(no subject)
ok, i'm a dork, but this was so cool... I stumbled
upon it on the internet... its by Sue Monk Kidd.
it's about finding feminine spirituality, especially
for those of us raised in the christian tradition.
It spoke to me I guess...
Every time I stop believing in god, all I have to do
is go somewhere where there are stars and look up.
They are so far, so expansive, so much bigger than
my puny little brain. The stars transcend simple
meaning into power. When I look and let them guide
me, I can feel their pull from the tips of my toes
to the top of my head. They want me up, about,
joyful, in their light. Even though I think
astrology is a crock, I think that the design for
the universe can be found between the stars. Maybe
that’s where god lives, in the space from light
to light.
The stars are such paradox. I shiver at their
vastness, their impersonal majesty, these giant
balls of gas burning millions of millions of miles
from me. And yet, they are the kindest mother I
have known. Yes, the stars are my mother. When I
tilt my tiny baby head back to them in the darkness
of their powerful womb, I feel utterly cradled by
the universe in all its glory. Their steadfast pulse
lulls me, and I rock and relax to their collective
heartbeat, safe in the knowledge that they are much
bigger than I, and that I can trust them to be. They
sing silently to me, with words as old as time:
"My beautiful daughter, you are loved in our glory.
Your thirst for our song is all we need to welcome
you into our music."
Only when I see the millions of stars smiling their
freckled smile down to me as I drink in their milk,
more nourishing than any food I could dig out of the
earth, do I understand that truly every hair on my
head is counted. This mother sees all the multitudes
that every person contains, and loves them all,
unflinchingly.
I can’t help wanting to show mine to her. She’s
seen me spin in circles and weep until I’m dry,
this Mama-God I love. I know she’s most inhuman.
She’s all I have, my refuge and my strength, and
no human can be that all to another person. In
fact, that’s the pain of my birth. Somehow I got
mixed up, decided that my guide was here on earth,
was my earthly mother. I think that’s how she
wanted it, but is most certainly not how She,
the great I AM, wants it. There’s great freedom
and joy in giving that up, in realizing that the
stars can teach me to sing in a way my mother
will never be able to show me. I want Her to know
me more than anyone, more than myself.
And that is why, when most people I know go
stargazing (and I with them), all I really
want to do is go starbathing. I want to shed
my clothes and show myself to the stars, and
bathe in their fluid song. I want to point to
my abdomen, saying, "This is the chicken pox
scar I got when I was six", and to my leg,
saying "This is where I used to cut myself".
The beauty, of course, is that they, she,
whoever you want to call it, already know.
This mama knows me better than I know myself.
It’s shiveringly delightful.
upon it on the internet... its by Sue Monk Kidd.
it's about finding feminine spirituality, especially
for those of us raised in the christian tradition.
It spoke to me I guess...
Every time I stop believing in god, all I have to do
is go somewhere where there are stars and look up.
They are so far, so expansive, so much bigger than
my puny little brain. The stars transcend simple
meaning into power. When I look and let them guide
me, I can feel their pull from the tips of my toes
to the top of my head. They want me up, about,
joyful, in their light. Even though I think
astrology is a crock, I think that the design for
the universe can be found between the stars. Maybe
that’s where god lives, in the space from light
to light.
The stars are such paradox. I shiver at their
vastness, their impersonal majesty, these giant
balls of gas burning millions of millions of miles
from me. And yet, they are the kindest mother I
have known. Yes, the stars are my mother. When I
tilt my tiny baby head back to them in the darkness
of their powerful womb, I feel utterly cradled by
the universe in all its glory. Their steadfast pulse
lulls me, and I rock and relax to their collective
heartbeat, safe in the knowledge that they are much
bigger than I, and that I can trust them to be. They
sing silently to me, with words as old as time:
"My beautiful daughter, you are loved in our glory.
Your thirst for our song is all we need to welcome
you into our music."
Only when I see the millions of stars smiling their
freckled smile down to me as I drink in their milk,
more nourishing than any food I could dig out of the
earth, do I understand that truly every hair on my
head is counted. This mother sees all the multitudes
that every person contains, and loves them all,
unflinchingly.
I can’t help wanting to show mine to her. She’s
seen me spin in circles and weep until I’m dry,
this Mama-God I love. I know she’s most inhuman.
She’s all I have, my refuge and my strength, and
no human can be that all to another person. In
fact, that’s the pain of my birth. Somehow I got
mixed up, decided that my guide was here on earth,
was my earthly mother. I think that’s how she
wanted it, but is most certainly not how She,
the great I AM, wants it. There’s great freedom
and joy in giving that up, in realizing that the
stars can teach me to sing in a way my mother
will never be able to show me. I want Her to know
me more than anyone, more than myself.
And that is why, when most people I know go
stargazing (and I with them), all I really
want to do is go starbathing. I want to shed
my clothes and show myself to the stars, and
bathe in their fluid song. I want to point to
my abdomen, saying, "This is the chicken pox
scar I got when I was six", and to my leg,
saying "This is where I used to cut myself".
The beauty, of course, is that they, she,
whoever you want to call it, already know.
This mama knows me better than I know myself.
It’s shiveringly delightful.