Broken For You
In the Secret Life of Bees there is a character who has a unique affliction. She cannot decipher which sorrows are hers to carry and which are for others to bear. So whatever she hears, whatever sad tale she is told, it strikes her with its full grief and terror. Her sisters, good shepherds all, give her a way to express and reign in her sorrow. They help her build her very own wailing wall. With each fresh pain they add a stone, and the afflicted one is allowed to sit and sob, to write her sad tales on small scraps of paper and slip them in the hallows between the rocks. Soon the wall encircles their yard, and while it is not a foolproof system, while it does not protect her from grief, it gives her a way to live.
Being both Jew-ish and pagan-y, I have been captured by this ritual, this concretizing of sad things. So I have built a little altar in my backyard, a stack of odd stones each bearing a sad thing. But I’ve also needed a place to be angry – and so have a lot of my friends, especially my female friends. (Go figure.) So we’ve added an option to this ritualized thing. Tonya and I went to Value Village. There we found a shopping basket full of plates – flower rimmed saucers, black salad plates with leopard spots, gilt edged dinner plates, shallow leaf-shaped sauce dishes with roses in the center. (These last dainties a big splurge at 99cents each.)We came home and stacked our found treasures in an old wine crate then wedged the crate next to our small stack of stones. Catie sprinkled it all with white flowers—our sacred bittersweet space, our corner of our very own.
This is our place where God is big enough: big enough to handle our anger, big enough to not be afraid of rage, of bitterness unleashed, of unrelenting sadness over the state of things. This is where we lay it all out and say, ‘Do you really want me? Because I come with this.” This is where we hope to hear, “Yes. And do you really want me? Because I come with this too.”
Today I came into my quiet, clean office and sat at my desk. I lit a candle; I read the day’s entry at Sacred Space. The scripture for today was from Tobit, an apocryphal book that I, the good Protestant, do not know. In this story Anna, takes up her “women’s work,” weaving. We now consider weaving a “craft” rather than an “art.” But really, it is this designation as “women’s work” that has placed it into this slightly less valued category. For good weaving is art in and of itself, and Anna it seems was a sought after artist. In this story we learn that Anna the artist has completed a commission. She is given not only her pay, but a goat, this being the ancient equivalent of a very lavish tip. Her husband comes home and is shocked. He begins to berate her. How could she accept this goat? It could not possibly be for her work! It must be stolen! He feels deeply ashamed of her.
I put on my shoes. I walk out in the rain. I stand under my lilac tree.
I break this plate for Anna. Anna, unacknowledged for her skill, for the excellence of her work. Anna not seen as the fine artist and shrewd business woman, but accounted as a fool. Anna of the nimble fingers, of the good eye, of the quick mind. I imagine Jesus standing or sitting besides me. I deliberately turn and make my throw…He makes a sound, a low short hmm in his throat, heavy-weighted on the downbeat. “It is fitting,” he seems to say “So be it. Toss away.”
Anna is not held by Tobit, and neither are her tales. Her truths are her own to tell, to hold, to barter. I break this plate for Anna. As it chimes among this hardness, Anna’s story will sing.
Broken for You is also a fine novel, with many of the themes you’ve shared echoing through it, Rachelle. I loaned it out, and can’t remember the author’s name, damn…
I can help there Peter….you loaned it to me
The author is Stephanie Kallos and she is from the Seattle area. So far, I’m enjoying it a great deal.
Beautiful post Rachelle. Somewhere in the Great Elsewhere, Anna is dancing….
I felt compelled to check in on your page today - an actual, physical compelling … and I want to tell you that I have just, today- moments before reading your post, taught my son to weave … (he is making a sushi roller-his own idea after studying one we have) …
he is weaving as I read this post …
There is a long story behind him, his birth and his name - but I wanted to let you know that I found this post to be a “lamp-post” (Narnia-like) regarding him - as I was looking at him in wonder and thinking to myself how much I am enthalled with his way of looking at the world …That is when I felt compelled …
Before he was born I had a dream (3X in a row on the same night) about his unusual name, and his role in life … and I remembered as I read your post the distinct sense I had after that dream and the voice that said (in the dream) that he was going to somehow be involved in ” protecting the dignity of women “…
This post about Anna is one I will read him in a moment …
Beautiful Rachelle.
Right! Of course, Stephanie Kallos. But I’d forgotten that the novel is set in Seattle. Are we channeling here, or something…?
thank you for this idea and this post. break one for me too rachelle, please.
This is beautiful; thanks for posting it.
If you can dig up a Roman Catholic edition of the bible, you should read the book of Tobit. It is fascinating and weird.
I was on a retreat this January; after finishing the ‘assigned’ silent meditation (I’m really not the contemplative type, which I have begun to suspect might be okay with God) and I happened upon the book of Tobit. It was fascinating - the story is so deeply odd that you can’t think about interpretation, application, metaphor, anything except sitting down and having God tell you a really weird story.
[…] Okay, so PMS and migraine hit last week and by Thursday I was cussing under my breath, throwing plates at the anger altar, and wondering WHAT ALL THESE PEOPLE ARE DOING IN MY HOUSE?! It’s been a hard week and week-end with a lot of pain, meds, and foggy headedness. Saturday we spent way too much money going to see Pirates of the Caribean III, which was totally disppointed followed by a long day Sunday doing absolutely nothing — just hanging around the house all the grey day, watching bad television and putting all of our CD’s on my Zune. Today is Memorial Day and a third blessed weekend-day when the sun finally broke though! In spite of the ongoing migraine, I put my dog on his leash and walked to my studio. I was grumpy enough to intentionally avoid the sweet developmentally disabled seniors who live in the group home between my house and my studio (they love Sam, Sam doesn’t love them), but shored-up enough by Paul’s willingness to let me spend most of the day away from the kiddos that I got my butt in gear in time to spend 5 blissful hours snipping and transfering and generally making a wonderful mess at my drafting table. I added several pages to the Summertime zine, including this one which confirms that yes, inspite of PMS and patriarchy, I enjoy being a girl. Hope it brings you a smile today. […]
[…] Sue Monk Kidd’s novel The Secret Life of Beescracked open my imagination with its story of three sisters who craft their own ceremony to honor a sacred image of the feminine divine. (Here’s just one ritual that came out of that wonderful story.) But it was her autobiographical text, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter, which gave me the companionship I needed to find my own way to the feminine heart of God. […]
[…] Sometimes I wonder what all my ad hoc spirituality is teaching my children. I’m trying my best — but so did my parents, and my church, and my religious school — and I sure ended up with a bunch of crap mixed in there with the goodies. If I make up random sacraments, if my children spend their lives building Shrines for Hard Feelings and hurling plates at Anger Altars, will they regret it? I am not sure. But this I believe; my attempts, though small and flawed and most assuredly open for misinterpretation, these humble attempts at caring for these precious souls will teach them these true things […]
[…] I have to say, this idea, and her other link to the Anger Altar have given me some ideas for working with my own anger (oh dear, that phrase does sound like pop psychology, doesn’t it!). […]
[…] Sue Monk Kidd’s novel The Secret Life of Beescracked open my imagination with its story of three sisters who craft their own ceremony to honor a sacred image of the feminine divine. (Here’s just one ritual that came out of that wonderful story.) But it was her autobiographical text, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter, which gave me the companionship I needed to find my own way to the feminine heart of God. […]