Matrignosis: A Blog About Inner Wisdom

Think Pyschologically; Live Spiritually

When Women Tell The Truth: #MeToo March 26, 2018

Note:  My friends, in looking through some past posts I ran across this one from April 27,  2012 which seems especially appropriate today. Six years ago we were talking about the War on Women.  Since then, we’ve made progress, especially with the #MeToo movement, but much remains to be done. After thousands of years of conditioning by male-dominated societies, we carry the roots of misogyny in the depths of our psyches. Some people, even very well-meaning ones, still can’t see it in themselves, let alone imagine a society in which women accept their sovereignty and their voices are heard and heeded without reprisal. But once a new light has entered a soul, no force on Earth can quell the fire of evolving consciousness. 

Some of my posts come from the heart, some from the head. This one comes from the gut. It’s difficult to write because I’m swamped with strong emotions I don’t quite know how to express. So I’ll simply tell you the truth. I’ve recently come across three troubling blogs. One is written by a woman who describes the sad and dangerous life she lived as a prostitute in New York City for ten years.  A second expresses a woman’s disenchantment with her religion because of the oppression she’s experienced. A third is by a woman who is regularly abused by her husband and wishes she lived in America. None of these women make excuses or plead for sympathy. They simply tell the truth about their lives. And the truth is shocking, painful, and scary.

It’s shocking to know how many women suffer at the hands of men who fear and hate them. Shocking to know how often the authorities responsible for protecting women feel justified in not doing their jobs. Painful to know that so many women in today’s world are disrespected simply because they’re female. Painful to realize I’d rather turn away than face this truth. Scary because it reminds me how vulnerable I am…because I’m a female.

I started this post a few hours ago and was almost finished when I accidentally deleted it. So I had a little inner discussion that went like this:  “Oh, darn! It’ll take too long to try to rewrite it. I should just start over with another topic that’s easier to write about.”

My conscience responded with,  “Are you sure you didn’t unconsciously delete it accidentally on purpose so you’d have an excuse not to post it? Are you perhaps feeling a wee tad cowardly?”

Oops. We bandied this about until the doorbell rang. It was my daughter, granddaughters and granddog who’d dropped by for a brief visit. I told my daughter  how I didn’t know if I wanted to re-create the post and she said, “Why don’t you just write another one about how conflicted you’re feeling?  Wouldn’t that be appropriate for your blog?” Yes, indeedy it would! How’d she get so smart?

So I’ve decided to tell another truth I don’t want to think or write about. A website called Archetype in Action has been publishing posts of mine for several months in the hope of raising awareness about the unconscious forces in ourselves and society that perpetuate misogyny. Last week it published an older one about the feminine principle in men and women, only to be hacked. Someone deleted my article and replaced it with a formal-looking notice saying it was inappropriate! The site manager provided another link and the problem was solved. But the bigger problem is still there. If I keep writing my truths here will I and my blog be the next target for hackers who want to stifle my voice?

This morning’s e-mail contained the latest post from the blogger who’s experienced oppression by her religion and culture. In it she expressed her anger at the hypocrisy of a religion that makes scholarly pronouncements emphasizing women’s rights while dismissing the women who do not experience these rights. After I read it I clicked on the link to her site so I could make a comment.  Guess what. The post was gone and there was a notice that said: “Not Found, Error 404. The page you are looking for no longer exists.”

Here I am, a well-intentioned, well-loved, well-treated woman in 21st century America, afraid to express my anger about injustices against women for fear of becoming a target. Is a world where women are afraid to tell the truth the kind of world in which we want our daughters and granddaughters to grow up?

Strong Women:  May we know them, may we be them, may we raise them.

One final note, since this is a repost, it does not contain the many wonderful comments from strong women that arrived after the original post was published.  If you’re interested, I invite you to read them here.

Jean Raffa’s The Bridge to Wholeness and Dream Theatres of the Soul are at Amazon. E-book versions are also at KoboBarnes And Noble and Smashwords. Healing the Sacred Divide can be found at Amazon and Larson Publications, Inc.

 

Seeing Through a New Lens: Part II November 1, 2016

eyesoflove

“I have treated many hundreds of patients. Among those in the second half of life – that is to say, over 35 – there has not been one whose problem in the last resort was not that of finding a religious outlook on life. It is safe to say that every one of them fell ill because he had lost that which the living religions of every age have given their followers, and none of them has really been healed who did not regain his religious outlook.” ~ C.G. JungModern Man in Search of a Soul

Here’s the rest of the story I started last week.

The event with Ken receded from my mind as I moved through high school.  I had a few dates with a few nice boys but it wasn’t until the summer after graduation that I had a boyfriend. ‘Steve’ and I dated until I left for college that fall, and I looked forward to seeing him again over the Christmas vacation.

One night during the holidays Steve said we’d been invited to the house of a man to whom he was distantly related. This man, who had specifically asked Steve to bring me along, had occasionally offered Steve a little fatherly advice after his stepfather had died. In a bizarre synchronicity, he was Ken’s father. I went reluctantly, fearing to see Ken who had not spoken to me since the tenth-grade dance. He wasn’t home. Steve and I talked with Ken’s father for a few minutes, then he asked to speak to Steve alone. They returned shortly, and Steve and I left.

I thought of this favorite coffee mug when I remembered my story about Ken.

I thought of this favorite coffee mug when I remembered my story about Ken.

When I asked, Steve told me Ken’s father had said, “You don’t want to get serious about a girl like that, do you?” After three years Ken’s anger at the ‘me’ he thought he was talking to on the phone was still alive and well, and he’d convinced his father I was the ‘wrong’ sort of girl. His intervention worked. Steve and I broke up before I returned to college.  A few weeks later when I met a very attractive man, I was free to encourage him. He was Fred, my future husband.

One final footnote: A few years ago I saw Ken at a high school reunion and heard he has a very successful career in a prestigious profession. I wanted to talk to him in the hope of mending old wounds, but it never happened.

Ken, if you should happen to read this, I know you were raised to believe in a sexual double standard. It was okay for boys to enjoy sexual repartee, but ‘good’ girls just didn’t do it. You liked me when you thought I fit the acceptable stereotype. But when this image was shattered by the “me” you thought you were talking to on the telephone, you believed I deserved to be punished. You didn’t know any better.

I’ve shared this story to lift the veil on misogyny so we can see it for what it really is: a man-made perspective with an unnaturally small lens. Through it women are seen as bodies to magnify men’s egos and satisfy their pleasure. This distorted image focuses on our surface, physical “flaws,” is blind to our individuality, depth and complexity, and circumscribes our freedom, creativity and growth.

The underlying cause of every prejudice is fear. What we fear, we try to control. We build walls to separate it from us and keep it “in its place.” When the walls grow so thick that our fear is no longer mediated by communication and understanding, it morphs into anger and hate.

imagesEpidemics of misogynistic anger and hatred turn men into beasts and women into victims. Harassment, abuse, and crimes against females become commonplace. Obsession with women’s sexuality and objectification of our bodies are normalized. People with this perspective think it’s okay, even desirable, to legislate and enforce what we can do with our own bodies. Children absorb the poison and spread it like a virus to each other and the next generation.

We’ve seen too many tragic results of this twisted thinking in the world, and the current presidential election has brought America’s collective illness into high relief. We’re better than this. For God’s sake and for our own good, it has to stop!

Through patriarchy’s one-sided lens, erotic sensations are only associated with sexuality. But did you know that an authentic ‘religious’ outlook sees sexual and spiritual energy as the same thing? Both are life-serving, imaginative and healing. Both are pleasurable, beautiful, and soul-satisfying. Both breed intimacy and compassion. Both arise from the love that fuels our very being. Appreciating this energy running through all life automatically enlarges our perspective, thus opening a new outlet for passion and leaving less room for fear, anger and hatred.

My youthful outlook has expanded enormously since high school, but I’m far from finished. My dream said I need a bigger lens, and recent changes suggest I’m acquiring one.  Here’s an example.

blackandwhiteandcolorchangeperceptionIn another dream from last week I saw a generous side of Donald Trump, a man in whom I have never seen one redeeming quality. Fred and I were in his penthouse apartment which he had donated to us for a week. That surprised me. His insults to women have been painful to the wounded girl in me and I could never vote for him, but after this dream my attitude toward him underwent a subtle shift. I see my prejudice and realize that just as I have a negative and positive side, so must he. I actually feel a bit more understanding. How’s that for a bigger lens?

Jean Raffa’s The Bridge to Wholeness and Dream Theatres of the Soul are at Amazon. E-book versions are also at KoboBarnes And Noble and Smashwords. Healing the Sacred Divide can be found at Amazon and Larson Publications, Inc.

Image Credits: Wikimedia Commons.  Meta Vie:  the Lens of Love.  Through a Stronger Lens.  Fractile Enlightenment. 

 

Seeing Through a New Lens: Part I October 25, 2016

I thought of this favorite coffee mug when I remembered my story about Ken.

I thought of this favorite coffee mug when I remembered my story about Ken.

This morning I awoke from a dream in which a woman calls me on the phone to tell me about an idea she has. “It’s erotic,” she says almost apologetically.”That’s okay,” I say, “I’ve been thinking about that lately.”

It’s true. Recently, a heightened awareness of the joys of physical life has reminded me of Jungian analyst Marion Woodman’s desiderata: ‘the eroticization of all life.’ By this she means experiencing and being grateful for the sacred energy which activates nature, our bodies and our psyches; creates and maintains the ongoing birth/death/rebirth cycle of life; and can fill our time on Earth with enthusiasm, creativity, meaning and passion. Libido, chi, Eros, God, and kundalini are some of the names we give it, but to me it’s all the same thing.

The woman on the phone continues, “Get a lens. A good one.” I imagine a big camera lens. “Take it with you. Listen to people’s stories. We don’t need more theory. We need to see real lives, hear real stories, like the one about the woman in Palestine protesting the war.” I imagine writing a new book of stories told by women from around the world. I could illustrate them with images captured with my new lens.

The dream stayed with me while I ate breakfast, read the latest news about the election, and prepared for the day. Should I take it literally? Was my anima suggesting the theme for a new book? Meanwhile I was also wondering about the theme for this blog post. Last night’s dream? Suddenly a memory of a painful incident in my teen-aged years came to mind. I had written about it in The Bridge to Wholeness, so it would be easy to rewrite here. Bingo! I had my theme. So here’s that story inside this story.

When I grew up the rules for girls were clear. Women wishing to be acceptable to mainstream society were limited to three roles:  lily-white virgin, supportive wife, and devoted mother. Any other way of being feminine was suspect, and women who stepped too far out of these prescriptions would be punished by self-righteous advocates of patriarchy. I had three experiences with this kind of prejudice during my teen-age years and they all did exactly what they were meant to do:  keep me fearful of, and submissive to, men.

The first occurred in the 6th grade shortly after my father died. I was home alone after school when a man called and asked for my mother. When I said she wasn’t home he told me in vulgar, sexually explicit terms what he was going to do to me. Then he said, “I’ll be right over.” I ran to a neighbor’s house and stayed until my mother came home. I never slept easily in that house again.

The second experience involved another phone call. The summer before tenth grade a friend was at my house when the phone rang.  It was a boy who wanted to talk and flirt but wouldn’t tell me his name. The memory of the obscene call was still fresh, and I told my friend I didn’t want to talk to him. A bold and sassy girl who had no fear of boys, she happily took the phone and continued talking as if she were me. At first this was fun but when her voice took on a disturbing sensuous quality I asked her to stop. Keeping the phone away from me and covering the receiver so he wouldn’t hear me, she continued the conversation. When she hung up, she refused to tell me what he said, and soon I dismissed the incident as harmless.

Weeks later I went to my first high school dance wearing a new white dress. Before long, the shy wallflower I had been through junior high was dancing with a boy. During a break he led me to a group of boys he knew. Among them was a boy I’ll call Ken who had a crush on me in the fifth grade. When we were learning folk dances he asked me to be his partner several times, but being loyal and shy, I never danced with anyone but Jimmy, my friend and neighbor from across the street.

This is the dress from my story. Here I'm wearing it again to the senior prom.

This is the dress from my story. Here I am two years later wearing it to the senior prom.

The boy I’d been dancing with said hello to Ken, then moved on to talk to the next boy. Face to face with Ken, I smiled and said, “Hi.” With a cold, venomous stare he spat out a single word: “Pig!”

I stared at him in shocked bewilderment. When I could get away without being noticed, I hurried to the ladies’ room where I locked myself into a stall and sobbed until the dance was over. I never wore that dress again without feeling dirty and ashamed. Perhaps you already know why Ken said that, but it took me 30 years to realize he was the anonymous boy on the phone.

Two years later my story took another turn. I’ll tell it next time. Meanwhile, perhaps you’d be willing to share a similar story. I can assure you I’ll listen.

We don’t need more theory. We need to see the world through a new lens. We need healing stories, like the video I saw on Facebook yesterday of Jewish and Palestinian women singing and dancing together in the streets to protest the war between their fathers, brothers, husbands and sons.

 Jean Raffa’s The Bridge to Wholeness and Dream Theatres of the Soul are at Amazon. E-book versions are also at KoboBarnes And Noble and Smashwords. Healing the Sacred Divide can be found at Amazon and Larson Publications, Inc.

 

When Women Tell The Truth April 27, 2012

Some of my posts come from the heart, some from the head. This one comes from the gut. It’s difficult to write because I’m swamped with strong emotions I don’t quite know how to express. So I’ll simply tell you the truth. I’ve recently come across three troubling blogs. One is written by a woman who describes the sad and dangerous life she lived as a prostitute in New York City for ten years.  A second expresses a woman’s disenchantment with her religion because of the oppression she’s experienced. A third is by a woman who is regularly abused by her husband and wishes she lived in America. None of these women make excuses or plead for sympathy. They simply tell the truth about their lives. And the truth is shocking, painful, and scary.

It’s shocking to know how many women suffer at the hands of men who fear and hate them. Shocking to know how often the authorities responsible for protecting women feel justified in not doing their jobs. Painful to know that so many women in today’s world are mistreated simply because they’re female. Painful to realize I’d rather turn away than face this truth. Scary because it reminds me how vulnerable I am…because I’m a female.

I started this post a few hours ago and was almost finished when I accidentally deleted it. So I had a little inner discussion that went like this:  “Oh, darn! It’ll take too long to try to rewrite it. I should just start over with another topic that’s easier to write about.”

My conscience responded with,  “Are you sure you didn’t unconsciously delete it accidentally on purpose so you’d have an excuse not to post it? Are you perhaps feeling a wee tad cowardly?”

Oops. We bandied this about until the doorbell rang. It was my daughter, granddaughters and granddog who’d dropped by for a brief visit. I told my daughter  how I didn’t know if I wanted to re-create the post and she said, “Why don’t you just write another one about how conflicted you’re feeling?  Wouldn’t that be appropriate for your blog?” Yes, indeedy it would! How’d she get so smart?

So I’ve decided to tell the truth I don’t want to think or write about. A web site called Archetype in Action has been publishing posts of mine for several months in the hope of raising psychological awareness about the unconscious forces in ourselves and society that perpetuate the abuse of women. Last week they posted an older one about the feminine principle in men and women, only to have their site hacked. Someone deleted my article and replaced it with a formal-looking notice saying it was inappropriate! The site manager provided another link and the problem was solved. But is the real problem solved?

This morning’s e-mail contained the latest post from the blogger who’s experienced oppression by her religion and culture. In it she expressed her anger at the hypocrisy of a religion that makes scholarly pronouncements emphasizing women’s rights while dismissing the women who do not experience these rights. After I read it I clicked on the link to her site so I could make a comment.  Guess what. The post was gone and there was a notice that said: “Not Found, Error 404. The page you are looking for no longer exists.”

Here I am, a well-intentioned, well-loved, well-treated woman in 21st century America, afraid to express my anger about injustices against women for fear of becoming a target for misogyny. Is a world where women are afraid to tell the truth the kind of world in which we want our daughters and granddaughters to grow up?

 

 
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