Owning the Divine Feminine: Grace in the Time of Corona

A bawdy artist friend posted on “the Facebook” about baring her untanned “excessive” belly flesh by donning in a sports bra and shorts for a stroll at the park and no longer giving an eff about the disapproving looks she received. It was the final impetus-inspiration-fodder for me to rework my own thoughts on such matters and “hit” publish. I attempted to write about the following related “AHA,” more than a month ago. A lot can happen in a month’s time—as anyone living out from under a rock in 2020 knows. I turned 60. It’s felt transformational. And, like the little private messages in my inbox from friends….Yep. It did require a gulp of courage to shear off my curls (in the masked un-confines of my back porth with the aid of my scissor-wielding wizard hairdresser,) and to just say no to coloring my hair any more.

“It will make you look older.” “It will make you fade and disappear—culturally, to men, in the palate of color, skin, clothing….” True? Mmmm, maybe, somewhat. In the grueling, kick-ass five years that I worked with a shaman last decade, he used to admonish me about standing with one foot in the stream of flow and the other foot sunk into a shrinking, shriveled mud-mired, dying stream of cultural morass. Disclosure: I’m tentatively straddling those two streams right now about this physical change, which feels dramatic. I’m taken aback and reality shocked each time I’ve glanced at a mirror. The reflection bares all—my hair is shorn and it’s natural tone is white with patches of steel. What if the naysayers are right? Clearly, they are in some ways.

But. Damn! It feels so. Empowering. There was the first cut a month ago….It just didn’t feel finished. And, Curly Hair 101: Curly locks do not grow down. They grows out. Horizontally. And when Tennessee proved it was going to play stoo-pid and open the economy back up before coronavirus numbers had actually gone down, I predicted that we’d be here. Here: in July, with cases surging and an eventual shutdown likely to happen before the initially predicted fall date. Our mayor warned before the July 4 weekend that if the yahoos and the young (my wording) partied like there’s no corona, schools may have to go remote. They did and they are. Damnit. Cases doubled from one day to the next, and are continuing to surge, and the grand central of downtown Honky-Tonk-littered Broadway, where partiers congregate, is now a red-inflamed heat mapped coronavirus hotspot. Hence, we’ve gone back to partial Phase 2. And so, I got a second cut, still no color, and room to grow. I’d planned this for decades, actually. Turn 60, cut it off, at some point, no more color. I just didn’t think the later would come this soon. I was hedging waiting another decade on going silver, and I was having so much fun online dating, and the men loved the curls, I thought I’d keep it long for awhile….

Did I just write that? That’s comes from the side ankle-deep in mud. The side of me standing in the flow of truth went with the cut and sans color. Because this is about me. About change. About transformation. About owning me. About a milestone birthday. About a new decade. About kick starting the final third or near final quarter of my life—if I be so fortunate. About what I want to do. And. About saying a big EFF You to the patriarchy. And you betta bet that part of this pandemic slap down is no longer giving a piss about the patriarchy and for women to finally own our power. We’ve had a rising up every couple of decades. And thank you, Donald Trump, the last impetus was the Me, Too Movement—with no signs of stopping as women and as, much needed, women of color, are running for all levels of public office in record numbers. (My take on Me, Too, and sadly, “why I didn’t report,” here.)

Case-in-point is the need for women to own our power, our own images—our hair color (whatever we each choose!!) our bodies (whatever we choose!!): Browsing on Insta just last night this is what popped up in my feed. (See compilation image at the very top of this post.): A foxy 40something friend sharing a feminist meme about shrugging patriarchal labels for women and for us to own our voices and our bodies. Juxtaposed to the next post—”retinol for wrinkles-microneedling patches” [ouch] to tell your wrinkles to “peace out.” An ad for an un-frizz cream called “Virtue.” A “holy grail” oil for “no more creepy skin”….I mean, every other post was targeted to fixing my culturally imperfect, aging body, for whipping the womenfolk into the patriarchal desired form. And worse, often marketed by women as patriarchal pawns….Because women can’t age. They can’t wrinkle or crepe. Their hair can’t frizz. And, something happened to the algorithm, apparently, because I didn’t see an ad aimed at my five-pound corona gain. Oh, wait, there was the post from 40something Whole30 founder doing excruciating push ups, pull ups, spinal curls, pike headstands, and jump roping in her flat Chuck Taylors in the confines of her concrete-floored garage. That shaming* post came first. [I realize Melissa Urban’s not attempting to shame me or anyone. Only I do that….It worked.]

The post I attempted to write a month ago came after a breakthrough session with a therapist-coach who does family constellation work. “Are you willing to try something different? She asked. Yes, of course, I replied….And this is why this post hadn’t made it to publication. Because it’s too difficult to explain. So, I’ve embedded links to family constellation work, if you are curious about the methodology. But the point is what came of that session was a surprise understanding. And understanding of the embodiment of the divine feminine and sacred masculinity, which has eluded me for years, decades. (This specific awareness just happened to come from that session. Family constellation is not about divine feminine and sacred masculinity per se….)

When women bow to the cultural confines of patriarchy about how we must, for example, look to win favor, we give away our power. The power that is embodied in us to lead and to co-lead, co-exist. Co-create with masculine energies. And, even more mysterious to me, previously, was the concept of sacred masculinity. Head nod to the former boyfriend who embraced this concept via the mythopoetic men’s movement. (Any others out there like him—who’ve done the hard work, have deep intellect and beyond surface spirituality? I’ll be available when 2021 comes. For now, I’m deep diving solo.) I could only intellectually skim the concept of sacred masculinity with curiosity at the time, though I’ve known about the work of Robert Bly for 25 years.

When women give up their power to the dictates of patriarchy they not only rob themselves, they rob men of their sacred masculinity. We cannot be co-equal if one is dictating to the other how not to be themselves or to take on what is rightfully and responsibly their work and worth. (I’m talking in spiritual not material terms.) The other giving up who they are to the other. Please do not read that as women-blaming. We’re both guilty. Women need to re-possess their power. Men need to stop demanding it, dampening it, they need to do their own work to embrace their sacred power and to stand in it beside women, empowering them, empowering themselves. Okay, I’m doing a really poor job of explaining this….My friend Amanda Dobra Hope‘s just published a book on the topic. Confession, I’ve only read through the preface and the introduction. I’m still gnawing on books by Tosha Silver, Mama Gena and Danielle LaPorte. Just below, see a YouTube, on Amanda’s new book topic.

Here’s what I wrote to that outrageous artist friend who said that she realized a post about no longer being ashamed of her culturally imperfect body was “frivolous” in light of all that’s going on in the world.