Love is immortal, and ubiquitous–which brings us back to Julian’s vision that god/dess is all love, and we are too. Why is that revolutionary? (48) Yet humans are mortal and not ubiquitous but particular. How can we participate in the divine? Through ceremonies and rituals, ‘which are like the genetic material of a particular culture’. (151) Ceremonies and rituals connote ‘not imprisonment or limitation of any sort, but a symbolic gestation.’ (152) In patriarchal cultures, such rituals are seen as separation, but in women-centred cultures, such rituals are seen as transformation and emergence. ‘ Flinders (author of At The Root Of This Longing) quotes Jungian therapist Virginia Beane Rutter: ‘ “Depth-oriented psychotherapy,” she maintains, “is an experience of [female-centred] initiation–a rite of passage from one stage of consciousness to another … [which is] a developmental task [that] requires attention to inner reality.” She compares such a moment to early adolescence when “longings press for realization from within…. The therapeutic enclosure … provides the ritual container for development that our culture generally lacks.” ‘ (153) image of julian of norwich from wikipedia.
Luce Irigaray writes, “Once we have left the waters of the womb, we have to construct a space for ourselves in the air, … the space of bodily autonomy, of free breath, free speech and song, of performing on the stage of life.” (163) Flinders gives us the image of a silkworm spinning its cocoon and totally liquefying to transform and emerge as a moth. The moral of the story is ‘to become what we would be, we must let go of everything we have been.’ (168) image from wikipedia.
Part of me says, What will happen will happen, and part of me says, Especially because I know what I know, I’m involved in what is happening, so I want to play an active part. Don’t you? There’s no turning back. ‘But in fact there’s no going back,’ Flinders writes. ‘Once the blinders are off, you do see and hear, and the whole of yourself has to take it in.’ (214) I’m in the rapids, past the point of no return, heading for the falls. Time to let go of everything, trust the unknown, and transform. I wonder if the moth remembers its caterpillary life? Not likely. Just as I don’t remember that parts of me were once a dinosaur. However, the wonder of writing is that part of that memory is now recorded, stored, so, for example, we know what a king thought thousands of years ago. Now, billions can access a computer and express themselves. Billions and billions served. Flinders writes, ‘Part of me wants to just sit still, be quiet, and let things take their course’; however, she urges ‘that serious feminist attention be given to the likes of Julian and Teresa’. (177-178) image from wikipedia.