In The Tent

Water

"Healing Mandala"

In India, according to a 2001 Census, over 34 million widows are living in social, economic and cultural deprivation resulting from laws derived from religious texts from over two thousand years ago. This includes young children who, by virtue of being betrothed to a man who dies, become widows before they even become brides. These women are unclean. Cast off. Disposable. Upon being widowed, they are given three options. Burn in a funeral pyre with their husbands, marry the younger brother of their husband, or take refuge in a "home" for widows where they are resigned to living a life of self denial and exile.

The movie Water tells this very story.  This is such a powerful movie, I'm still processing everything I felt after seeing it.  But I have a few initial thoughts.......

One of the most powerful quotes for me in this movie was simply, "This child is a widow". There is something terribly wrong with that truth.

There is a beautiful scene where the women, heads shaved and uniformly dressed in plain white cotton saris, celebrate the Festival of Colour by smearing themselves and each other with powders and dyes of the most brilliant orange and yellow and pink. Freedom has a scent. It has a sound. It also has a colour. Though short-lived, this was a moment of pure freedom and it reminded me that freedom is not a destination but a journey.  Some moments are brief and unexpected, others hard-fought and lingering, all looking and sounding and smelling and tasting unique each time.

Captivity of any kind, in the name of religious tradition and rule, is always about something else. Economics. Politics. Protecting the status quo. Millions of women, living under patriarchy with no male to support them is too costly to any government.  What other injustices are happening in our world, and are allowed to continue because the cost of addressing them is seemingly too great to those with the power to do so?

I feel like I have so many questions swirling around in my head. Everyone should go and see this movie, and then let your own questions surface. My eyes have been opened a little more because of it, and I'm grateful. But I'm also humbled at all that goes on in my world, in the lives of the women of this world that I know nothing about.

God help us.

Lessons in the Mirror

"Mama Toto" - Cairns

Last night me, my bf and her nine year old daughter were the guests at a wonderful celebration of women and stories and global adventures. You can read about that here. Out of sheer practicality it ended up that I was getting ready for the evening at bf's house. It was a flurry of everything female. We took over her entire bedroom and en suite bathroom, and there were outfits (the hits and the misses) and jewelery and hair products and blow-dryers and makeup and lotions and potions as far as the eye could see. This ritual of preparation culminated with the three of us crammed into her small en suite, all trying to put the finishing touches in the right spots and get out the front door on time. Those who know me well know that it doesn't take much to fluster me, completely overstimulate me and send my body temperature through the roof with even the smallest exertion. The nine year old had left the bathroom creating a little extra room but within minutes had returned and wedged herself into the space between her mother and I and the bathroom sink. 

I was quickly reaching "that place".

But then, thankfully, my inner compass changed and I realized that something very sacred was happening.  The nine year old had a little palette of eyeshadow. She asked which one she could use. A very light one, her mother said. She chose the palest pink, barely there. She picked up the little brush and began to run it over the colour. We showed her how to blow on the brush to get rid of the excess, how to hold the brush, how and where to put the hint of sparkle on her eyelids. When she finished she stood and looked at herself, pleased. You look so pretty, we said. As I started to put my own makeup on I could see her out of the corner of my eye, observing and taking in everything I did. I smiled, but said nothing.

I could see in her eyes that it was "a moment".  Something she will look back on and remember. It wasn't about the makeup. Her mother is very conscious about encouraging her nine year old to be a nine year old, to not grow and mature beyond her years, beyond what she is emotionally ready for. But it wasn't about the makeup. It was about being part of something, sharing in all things female, the ritual of adorning and preparation. It was about honoring and celebrating an outer and inner beauty.

Self esteem, healthy body image, honoring the unique beauty within ourselves is such a struggle for so many women. I was struck, in this moment with the awesome responsibility and privilege we have as women to speak words of life and truth into the "little women" in our lives.  I have no earthly daughters, but I have been blessed with many daughters of the heart who allow me to share in these wonderfully unexpected and sacred moments.

And my heart is grateful.

She's Still My Daughter

"Safe Haven" - Eng Tay

I will warn you now that this post has language in it that is offensive.  I debated whether to edit it out, but it has it's place in my experience today, and  so I have chosen to leave it in.

Last night I saw the movie North Country. It is based on a true story, and is one of the most disturbing portrayals of sexual harassment and abuse of every kind that I have ever seen. It is also a story of courage, determination and redemption of relationships.

There is a scene in which Charlize Theron's character is addressing a predominantly male crowd at a union meeting. She is unwelcome. She is being booed and yelled at and verbally abused. Her father, also an employee and union member, is at the meeting. At this point in the story, he has stood by silently as his daughter and the other female employees have been repeatedly sexually harassed on the work site. He has gone as far as to act like the victim, insisting that his daughters' determination has brought nothing but shame and embarrassment to him. As she tries to speak above the yelling, her father stands up and joins her at the microphone.  What he says next was one of the most profoundly beautiful moments of this movie.

He reminds the men that at company picnics and family functions, no one speaks to any of the wives or daughters in an abusive or derogatory way. There is no name calling. No harassment of any kind. But then they come to work, and something changes. Something in them changes. 

But, he said, she's still  my daughter.

I have been thinking about this idea for a long time. As I have been spending more time learning about the sex trade, entering into relationship with women who are caught in it, I have realized that the first step for any of us in addressing this issue is to begin to see each of these women as they were first created. Someone's daughter. Someone's wife, partner. Someone's mother. A sister. A friend.  Seeing a stranger with eyes of grace, redemption, hope, compassion requires that we have eyes that see ourselves and each other in that stranger.

Today, I had one of the most horrible experiences of my life.  I was shopping with Jen. I was driving. I stopped on the road, put my signal on and waited for the street parking spot that was about to become available. The person leaving the spot was taking his time. A few cars were gathering behind me. Parking was at a premium and it was raining sideways, so I decided to wait for the spot. Someone honked. I motioned for them to go around me. Across the street, a well-dressed man was getting into his SUV and began to pull out of his spot to go in the opposite direction. The street was narrow enough that as he pulled out of his spot his vehicle was parallel to mine. I was not in his way, he was not blocked from driving in any way. He then rolled down his window and said this. "You're causing a fucking line of traffic, you cunt".  I think he repeated it. As he drove away I rolled down my window, said "excuse me?" and yelled at him to watch his mouth.

I don't know how to describe how I felt. I was enraged. My heart was pounding and I had so much adrenalin pumping through me that I felt like I was on fire. I found myself looking around the street for him. I knew that if I saw him I would have been in his face in a second. I felt assaulted, like someone had slapped my face. I was shocked. I felt degraded. But mostly I felt deep, deep anger.

Who talks like that?? Who speaks like that to a stranger? To anyone? I haven't been able to stop thinking about that man today. I wonder how it would feel to put himself back into that moment, and instead of seeing a stranger, seeing his wife or his daughter or his sister. I wonder how he would feel to have his wife come home, enraged and in tears, having to tell him that another man referred to her as a "cunt". I wonder if he would have the same look on his face as my husband did today.

If even for a brief second, I think I was given a glimpse into something much bigger than that moment on the street today. And I hated it.

I want to have eyes that never, ever see just a stranger. And I, too, want to be seen.