Bold Living Today

Happy Friday the 13th!! It's been a gorgeous few days here in Seattle and I'm excited to wrap up the week with this tidbit of exciting news. Each Friday, a person who is making bold moves, living well, nurturing their creativity, following their passions, and making magic is featured on Bold Living Today. It is with great joy and gratitude that I announce today's featured guest... Can you guess? C'est moi!! (Need I translate?)

Bold Living Today creator and passionate living person, Kanesha Baynard has this to say:

Today's interview is with Kayce Stevens Hughlett. She is an author, speaker, life coach, soul nurturer - and someone I admire deeply. (Right back at ya, 'Nesh!) Kayce has the kind of energy and spunk that makes you want to fly and create something stunning - while skipping along eating your ice cream cone. Yes, she's that amazing. (Wow! It's awesome to receive this kind of love any day... Who says Friday the 13th is bad luck?)

Without further adieu, I invite you to pop on over and check out the interview. I had so much fun doing it and hope you'll enjoy reading it, too! Click here!!

Hmmmm.... It may be time for skipping and ice cream! Care to join me? ☺

Bedouin Empress

My posts have been long and filled with my journey to Egypt. I’m finding it nearly impossible to drift away from that place for very long – nor do I want to move away from it. As you might imagine, many things were stirred in me and it is in the “unpacking” that I find even more depth.

Recently, my group work has revolved around the archetypal energy of the empress and/or sovereign. There has been much conversation and exploration about what it means to embrace one’s inner sovereign. A question that seems to arise time and again in a “First World Country” (if I even know what that means) is the idea of how easy it is to claim sovereignty, power, health, privilege, etc. when these things surround us in abundance. What would happen if I were poor? Could I still embrace a sense of wealth?

Last week, when talking about the Empress and these questions were posed, one “Empress” became fully present in my mind. It wasn’t Queen Elizabeth or Michelle O’Bama or Melinda Gates, but rather a Bedouin woman I met in Egypt. By most standards this woman would be considered poor and living in poverty. But I had to ask myself the question, does she think she’s poor?


I encountered her as we were leaving the desert and dropping our Bedouin cook off at his home. The jeep I was in arrived later than the rest and we were asked not to disembark due to time constraints. The pull to leap from the car and mingle with the children, goats and others was strong and only our guide’s firm request to stay put kept us all in the car. However, in the brief moments we waited, this woman – indefinable in age 50? 80? 100? - approached our vehicle and reached her hand out to each one of us. Language was unnecessary as she took my palm in hers and offered me the gift of her eyes. This woman is an Empress – one who stands solidly in who she is, invites others into her realm and does not know the meaning of scarcity. She is sovereign over her world and makes sure that those within her kingdom are welcomed.

She has given me much pause to consider what my own inner Sovereign looks like and what she values. Is it jewels and extravagance? Even that is hard to ask, because my definition of those two things is shifting. The jewels I value most right now are a few stones, a fossil and a piece of coral. Extravagance is resting under a billion stars with only a sleeping bag to shelter my body. And my Empress? Well… her sovereignty lies in a castle that looks quite different from the fairy tales.

Ponder alongside me, won’t you… Where does your Sovereign reside? What are the jewels that wrap your Empress or Emperor? How do you define wealth?

photos ©lucy
bedouin girls
empress lucy & her noble, bella
bedouin palace

mother's day - aaarrrghh!

"Nothing else will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own."

--Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons, The Mothers Almanac

what can i write for a blog post today? words don't feel especially pretty here. i hate mother's day - a strong sentiment, i know. And lest, anyone think I'm totally cold-hearted, I wish all of you mother's out there a joyous day. i especially send my condolences to those who grieve because they aren't mothers (i know this day is hard for you, and it's yet another reason for my disdain of the 2nd sunday in may.)

mothers... what can i say? mothers love. mothers die. they hurt. they mess up and they do the best they can. they are loving, hateful, compassionate and cruel. they are the most important thing in the world to us, and we discount what they have to say because "they're just our mothers."

today is a gorgeous day outside. my husband has already brought me coffee in bed and breakfast is on the way. my son sent and created the beautiful card you see here, complete with an original poem. my daughter is still sleeping soundly (which is what a 17 year old girl should be doing on sunday morning). i have lovely plans for the day - some just for me and others spent with my family.

i have already shed tears for the loss of my mother who died 6 years ago today on mother's day. i have been angry at her and myself. i have grieved for friends who i know also struggle with this day, and i have rejoiced with those who relish what it means to be a mom. before 8:00 a.m. i have felt a full range of emotions including laughter, tears, anger and grief.

And... i believe that's what being alive is all about - it's about feeling our feelings. i recognized quickly this morning the pull between the radiant sunshine and warmth that greeted me outside and the tug inside my body that screams "I hate this day." it isn't one or the other. it's both, and the more clearly i can name it, the more i can be present to this day - or any other. so regardless of your mother-status or gender, i send you warm wishes on this sacred sunday.

may you feel your feelings fully and celebrate the beauty of who YOU are!!!

Easter Reflections

Saturday – For now we wait – in this place between death and redemption – dark and light. A mother sitting at the foot of the cross watching her son die. Others stand with her AND she can only stand alone. No one can know the heartbreak of her own cross – her flesh and blood pouring from the wounds.

Today, the day in between, we wait. Have we not always waited? Death & resurrection. Birth & new life. How did we get here? Sitting at the cross. Moving east toward sunrise . East toward the tomb.

For what do I wait? The already and the not yet. Jesus’ way. His life is my life. Buried and crucified. Killed for loving. Was it worth it? Yes – every moment. I could not be here if I hadn’t gone there. And now we wait.

“The tomb becomes a womb today.” Richard Rohr

Sunday – Sitting in last night's Easter vigil, I was not ready for the lights to come on. The darkness comforting – holding – peaceful & womblike. No resurrection – yet. No bright lights. No breaking the silence with a rousing Alleluia.

“Love is not a victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”
-- Leonard Cohen

Today, I sit with you, Lord, knowing you are risen. Knowing it’s not about the grave or the cross or even death itself. It’s about now. You are here with me in this quiet moment. Risen. Yes.

I am happy to have sat in the dark of last night’s vigil. Today the light feels harsh. The celebration of bonnets and bunnies is too much. Instead, I sit in my jeans and t-shirt waiting to go to the Washington State Penitentiary to see my own flesh and blood.

We are rising. Already and not yet. We will go and sit and keep our own vigil on this day of resurrection. And in my heart, I will sing a broken Hallelujah – remembering the beauty in brokenness - waiting - and Love.

photo © h3images

A Letter to Mary

Today is not only the beginning of the New Year, a new decade even, but also the feast day of St. Mary, Mother of Jesus. Mary has been with me more than ever through this holiday season and several times I have attempted to write a post in her honor – really in honor of all mothers. So, it only seems fitting that today before I step fully into 2010, announce my word for the year, or recap 2009, Mary deserves her day.

How fitting that a mother would have to share her feast day with one of the most unavoidable holidays of the year. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, we have entered a new year and it affects us all in one way or another. So by sharing this day, Mary has most often gone unnoticed, as mothers are prone to do.

“But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Luke 2:19

Mary was a ponderer. (I love that!) She bore the Son. She bore God. She bore MUCH! How much must I as a mother be called to bear? My own mother used to say, “There is nothing that can compare with the love a mother has for her child.” The range of emotions is huge and even if we aren’t mothers, we all had one! And, so I write to this ancient mother for my own peace of mind.

Dear Mary -

What was it like to be the mother of a perfect child? Were you without worry? I think not. Both you and he were human, after all. How did you hold up, Mary? How did you bear all that God gave you? Your “yes” was only the beginning. Your years had to be excruciating. Consider the weirdness following his birth – all those strangers showing up with extravagant gifts while you hung out in a dirty stable. The flight to Egypt as Herod threatened to kill your only son.

And those middle years – what happened then? Was Jesus ever rowdy as a boy? Was he arrogant as a teenager? Your mother’s worry had to be huge. Did you hover and overfeed him? Did you try to encourage him to eat his vegetables and study his Hebrew? Did you tell him to be careful when he went out at night? Even your mother’s love was not enough to save his life. You had to stand by and watch him be crucified to death. How did you handle that? How helpless you must have felt!

Mary, you have been with me this season. I am grateful for your presence. You offer me hope and I will carry you with me into this New Year.


Today’s Advent reading ends with … “this was the Mary whose soul was pierced by a sword.”

No matter who your kid is, being a mother is a really tough job – one that pierces in more ways anyone can imagine. Today I honor Mary and all the mothers of the world – Saints or not ☺. Won't you join me?

For another wonderful view of Mary, pop on over to the Mind Sieve.

photo © lucy - paris, 2008

Surprise Tribute

Sometimes I wish I could plug a recorder into my brain during the night, especially those early morning hours just before waking. I swear some of my best ideas and writing emerge just before dawn, but once I open my eyes they drift away like ash in a windstorm. I also wonder – often – about this crazy universe and how much we can’t even begin to comprehend in relation to our thoughts especially. I’m talking about those goose bump generating moments when you think of a person you haven’t thought of in years and seconds later the phone rings and it’s him/her on the line. Or when a topic is bubbling in your brain and then you find three other bloggers have written about the same thing at the same time.

Early this morning, I was creating a post in my brain about being known (or not) by others. My thoughts drifted in and out through recent events. Monday night I was at a dinner honoring the faculty and participants of the transformational program at the Recovery Café (a place of healing for those in recovery – days, weeks, years, hours – from a variety of addictive behaviors.) Having facilitated a program there on deepening spirituality, I felt as though these people knew me in personal and meaningful ways that people I have known for years don't fathom. Last night, I was with friends I have journeyed with through child rearing, parents’ deaths, divorces and day to day mundane events for 20 years. They see me through a completely different lens. I doubt they would ever consider referring a client to me since they know so many of my personal foibles. In both instances, I am known and I am not.

So, imagine my surprise to wake up and find an e-mail pointing me to this tribute. Maureen at Writing Without Paper is indeed a skilled writer. I found myself perusing her words (my words, in many cases) and being fascinated by their arrangement. While I have never met Maureen in person, she created a unique profile of me that feels very intimate, accurate and revealing. Wow! I felt very “known” as I read her words. I also loved how she left space for not knowing me with this prose: "I figure I still have a lot left to learn before I can imagine saying I know her, even remotely."

Part of my story includes a tension of wanting to be known deeply and also carrying a layer of protection that keeps others away from my heart (sometimes intentionally and other times automatically). It is just one of the many paradoxes in my life. So, today I find myself feeling quite honored by Maureen’s tribute AND feeling a bit shy about pointing you in that direction. However, if you know anything about me at all, you know a little shyness rarely keeps me from taking the leap into new territory. So, please pop on over and read Maureen’s wonderful weaving of prose and meet me in a way I found quite fascinating. (I hope you will leave comments for her to acknowledge her amazing gift of Writing Without Paper.) Thank you, Maureen!!!

My question(s) for you today is: How do you feel about being “known”? Do you hold your own tensions on that subject? Do you leap or lay low? I’d love to know!

collages by and of lucy circa 2007

Leveling the Playing Field

Last week at the "Honoring the Ancestors" retreat, I was greeted by these images during an experience of walking the labyrinth. My oh my!

Giggling little girls – full of joy and eager to greet me. “Come on. Come on,” they say. “Come play with us.” The years fade away – the hurts – the sorrows – the weight of life. We are girls – skipping – laughing – tumbling. Full of joy. Generations cascading together. Somersaulting like acrobats. Walking a tight wire without fear. Taking each others’ hands and holding – caressing. We raise each other upright with our laughter – lightness and light. A puddle of puppies, but we are giggling girls – all of us. Grandmas. Aunties. Mothers. Nieces. Daughters. Tumbling together on beds of feathers – light as air. Pure goodness – All else dissolves into fits of laughter.

“Come play with us.” We are little girls even in our death. Those who have gone before and those who come after share in the joy. Let it out of the box for all to see. Anne. Daisy. Myrtice. Audrey. Addie. Morgan. Janey. Stephanie. Kari. Ainsley. Dianna June and Kayce Dee. Come play with me. Auntie. Glenda Jo. Vicki. Carolyn. Barbara. Marilyn. Little girls, all. Their beauty glows.

Little girls. Aunts. Cousins. Daughters. Mothers. Grandmas. Sisters. Blonde. Raven-haired. Straight and curly. Giggling girls. Our laughter and compassion will save the world. Little girls, come dance with me. Little girls of wonder for all the world to see. Communion white and taffeta red – pink – yellow – golden girls. All tumbling into giggle pie.

Little girls skip and scuff their shoes. Giggling precious girls. Generations of them. Embracing me. Touching me. Our blood flows through from Eve. Transformed girls. How can anyone be angry with them? Look through the wrinkles of gray and death – into eyes of laughing girls. Full of hope and compassion and JOY! Amen. Blessed be.

"laughter" © lucy 11.11.09

Invitation to Poetry

My senses overflowing - saturated, really - after almost two weeks in Ireland, followed by a retreat to honor the ancestors. I was grateful this morning for Christine's Invitation to Poetry. It is a welcome entry point to "step across the threshold" back into my blogging world. The invitation made easier since I have a poem already created from this past weekend. It came out of an intuitive process where we poets were asked to include a given word line by line in our poems. It never ceases to amaze me what pops out when I choose to get out of my own way.

Titled, Healing Women, this creation turned into a tribute to my mother and two grandmothers. Our history is not one where loving care is the first thing that always comes to mind. However, something shifted this weekend as I honored the women - the girls - they were. The pictured shrine came later in the weekend as more pieces fell into place. The young girl is my mother, Daisy Ernestine. The top photo, her mother, Myrtice; and my father, "the sailor", holds the arm of his mother, Anne.

Stepping over the threshold,
what story wants to be told?

Shafts of silver light illumine my world,
spreading bare the winter of my soul.

Anne, Myrtice, Daisy step into the dance
as we let go of the stone in our hearts.
Je t'aime, mes amis.

The breath of God has washed us clean &
Jubilation rings the bell
as we return Home together.

I hope you'll join in the fun and join this week's poetry party. To get you started, here are the 10 prompts used this weekend. Let me know when you create your own poem!

1. threshold
2. story
3. a color
4. winter
5. names of ancestor(s)
6. stone
7. a foreign phrase (perhaps from your country of origin)
8. breath
9. an emotion
10. home

Bon chance, mes amis!!

How do you raise an artist?

You never know when memories of life will take on new meaning and perhaps shift into deeper understanding of yourself – or someone else. I have just finished reading Sunrise Sister’s recent post about an obscure artist – Orren Mixer. It is a story about art and her mother – who happens to also be my mother.

Art and my mother. Somehow the two pieces do not seem to fit, yet after reading SS’s post, I am filled with an overwhelming sadness and grief. Perhaps it is in the lack of understanding I have for my mother (who died in May, 2004) or possibly I understand in this moment more than I ever have before. I seem to feel the deeper sadness of my mother and renewed compassion. She never showed her sadness through tears. It was disguised in her perfect appearance, her critical nature and her adamant statements about good & bad, right and wrong. Was she covering a broken heart? Vanquished dreams? I have often wondered who stamped the joy out of her. Her mother? Her mother’s mother? Her children?

As I think of those women, I see scraps of fabric. Pieces of quilts and remnants of cloth cut from McCall’s patterns. I have a flash of thought. Did I pick up my love of art from these women - women who never spoke the word art with anything but scorn? For years I knew I wanted to quilt – needed to quilt even. Sunbonnet Sue –the little girl with the hidden face - called to me. Could I relate to her? I have never made my own Sunbonnet Sue, but when I began to quilt I found something that had been missing deep inside. I was passionate about it and spent hours on end precisely cutting squares and piecing them together. I love the feel of the fabric between my fingers and arranging colors like the rainbow. No one taught me how to do that. It came from an instinctive place inside.

Ah, but my mother taught me how to sew. One of my favorite places at my grandmother’s house was underneath her old pedal sewing machine. I felt safe there. I have fond memories of Mother sewing for me. Lovingly piecing together multiple patterns to create the dress of our vision. Was this her craft? Her art? Did she come alive when she created? (I am sorry to say I don't recall that joy about her.) If she was joyful, why did she stop? Why the staunch refusal to support any career for her children that was not practical? Rumor had it, our mother wanted to be an English teacher, but she married the day she graduated high school and began a family shortly thereafter. I considered a degree in Fashion Merchandising, but ultimately graduated in accounting, pushing aside a dulled vision of anything more creative.

I have been told I have a strong sense of style. I don’t know from where it came. No one taught me. I have a good eye with a camera. No one taught or encouraged that either. I am a decent writer even though the art was nearly pounded out of me with demands for perfect sentence structure and footnotes to reference “real” writer’s work. So, I wonder who pounded the art out of my mother. Because as I read my sister’s post, I know it was there. I’m not even sure my mother knew it was there. 'Fabric Arts' was not in vogue in her lifetime. It was simply sewing – something often done out of necessity. Does necessity take the fun or beauty out of our craft(s)? If my writing becomes work will I love it less?

The stakes are low as I post a few words here on a blog; and they are very high, because writing brings me joy. My soul is at stake here. My life breath depends on doing what I am called to do. So what was my mother called to do? Perhaps it was to raise three brilliant children. I wonder though if a little piece of her didn’t die somewhere along the way. Was there a spark inside her that needed air and instead got suffocated? We weren’t raised to appreciate art, but there are traces of it all throughout our lives. Tiny little seeds planted somewhere along the way, sprouting now in the children she inadvertently raised to be artists. Along with those seeds comes my hope for growing compassion and understanding of a woman who was an artist in her very own way.

You never know when a memory of your life will take on new meaning.

my mother and sister
sunbonnet sue
"reading at an early age" - me

fun friday

So, both of these things came into my mailbox today and I couldn't resist putting them together.

"Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby.
If you give her a house, she'll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal.
If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her.
So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit."

So...do you think there's a woman on the other side of that window?

illumination

She did not cry, "I cannot,
I am not worthy,"
nor "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth, raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light, the lily glowed in it,
and the iridescent wings.

Consent,
courage unparalleled,
opened her utterly.

--Denise Levertov

There are multiple layers to this post--as always there are--and time for writing is in short supply this morning. I hope you will visit Abbey of the Arts where you will see an invitation to poetry as well as a brief and beautiful explanation of what this day represents (The Feast of the Immaculate Conception and the Enlightenment of Buddha.) In addition, she speaks of the amazing retreat of which I was a part. Words? Where can I begin?

Here is my own photo as well as the line from this poem that was highlighted in my journal from a few days ago. I believe it speaks volumes.

"Consent illumined her."

May you find this season of Advent filled with your own illumination and "yes" to the sacred in your life! Peace.

powerful women's motto

this is dedicated to all of the amazing wonderful women in my life. (if you are reading this, that means YOU!) you rock!!!

Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, Satan shudders & says...'Oh sh!#....she's awake!!'

(this was sent to me from another strong courageous grace-filled woman. thank you!)

Eyes of My Ancestors

My quiet time continues to bring more and more new results. The most recent in the form of a poem prompted by Christine @ Abbey of the Arts. Part of me hesitated to even post this here, because it feels a bit melancholy. However, there was something very powerful in writing it that gave me a new way to look at things.

When I think of my ancestors, I am reminded of stern faces and more often than not words of criticism rather than kindness. Maybe it was due to the serious times they were raised in or possibly the influence of the Bible belt, but there never felt like there was much, if any, room for play or imperfection.

In penning this reflection, however, I became very aware of the many dimensions of these ancestral women . While their words may have stung me deeply, I believe I can bring something new to the world by breaking their ancient patterns of hiddenness and propriety. I pray that through the realization of my own dreams and forgiveness, these women can be honored in new and glorious ways.

the eyes of my ancestry.
hollow & vacant. cold & elusive. barren of love.
are they my eyes? my fate?

do those eyes still watch & judge?
or do they weep for their veiled dreams?

might I be their eyes today?
might I see things differently & shed grace where once was derision?
might their eyes be washed clear by my tears?

the eyes of my ancestry.
are they watching now?
were they ever?

photo by christine.

Refusal of Silence

“Being a Silent Woman is not about being quiet and reticent, it’s about stifling our truth. Our real truth.” --Sue Monk Kidd, Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

A few days ago I wrote a post called “Simmering.” Many interpreted it, including myself, as a poem about anger—my anger. And, yes, of course that is true and yet it is not. For as I wrote those words I could envision a specific time and place, I could see the room, feel the tension in my young body, and witness the face of the one who was simmering. The words were about that face and that time and place AND the words were bigger than that with a parade of other faces, times and events being added along the way. They were not simply “simmering” faces. They were faces that attempted to "silence."

Ah, but the beauty is. This woman; that little girl; refuses to be silenced.

Last weekend I was drawn to create a collage using my own picture as the base. When I started, I envisioned layers of color ranging from dark to light with an emphasis more on the darkness that I felt had been surrounding me for several days. But as I worked, the darkness began to recede and colors of life and light arose. A lioness emerged with her power and courage. Jewels began to cover the page. The process was amazing, because even as I had selected dark rows of background, I found myself covering them with flowers and diamonds and kisses; with sweetness and bubbles and butterflies. Something very real emerged. Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled.

"Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled." I believe that is something truly worth pondering. How about you?

Connected...Yes? No? Maybe?

“What she is dismantling is the woman who was once asleep in her relationships, her religion, her career, and her inner life, the woman who never questioned any of it but blindly followed prevailing ideas and dictates. She is the woman severed from her own true instinct and creativity.” from Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd

Whenever I feel the pull of two seemingly unrelated things, I must begin to wonder how and if they are connected. The predominant pull for me lately has been toward a greater understanding of what it means to be a woman and more specifically a woman of God. I have been reading Sue Monk Kidd’s, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter which is her own personal journey from a traditional Christian background toward the Sacred Feminine.

The second topic that keeps popping up for me is that of grief and maybe more accurately “unresolved grief.” Mind Sieve had a provocative post talking about shielding grief for a child and how it moves with us into adulthood. Yesterday at a counseling session, my therapist asked me, “How much have you really grieved?” I wanted to say, “Lots” which is probably accurate, but then I must follow with “Is that enough?” “Enough” does not seem like the appropriate response, because it feels like however I grieve today will be different rather than just more of the same.

And then this morning, Christine’s post spoke of “a fear of darkness in our culture – a denial of death and a resistance to the work of grief.” So as I pondered that post, the thought of unresolved grief and my new awareness of the sacred feminine collided. At first glance I would call the two unrelated. Given a moment to think, however, my answer seems different.

For a few years now I have grieved for a little girl (me) who felt silenced throughout her life. Consequently, I have begun to connect with the woman (me again) who feels alive and vibrant in her own skin. As journeys go, however, the path must continue forward. And thus today, I believe I am being called to consider more deeply the missing pieces. It may include a visit into the darker sides of life, but it feels like light will greet me along the way like sunrays filtering through the heavy forest.

What path are you being called to follow during this changing of the seasons?

photo by lucy

Blessed Among Women

"Blessed are you among women." That is how I felt yesterday from several different venues. Today I would like to share a few of those blessings.

First, a dear friend & colleague of mine trusted me enough to share a bit of her journal and graciously agreed to let me post it here. Her words are a powerful reminder of listening and so much more.

"I had a thought, or a memory. I remembered my dream about the demons. I would always shout and strain to preach to them, dream after dream. I then had the dream that ended these reoccurring dreams. I whispered to the demons with ease and knew the power was there (God). It was effective,potent. In my counseling, I find myself straining (especially the early years) to help and speak and be with my clients. When I am tired, or feeling desperate for direction and wisdom I feel the same urge to push and strain. I find, though, that the Holy Spirit doesn’t need that ‘help’ from me. It’s best when I surrender, and allow the subtle, soft, power to fill me and the room. It’s me being more of an open, soft, hearing, and most of all trusting child in the battle of the moment. It’s in this place where I see the raise of an eyebrow, or the tiny crossing of some emotion brush the face of my client. It’s where I join them more deeply. This is something I’m so grateful to remember today. amen"

Oh, that I would remember to "whisper" with God's power rather than "push and strain."

The next blessing came in the form of a poem from my wonderful friend and talented writer at Chimayo Bound. Earlier in the spring, I searched for a poem about my radiant poppies and yesterday I received the gift of just such a poem. I hope you will go see the beautiful images and words here.

And finally the day ended with the inspiring words of Episcopal Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori. She said, "I think life is meant to be challenging. If we're going to use the fullness of the gifts that we've been given, it means we have to continue to be stretched, and I look forward to that." Me, too.

These words came in the context of an interview with Bill Moyers. You can find both the video and the transcript here. Her viewpoint as both scientist, theologian and woman was one I found to be beautifully inspiring.

My desire is that you will also be blessed by these women as I have been. Cheers!

photo/art "Church Lady" by Erin Andrews (another blessing)
poppy by Peg at Chimayo Bound

Women in Christianity

I was going to post something entirely different here this morning, but after seeing this video at my friend, Rich's blog, I could not think of anything else. I wept as I watched this and I cannot yet (or possibly will I ever) distinguish between how much of it is from the pain of watching and how much from the beauty of these young, glorious faces. How can anyone who calls themself "of God" say these women are "less than"? I'd love to know your responses and reactions.

Watch here. Women in Christianity

photo by Mary Jane Hughlett, Belgian Congo, late 1950's