could be written about this, but maybe that’s enough to nudge your mind in the direction I’m intending. I’ve been thinking about these things in the context of Heavenly Mother. And I’ve realized that most of the spiritual practices I’ve adopted this past year are things that put me in the way of this divine, feminine energy.
Nature. I’ve noticed that one of the most universal ways of connecting with God or finding peace or hearing the inner voice is to be in nature. While some are getting dressed up for church, many are heading into the mountains or the sea. Church is sort of a masculine, direct pathway to God. It’s like following a map to the divine father. These are my office hours, so to speak. But nature is always open—curious and diverse and meandering. I believe this is where the divine mother lives.
My body. I feel super cool about my body these days, because I feel like it is this beautiful echo of my divine mother’s voice. I’ve come to experience this in several ways—child birth, exercise, meditation, sleep—but the yoga mat has been an excellent teacher. There are truths embedded in my flesh that are revealed only when I am paying very close attention and yoga has given me a way to notice them. Each time I get on the mat, I have to strip away all the expectations of myself for performance. My intention is usually to listen or to let go—surrender, release, acceptance. My mind becomes the servant of my body and my spirit becomes the quiet observer. Teach me, I say to my self—to the part of me that already knows—the divine feminine.
Honesty. Some of my most powerful connections with the divine, come during intimate conversations. Isn’t this how it’s always been with women? While men are hunting beasts and conquering legions, women are in the back room making dinner or folding clothes and talking about the heart of life. The feminine divine is in these quite conversations, in the quiet honesty. She is in the utterance of fear and uncertainty and the humble declaration of faith. The feminine divine can hold all of this—the ugly and the beautiful, the weak and the strong. It’s all safe with her.
Art. Honesty is the birthplace of art. The feminine divine cheers us on as we attempt to excavate those sacred jewels within and bring them into the world. She is in the music and the poetry. We do ourselves a disservice by relegating this category of expression to entertainment, because it is so much more than that. Heavenly Mother is constantly asking us to dance with her, to sing, to write, to draw, because that is the way we can come to know ourselves in the way SHE sees us. In the same way I encourage my son’s fledgling attempts at creativity, she is doting over my bad poetry, messy relationships and off-key singing with the hope that I will not let the world close my mouth.
Linger and rest. The iconic feminine meanders. My therapist taught me this months ago and it’s something that frequently comes to mind. The feminine is like the path along the cliff line that has amazing views but takes a little longer. I’m someone who naturally values efficiency, so it has taken a conscious effort to allow myself to walk the scenic path. The feminine suggests, maybe it’s okay to just sit here for a while and enjoy the beauty of this place or moment. Maybe it’s okay to linger. Maybe it’s okay to take a nap if you’re tired. There may be miles to go, but there is time and it’s okay to be kind to yourself.
Now that I better understand the feminine divine, I see that, because of her nature, she doesn’t fit easily into organized religion. She is too big and complicated for that. There are no instructions for breathing! How would you teach someone to inhale? Yet, I notice very quickly when I am becoming oxygen-deprived.
So back to my story about the conversation with my mom and dad. I don’t feel bad that I can’t remember my mother’s exact words because the words were not as important as the feeling. And this is true to the feminine divine. She doesn’t write instruction booklets. She is unstructured and unshaped. And because of that she can fit into the spaces where other things can’t.
Heavenly Mother is the essence of self care. A while back, I realized that the only thing that REALLY qualified as self-care—that really worked—was the activities that cleared the crap off of my soul. The things that helped me to hear my inner voice. This is Heavenly Mother. So maybe you can pray to her. Maybe you can visualize a heavenly being with kind eyes and a loving embrace. If that’s helpful, then do it!
My advice on this topic is really DO ANYTHING. Reach out into the ether and you will find her because she is everywhere and all it takes to access her is a quiet mind and an open heart. The practices that will be most helpful are the ones that create those two things. And when you find her, tell me about it because I live for this stuff now! Namaste.
A Well-Tended Muse
When there are too many things for the hours in the day, call upon a well-tended muse.
Did you know I have not one muse, but several?!?
Okay, why are we talking about muses?
It’s because I get stressed about all the fun things I can do with my life. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, you know?
I'm writing poetry, learning to play the ukulele, cooking, baking, doing preschool science experiments, gardening, planning an epic, layered-rug configuration for my bedroom floor, and I love all of these things. But I’m also writing a book and I try to show up here on the blog with regularity and I work and I’m a mom and often it feels like there are not enough hours in the day.
This is how muses came on the scene.
You see, I was talking to my therapist about how I get noise in my head that I’m not giving enough attention to each thing. It gets really heavy sometimes.
Barbara, in her brilliance, informed me that I have several muses. (Muses are the 9 goddesses of the arts and sciences, who are tasked with providing humans with inspiration for their given theme.)
“One for poetry, one for music, one for visual art, one for cooking, one for writing…” et cetera, et cetera! And they are like kids, where they get a little jealous when you spend more time with one of the siblings. “But you just have to learn how to talk to them, so they know you love them and will make time for them,” she said.
At first this felt like relief. Okay, I’m not a bad parent to my muses, I just can’t dedicate myself to all of them simultaneously. But as I’ve thought about it more, it’s morphed into this really fun thing.
Liz Gilbert writes about muses in Big Magic. She explains that often our muses are standing in the corner, waiting for us to sober up, wake up, clean up and get back to work. Inspiration isn’t being stingy with us, rather WE are the ones who are stingy with inspiration. And the basic premise of her book is that the healthiest life for you, is the life that will produce the most creative existence. So take care of yourself in all the ways and treat your muse like a hot date. Put on make up, wear something nice, eat a good meal and get busy with creativity.
Ever since that little insight, I have been having so much fun with my sweetheart muses. I would add that there is one for motherhood, one for work, one for housework—all of those kinds of things too, because those things, though they are less self-indulgent, still require inspiration and enthusiasm—or at least they are SOOOO much more fun that way.
So, I have this little family of muses around me excited to engage with me! And I’ve been thinking about what they like. What they don’t like. What are their favorite foods, activities, times of day? What’s the best way to hang out? Where do they like to go? And here’s what I’ve got so far:
Poetry Muse:
Likes nighttime, sometimes early morning too. She’s sexy and fun and laughs a lot. She can get into those intense brooding moods too. She likes nature, likes alcohol. And caffeine—I remembered this because one of my most prolific episodes as a poet occurred when I was camping with my family as a teenager. I drank a Coke with dinner and laid awake with my sleeping sisters in the tent until the middle of the night writing poem after poem. They were completely silly—but I remember that night all these years later—and that’s significant.
Music Muse:
This muse is responsible for dancing and singing and playing musical instruments. She likes freedom. I think the best gift I gave her was the years I spent studying piano, not because I became a ridiculously mediocre pianist, but I gave her a way to express herself. Leaning into playing by chords came so naturally to her. And now if I can train my fingers to crimp around that tiny ukulele neck, she will have another medium to work in. Music muse works more for the joy of the experience than my others. She is less concerned about perfection. More about the experience. How does it FEEL to dance and play and sing? That’s much more important to her than the executed product.
Work Muse:
Likes caffeine. She does her best in the morning and everything kind of falls off after that. She lives for feeling competent and does not like being told what to do unless she asks. She’s like a well-functioning assembly line. Yes to productivity and efficiency and effectiveness! She hates waste, likes big ideas. She hates getting bogged down with details unless she is moving through them like an assassin.
Mother Muse:
She loves home because it’s the best place to relax and putter. She likes the presence of child and little dog. She sounds like happy playing, dancing in the kitchen, food on the stove, clean laundry in the dryer. She likes to say yes and talking about important things, like first crushes and big feelings and airplanes. She wants kisses and cuddles and teeth brushed and toys picked up.
Visual Art Muse:
She’s got eyes! Inspired by faces, color, simple lines. Willing to experiment. She has taste. She lives for the flow state. Which seems to occur most often when seated at a table with some music, paper and color. She likes working alongside of friends. She likes challenge.
Cooking Muse:
Says, “I can do that.” She’s got a lot of confidence because she got used a lot in my last decade of life. So she’s in a kind of semi retirement. I’m happy to see her when she’s here. I’m equally happy to give her the night off and order take out. Same goes for my crafting, sewing, knitting muse.
Garden Muse:
Likes pretty flowers, soil, cool, shady vibes, power tools and big-idea thinking. Hates weeding (my neighbors are like…uh yeah—can you do something about that?). Hates getting poked by thorns. She reminds me of my mama (who just became jealous the other day when I told her about all the good weeding I have to do!).
Okay! so you get the idea and now you can go make your own list of muses. But not because it will make you more efficient or proficient. This is about fun! This is a tool for when hobbies feel heavy. Please don’t belabor them with things like efficiency.
Once you know your muses, then you get to enjoy them. For some reason it’s easier to care for external creatures than it is for myself, so here’s how I look at it:
I get to hang out with these awesome muses. I take them shopping, we get food, we exercise, we watch TV in addition to all of the things I listed above.
It’s completely lightened up the responsibility I take very seriously, to live an extraordinary life.
I have helpers.
I take care of them and they take care of me.
This is the beauty of a well-tended muse.
I don't know.
Why fall feels hopeful.
Today when I got home, I walked into my backyard and heard a loud meow.
MEOW. MEOW. MEOW.
I was not expecting this. I don't own a cat.
I peeked around the side of the house and saw a GIANT, long-haired, charcoal cat. The cat had a blue collar, so I’m going to use male pronouns (but I recognized that female cats may choose blue as well).
I greeted the cat.
I asked him if he would like to follow me through the open garage door to the world outside my fenced backyard.
MEOW. MEOW. MEOW.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” I called in my sweetest cat lady voice. [See--I KNOW cats. Though I will admit I did not want to touch him. He was HUGE.]
“Here, kitty, kitty!” Over and over again until he followed me through the garage and out to the tall grass in my side yard. And the giant cat was gone as mysteriously as he came.
I did not expect that cat.
I was talking to my sister on the phone, relaxing on my new outdoor couch, when I looked down at the deck and saw Rio, sitting with a curious look on his face glancing from my face to the dead rat at his feet.
Now, I am proud of myself because I did NOT scream, which happened the last time he presented me with an entire rat carcass.
But this time, the rat was not completely dead. I could see a little rise and fall in its chest. Rio, seeming to read my mind, attempted to pick it up again. I stopped him. Obviously, I’m the adult here. I need to take action. I grabbed a stick from under the orange tree and returned to the rat. The rise and fall had ceased.
I poked. Nothing.
When R saw the rat, he said, “Now we get to look at rat bones!”
What?!? No!
Last week, we dissected owl pellets at our friend’s house. I did not know what an owl pellet was. In case you don’t know, I will describe. When an owl eats a mouse or rat or bird or whatever little creature, it is digested partially in the first stomach. What can’t be digested is held in the first stomach while the digestible material passes into the second stomach. The owl then vomits a tight packet made of the contents of the first stomach (hair and bones). This is what makes an owl pellet.
I knew none of this until Rachel presented me with a paper plate holding three clumps of matted hair. With the kids and me looking on, she pulled apart the pellets to reveal evidence of three rat skeletons. And I knew that her daughter was going to be just fine in online kindergarten this fall.
But back to the undigested rat on my deck.
Because this isn’t my first rodeo, I knowledgeably covered my hand in a poo bag, picked the deceased rat up by the tail and carried him to the trash can. He left a small pool of blood on the decking, which I doused in hydrogen peroxide and then rinsed with water. (I have a large supply of hydrogen peroxide now, after learning that is what’s needed to rid your dog of skunk smell).
My backyard is tiny.
The whole lot is 1/3 of a regular sized lot in my neighborhood.
And yet.
It is full of surprises.
This afternoon I was talking to my sister.
I’ve been going through another existential crisis following family court and my birthday marking another year. I didn’t really expect it. Not my first family court rodeo. Not my first birthday rodeo. I have been to lots of rodeos—duh!
My sisters are a good audience for my crazy moments. This past week, I made a recommendation that my sister moon her husband in response to a marital dispute. I was meaning to be silly but the more we talked about it, it seemed like the idea had real merit. If you want any free marriage advice, DM me, okay? I’m a secret genius on this stuff. Still waiting to hear if the mooning worked….
So I was talking to my other sister and she gave me the idea to write a blog post about why Fall feels hopeful. She said that was the article she wanted to read.
First I thought about the fall when I trained for the half marathon because my then-husband didn’t want to have a baby yet and I was bored with my career and making dinner and washing dishes. I am not a runner and it felt really cliche because so many people in medicine run out of ways to punish themselves after school ends, so they take up punishing habits like running. But the half marathon was a really good choice in that moment.
I ran three or four times a week under the massive oak trees in our historic Omaha neighborhood. My mom was so delighted with my decision to do this, that I flippantly said, “If you think it’s such good idea, why don’t you do it too?” And she did.
The race was on Thanksgiving day. In Omaha. It was FIFTEEN degrees when we started. It was EIGHTEEN degrees when we finished. The bagels and bananas they provided post-race were frozen solid. We had McDonald’s for Thanksgiving Dinner that year.
But the running put me in a really good place for the winter. Since I left my home on the range in Wyoming (aka—where the skies are not cloudy all day), I’ve struggled with mild depression in the winter—this is part of why I love living in San Diego. And the regular endorphin boost of that exercise made a big difference.
So there’s one idea. If you need a Fall boost—run a half marathon.
…I GUESS.
But it also seems unfair to ask anyone to train for a half marathon when they are working from home and home schooling kids and worried about the upcoming election and the health of their loved ones. And there’s also racism and terrorism and thieves and rapists and Facebook.
That’s a lot.
Already.
So if the half marathon’s not your thing, this is the one other idea I have.
Be open to being surprised.
Liz Gilbert talked about this in such a lovely way on her instagram stories last week. She called it a spiritual practice, to which cynicism is the opposite.
Cynicism is the voice inside that says, I know how this goes. I know who that person is. I know what’s coming. The writing is on the wall. I know. I know. OH—I know.
And we cling to that because we want to feel in control. And knowing feels like control.
But you know what?
I DON’T know.
I don’t know how this going to go.
I don’t know if Trump is going to get another four years. I don’t know if I’m spoiling my son or being too hard on him. I don’t know if the tumor in my neck has grown. I don’t know what that greasy stuff in my patient’s hair was today. I don’t know if I’ll catch any waves. I don’t know how to make sense of the COVID-19 news. I don’t know if I’ll sleep tonight. I don’t know if there will be a goat in my backyard tomorrow. (If there is it will certainly be a distinguished city goat with a neatly trimmed beard!)
i. don't. know.
Of course I have opinions and fears and anxieties about all of these things. But I’m willing to be surprised.
I’m willing to be wrong.
That’s the equivalent of faith to me. That’s accepting divine will. It’s not, I know how this goes. It’s not that I get what I pray for. It’s not that I have all the answers.
It’s that I don’t! And there’s some energy, some force, some goodness in the universe that is working it out for my specific growth. So let me leave it to said universe.
That’s hope.
That’s spirit.
Notice the cat and the rat and the owl pellets with wonder.
Anything is possible.
Sit and smile
I’m going to pause here because THIS is mind-blowing for me. I’m not required to constantly shift and work and adjust and strain until perfection is obtained? Really? There is space in life for a moment’s pause to sit and smile?
I was reading tonight in Eat Pray Love and I came across a passage where Elizabeth Gilbert is learning from a Ketut, a Balinese medicine man. She writes:
He tells me that there are many ways to find God but most are too complicated for Westerners, so he will teach me an easy meditation. Which goes, essentially, like this: sit in silence and smile. I love it. He’s laughing even as he’s teaching it to me. Sit and smile. Perfect….
You make serious face like this, you scare away good energy. To meditate, only you must smile. Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver.
Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love
When I read this it made me smile because it made me think of my own yoga experience. I used to be so annoyed when the instructor would tell us to smile in a particularly challenging pose. My brain didn’t know what to do with this request, so I would paste on a smile or roll my eyes and ignore the instruction. As Princess Buttercup said to the Dread Pirate Roberts, You mock my pain!
But there is power in this simple request: sit and smile. Actually I think this is one of the most important disciplines to master for one who is seeking happiness. Sit and smile. Let’s break it down.
Sit. This implies stillness. A quieting of the monkey brain, which, for me, initially feels like a wrestling match. And when it becomes clear that the monkey is going to win, then a release or surrender. It’s like the decision to relinquish control IS what ultimately grants it. So one must first learn to sit in stillness.
Smile. A smile is just a facial expression, but I love what Ketut instructs, Even smile in your liver. To really smile it has to come from deep inside—at least, to really mean it. It’s the letting go that really allows for this. It’s hard to have a genuine smile through your entire body when you are white-knuckling in anyway.
Thank you, yoga, for teaching me this. I’ve noticed this when I’ve continued to hold the pose, but understood that perfection is not required. And furthermore, constant shifting of the pose until theoretical perfection is obtained—also not required.
I’m going to pause here because THIS is mind-blowing for me. I’m not required to constantly shift and work and adjust and strain until perfection is obtained? Really? There is space in life for a moment’s pause to sit and smile?
I’m not sure I was ever conscious enough to notice my constant shifting and adjusting, let alone to decide when/if it was necessary. The truth is, I do want to be better at the yoga pose and at life. I’m going to naturally shift and progress, but there is something to be said for holding the pose without adjustment.
This brings me to my main thought of the past month. I re-listened to Sue Monk Kidd on the Oprah Super Soul podcast while I was in Santa Cruz. She, so pleasantly, told Oprah,
“I remember thinking, It’s time to start finding things…There’s a hunger in you and I think it’s appropriate to follow that, but we should also be finders at the same time. It’s one of those paradoxes that I’m getting more comfortable living with. That we can be a seeker and a finder at the same time.
We have to acknowledge sometimes that this moment is enough, this place is enough, I am enough, it’s okay. And if I never seek another thing, it’s enough.”
This is where I’m trying to live for the time being: This moment is enough. This place is enough. I’m enough.
I'm learning to sit and smile.
Engage in small c creation
“We do seem to be living in a universe that is in a constant and unending state of creation. It’s never stopping. It’s never stopping here either. We are not witnessing that. We are PART of that. We come from that. We work into that." Elizabeth Gilbert
“We do seem to be living in a universe that is in a constant and unending state of creation. It’s never stopping. It’s never stopping here either. We are not witnessing that. We are PART of that. We come from that. We work into that.
So if the energy of the universe is in constant creation, when you are in creation, yourself, you’re in alignment with it. And that’s why it feels so good, because you’re in the river of the thing that is happening from here to the outer extent of the universe, always. And when you’re not in creativity and when you’re not in creation you’re against that flow and that’s why it feels like depression, and that’s why it feels like despair, and that’s why it feels so heavy.
So for me, the best way that I can feel healthy, which means a sense of belonging, not just belonging to other people, but belonging to this whole weird story that’s happening that we’re in, is if I do creativity “small c" on a small scale. So if I make something, then I’m also creating just the way that the universe is always making something and for some reason that feels deeply good at the soul level. And when I’m not doing that I’m stagnating against a power that wants me to create with it.
So for me it’s profoundly spiritual because there is no greater way to connect with capital C Creation than to engage in small c creation. And that c can be as small as you want. There’s something about making something with your hands that just makes you healthy and I think it’s what we are supposed to be doing so we don’t despair.”
Gwyneth x Elizabeth Gilbert: Can Creating Something Small Heal Something Big?
This is taken from an interview Gweneth Paltrow did with Elizabeth Gilbert on the Goop Podcast. I heard it several weeks ago and I have become enamored with the idea of “small c” creativity. There is so much power in it.
A few months ago I felt inspired to put some of R’s artwork on my kitchen wall. He was in a phase where he loved drawing and I felt inspired by his art. Then I started to add my own art to the wall and the art of some of my friends (some of it made while they were watching R for me). It’s become my visual memorial to small c creativity. Each morning while I’m making breakfast and packing lunches I have several examples of small c energy reminding me that this is where the power lives.
Starting with the small c has helped me to move onto some middle-sized c creative work. I finished this oil pastel drawing while I was Santa Cruz. I just got started with watercolor this weekend (something I have zero experience with). I’ve been knitting too, which feels pretty chill but still adds and element of small c connection to my life.
The piano and my voice continue to be sources of small c. I think of singing along with my car stereo in that context now. Learning to play piano by chords has really freed up the piano to become a small c-type exercise. I can play almost any song and process the emotion of it through the keys and my voice. It’s powerful.
So what’s the benefit of small c? What can you really get out of it besides mediocre art?
The main benefit I see is that I have developed a comfort level with myself. I have come to know myself through small c. I’ve started to hear my inner voice through the writing I do here and in my journal. The inner voice has grown more recognizable as I assuaged the inner critic with a reminder that this doesn’t have to be good. My inner critic told me the leaves of the watercolor plant should be green but my inner voice thought rainbow might be nice.
When I do small c creativity, I start to hear the difference between the two—the inner voice and inner critic. But small c dials back the intensity so a risk becomes less scary.
I use small c in the way I live my life, as I’ve left behind the manual for living that I used to follow. Small c invites curiosity, What if I told the truth? What if I said the hard thing?
What kind of small c are you doing?
Who is Heavenly Mother?
Now that I better understand the feminine divine, I see that, because of her nature, she doesn’t fit easily into organized religion. She is too big and complicated for that. There are no instructions for breathing! How would you teach someone to inhale? Yet, I notice very quickly when I am becoming oxygen-deprived.
I’ve been trying to understand, FOR ME, what is the most useful way to think about God. In the Mormon theology I was raised with, God is male and usually referred to as Heavenly Father. Mormonism has the beautiful, and added, benefit of a female counterpart to the male God, termed Heavenly Mother. The idea is that we are all part of a massive human family with Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother and all of humanity as our siblings. There’s a lot that I like about this model. It’s reflective of the family structure most of us have experienced so it’s familiar (it can also be fraught for the same reason).
Little is said of Heavenly Mother in Mormon doctrine and culture. This has usually been explained to me to be because she is so sacred that Heavenly Father protects her from the profanity of human conversation. From a feminist perspective, this explanation is infuriating and degrading. From the perspective one who views herself as a child with heavenly parents, it’s confusing. Kids need their mom. Why would you withhold that?
Maybe strangely, this issue has been of little bother to me for most of my life. My religious persona has been quite accepting of these sorts of problems and explanations, pushing them under the umbrella of, I’ll understand that better someday. Sometimes that umbrella is useful because some of these topics can only be explored with time and life experience. They live like little ghosts in the back of my psyche until an experience brings them to the foreground.
This past week, I was talking to my parents about a problem, I’ve been trying to figure out for months. I presented them with my current thinking about it and my dad said, “That seems really sensible.” To which I replied, “I’m not going for sensible! That’s not how I’m making decisions anymore. I want it to FEEL right.” And he, so humbly and happily said, “Oh! Well that’s your mother’s domain.” He’s so great! I can’t remember what my mom said to this, but I remember the energy of it, and it was something about self trust. And I’m going to come back to this in a minute.
I want to write a little about what I’ve observed in the nature of the feminine. And to use Elizabeth Gilbert’s term, I don’t want to get “gender-freaky” about this. I’m talking about the iconic feminine.
The feminine creates. This is the energy in the universe that calls to us to experiment and imagine. To me, the feminine creative energy feels like lying on my back looking at the clouds and seeing figures of airplanes and unicorns. It’s not overtly practical or directional. It might even feel superfluous, but, like air, its necessity is recognized mostly by its absence.
The feminine is the ether. I like to think about this from the perspective of a child in the womb. We are swimming in the feminine. She is all around. Think about the idea of mother earth. She is the rock, the water, the sky and everything in between all of it. Maybe this is why we feel close to the divine as we connect with the natural world. It’s like pressing a fetal hand into the wall of the womb, becoming slightly aware of the being that is carrying us. The problem is not locating the feminine, it’s becoming conscious that she is all around me.
The feminine nurtures. The feminine says, I will go on doing all of this, holding all of this, whether you notice or not, because I am doing it for my own purpose. This is the subtle strength of feminine care. All of this carrying and holding and love is not contingent upon outcomes and results, it is intrinsic.
I’m sure there is more that could be written about this, but maybe that’s enough to nudge your mind in the direction I’m intending. I’ve been thinking about these things in the context of Heavenly Mother. And I’ve realized that most of the spiritual practices I’ve adopted this past year are things that put me in the way of this divine, feminine energy.
Nature. I’ve noticed that one of the most universal ways of connecting with God or finding peace or hearing the inner voice is to be in nature. While some are getting dressed up for church, many are heading into the mountains or the sea. Church is sort of a masculine, direct pathway to God. It’s like following a map to the divine father. These are my office hours, so to speak. But nature is always open—curious and diverse and meandering. I believe this is where the divine mother lives.
My body. I feel super cool about my body these days, because I feel like it is this beautiful echo of my divine mother’s voice. I’ve come to experience this in several ways—child birth, exercise, meditation, sleep—but the yoga mat has been an excellent teacher. There are truths embedded in my flesh that are revealed only when I am paying very close attention and yoga has given me a way to notice them. Each time I get on the mat, I have to strip away all the expectations of myself for performance. My intention is usually to listen or to let go—surrender, release, acceptance. My mind becomes the servant of my body and my spirit becomes the quiet observer. Teach me, I say to my self—to the part of me that already knows—the divine feminine.
Honesty. Some of my most powerful connections with the divine, come during intimate conversations. Isn’t this how it’s always been with women? While men are hunting beasts and conquering legions, women are in the back room making dinner or folding clothes and talking about the heart of life. The feminine divine is in these quite conversations, in the quiet honesty. She is in the utterance of fear and uncertainty and the humble declaration of faith. The feminine divine can hold all of this—the ugly and the beautiful, the weak and the strong. It’s all safe with her.
Art. Honesty is the birthplace of art. The feminine divine cheers us on as we attempt to excavate those sacred jewels within and bring them into the world. She is in the music and the poetry. We do ourselves a disservice by relegating this category of expression to entertainment, because it is so much more than that. Heavenly Mother is constantly asking us to dance with her, to sing, to write, to draw, because that is the way we can come to know ourselves in the way SHE sees us. In the same way I encourage my son’s fledgling attempts at creativity, she is doting over my bad poetry, messy relationships and off-key singing with the hope that I will not let the world close my mouth.
Linger and rest. The iconic feminine meanders. My therapist taught me this months ago and it’s something that frequently comes to mind. The feminine is like the path along the cliff line that has amazing views but takes a little longer. I’m someone who naturally values efficiency, so it has taken a conscious effort to allow myself to walk the scenic path. The feminine suggests, maybe it’s okay to just sit here for a while and enjoy the beauty of this place or moment. Maybe it’s okay to linger. Maybe it’s okay to take a nap if you’re tired. There may be miles to go, but there is time and it’s okay to be kind to yourself.
Now that I better understand the feminine divine, I see that, because of her nature, she doesn’t fit easily into organized religion. She is too big and complicated for that. There are no instructions for breathing! How would you teach someone to inhale? Yet, I notice very quickly when I am becoming oxygen-deprived.
So back to my story about the conversation with my mom and dad. I don’t feel bad that I can’t remember my mother’s exact words because the words were not as important as the feeling. And this is true to the feminine divine. She doesn’t write instruction booklets. She is unstructured and unshaped. And because of that she can fit into the spaces where other things can’t.
Heavenly Mother is the essence of self care. A while back, I realized that the only thing that REALLY qualified as self-care—that really worked—was the activities that cleared the crap off of my soul. The things that helped me to hear my inner voice. This is Heavenly Mother. So maybe you can pray to her. Maybe you can visualize a heavenly being with kind eyes and a loving embrace. If that’s helpful, then do it!
My advice on this topic is really DO ANYTHING. Reach out into the ether and you will find her because she is everywhere and all it takes to access her is a quiet mind and an open heart. The practices that will be most helpful are the ones that create those two things. And when you find her, tell me about it because I live for this stuff now! Namaste.
You can make anything!
Sometimes creativity feels like a crushing chore, but when I think about Ruby it feels more an attitude. An irrepressible impulse that played out in the bread she baked, the cows she milked, the clothing she sewed, the baskets she constructed, the beets she hoed, and the rocks she laid. Her mosaics matter enormously and not at all, in the same way that each life matters enormously and not at all.
There are two places in the world where you can find evidence of my great-grandmother, Ruby Evelyn Hines. One is a stretch of farmland situated on Marsh Creek in Southern Idaho. I grew up visiting my grandparents on the farm every summer and every Christmas. From the beginning of my remembering life, Great-grandma Ruby stayed in a little yellow trailer house, next to the original farmhouse where my grandparents lived. When we arrived for a visit, we would often pass Ruby, out for a walk on the narrow lane. My sisters and I would venture over to her trailer house after greeting my grandparents. I remember her answering the door with a generous smile, asking, “Now, who are you?” Ruby had Alzheimer’s and didn’t remember our names but she always invited us in to examine her trinkets and treasures and feed us a snack.
Ruby married my great-grandfather, Vivian (yes, you read that name correctly), when she was only sixteen. Ruby didn’t seem to shy away from work. She frequently worked along side V (as she affectionally refers to him in her journal) in the fields, kept a garden, kept bees, sewed, knitted, crocheted, and cooked for her family and the farm help.
Four years after their marriage, my grandfather, Don, was born. He was their only child and she was a powerful mother. She traveled once a year with my grandpa on the train to Oregon to visit her family. I like thinking of them as a brave, little duo, working hard and loving hard. My grandpa speaks of his mother with such affection that I know this must be true. With a twinkle of admiration in his eyes, my grandpa recalls that his mother had BIG arms. “I could never milk a cow as fast as she could!”
The other place you can find Ruby is a little quarter-acre lot in Southwestern Arizona. When my grandpa was experienced enough to take over the farming operation, V and Ruby retired to the desert in a travel trailer for the winter months. I didn’t visit this place until several years after her passing so I don’t know, first hand, what it meant to her, but her spirit is alive and well there.
When I visited a few weeks ago, I found a journal of hers from 1960. Ruby recorded, in a few sentences, what she did each day of that year. Most days there was a report of the weather, including high and low temperatures. I imagine that spending the winter months in the mild climate of the Southwest felt like a luxury worth recording. The weather report was usually followed by some tasks she completed, like knitting, baking bread, letter writing, cutting V’s hair or sewing. There were days they spent on the road, days V spent fishing, evenings Ruby spent rock hunting, trips to Mexico, trips to beaches of the Baja peninsula, and evenings spent playing cards with friends. The theme of the journal was her constant creativity. Even in retirement, her days were spent creating.
There is a shed on the quarter-acre lot that houses a hodgepodge of artifacts, evidence of her creative life beyond the typical domestic arts. Ruby collected hundreds of shells on the beaches of Mexico. She drilled them and strung them on wire to make decorative baskets. There are snuff containers of tiny colored shells that I imagine she purchased for a project that either never came to being or has since been lost. I wonder if she collected the shells, simply for the pleasure of holding and having them, the same way I enjoy colored paperclips. I find a tiny lizard skeleton in a lidless canning jar. The desert holds onto him in the same way it retains these pieces of Ruby and V.
Ruby moved around a lot as a girl. Her father was one of those people that hated to stay in one place. During her childhood they made their way from Kansas to Colorado, back to Kansas, to Oregon, then back to Kansas, back to Oregon, then Idaho. They moved three times while in Idaho before Ruby married V at age 16. I imagine it felt good to stay in one place! But I also think all of this moving may have taught Ruby from a young age, to love the place that’s in front of your face. For a woman who spent much of her life trying to make green things grow, and visiting her extended family in forested Oregon, she clearly loved the desert. She must have been an avid rockhound because the barren ground is covered in unique mineral specimen, deliberately placed at the foot of decades old cacti. This is the bit of Arizona that I remember from traveling there as a kid.
What Ruby created on the desert floor around her 1950s Spartan park model trailer, is completely worthy of designation as American folk art. Mosaics constructed from naturally colored stone stretch out in each direction. And what I love most about it, besides the fact that it still exists today, disturbed only by the spring weeds and some years of desert dust, is that she did it for the pure love of making it. Why else?!?
Elizabeth Gilbert wrote this:
“Creativity is sacred, and it is not sacred. What we make matters enormously, and it doesn’t matter at all. We toil alone, and we are accompanied by spirits. We are terrified, and we are brave. Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege. Only when we are at our most playful can divinity finally get serious with us. Make space for all these paradoxes to be equally true inside your soul, and I promise—you can make anything.”
Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear
Sometimes creativity feels like a crushing chore, but when I think about Ruby it feels more an attitude. An irrepressible impulse that played out in the bread she baked, the cows she milked, the clothing she sewed, the baskets she constructed, the beets she hoed, and the rocks she laid. Her mosaics matter enormously and not at all, in the same way that each life matters enormously and not at all.
I have a niece who shares her great-great-grandmother’s name. Along with the name, she bears a physical resemblance and the same penchant for artistic expression. My 93-year-old grandfather cannot look at Ruby without tearing up, overwhelmed with memories of his mother. I’m reminded that maybe that’s the greatest creative legacy we leave behind—the people. I see her strong arms on my sister. I see her precision and artistry in my father. I see her quiet, enormous heart in my grandfather. And I see her ability to make any place feel like home in me. To carry Ruby forward in the world in our spiritual DNA--what a sacred privilege!
