Excerpt from “My Lovedance”

Yes, I was Mormon as a teenager. And yes, we were married in the Mormon temple. And my friend’s family was Mormon. And one of my sisters is still Mormon.

Being Mormon was my idea. It least that’s how I remember it. Going into high school was difficult enough, but having to watch over my sisters, well, that was nearly impossible. The only church at the time with an active youth group was Mormon. And they preached no alcohol, no drugs, no sex before marriage. Great! If I could figure out how to get my sisters into that Mormon youth group, well, they would be a better influence than the influence of the sex, drugs and rock and roll crowd.

So I invited the Mormon missionaries to the house. It was a no-brainer. They were handsome young men in suits. My sisters were 11 and 13 and very fond of handsome young men. And one was IN LOVE with Donny Osmond. Her side of the room was purple and plastered with the teen idol. Like I said…a no-brainer.

And we were baptized. Me, my three sisters, and my mother. My father thought we were nuts. He hadn’t succumbed to the Catholic pressure and now we were switching teams. My mother joined to keep an eye on us. Well, she didn’t just join, she kind of took over. Led the young woman’s group…really, kept her eye on us.

And it worked! No one got pregnant before marriage. No one got in trouble with drugs or alcohol and not with the law. And I no longer had to be the shepherdess of my sisters. Thank goodness.

Now being a good student, I took Mormonism seriously at the time. I read the book of Mormon, their Doctrines and Covenants, and the bible (for the first time, since Catholics don’t have bibles, at least we didn’t).

The good thing about being Mormon was the sisterhood. The bad thing was the patriarchy.

I had the same issue with Mormonism as I had with Catholicism. I needed no man to intervene on my behalf. Why couldn’t women hold the priesthood? At that time, black men couldn’t hold the priesthood either. Which wasn’t fair in my eyes, rather prejudice, I felt. I’m not sure why, something to do with Jesus being white…but I knew that was wrong…cause in spite of their pictures…Jesus was brown, way darker than any of us. At least the Jesus who had been visiting me since I was little was really dark.

Oh, and another thing about Mormonism. I didn’t believe in the whole save yourself for marriage thing. I saved myself for my soul mate. Once I found him, well, we were sixteen and seventeen, spilling over with hormones, and we loved each other. I was saved…by love. My torturer was anorexia and reconnecting to love saved me. Thank God for Steve!

But I still wanted to get married in the temple. Why? Because I liked the idea of being sealed for eternity. It seemed like we had searched forever to find each other. Perhaps a sacred marriage ceremony would insure we wouldn’t get separated again.

So Steve joined the Mormon church. As he says, “I wanted you. And would do anything to make you happy.’ And that’s what I thought would make me happy at the time.

The church felt like we had community. And then we moved away. But being Mormon meant instant community wherever you are. So we found a stake center. That’s what Mormons call the place they meet. Mormon temples are for sacred ceremonies like marriages and baptisms for the dead. Yes, the dead are baptized and then married. That’s why the Mormons are so into genealogy…to find their ancestors and seal them all into one great big Mormon heaven. Now that’s how I remember being Mormon.

Judgment Day or a Shift in Consciousness?

So judgment day came and went. Or did it? 

The fundamentalists are right. Great change is occurring on the earth. Apocalyptic. Yes. Greater transformation than any before. It shall be the end of the earth…As we know it. 

Honestly, I wasn’t even aware that judgment day was upon us until Friday afternoon. I suddenly had a strange sense that something of upmost importance would occur on Sunday. So I googled it. And all I got was what was supposed to happen the day before—May 21st at 6pm. I asked my husband about it. My husband thinks it’s hilarious that I do not know what’s going on in the world. True, I don’t keep up with the news. I find the media to be fear based in its perception of the happenings on earth. I choose love instead. 

Saturday at 6pm, well, not much happened here for me. I’d finished all my chores—washed my horse, my dog and myself after a three hour trail ride—and was getting ready to meet my husband for a picnic dinner at the beach. And the sunset was lovely, no different from the day before. 

On Sunday morning, my menses started. Was my premonition hormonal? It was a gray overcast morning. Perfect for spring cleaning. A Sunday morning all to myself. My husband just started day shift. After five months of graveyard shift, I could finally make the bed. I’ve come to cherish my time alone. Although I usually spend the first day of my cycle resting and taking care of myself (my personal red tent time), I felt compelled to do some spring cleaning. My home is my temple and I love to keep my temple clean. And I finished just in time to talk to my daughter.  

My daughter goes to nursing school at a very conservative college. When asked to bring into her psych-nursing class something that represented their culture, nearly every other student brought a bible. So Sunday she wondered what Christians believed was supposed to happen on the day before. She wanted to ask her fundamentalist friends, wondered what their ministers said in church that morning. I wondered if all were accounted for. She laughed, then got serious. “They must feel sad that they were left behind.” 

I explained that no one was left behind. That everyone here is needed to help the earth shift. 

We had just finished a profound conversation about relationships between men and women. How blessed I am that my 23 year old daughter comes to me for advice. So much so to bring a girlfriend in on the call, “Because, Momma, she really respects your wisdom.” And as I offered counsel to her friend, my daughter heard her piece. Afterwards calling me back to confirm what she might do as her own soul work to shift her perspective and better her relationship. These are two spiritually mature young women, realizing that change begins with them. 

That’s when the discussion drifted to what was supposed to happen on May 21st at 6pm. My daughter said, perhaps the fundamentalists are right. This felt like a judgment day to her, in which we judged ourselves and chose to grow, to move forward on our soul path, not expecting others to follow, but to just do our own soul work, to just be our truth. 

I believe my daughter is right. Perhaps the rapture is this great shift in our collective consciousness. And our consciousness shifted once more this past weekend.

23 Remembering Mary Magdalen: Women Scorned

May 12th, 2004 Last night I had a dream, thankfully observed from afar, of Cephas badly abusing Mary then handing her back to Teoma like a ragdoll. I awoke to Steve drawing me close. Yeshua emerged from within, both in the dream and awake. Mary embodied all women held at fault by men who judged them as temptresses, abused and rejected them. Women and their children suffering for two thousand years because the sacred feminine was hidden away. Cephas represents those men without the courage to be their truth, Teoma represents those men who seek to save the vulnerable. Although some may think this is a Christian overlay, I recognize that in most cultures men hate women for relinquishing their feminine power. 

Beginning the research process, I found much support for what I had written, yet uncovered much sadness regarding the treatment of women. Perhaps if Mary’s story had been received at its inception, the world would have been kinder and more compassionate to women and children. If both men and women would open to receive the sacred feminine, she would be revered not abused.

In this life, I have been fortunate to be well treated by men. My father was gentle. My grandfather showed me only unconditional love. My first boyfriend treated me with such reverence, I married him. Unlike most of my female colleagues who struggle to find support in the masculine world of medicine, my collaborating physician is my knight in shining armor.  

 As I awaken to the Divine Daughter energies I see that the world reflects back to me what I believe about myself. And I believe I am beautiful, wise, witty, strong, and safe. So men trip over themselves to open doors for me. While perfectly capable, I allow them to assist me and graciously thank them, knowing that every opportunity for the divine masculine to recognize the sacred feminine is healing for us all.

14 Remembering Mary Magdalen: Dancing in the New Year

Jan 2nd, 2004 Dropping Kyra off on New Years eve, I strove to meet the parents holding the teen gathering. Somehow the book came up. I have no hesitancy sharing this amazing experience with friends and family, but these were strangers. And they asked if I was Christian. And I said no but neither were Mary and Yeshua. They were Hebrew. The looks on their faces made me realize why Steve worries so. He’s preparing for crosses to be burned on the lawn when this book comes out. In spite of the controversial nature of my story, I must have faith that all will be well. This said, how hard it is to humanize Yeshua—but to me he was very much a man who felt love, anger, jealousy, joy. Yesterday during our new year’s hike, Steve was in a sweet mood, proclaiming to be able to take care of all of my needs, to never get lost, to provide me food and shelter no matter where, to lick my very wounds if need be. Although I yearn for a more ethereal connection, Steve grounds me to this 3 dimensional reality. After finishing the forgiveness piece between Mary and her mother, I felt great gratitude for how each member of my family, each person who has served to teach me lessons along the way back to the One. So this morning when I meditated on a disturbing scene, I know I cannot judge what seems like an incomplete memory. How many times have I envisioned parts of this story only to sit down to write and what flows from my hands more beautifully insightful than I imagined?  

Jan 12th, 2003 Last night we celebrated Steve’s birthday at the Greek restaurant and the belly dancer enticed me to get up and dance by offering me her zils—an ancient gesture of recognition just like when Miriam led the Yisraelites in celebratory dance at the Red Sea. It was amazing and our friends commented on how “tribal” I danced. Somehow I knew how to dance this ancient rhythm, perhaps because I had just written a scene in which Mary danced in celebration of the new moon.  At the last science and consciousness conference in Albuquerque, I joined the dance of universal peace and got lost in the ancient rhythms. Afterwards many approached to thank me for my presence asking if I was a professional dancer. Surprised and flattered, I shared my experience with a friend who was a ballroom dancer. She took offense claiming I had no training. True, but at the African drumming circle at the end of the conference, I could not help but dance with the energies. So I danced the drums and the drummer seemed to drum my beat—an erotic meeting of souls through music.