Cultivating

feminism

The Journey - Week 3

This is an open journal about my journey exploring feminism.

8.22.23

So I briefly mentioned why I am doing all this crazy stuff with my Independent Development Plan (IDP). I am part of the Rural Catalysts Cohort 58. We met yesterday for the fourth time. Although we were all looking at each other the first time like, “What are we doing??”

The Cohort experience is so hard to describe or explain. We are given the opportunity to meet with our group of 10 for 18 months. Funding is there to plan gatherings, a retreat, and IDPs. And that is all the guidance given. I’m guessing most of us agreed out of curiosity. Most of us are also at a moment of growth or transition.

The most remarkable thing I have observed is that we all attend, are fully present, and open-minded, and there is NO agenda. We do activities the host plans (each of us takes turns being a host). We don’t have a “leader” that keeps us on track. It’s encouraged for us to go entirely off the “so-called tracks.” We spend an entire day just learning from one another. Some activities are more structured than others, but most have been very informal.

We are a community. And our community has no rules, no guidelines, no tangible purpose. Our community is new and growing but full of encouragement and support. A few of us have gone through some challenging things, and our community has shown grace and help. We have all had the opportunity to talk about our IDP and received feedback. And it all has been sincere and genuine. Someone might throw out an idea but then say there is fear. And we all will chime in with encouragement and the challenge of pushing through that fear. We have offered validation when someone questions spending that money on themselves. Each of us is so different and has completely different IDPs, but everyone has been invested in learning from each other and encouraging the paths on which all of us want to journey.

While my IDP began when I started this open journal, the first part of my journey starts this week. I am heading to the Sacred Woman Collective for their Awaken Your Spirit Retreat. The retreat is my spiritual exploration portion of Exploring Feminism. I will be journaling everything on paper for this next week. So the next post will be a recap of this experience. I am trying to be as open-minded and fearless as possible. I’m focusing on releasing my expectations to embrace what this journey can bring fully. So until next week…

Cheers, and let’s go!

8.20.23

So poetry has been a way I have felt easier to express hard emotions. I know that when I was in seventh grade I wrote some very dark things. I don't think I have any of those poems, and that's okay. Things did seem a lot heavier back then.

I was having a hard time loving myself over the last few days. I think it was partially because I was packing for my retreat and I hated all my clothes. Nothing I wanted to take seemed to feel right. My nerves were raw and my anxiety was high. And it is fricking hot right now!

So I started paying attention to the things I was saying internally. And it made me stop and think about the things I have said to myself throughout my life. And it started feeling very heavy, so I started this poem.

I did a quick Google search that returned several results that for every negative interaction, you have to have somewhere between two to 10 positive interactions to counteract just one negative. So I really feel like I owe my heart some positives. And I am sure we all do.

She told me

-Jenny B

She once told me,

When I was six,

I was bigger than all the other girls,

Which probably meant I was fat.

She once told me,

When I was nine,

That those girls were right,

Pants with bears on them are dumb.

When I was twelve,

She told me I wouldn’t ever be pretty,

Or at least never enough for a boy to look at me.

Not with those thighs.

When I was sixteen, she said

The reasons that boy dumped me,

I talked too much,

I had too many opinions,

I wasn’t good at sports.

When I was twenty-four, she quietly whispered

He’s the best you’ll get.

She added at twenty-five,

You chose this, so stay.

At thirty-four, she shouted,

Your pain is too much,

You can’t handle it,

You probably did something wrong.

At forty-three, she laughed and said,

I knew you couldn’t last.

You are too weak for the difficult work,

Way to take the easy way out.

At forty-five, I am screaming.

Shut up!

I don’t have to listen to your hateful articulation.

For once, I am choosing love.

For she is me,

Words I have said to myself,

Phrases that bruised my soul,

Validations that made my inner child cry.

Things I would never utter,

To another human,

But words I had no problem

Saying in the mirror.

Now I am choosing to treat my soul,

My heart,

My inner child,

My being,

My entire self,

With love.

With encouragement,

With tenderness,

With adoration,

With pride,

And wonder.

For I

Am the only voice,

That can change the way my soul feels,

That can minimize my heart’s desire,

That can seemingly validate the hate.

For I,

Am also the only voice,

That can comfort my soul,

Dream more significant than my heart’s desire,

Validate my presence and self-worth.

For she is me,

And I can choose the words,

I can choose the way,

I can choose to love,

I can choose me.

For she is me.

8.18.23

My grandma did pass away this last week. As we gathered and prepared to say goodbye, regret seeped into my heart. I missed so many opportunities to know more about Mabel, the woman. I want to know more about not just her but all the women who raised me. Some are still with me, but some have already passed. I started to wonder who they all were, not in the sense I knew or know them, but who they were as women. What shaped them, made them proud, and broke their hearts?

What made them relay to me to stand up for myself, speak my mind, find humor, and have faith?

What were their stories, their journey to feminism?

Raising women takes a tribe of other women. Each one gives wisdom and insight into the life of a woman. Most of these lessons for me were informal ways of coaxing me and loving me. But I want to know their hearts, their stories. I want to hear about their journey, their lessons, and advice. Their story told as if watching a movie or reading a book.

I felt compelled to write some of my emotions and thoughts into a poem. For my grandma. For the tribe of women who raised me.

A Woman First

-Jenny B

You have had,

More life than I have yet lived.

I called you Grandma,

I felt your love.

We played,

We drank tea out of fancy cups,

We laughed,

You braided my hair which made me cry.

You were there for the big moments,

And smaller ones too.

I and many always knew you as Grandma,

But you were a woman first.

I wish I had known the woman you were.

The woman you wanted to be.

After you passed

As we gathered your things,

I started realizing what I missed.

I saw your scrapbook.

You were in a play,

You went to prom,

Your graduation announcement.

There were notes from friends.

Who were you back then?

What did you dream your life would be?

What chances didn’t you take?

Did you have fears like me?

You were always my grandma,

But I am sure you wanted more.

Maybe you lived out all your dreams.

Afterall, before all of us,

You were a woman first.

I hope your first love was great.

I hope you had fun and laughed,

Lived carefree, or as carefree as could be.

I hope you sang out loud to your favorite songs.

I hope you danced until you could no more.

Felt tears of joy,

And your heart healed from sadness.

You were my grandma.

My Dad's mom.

An aunt.

A cousin.

A sister

A wife.

But you were a woman first.