What are we doing to our girls?

*Warning this post contains graphic content that may be disturbing to some readers.

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The first life I was ever regressed to was lived several hundred years ago. I never received an exact date, only the scene of my last breath. I was in China, living in a house with paper screens. The roof of my home was thatched, and I was waiting inside. I wore a red kimono-like dress with a hat. My face was painted white. I knew the men were coming for me…

I didn’t have to relive the rape, or the dismemberment of my body. That was a knowing, and the lingering of the sensations of violation that had reincarnated into the cells of my current body. The feeling of being choked…of being torn apart… I saw only the pieces of self left behind as my spirit rose from my broken body.

I was a forbidden woman.  A keeper of secrets. I was murdered when my value to the men who violated me had passed its keep. But that was hundreds of years ago, so why remember, why write this post?

It’s the year 2017, and yesterday I received a video in my Facebook feed. The title, “Human Trafficker Admits to Killing Over 400 Children in Video Confession.” Watch at your own discretion. It is highly disturbing. Why am I sharing it? Because it is the year 2017, and we are still allowing our girls, our children, the women in our world, to be abused. To be objectified. To be killed for sexual gratification.

What are we doing to our  girls? What are we doing to our women? Ourselves?

We are still, in the collective sea of our existence, in which we all dip our consciousness (or unconsciousness depending upon how you choose to view it), allowing ourselves to ignore, to deny, to look away, and to allow. Even to condone, this abuse or our girls, our women, ourselves.

Thousands of years ago, it was not thought absurd to revere the divine feminine. Instead, the goddess was worshiped in the form of multiple names. Names that are still, somewhat present, in our culture: Gaia, Tara, Quan Yin, Sarasvati, Kali, Durga, Isis…to name a few. Goddess names that are mostly associated with “New Age” groups, or misused by terrorists groups who desire to oppress the divine feminine.

It is the year 2017 and we have elected a president of the United States who openly disparages women. Who has sexually exploited women, and aims to oppress their rights in his position of “power.” Women voted for him, along with men. Women support him, along with men. Women and men with daughters of their own.

What are we doing to our girls? What are we doing to our women? What are we doing to ourselves?

I recently read the book American Girls: Social Media and the Secret Lives of Teenagers by Nancy Jo Sales, because my thirteen-year-old daughter was being harassed by a boy on social media. How did I find out? Two young women told the school administration. The book is as disturbing as the video I shared above. Yet, it takes place in present time. In the year 2017, girls are being raped and reduced to mere objects of sexual pleasure by their peers. Young women are being slut-shamed and denigrated by young men who sing songs about rape at Ivy League fraternities. It is the year 2017, where young men can gang rape our daughters and get a pat on the back. It is the year 2017, where beautiful girls as young as nine-years-of-age are being kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder so that they can be tortured and raped by horny men. If they try to escape, they are killed.

This is what we are doing to our girls. To our young women. To our daughters. To our sisters. To ourselves.

Over the course of hundreds of years, we have allowed the sacred woman to be replaced by an objectified body, in the name of sexual gratification and power, which still, very much pervades our culture. We cannot look away. Today, in the year 2017, a young woman cannot walk in the beauty of the sacred vessel of her body without being reduced to an object of sex. Her body, once revered, is considered a toy by boys too young to be called men. We can blame the pervasive culture of porn, or we can look within and see what is broken?

What are we doing to ourselves? What are we doing to each other? What are we doing collectively? 

We can also look without. We can broaden our gaze and see the horizon that stretches beyond our sight. We can look to the vessel of life that we call home, a planet once honored and revered as a sacred giver of life, and realize how we have, collectively, raped and exploited her as an object. A commodity. A giver of life that is worthy of little more than our greed.

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And we can look within, and ask, where do I harbor darkness? What do I choose to hide and ignore? In 2009, The Dalai Lama said the “world will be saved by the western woman,” during a peace summit in Vancouver. Perhaps this is true. Certainly, I believe, she will help lead the way. What about the western man? What about all men? What about the divine masculine merged with the divine feminine, that is as much within a man, as it is within a woman. We must, I believe, get to the point where we realize how much we are alike, than we are different. That the light that exists within “you,” also exists within “me,” just as the darkness that exists within one person, also resides in you, and me. And, we must walk together, as one.

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The Flowers of Mistrust – #Silenti

A wonderful look at the fear of mistrust, and how it is part of all journeys:

Source: The Flowers of Mistrust – #Silenti

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Rasing awareness

Why I fly across the pond in April. ❤

The Silent Eye

In two weeks time we will be in Derbyshire, just a mile or two from this enigmatic valley for the Silent Eye’s annual weekend workshop.

The story we will explore is set within the local landscape and at many of the ancient sites of the area. We work in the landscape for the three other, more informal workshops that we host each year, but for this one, we are bringing the landscape within, to create a sacred space in miniature that echoes the wider world; a microcosm within the macrocosm.

That is part of what is meant by ritual drama. We take a story, drawn from myth, imagination, or even stranger sources, and play it out symbolically. The story always addresses some of the spiritual and psychological principles behind the human journey and, through such rituals, we seek not only to gain a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place…

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The Land Beckons

I have felt the pull of the land for as long as I can remember, although I have only been there once in this lifetime. Soon I will return to England, and my cells are awakening again with the energy of a place that feels like home.

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The stones call to me, and I hear the whispers of their stories when I write. They draw me into the body of Earth and ask me to remember. They send their messengers as crows, and each day they call out to me. If I choose not to see or hear, they dive across my path so that I will not forget.

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I once thought home should feel comfortable, but it often does not. Home is the pull of belonging. It is the place where you know you have been, and must return to discover yourself again. Anew. It does not always have to be physical, but sometimes it is, so it can draw you back in bodily form.

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I do not know what the journey back will bring this time. I have learned to relinquish expectations, because the gifts are greater when one does. The open vessel receives what it needs, and perhaps not what the mind wants.

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Yet, I must confess, I dream of hugging the spring lambs. Although I dare not try, as the ewes might not respond in kind.

To be continued…

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Living dead

Wonderful post on “doing” v. “being” by Sue Vincent (and her son, Nick):

Source: Living dead

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Life’s Blessings

The scent of frankincense is infused in the air, and beside me there is a note, a deck of cards, a bar of wrapped soap, and an unfolded indigo cloth with the hand-stitched words, “inner truth healing.” A phone also sits beside me, holding a message that reads like a miracle.

I am blessed. It is a day where this knowing is infused into every cell of my being. The tears, for now, have been wiped free from my eyes, but my heart still sings with love and joy. There is, within me, the knowing that the heart is woven with the threads of every heart. The gift of Truth permeates the tangible packages beside me.

The angel cards were gifted to me this morning. “I found these at a thrift store and thought of you,” my friend said as she handed me the box.

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The First Gift of the Day

One learns in these moments that although a present can be beautiful, the energy it holds is where the true gift resides. To have taken the time to think of someone else and know that what you have found for them is a mirror of their truth is a gesture of love. The recipient cannot help but feel it.

The second gift arrived from Abudhabi, wrapped in a brown envelope. I tore the ends to release more magic in the form of camel’s milk soap infused with frankincense, a folded indigo cloth with white, hand-stitched words, and a note. By then I was over-come.

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Of the cloth, my friend from Abudhabi wrote, “The embroidery I made for you is on a hand-woven, hand-dyed substrate — an indigo cloth…Indigo is a healing dye–and in Indonesia only women in midlife are allowed to handle it — it’s considered magical, mysterious, and powerful.”

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I held the cloth to my heart and breathed deep. I could feel magic. I could feel love.

There is an indescribable joy that fills one’s being at moments like this. The knowing that one’s life is infused with love, as all life is, is a precious gift.

I am blessed.

Gratitude fills my heart.

Thank you.

 

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Guest writer: Alethea Kehas – A girl named Truth

I’m a guest writer on Sue Vincent’s blog today. Thank you, Sue. ❤

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

Truth

open the room of my mind
search for me
within faded

doubt
listen to words
sing

My birth
There was once a girl named
Alethea

her heart sparked with truth

My mother always told me she found my name, Alethea, in a book. In my child-mind I created a tome perfumed with age, adding gilded pages over the years. Sometimes I imagined stories, filled with strong and beautiful goddesses, and smiled with the thought that I was held inside.

“It’s Greek,” my mother told me, “for truth.”

When I opened the book inside the room of my mind, I watched the pages unfold like the wings of a butterfly, and waited for a girl named for truth to manifest into form.

I never doubted the existence of this book, until one winter afternoon when I was thirty-six. That day, alone in my New Hampshire home, I cupped a phone…

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