Something Tectonic Shifted...

Something tectonic in me shifted this past Tuesday afternoon, about which I’m only slowly coming into words. I remind myself the gift is the visceral freedom, the felt-sense of release and receiving both at the same time, neither of which can be grasped by prose. Poetry is un-grasping language, but even poetry may not touch the feeling I yet want to honor, point to, even give witness? Might I be comfortable being a “good news of healing” voice today? An evangelical for healing? (Wry smile, tongue in cheek, reminding myself not to bite down and hurt my tongue or cheek).

When you have friends deeply attuned to body-wisdom(s), you get help in honoring the feelings, even from afar. “...again I feel the electric nature of it” I received via text this morning. Blessedly.

The weekend offered yet another round in what my beloved and I refer to as The Great Matter. We no longer give credence or energy to her by name, even as we recognize each new round is yet the next invitation into healing we both need. 

He came to speech about his inability to believe truly he did nothing wrong, even though everyone has affirmed there was absolutely no misconduct. We have all the paperwork to prove the danger of church-damage comes from her, not him. All the same, he knows not how to forgive himself, to receive that his mentoring and hope for leadership-formation in a young staff-woman in his charge at the church was offered with pure heart and beautiful wisdom. How does he forgive himself when there is nothing to forgive? That is his challenge, his sacred invitation. He needs to resolve and relinquish his regret, learn to refuse the self-condemnations that come so easily in his deeply wounded ancestral lineage(s). Shorthand is that he needs to forgive himself (because he perceives misdeeds). He needs to quit being so proud, avoiding the fallible reality that he missed it. He didn’t see it. He couldn’t see what was happening. He tries to blame himself by blaming some grief he carries, but even there, there was no wrong. He simply didn’t know a lot of which he knows painfully now. As many men do, he feels deep shame when he doesn’t know what he feels he ought to know. He should stop that now, already. Those of us who love him deeply and well are waiting for him to season his pride with sacred fallibility and vulnerability to our love now.

I realized that my work–surprise surprise (eye-roll)–has to do with deepening trust in him, in his capacity to act for his own well-being and mine, for our own well-being alongside that of his church. I spoke forcefully about this a week before this “next round” unfolded over the weekend: “You simply canNOT act for your own well-being, in seemingly any way! You don’t value yourself enough to act on your own behalf, EVER!” Yes, I was frustrated. Yes, it was not an artfully loving way for a wife to say she loves her husband. But I do, and I’m afraid that he cannot advocate or act for his own health, well-being, needs. I don’t trust him to do so, particularly in this situation, which can paralyze him in fear–of accusations, of loss of job, of shame and humiliation as a man facing a scorned and unhealthy young woman whom he had attempted to mentor. So I came to speech about my inability to trust him in this way… Because in his fierceness for me, as he can see it? His devotion and tenacity are rabidly loyal. But if it also benefits him, is for his own well-being, he stalls, unable.

Blessedly, and with deep gratitude for a world that gifts when we risk our gifts: Our mutual incapacities have yet led to this sense of tectonic shift somehow…a feeling of movement, peaceableness, shift open. Perhaps because I did step into trusting him in a new way even as I also offered my own gifts and position on behalf of him, his church, and our marriage. 

I pursued an opening that was offered me over dinner with friends on Friday night, doing so from my presbyter-role which did not require full disclosure with my husband…yet. When it became timely, I shared with my husband, as his wife, what I had begun, unknowing whether it was truly an opening or not. His near panic attack scared me and if anger or fury were his way, he would have been furious with me. He probably was. So this was my trusting that he would eventually realize it was the right call, even if it was not his idea, choice, or instigation. Within the hour, I learned that it was an opening, that I would be speaking to my colleague about The Great Matter, if only professionally, with boundaries and caution for confidentiality. As much confidentiality as could be mustered to protect while also speaking truth gently and with lament. My calling as presbyter who is charged with the honoring and protection of congregational members required it, even were it to bring ire and legal accusations motivated by projection and hatred. This “ruined” the days-away with my beloved, in one sense, even as they were apparently just as they were supposed to be, for our deepening connection and growth personally and as a couple. He did thank me for stepping out in faith, 24 hours after his near-panic attack about it.

So what leads here, into freedom?

Part of the tectonic shift for me was being welcomed by the church, in a particular branch of the Church, “because there was something on my heart that I needed to share.” Those words from the associate pastor softened something in me. The opening prayer brought open a gentle exclamation–or maybe invocation–Oh, I love the church, I said. I love the church. [This effusive exclamation will surprise many who have known me best these last years, given my work of digesting bewilderment and a sensate awareness of abandonment :) I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t felt it so deeply–then, and now]. This day, I felt the energetics of Spirit and spirit listening about to open with two other folks in this Body of Humanity (that denominationally can often be so inhumane). I spoke as a presbyter first, then as a preacher’s wife. I tried to speak as sparely as possible while yet naming the potential damages I could see, have experienced myself. I closed us in prayer. As I walked out, there was something electric in me, changed, charged.

I had been deeply heard.

What I felt nudged to name was awkward, but deeply appreciated by those receiving it.

It was costly to name, but useful.

It opened the way for a confidential, established discernment process to deepen, then conclude.

This round finished.

I called a friend on the way home, left a voice message. I then called another who I rarely call unscheduled but who is close-in most days anyway. We spoke for the 5 minutes each of us had. They felt the change, the charge.

The gift is the visceral freedom, the felt-sense of release and receiving both at the same time, neither of which can be grasped by prose. I spent some time in a darkened, solitary and silent sanctuary, gratitude overflowing into song. 

Vindicated? Is that it? Finally found to be right or justified from without, and completely honored from within (myself & my marriage) when previously ignored or refused to be so? To be honest, the tender part of me probably does like that word, but it doesn’t really name the mysterious forgiving force that found us this weekend too. It was a sense of Intimacy or Spirit that drew me to the sanctuary. Not being right or justified.

A visceral freedom and felt-sense of release, relief, gratitude.

One Flesh Wonderings

[Written early June 2025]

“We never became one flesh,” he said, almost nonchalantly. I keep hearing him say it, these many days later.

I was walking with a spirit-friend who was kind enough to read my book in manuscript form, who wanted to talk with me about it before I left town on holiday. It had dawned on me several months ago that he was a perfect beta-reader, given he knows my paternal family ethos intimately yet is also beyond it, outside it, even as he is now part of it too. The tensions had been large in me about spirit-writing while ensconced in family-of-origin norms quite averse to spirit-writing. His receiving of the book was gift in itself, but hearing its impact upon him, his life, was that and more. Now that I have had a couple days of travel, driving up into the Scottish Highlands, I find myself curious about the impact of this observation on me.

He was speaking of his own life, but I was gifted with something for my own. I know of what he spoke, even as my own covenant of marriage blesses me so. The ancestral lineage in which I walk has a long-wounded history regarding the body, so naturally my soul hitched with a man who has a similar wounded history, if with origins distinct to his story. My newest book traces the path of abandonment and awakening to this wounded-embodied reality. Sensate but numb. Embodied but cognitively-imprisoned. Then awakened to divine desire, even as it blurts and hides in cognitive hamlets most familiar. My book apparently named something this spirit-friend lives with, into, even as it is not usual in largely Westernized cultural environments to speak openly of such things. We did, in covenantal form…he in his covenant, me in mine, me partly holding a covenantal container of having married the two of them well over a decade ago.

What does it mean that my embodied form felt a wave of relief, normalcy, wonder at his confession of celibacy? His wondering of moving toward a vow, for holy purpose? What does it mean to live within the covenant of marriage and feel led toward a vow of celibacy in companionship, embodied Prayer yet irreconcilable difference? 

This is his question more than my own, though it touches on the realities of my own companionship. I am soul-hitched to a man long-wounded in his own physical realities–being unmothered, dissociated in mind/body, knowing relationship only through protection/duty/ obligation–without conscious attention to or intention for healing any of these lineage wounds. He comes to me to ease his sadness, to escape more than connect (my experience, not his words for his awareness or intention). In my own vernacular, he is seeking being-mothered more than the soul-partnership and embodied play that I yearn for. And I unconsciously mothered him for years, which is part of the reason I never wanted children. I mothered my mother, my father, so to be secure as I was growing up. Nothing left in me for that kind of loving. I rarely feel him in intimate spaces, and am often sad and lonely afterward. So I do not pursue physical time with him. We live more celibate than not, making our peace with it in the ways each needs to. “We have never become one flesh” could describe what I experience with this man I yet love wholly, fully.

What if we were never supposed to become one flesh? What if such a thing were never possible, given the ancestral wounds so prevalent? What does one flesh even mean?

My complication here is that I have felt completely vulnerable, wholly seen, deeply received in my body-soul-mind-spirit, by another. A woman with whom I still feel intimately connected even if we rarely see one another today. Companionship with her healed this ancestral-wound part in me, at least as much as can be healed. Chaste, I yet knew energetic union felt deeply in my body somehow. I remember once wondering if I saw Jesus looking back at me, through her eyes, as my body responded fully. I felt Presence, anyway, more than I ever had known in another human being. One flesh, maybe. 

So I have this felt-sense, and I yearn for that sense of interconnectedness with my soul-hitched partner, I have also accepted that such union is unlikely with him. Nor is it perhaps even loving to expect or want from him what he is unable or unwilling to explore in himself. One flesh here becomes the never-ending mountain he needs to climb perceivedly for my sake, not his own. And he sees no need or benefit in climbing the deepening-mountain for his own sake. One flesh becomes this unattainable thing, an ever-present perceived failure he doesn’t know how to know how to want. How is it loving, then, for me to press him where he does not choose for himself to go?

Sadly, I think this is a much more common reality of marriage today than not. Intimacy is not for the faint of heart, says David Schnarch. No one is ready for marriage; marriage makes you ready for marriage. All of which means the soul-work required for passion shared, for the deepest intimacy a human being can know in divine desire, is too risky, too ego-less, cognitively surrendering…for either my soul-partner or me, most days today. 

My challenge is that I’ve known it in my flesh now, even if my soul-hitched partner seemingly has not, nor knows how to know how to want it. Except as Spirit nudges, invites…which is enough for me, for as long as I’m in this embodied form anyway. My own Spirit-invitation is into subtle energy work, Reiki for a day this month. I feel connection with those who are drawn to subtle-energy body learning, and that connection is enough for me, for now.

Empathy into Change Undeterred? Not yet...

I feel like I just got dumped on, first thing in the morning, with no recourse to either withstand or refuse it. How do I be supportive of the man I love even as I am close enough to see precisely how his own leadership style creates precisely what he bemoans? I mean, we all do it–create the conditions for our own spiritual challenging into growth–but my marriage is a particular dumping ground for him to refuse to see such patterning in himself. Which, of course, as he’s emoting is not the time to point such things out. And for the most part, I did well enough biting my tongue and allowing his venting. But I still begin the day, feeling dumped on without any recourse. Ugh.

So what is my pattern to change here? What is my invitation? Is there any meta-reflecting that could both relieve me of the energies that are not my own here and suggest alternatives, for us both? Considering I haven’t been driven to the page for such reflections, it’s clearly load enough to bring me here. That’s noteworthy, actually appreciated. I’ve missed writing, even as I’ve also not felt particularly drawn to more words until now.

First, I do empathize with the man. He’s the central cog of a declining machine, an increasingly low-level commitment ‘community’ doing what it knows, which is often not very communal. His sense of duty is astronomical, keeping him in place to bear up under obligations and isolating-caretaking leadership, amidst deep valleys of anxiety, grief and sometimes concretized fear (i.e. Israel discernment, of late). His soul is unmothered, not to mention his body, which is observable in his own wounded ancestral lineages. Everyone really did the best they ever could have…yet leaving him (like most men) without the emotional toolkit to allow, metabolize, and be constructive with his own emotional weather. He’d rather vent onto others than do his own work in the opportunity for changing himself in the system. No one has required him to do so, really, though I’m sure he’d refute that statement. I’ve required more of him than he would like. :) But I don’t think I actually know many men who do or even allow themselves to perceive such work. Irwin Kula may be the only one I know, come to think of it. Most look to their women or subordinates in professional environments. Or in my paternal family, the written word. Which is what I’m doing, to be clear.

Because my own family lineages and woundedness don’t really help him here, though my own fierce attention to these things for decades might-could, in a universe I imagine (as a Two). I’m more frustrated with his emotional ventings today because I know if you set your mind/heart/body to the work, you can learn how to allow, metabolize and be constructive with emotional signals, cues. They can become nonreactive signals that something in me yearns to be different. I’m better at this than I have ever been, but I’m still slow and learning. Generations (and my own decades) of habits are hard to alter, after all.

So I find myself playing out my mother’s version of marriage, being the energy dumping ground for whatever the man we love knows not what to do with… I grew up with this pattern. I took on this pattern to stay close to my father. And now, naturally, it’s a significant part of my marriage to a pastor.

Let’s imagine things I’d never have done but could have…

As soon as I felt it overload, I could have said aloud, “I’m overloaded with things that are not mine to receive, solve, or address. STOP.” Had I attempted it, it probably would have come out poorly, being received as a “I don’t care about your pain,” which is not true. I do. I just feel it intensely and do not have boundaries enough to be convicted in “this is not mine to receive or metabolize.” When I don’t set the boundary, when I don’t perceive soon enough that “it’s too much,” I get suffocated and need to physically leave the space to protect myself. (i.e. escape to Pettibone, and fantasize now about spending the evening in an artist date of some kind, by myself).

Setting the necessary boundary requires me to perceive the overwhelm much sooner than I am currently capable (apparently). I remember Paula Jeanne Teague having me do an exercise with another student in the circle, a guy I really enjoyed named Jeff. She told him to walk toward me. My instructions were to tell him to stop when he was too close. Simple enough, right? His pace of walking and my capacity to discern safe-distance, however, were not a match. I couldn’t say it in time, he drew too close to me (even though I enjoyed him, was not aware of any threat at all), and a belly-sob erupted from me. Poignant to me today, but still instructive. The same dynamic goes on all the time in my marriage. I don’t perceive my own emotional responses in time, often taking up to a day or two. Not helpful. How do I speed it up? Can I? Is this a time when faster would actually be better? I think so… I wonder if the energy work will assist me here…?

Come to think of it, I have been experimenting with such a line, emotionally, this week. I shared some things with Brian I would not normally–about my own spiritual learning path, about things I’m exploring which he does not respect nor consider of much value. I shared the most significant moment of my day yesterday–singing a song at my aunt’s grave–and the emotion was too much for him. He began to mock-sing the song, with a roll of his eyes and a teasing or making-fun-of tone. I think it was mostly unconscious for him, so he could deny it when I called him on it. Neither of us trusts the other with this kind of emotional depth, beyond his/my capacity to receive it. I receive emotional depth elsewhere in my life, where it feels easier, more welcome.

Which is not to say I’m not happily married or content to remain in this conundrum that is my covenantal life. It is what ‘invites’ me to grow, be uncomfortable, reclaim myself again and again. Of course I wish there were more romance or ease between us, but that would require more emotional risk than either of us seems willing to engage. Or speaking for myself, more than I have stamina for at the moment. It’s easy to blame the church or his leadership style that makes his experience of church what it is in the cultural decline of it all. Those things are relevant. But if Brian and I were truly willing to risk more than either of us is right now, these things would be held differently. Intimacy is not for the faint of heart, after all. Brian and I are both too faint of heart for sharing the emotional work each of us has to do on his/her own.

Maven Travel, LLC in the making?

Brian and I have had a marvelous week of ‘driving the Scottish Highlands’ together, me in the driver’s seat, he in the navigational-support chair. We both decided the GPS & insurance package was an anxiety-saver, which has been the case. And today, the third day of our rental car (hired car, as they’d say), I learned I had gotten familiar enough to be more dangerous on the road than on the first day. But I get ahead of myself…

Brian is so very good at maven-led travel. My refrain when we first land somewhere is always, "You are so very good at this." He smiles, shyly but with pleasure. He finds the best-reviewed places. Sorts out the probable travel routes. Even researches the restaurant possibilities so to land at places he’d/we’d enjoy for some cost but not too much cost. The hotels have gotten steadily nicer as we’ve traveled as well, though I don’t know whether that was intentional. All have been marvelous in their own ways.

The first night was especially nice because we had traveled from London, figured out the rental car, then had to drive for the first time, “Scottish style,” i.e. on the left, with small roundabouts to navigate. Scotland is a great place to learn to drive on the left. Not as much traffic as Oxford/London, not as many people in general, and quite simplified roundabouts as a result. Traveling with Kendy and Dave, my purposefully sitting behind Dave as he drove us around southern England/Glastonbury was a smart move on my part. I got to practice feeling my way into it.

The drive to the Edinburgh hotel took about 6 minutes, which gave just enough of a taste that “I can do this” before parking the car and crashing in our room for the night. Well, pub first, where I got to try a local 0% beer I liked. We then meandered in a Redwood Grove, believe it or not, with adorable offerings for the Good People, or faeries. [Scotland is good terrain for redwoods, as it turns out, being introduced into Great Britain in the mid-1800’s; our hotel had 3-4 of them, surely planted at least 100 years ago, by the size of them.] It was good to sleep hard, well, long.

Driving the first full day was just fine. Even easy, one could argue. It was new and with conscious attention, it felt easy. Doune Castle–Outlander’s Castle Leoch–was easy enough to navigate. We drove on a variety of roads, finding our way up to Glencoe where we could hike, explore, landing eventually at our hotel right on the loch/river (I cannot remember…). Loch Leven Hotel, I think was the name.

The second day invited more driving-ease heading up to Culloden Moor around Loch Ness–scenic driving and easy access to things. The time at Culloden was suitably somber and inviting–historical story, Outlander energies/story, before landing at the Rowan Tree Inn. Sampled a Scotch that I actually liked, given it was local. I decided that choosing alcohol wasn't necessary but it would be fun to try local-offerings I'd not have access to at home. [Of course Brian now wants to get the Scotch for me at home, so I'll have to share my intentions more clearly. Not necessary nor desirable at home. :)] Apparently Scotch can be made sweet so this one was basically a delicate-light bourbon-esque Scotch. Perfect. Brian and I meandered the meadow behind the hotel after dinner, amazed at the beauty, the sounds and delightful presence of the sheep. Baby lambs chasing one another up and down the meadow? Can’t get much cuter than that! Brian was simply bowled over by the beauty, an embodied familiarity he had no conscious context for, to feel. It was delightful to sense him feeling so deeply without words to rationalize any of it.

It was today, the third day, that the driving became difficult! Scottish-style driving was now common enough to have become familiar, yet there are two familiars within me now–Scottish and American! I had to become verbal and speak my actions, so to make sure I was in the Scottish familiar! We made it safely here to the next hotel–a castle hotel/spa in Pitlochry. Brian really did outdo himself. Our room is luxury hotel with a balcony, an amazing view of the greenery and loch behind them, wildflowers. Fonab Castle Hotel.

Of course, the piece de resistance of our day today–a day where it would have taken only an hour to get to our next hotel, so a day full of “what shall we do on the way” commentary–required a seasoned Scottish driver. Which I apparently am! Brian and I set off for a stone circle close to the hotel (relatively): Delfour Stone Circle. An actual neolithic stone circle off the road from an estate and vacation-hub for zip-lining and outdoorsy learning. It was easy to visit, actually. Quiet. A real stone circle, with one large standing stone on the edge. Two women were coming to saddle up the horses nearby, so Brian and I didn’t stay very long. I wished we could have lingered more, as it takes me a while to drop down into my energetic sensibilities for such things. But it was marvelous to see, to be in, to have visited.

The Highland Folk Museum was next, which involved a good couple hours of walking, exploring, meandering. We took in Dalwhinnie Distillery, mostly because we were going right by it, but really enjoyed tea & cake at the Aviary, a coffee shop close to Dalwhinnie. We did research the possible distillery tour, but it would have taken waiting 3 hours to do so. Nah. Don’t like Scotch that much.

So we had spacious time to actually make the drive to Craigh na Dun, the fictional standing-stone circle in Outlander. You take a highway, then a B-road, then a really narrow collection of roads to get to the “middle of nowhere” in the Scottish Highlands. I could not have driven it on the first day, but by day three? I was familiar enough to drive the visible-narrows fast enough, poke-around the unknown/unseen corners of the roads until one could see again. And British/Scottish drivers are so hospitable! Everyone knows to drive slowly where you need to, and how to linger in a “Passing Place” while someone else drives past you. Craigh na Dun is an unmarked pilgrimage spot for fans like myself–nothing official, and no oversight. It’s a working sheep farm/estate that has finally acquiesced with a small gravel parking area, able to fit 2-3 cars. We got there right as a couple from the Netherlands (we found out) were arriving.

The rain came pretty heavily, but I got out of the car as she did. “Outlander fan?” I asked. She laughed and said, “Yes! That was some drive, was it not?” Brian and that couple lagged behind, talking and taking pictures of the sheep. I made a beeline for the hillock on which so much Outlander travel and drama happens. It was easily recognizable and delightful to be there, in the rain to boot. As we headed back to the car, I was elated. Not only did I get to see the spot, I had done the driving work to make it so! Of course the sun came out about 5 minutes after we had left the spot. We got to enjoy an intensely scenic ride back to the highway roads much easier to navigate. Brian did so amazingly well throughout the drive. I know he held his heart in his mouth for quite a while, but he also got into the adventure of it all. It was truly wonderful to share it with him, even though he’s not much of an Outlander fan himself.

Tomorrow will bring the Hopetoun House/Midhope Castle which are the two Outlander filming spots for Versailles and Lallybroch. We’ll need to leave this marvelous luxurious hotel spot by 9 a.m. to make our 11 a.m. ticket time, then drop off the rental by 2 p.m. or so. Or later, as we have it for the afternoon if need be. Then we will be in Edinburgh, on foot, until Saturday morning. Brian has things he wants to see, so it will be fun to prioritize those as we meander the small city. There is an Outlander walking tour of Edinburgh, of course, but I’m happy to relinquish that for whatever he may want to see, do. 

He made me laugh as we were driving away from Craigh na Dun though. “When we come the next time, you won’t need to do the Outlander tour spots again, will you?” I think he feared we’d have to drive to Craigh na Dun all over again! I assured him that Outlander was just the trellis upon which we could begin our explorations of this land we both feel such a connection with, though we’ve never been here physically in these bodies.

I’d love to find fewer places to visit next time, with longer stays, quieter moments of ‘landing’ in each place/town/retreat center. Isle of Skye, perhaps. The West country? We’ll see. We can both do the research that beckons us.

Pilgrimage...in Oxford?

Frideswide. Patron saint of Oxford, I learn, and pilgrimage draw for many who come into Oxfordshire. You can learn more about her here, at least what the popular-historic story is about her including the King who sought her hand in marriage (which she refused). I’m more interested in the story depicted in the stained-glass window and shrine area at Christ Church: a woman who gathered other women for song, work, safety in community. Yesterday, we visited her holy well–St. Margaret’s Church & attributed Frideswide well behind the church. It was a stunning, energetically intense encounter for me. So much gratitude…

We had already walked close to 5-6 miles just to get to the church, back in Binsey area, a relatively short distance from Oxford but a village feeling miles away. I didn’t mind the lengthening walk so much, but it was a blessed thing to finally arrive at the church, at the end of a long row of stately (if still relatively young) trees. A laminated paper sign read “Church” with an arrow pointing left. 

You come around the ancient stone wall into a cemetery with a pathway leading eventually to the church door. It was the centuries-old yew tree that took my breath away, however. I approached her dripline, pausing for permission, welcome. Deep belly smile into the cover of her branches. Putting my hand on her trunk, I saw that someone had placed a plaque at her trunk-base, a text from Colossians: And above all these, put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony (3:14). Prayers of gratitude welled up. I leaned my back against her and looked out to see what she sees, how she views all around her. The tombstones scattered around. The church itself. Then I was drawn to the well behind the church, where my cousin Dave was standing, perhaps in prayer.

It was marvelous to lower myself down to the highest step, resting my weary legs, beginning to breathe into the spaces and pauses deep within. I felt a song begin to bubble up within me, but I hesitated, holding it in. I was really aware of my (atheist? Non-spiritual? Philosophically spiritual?) cousin sitting some distance away, patiently waiting for us while doing her own thing on her phone. I knew she was just fine for as long as we needed AND I felt a vulnerability of being my full spirited self in her proximity. Tears came, whether from grief or my refusal to surrender to what was coming forth. Eventually, I allowed it to come into voice as gratitude, as prayer, as offering. “Woman,” from Red Tent circles and acoustic-spaces in which all of me wishes to participate in the F/feminine all around and within me. More tears. A bit of recognition or feeling heard, welcomed, by the well.

I sat next to my cousin Dave for a bit, feeling the shared prayer between/within us. I moved quietly to sit with Brian a bit, on a bench further away, where he had landed in the garden. Eventually, I meandered into the church itself, appreciating the feminine imagery but easing out quickly, feeling too closed in, too suffocated by the traditions of these elders. The location of most rest beckoned–a chair made out of an old stump, facing the yew tree from the other side, facing tree and church, with the well off to my left. I sat there for a long while, receiving anything that might arise from there.

The story of Frideswide that I learned in Christ Church? Frideswide was a young woman who gathered other women for song, for work, for safety in community. She provided spaces for women to live together in faith without any necessary reference to men, even as she was pursued by a man who greatly desired for her to be wed to him. He was struck blind, so his story goes, and she healed him from the waters of the well. The Museum of Oxford storying focuses on that storyline–of course–but Dave was sure to point out the more interesting story of her life for me. The power of the F/feminine to gather, to share in wonder, to co-create welcoming and creative spaces for all willing to live within such energies, value.

A beautiful pilgrimage day. Kendy, Dave, Brian and I have mused a lot on the various Oxford-academic aspects of their time here, the boon it is/has been for Kendy’s research interests and professional integration(s). I am so very glad for her in all of it. AND Oxford is simply not that attractive to me, except for the ancient elder trees I’ve gotten to visit, sense, honor. But even those along the Oxford Parks system–surely precursors to Tolkien’s ents–cannot hold a candle to Grandmother Yew, outside of St. Margaret’s, leading to St Frideswide’s well.

I had no idea I was going on a pilgrimage in Oxford, of all places. Glastonbury Tor, Chalice Well, coming up.