Split the World Open
Well-known and much-loved poet Adrienne Rich once wrote that fellow poet and political activist Muriel Rukeyser “was one of the great integrators, seeing the fragmentary world of modernity not as irretrievably broken, but in need of societal and emotional repair.”6 And what was one of Rukeyser’s most frequent prescriptions for societal and emotional repair? If even one woman “told the truth,” she wrote in one absolutely stunning poem, “The world would split open.”7
When sleeping women wake, goes an old Chinese proverb, mountains move. It is important for us to know that we are never irretrievably broken, but simply in need of social and emotional healing, a healing that comes when women wake up—when we tell the truth about our lives.
This is what I call the sacred dreams movement. It is pioneering American feminist Gloria Steinem celebrating the bright abundance of many torches carried by women young and old: “At my age,” Steinem reflects, “in this still hierarchical time, people often ask me if I’m ‘passing the torch.’ I explain that I’m keeping my torch, thank you very much—and I’m using it to light the torches of others. Because only if each of us has a torch will there be enough light.”8
It’s Laymah Gbowee, who won the Noble Peace Prize in recognition of her efforts to end war in Liberia by leading the Liberian Mass Action for Peace, a coalition of Christian and Muslim women who sat in public protest of their ruthless president and rebel warlords. It’s also everyday grandmothers, mothers, students, nurses, teachers, accountants, and more, who dare to awaken and in awakening are capable of splitting the world open.
It’s Muriel Rukeyser’s question writ large: What would happen if every woman—whether barefoot or stiletto-clad—told her truth?
It’s you and me, and everyone in between, harnessing our inner light, reconnecting with our dreams. Then, surely, our collective stories will split the world open and make it anew.
I also hear the voices of resistance to my words. There is no need for a “movement” to empower women to achieve their dreams, they say. Women and men are already equal, in the US and other countries in the global north, at least. Everything is fine, no need to make changes. It’s true that we have reached a point in history when women are entering professions formerly accessible only to men. And while women in politics, women-centered films, and women in the workforce are inspirations to us all, there is often a darker side to these achievements. We see, time and time again, that women who harness the full power of their voices are often targets of misogyny.
For example, Lindiwe Mazibuko, parliamentary leader of South Africa’s Democratic Alliance (DA) from October 2011 until May 2014, was subjected to near constant sexism from the African National Congress, the DA’s main opposition party. During a 2013 parliamentary debate, one male MP rose and said: “While the Hon[orable] Mazibuko may be a person of substantial weight, her stature is questionable.”9 Other male MPs have demanded during a debate that “she must explain to this house what has she done to her hair” and remarked that she had been “arrested by the fashion police” for her “bad fashion taste.” Mazibuko knows she’s not alone. “It happens all over the world,” she reflects. “If it’s not Julia Gillard [Australia’s first female prime minister] or Hillary Clinton, it’s somebody else.”10
And just recently, we in the United States saw Senator Elizabeth Warren censured by the majority male Senate from reading, on the floor of the Senate during the confirmation hearing of Senator Jeff Sessions as attorney general, a letter by civil rights leader Coretta Scott King. Mitch McConnell’s words ring out all too familiarly to women everywhere: “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.”11 Several of Senator Warren’s male colleagues read the same letter the next day without a word of complaint or protest from the other senators.
“Mom, what will it take for American women to be treated as equals in politics?” my daughter asked me on the phone just a few days after news of Warren’s silencing spread. The weight of her sadness took the air out of my lungs. I could feel the feminine, and the feminist, in her wavering. My daughters came here with the strong belief that America, their mother’s choice country for an education, was a place for women to thrive. The foundation of this belief was shaken to the core.
The battle for equality is still very much alive in one of the most powerful countries in the world as much as it is elsewhere. This is not the first time a woman in power has been silenced. But it is not only happening in political platforms; we have experienced it in ourselves, we have seen it in the corporate world, and sometimes we have seen it in our own girls.
The silencing of our sisters as they rise to power is our collective silencing, just as we suffer along with our sisters as we watch the media objectify women and make profit from our devaluation. The need to awaken not only our own dreams but those of other women as well is just as urgent now as it ever was. I have traveled the world and seen much sadness and listened to many people—I know the hunger in women is there; the need is there. I know of my own hunger and I know it is shared; I know its depths and its longings. Women silencing their dreams are real.
On the other hand, people say: But there is so much oppression and inequality and suffering that we can’t possibly do anything about it. It will never end, what can I do about it in my little part of the planet? The answer to this I have also seen and heard: individuals, in their own big and small ways, on their own little patches of earth, recovering their own light and sharing it with the world.
Indeed, Mazibuko says that however depressing this treatment may be, to her it’s also a good sign: “It’s a signal that we’re a force to be reckoned with,” and only strengthens her “resolve to root out sexism in the house and also make sure I keep doing what I do to make sure a woman in a leadership position in a political party in parliament is no longer seen as some kind of aberration.”12 Similarly, Senator Warren’s silencing on the Senate floor was not only a source of outrage for many American women, it was also a rallying cry. Simply because she persisted: for herself, for Coretta Scott King, and for justice for all people.
Consider Brazilian tattoo artist Flavia Carvalho’s simple yet profound “A Pele da Flor” (The Skin of the Flower) project: the artist offers free tattoos to women who want to cover scars they received from domestic violence or from mastectomies.13
A love of art combined with an education in biological sciences led to scientific illustration, and from there Carvalho began working as a tattoo apprentice. After a client sought her out to tattoo over an abdominal scar—the client had been stabbed by a man she had rejected in a club—Carvalho realized the power that her art and her craft could offer survivors of abuse or illness. She makes beauty on the skin in places where once there was only evidence of suffering. She turns wounds into brightly colored flowers and birds and goddesses.
And this one idea, by this one woman, working in what many would consider a very average, unglamorous job, has caught the attention of nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), and Carvalho is partnering with the Municipal Secretariat of Policies for Women in Brazil to serve an even broader community of survivors. This is the sacred dreams movement in action: Carvalho followed her dream of being an artist and now she is helping to heal the world in her own unique way.
There is no limitation to what you can do when you learn to listen to the stirrings of purpose inside of yourself—and when we all live that truth, we make up a mighty collective indeed.
When I was young, ten to fifteen of us girls in my village would play a game. We’d form a big circle and hold hands and sing. Two girls would stand in the middle of the circle clapping to our song, which dared the two in the middle to break through any part of the circle they thought was not strong. As we sing we move with the rhythm of the song, circling the two girls in the middle. They in turn move in the opposite direction as they follow the circle looking for a weak link. Our voices rise as we sing our lungs out, our bare feet dancing in unison, and o
ur watchful eyes never leaving the two girls in the circle.
In call and response, we of the circle sing “Apa pakasungwa nehutare”—“This part of the bond is tied with metal chains.” The girls in the center sing in reply “Apa zinyekenyeke ke?”—“Could this be the part of the chain that is loose, and how very loose is loose?”
As the song’s rhythm increases, our hands clasp more tightly together, forming an even stronger bond. The anticipation of succeeding is palpable. No one in the group wants their part of the chain to break because if it does, this destroys the whole chain. We are guarded, each knowing her purpose. Our ultimate goal: never to break the chain.
Each member of the group strengthens the chain. Blame for breaking the link is never on the individual level; we believe there is a surge of blood running through the circle, and as each person receives their dose, they pass it on to the person next to them. Our little palms are the conduit for channeling this life-giving blood, this energy. If the chain breaks, it could be due to a weak flow of blood anywhere along the circle, not necessarily at the spot where it occurred. We are all responsible for the circle as a whole.
On the sidelines, a few adults clap to the rhythm of the song, cheering for the strength of our unbreakable bond. And if the circle does break, they are also there to remind us that it is reparable. If one of the two girls inside the circle manages to break through the circle, then the pair whose small fingers let go of the hand clasp leave the circle and go for “repair”—in other words, to refresh their strength—while their place is taken by those who are standing by.
As part of the circle, this game reminded each girl of the purpose of our bond: that we have the power to conquer whatever comes our way. We gripped each other so hard that our hands often turned red, and this little pain reminded us of the part we play in the collective bond. We all longed to play our part in creating the strongest possible circle, our existence validated by the simple, playful act of doing our small part.
When we forget what we can accomplish by holding the hands of other women, we can lose our sense of purpose and that of our power. The sacred dreams movement happens when we remember what we can do. By reclaiming our part in the collective circle, and by joining this circle, we share our courage with the world around us.
SACRED RITUAL FOR RECLAIMING YOUR VOICE
Every journey begins with a dream. How do we get in touch with dreams if we have let them sit idle or procrastinated on them for years? If we have listened instead to the voice of “reason,” doubt, or societal pressures that have seemingly required or asked us to ignore our deepest longings? It’s simple, you take back your power and begin again—by reflecting on your heart’s deepest longings.
Embolden yourself now to name your dreams. To do this you must get over anything blocking them from surfacing in your body and soul. Ask yourself this question: Do you truly believe you have a right to dream?
What is your first response to that question? What immediately comes to you? There’s no need to judge or analyze your answer, just acknowledge it. Spend a few moments either writing your responses down or speaking them aloud.
Achieving your heart’s desire and reclaiming your truest, most authentic voice are grounded in the belief that you have a right to dream and that you deserve complete fulfillment. Know that your dreams are precious. They are yours to ignite and develop. No one can take them away. No matter your circumstances, your dreams are valid.
In celebration of your right to dream and in a battle cry against any hurdles you may continue to face, whether in your own heart or in the world, I invite you to ululate to claim your voice. Ululation is an ancient sound, practiced not only by Africans but by many ancient cultures, including the Greeks and the Egyptians. It is a loud, high-pitched sound, like a cry or a song. It has been used for thousands of years the world over to express grief or to celebrate rituals. It is primarily a sound made by women.
There are as many different ways to ululate as there are cultures that practice it, but here are my simple instructions: make a high-pitched sound of “lulululululu” as loud as you can as you wag or trill your tongue side to side in your mouth. If you feel embarrassed by the thought of this ritual, or are worried you will do it “wrong,” just notice those feelings. Choose to use your voice anyway. Seek to fill the room with your voice. If it wavers or cracks, just keep going. Use your whole diaphragm to make sound. You do not have to hit any key. You just need to let the force of your voice ring out from deep in your belly to the corners of the room. Laugh and try again.
Sit in the quiet that remains after your ululation and let the sound of your voice still reverberate in your ears.
With your notebook or journal reflect on the following:
• How have the present and past shaped you?
• What soul wounds are you carrying? Are you what had happened to you? Is that what you choose to become?
Take a few moments to write down your thoughts. Dear sister, it is important to be conscious of who we are, and to face the shadows of our past so that we can move to a place of self-acceptance, forgiveness, wholeness, and love.
• What is the purpose bigger than yourself that your desires are aligned with?
• Do you see your right to dream aligned with the needs of others?
Write down your thoughts to these questions. As you write, feel yourself tethering your heart’s desires to the greater good, growing in confidence that you have a right to dream as a birthright of your humanness, and that your dreams are part of a collective whole. Allow your heart to fill with the knowledge of your right to dream, having named your limitations and obstacles, and then overcome them with a shared purpose greater than any voice of doubt or any hardship.
Now turn your focus inward, linking your inner voice with your outer voice. Imagine creating your life in tune with the deeper, inner authority of your soul. This inner knowing is your true guide to your sacred dream.
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MIDWIFE TO YOUR SACRED DREAMS: SOWING FERTILE SEEDS
Only in the fever of creation could she recreate her own lost life.
—ANAÏS NIN
I hear our voices calling out to be heard; we are resilient and not irretrievably broken, only in need of our collective awakening.
Everywhere I go, on my lecture tours and in my humanitarian travels, I’m listening. I’m listening to the world waking up to the sound of women’s collective crying out, to the call for women’s empowerment. I hear it from women themselves, especially from older women who can no longer suffer their own silences, or the history of silences that came before them.
These older women call out loudly and clearly—no matter if it is illiterate women in my home village, or the PhDs I rub elbows with at events like the Emerging Women Conference. I hear it from women I meet in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and in Palm Springs, California. I hear it in Birmingham, England; in Abu Dhabi, UAE; and in Istanbul, Turkey.
I want to be a midwife to this awakening; I want to sweat and coach and comfort and guide this global empowerment of women into its fullest life; I ululate at every first breath.
My grandmother was a midwife, a nyamukuta. My culture, the Korekore people of Zimbabwe, takes an expansive and inclusive approach to childbirth, and thanks to my grandmother’s role as a healer, I was introduced to our birthing customs at a very young age.
Ambuya (or Mbuya) means grandmother in the Shona language, but it also refers to women related to one’s grandmother through totems. In addition to my maternal grandmother, VaHarusekanwi, who died before I was born, I grew up with two other grandmothers. Ambuya Mafukeni was an adopted grandmother, related to me through my mother’s clan, and Ambuya Muzoda, my father’s mother. Although neither grandmother could read or write, both were strong and wise. They knew how to unleash the medicinal power of every bush, and they could identify the sex of a baby prior to birth by observing the mother’s behavior and cravings during pregnancy.
I was initiated by Ambuya Mafukeni into the an
cient tradition of midwifery when I was a young girl. Often dragged from her sleeping mat in the middle of the night, Ambuya Mafukeni delivered hundreds of babies in our village and beyond. She was highly sought-after for her skill at healing illness and disease. If she’d had the opportunity to be educated, I’ve always thought that she would have been the best gynecologist of my country, if not the whole world.
This is not to say that Ambuya Mafukeni’s many talents were entirely overlooked. The community so revered my grandmother’s skills as a birth worker and a healer that she became our village’s heirloom seed keeper—or the seed curator, the one who keeps the old seeds so they don’t become extinct as they play an important role in our well-being and all our rituals. This is high praise, indeed. To us, indigenous crops such as rukweza, zviyo, njera, or rapoko (finger millet), and mhunga (bulrush millet or pearl millet) are much more than merely subsistence grains. We believe these plants have special medicinal and nutritional value and that they are intrinsically connected to birth and death.
For centuries, finger millet, bulrush millet, or sorghum have been brewed into beer used in rain ceremonies or to summon spirit mediums when disease or death are near. When death is imminent, village elders prepare thin finger millet porridge for the person’s final meal. Likewise, bulrush millet is used to ease the birthing process. To be a seed keeper, like being a midwife, means bearing sacred witness to transitions: to growth, change, and loss—all the many powerful forms in which transformation occurs. To appoint Ambuya Mafukeni, midwife and healer, as a seed keeper was to acknowledge her for the powerful role she played in partnering my community through life’s most profound transitions.
The Awakened Woman Page 5
