These words are from my friend, RC.

She wanted to share them, knowing they are intended for more ears and eyes and hearts than just hers; yet, she felt they would not be honored in her own circle.

I know, deep in my bones, how important it is for us to bring what is held deep inside out into the light. I know how important it is to tell each other our stories, and to listen to those stories with our hearts, because the heart does not judge. We need each other to simply hold space for the healing that yearns to happen within each of us.


Standing in front of the mirror, unadorned and unashamed, I remember in my breasts and my belly, in my shoulders and my thighs the freedom she must have felt in the garden. I know the joy of being surrounded by succulent fruit and the caress of perfumed air. I sense the wonder he felt, watching her, adoring her with his eyes, the pleasure he took – and gave – his hands full of her flesh while the divine moved in their midst.

But when I cover myself with my modern fig leaves, the shame pours in, filling my lungs and threatening to drown me.

How can it be that knowing gets twisted, turned back in on itself, split again and again until the truth no longer exists? Starting with that first juicy bite, she has been blamed. And her daughters have borne the burden with every child they carried. Pendulous breasts and widening hips no longer worshipped but feared. Feet that danced now bound. Mutilated, humiliated, beaten and burned – for what sins? The sin of being, of becoming?

Layers of shame interwoven with layers of soil, each aeon invents brutal new methods of pain. And now, we rape the earth and her daughters with equal impunity. Nothing sacred, nothing safe. No elders have to hold us down for mutilation to ensure desire, we submit to the knife so willingly, impossible images of desire carved out of our flesh. We consume but find no satisfaction. We look for the divine behind men enthroned on the altars of religion and government, but she’s not there, and she no longer moves in our midst.

The garden entrance stands guarded by flaming swords, no hope of return. But the images shimmer just on the horizon. Freedom still beckons, reflected in the morning light. I hear the whisper of the divine still moving.

Hope hangs around my neck – a string of perfect pearls.

~ rc

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6 Replies to “Hope”

  1. It will not surprise you that I am completely overwhelmed and in-love with these words, this story, this woman. Eve lives and moves and speaks and mourns and longs and desires. How beautiful. And yes, hope…

  2. Thank you, Julie and RC. Yes so many women need to hear these words… myself included! So many ropes need to be cut.

    Two phrases I hear in my mind now: “return”, “original wonder”.

  3. For sure this was written with the Holy Spirit, the Divine Feminine, pouring thru RC and so eloquently put affirming the foundation of it all… yet it makes me sigh of relief, of some deep remembrance unifying us thru time. Thanks for sharing.

  4. Reading these words – both your and hers, touch me in ways I cannot speak. Tears flow unbidden. I can not stop them now…
    Sitting here, alone, I remember it so clearly – our almost forgotten soul language that is only known and felt, but never even whispered. Some where within, I rage, and scream and wail, and howl with a mournful aching that can not be soothed; with such a deep sense of betrayal, to womankind. Perhaps, in this moment, now, we, the women of the world, the many faceted reflections of the divine feminine will awaken to the time before we were cast aside. And perhaps, with the love and support of one another, we will reclaim our truth of being, we will honor the wisdom we carry in our bones, in our blood, and in our wombs. Perhaps, we can transform ourselves so that our daughters and our future blood line will be free.
    Thank you for sharing the gorgeous words that you always do, darling Julie. You are my beloved kindred, and I cherish you.

    Infinite blessings to you, to RC, and to all women.

    ps. I just came across these words from Clarissa, and feel the need to share them. May we all be so cherished.

    Having a lover/friend who regards you as a living growing criatura, just as much as the tree in the ground or ficus in the house, or a rose garden out in the side yard. . . having a lover and friends who look at you as a true living breathing entity, one that is human but made of very fine and moist and magical things as well. . . a lover and friends who support the criatura in you . . these are the people you are looking for. They will be the friends of your soul for life. Mindful choosing of friends and lovers not to mention teachers, is critical to remaining conscious, remaining intuitive, remaining in charge of the fiery light that sees and knows.
    Women Who Run With the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes

  5. This is beautiful, powerful, and profoundly resonant! Thank you RC and Julie.

    I find great hope in feeling how many women (if yet a minority, to me it still feels like the edge of an unstoppable wave) are naming the shame and blame we carry, seeing how it is not ours to carry for the culture any longer, and feeling our way through its healing and release. There is no need to wait for anyone else — or the culture-at-large — to get on board. We are free to free ourselves now.

    Thank you for this lucid transmission of wisdom <3

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