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The awareness of my shadow last week took me back to a 1998 gathering
I attended sponsored by the Center for Action and Contemplation (CAC). I wrote of that experience which was
published in that fall’s CAC issue of Radical
Grace. I found a yellowing
copy of my learning that read:
I concluded the Women’s Rites of Passage program with
Carolyn Baker, author of
Reclaiming the Dark Feminine, with a deeper appreciation for the creative energy of my
shadow. And I had an immediate
opportunity to give my shadow voice.
The bus that was taking us from Ghost Ranch back to
Albuquerque hadn’t even reached the highway when I met my first reentry
challenge. A wooden drum rolled
off the luggage rack above and hit me on the head. It momentarily stunned me as it bounced off my skull onto
the floor. My body was already
objecting to being in the great aluminum container, with windows that didn’t
open, and an air conditioner that could not be turned on until we left the
curving, dusty road in the hot desert sun. The heat and lack of air added to the insult of the drum.
The momentary blur in my eyes refocused in anger at the
absence of the protective cord to hold luggage above. Only one short piece of broken cord dangled from a
compartment near the front of the bus.
A line of holes the length of the bus indicated where the protective
cord should have been. The next
turn in the road brought a soft pouch across my field of vision. Fear grew for my sore head. My anger grew in fear of my
surroundings. My mood turned ugly.
Many of the women on the bus joked and laughed with the
driver. I was furious with
him. I worried I might be too much
like the frantic Chicken Little, or the perpetually groaning Eeyore from Pooh
Corner. I felt ugly, but I didn’t want
to be ugly. And then I recalled my
pastoral training where we encourage others, and ourselves, to stay with our
feelings. We are given them for
good reason. So I accepted my
ugliness and waited for what it came to teach me.
It confirmed for me that it is not right to jeopardize
other’s safety. I must tell the bus
driver of the danger and my injury.
And although I appeared to be the only sourpuss on the bus, it was with
good reason. I had a sore head.
After we reached our destination and the bus was unloaded
and some of the women gave the driver hugs, I faced him and gently said, “I’m
sorry, but I must complain. The
cords on the luggage racks are missing and I was hit by a falling drum. It hurt my head.” His smile immediately left and he said
in anger, “It’s not my fault!
People should not put stuff up there!” I quietly and factually said, “No, the cord on the luggage
racks needs to be fixed.” He
abruptly turned away from me, and grumbled loudly, “Okay, I’ll fix them!” And I didn’t feel ugly anymore.
I am now grateful for that bump on the head. It reinforced the need to accept
ugly—stay with the feeling—until it works for change. I learned I can be calm and factual when asking for change,
(though sometimes it is even okay not to be). And I hoped that when I meet people who are acting like
“soreheads” I can remember my drum experience. Maybe they are just in the process of working on some needed
change.
I believe the ugly hag resides side by side with justice in
my shadow. It is why justice is so
elusive. There is reluctance to
seek her in the darkness where tremendous power exists to transform or destroy. But my encounter with the drum, and my
heart, has given me a little more confidence to trust my hag and to give her
voice.
Now, in 2014, I think it’s time to reread “Reclaiming the
Dark Feminine.”
What if we could all see and remember the potential creative
and healing energy of our shadow?
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