I am speaking my truth about this strange place between raising children and being my own woman, this liminal space between mother and crone and being an Amma to my birth son, this experience of losing my faith and reclaiming my soul, and I don’t know that there are any new mountains, but I know it matters none-the-less.
I know it matters when we are real in a world of illusions and sparkly attention grabbers. I know it matters when we refuse to play the game, when we speak truth amidst liars, and when we show up as our whole selves, even the raggedy and sharp bits or dark and heavy bits. I know it matters when we tell the true story of what it is to be us, to experience the world in our skin, both the joy and the grief.
If there is anything I know I am here in this life to do it is to model radical inclusion of all that it is to be human, in ourselves and in the other. In order to radically include all of myself I must honor how my particular experience of what we call woman is shaped. In the beginning of intentionally practicing radical inclusion in community I didn’t understand that we must begin by radically including all of ourselves, for in honoring our own humanness we become open to the full humanity of others. If I can’t face my own truth, how can I face someone else’s?
White supremacist patriarchy would have us cut ourselves into pieces and only show the world our prettiest and shiniest bits. Oppression in all forms is oppression of what it is to be fully human and to name our experience for ourselves. It is in naming ourselves and telling the fullness of our human stories that we throw off the yoke of oppression and begin knowing what it is to be free.