Just When I Thought the Magic Was Over

SO MANY GIFTS

There are so many gifts
Still unopened from your birthday.
There are so many hand-crafted presents
That have been sent to you by God.

The Beloved does not mind repeating.
"Everything I have is also yours."

Please forgive Hafiz and the Friend
If we break into sweet laughter
When your heart complains of being thirsty
When ages ago
Every cell in your soul
Capsized forever
Into this infinite golden sea.

Indeed,
A lover's pain is like holding one's breath
Too long
In the middle of a vital performance,

In the middle of one of Creation's favorite
Songs.

Indeed a lover's pain is this sleeping,
This sleeping,
When God just rolled over and gave you
Such a big good-morning kiss!

There are so many gifts, my dear,
Still unopened from your birthday.

—Hafiz, as rendered by Daniel Ladinsky

Soul Friend,

It's been a difficult series of days on this end. I'm guessing the same may have been true for you, too. Yesterday I felt sad and lonely and rather despairing, even crushed. I thought, "Maybe the magic of this journey has come to an end. Maybe even the magic of Marrekech has nothing to offer in a world so darkened by the seeming chokehold of patriarchy and whiteness." (And, just to be clear, I do not mean men or white people, on the whole. I mean the toxic masculine —in which we have all been steeped and en-rooted— and the straightjacket of monoculture— which we all to one extent or another embody— which seeks to make us all toe the line of some imagined superiority or normality.

It started with the inauguration, which kicked up—like November's election results kicked up—so much repressed pain around the patriarchy. My deep dive into more exploration of how we access the harmony and fruitfulness of a Divine Masculine and Divine Feminine evoked all of my longing for a world that is not the one raising its ugly salute right now. In the midst of that pain and longing I walked through the brightly colored souks here only to have my first experience here of sexual harassment, teenaged boys coming from behind and goosing me. And then my father, back home, needed to be hospitalized because he couldn't breathe. Even he, near the top of the privileged heap, seemed at his fragile 91 years to be suffocating.

It's no good for any of us, is it?

After the micro-aggression in the souks, I was angry. Fierce. Not only was my personal space violated, my whole experience of this magical city felt sullied. How could I lose myself in these alleys if young men felt so confident to assault me in such a public place? I felt stripped of my power. My evil eye would do no good, neither would a complaint to the police. 

I was surprised how much I was affected by this. How this one small incident, in a sea of very positive experiences, evoked in me a suspicion of the people around me, a contraction. Sometime yesterday afternoon I noticed that the deep breathing that had come so naturally upon my arrival was no longer accessible to me.

I want to acknowlege my privilege. As a straight white woman, the pressure of the stranglehold on me is so much less threatening than it is for my sisters and brothers of color and for those whose freedom of expression around gender and sexual identity is now outlawed.

I'm just sharing my little experience. And I'm curious about yours. Maybe you, too, have been finding it difficult to breathe all the way down and in.

When you can't get enough breath, it's hard to be attuned to magic, isn't it?

So, it was in this state I somewhat grudgingly turned to Hafiz, master of spotlighting the magic. I was not even half open to his point of view, but the diligence of my little practice insisted, "Just crack the book open."

Wow. Everything I also have is yours.

This echoed something I'd heard years ago in a very sacred breathwork session. Jesus appeared to me and insisted, I am giving you everything.

I am still trying to acclimate myself to this sort of abundance. An ongoing flow of birthday/birthright gifts. Gifts given just on the occasion of my being, with no strings at all tied to my doing. More hand/heart crafted gifts than I could ever integrate, gifts that Hafiz insists have capsized every cell in my body, so that they all become their own little plump oceans of receiving and releasing. Gifts that cause Hafiz to laugh at my sense of thirst.

Reading this, the tears poured out.

Punctuations of sparkly light pouring out of my own lantern self. Heartcrafted gifts.

And then, looking up, a white stork soared across the sky. In many cultures storks symbolize the arrival of new life and also the embodied paradox of groundedness (their very long legs) and flight/pilgrimage (flying across continents to reach their nesting grounds).

Nature's gift. Freely given.

Maybe there is magic still, Soul Friend.

What if the magic is in the cracks of willingness that still draw us forward?

What if the magic is in the outflow of tears evoked when we dive into those cracks?

What if it's not up to us to bring the magic, only to be willing to lift our eyes, especially when they are full of tears, and be blessed and awed by it?

Toxic masculinity affects men and women, in our freedom express all sorts of emotion, and especially to shed tears and to do so openly, without apology.  Recently my husband and sons and I watched The Work. In this documentary about men inside Folsom Prison doing their own healing work around the wounds of patriarchy and guiding men from the outside in that same work, one convicted felon encourages his guest to "cry like a man," to lift his tearful face from the cover of his hands and to cry sitting up, face forward for the world to see. It's a powerful moment that has stayed with me and the men in my life.

I reflected on my own internalized patriarchy which made it difficult for me to share my suffering of the last days with you all. I wanted to isolate myself and nurse my wounds in private.

And while solitude in times of grief has its place (especially if one has not yet been able to gather or be gathered into a safe community), so does community. I listened to an interview with V (formerly Eve Ensler, author of The Vagina Monologues) in which she spoke of a community in the Congo, The City of Joy, created to help women who are survivors of brutal rape to recover and thrive. In this place there is no individual therapy because it is understood that it is impossible to heal outside of community.  Damage happens in community and it must be healed there. As long as a community is unwell, individuals cannot possibly be well.

We need a new model of what it means to be well. Being well means being with others, engaged and alive to each others' evolution, suffering, and transformation. It means a release from the pressure to have it all together and to, at all costs, avoid the vulnerability and messiness of speaking the truth of our experience and expressing our emotions.

In my recent offering of We Are the Great Turning, our little community practiced a Truth Mandala, a new/ancient model for nurturing wellness. It's hard for me to convey just how powerful it was for me to gather in person with other to both listen to others' and to share my own truths.

It was powerful and formative to bear public witness to the particularity and common natures of our pain. It grew my understanding, curiosity, compassion and willingness to show up and take action. I need more of this. We need more of this.

It was also powerful and formative to be witnessed. One result of my public and embodied expression of my grief and longing for the marriage of Divine Masculine and Divine Feminine energies has been a greater energy and inner freedom to follow my callings in this area.

Maybe you feel called to host such a gathering. If you feel called, you are capable enough. You can read all about it here. You could gather with just a few friends, or a larger group. If you'd like to host such a gathering, but would like to talk it through a bit, won't you reach out? We can set up a zoom. I would gladly support you, my gift to you. We can support each other in leadership. How can I support you?

Now, more than ever, we must believe in magic. We are being given everything. If you were willing to lean on that, what might you try? What crack might you dive into?


In Love, and for Love,

Lorilyn