Why the Tears?

I sat across the table from you
leaking tears and talking, talking
trying to put my finger on why I wept
and felt embarrassed in a class where we
discussed the abuse of women and girls.

The tears began as I tried to articulate the need
for awareness of all those who at that moment
(when we were discussing their situations
in a much removed room at divinity school)
were alone in their abuse, with no relief in sight.

Trying to discern the reason for tears
while explaining to you the sense of distance
I felt between me and my body,
me and my skin, even while the invitation
to fill that space hung in the air.

What else would God do but weep? you said.
I rode your words bareback into that space
where compassion closed the gap. I felt
how the heart of God is the part of how
we are one with ourselves and with each other.

1975: Imagine

In keeping with the recent Women’s March: one small step for each woman, one giant step for humankind. This poem has some age on it, but it is pertinent.

Monday is diapers, baking, cleaning

house, moments snatched from elastic time

where I stand at the lift-top desk during Sesame Street.


Bent with urgency over the board

unable to wait for inspiration

I write the hurried thought.


In the calm remove of summer

I gather the scraps out of the desk

and build what poems I can.


John Lennon said,

Don’t leave a lyric unfinished.

You won’t recall the original feeling.


Imagine being a woman, John, making do

with time at hand. Then come talk to me

and maybe I’ll listen.

To Be One

To Be One

Woe to you if you fear men
more than you fear God.
Woe to you.

I remember those words
that came to me first in the cellar;
six years later, word for word
they came again as I stepped from the shower
one foot in the tub, the other back in the world.

No longer a bell with no clapper
now do I speak with my own voice
what I think and know in my heart
to be true: So have I learned and
So do I live, unafraid.


Who can order the Holy?

In her introduction to Cries of the Spirit, A Celebration of Women’s Spirituality, published in 1991 by Beacon Press, Marilyn Sewell wrote:

Who can order the Holy? It is like a rain forest, dripping, lush, fecund, wild. We enter its abundance at our peril, for here we are called to the wholeness for which we long, but which requires all we are and can hope to be.


And ain’t I a woman?

On November 26, 1883, Sojourner Truth died at the age of 86.

According to Robert Ellsberg, in his book ALL SAINTS, Daily Reflections of Saints, Prophets, and Witnesses for Our Time, Sojourner Truth “was widely acclaimed as one of the most influential women of her day: an illiterate black woman, a political activist without office, a preacher without credentials save for her penetrating and holistic vision of God’s justice .”

Perhaps her most famous speech was delivered at a women’s rights meeting, when she said, “I have plowed and planted and gathered into barns, and no man could head me––and ain’t I a woman? I have born’d five childrun and seen ’em mos’ all sold off into slavery, and when I cried out with a mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard––and ain’t I a woman? … Den dat little man in black dar, he say women can’t have as much rights as man, ’cause Christ warn’t a woman. Whar did your Christ come from? What did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with him!”

May she not rest in peace but rise up among us as the Spirit of Truth she is.images-1

The Red Tent

Last night fourteen of us sat around a candle-lit table in the 7 o’clock darkness of the approaching solstice here at the end of a dirt road in rural Maine. As we have been doing for the last 10 years, for two hours we shared our lives over food and drink, in laughter, and in prayer.

From the earliest stages, the group called itself The Red Tent, borrowing the name from Anita Diamant’s 1997 best-selling novel of biblical times (learn more about that here).

From a core of five or so choristers from the local Catholic Church, who wanted more to eat and more to drink of their own shared spirituality than they were able to partake of at Mass, the group has grown in diversity and numbers. Most of the original group of “petitioners” have continued to attend church, are still in the choir and continue to identify with the “tribe,” the family, as one of the women termed their relationship with the church.

We women have worked through the years at home and in the communities in our area, have become widowed, endured life-threatening illnesses, have cared for and lost parents, have raised children and now have grandchildren. Our ages range from 40 to 82, and religious expression ranges from active Catholic, to agnostic, to completely unchurched, but most, having had infant baptism and subsequent adult choice, consider themselves Christian.

One recent addition to the group, a white-haired grand- and great-grandmother who came for the first time after the sudden death of her middle-aged son, wrote a succinct summary of what The Red Tent means to her and which she read to us last night. To wit:

Under the tent my sisters all sit.

Some of us wear jeans, some of us skirts.

Some wear make-up, and some do not.

Some are dark-haired, some are not.

Some can sing like angels, and some can even whistle.

But under it all we are one, in our love and sisterhood, always there for one another.

The support we have for one another is unconditional and respectful and above all, loving. In January 2015 we will mark 11 years together with a pot luck supper, opened with prayer, and closed the same way, by passing around a cup of wine in a vintage tea cup that belonged to the mother of two of our sisters, from which we all drink. The thought behind the ritual is that the essence of everything we have shared at the meeting––prayer, talk, laughter, tears, food and drink––is distilled and contained in the cup we pass, one to the other in peace and love.