A Crone Walks Into a Catholic Church
I didn’t know what to expect last weekend at Burning Troll when I set up my old Royal typewriter for the first time in my new Traveling Betwixt & Between Tent.
I had spent two weeks pulling it all together, taking over the garage, digging things out of the basement and bedrooms and, of course, ordering things online. Then I arranged and rearranged it all, as I figured out logistics and ambiance.
It was a lot of work, but the setup felt like the easy part.
I had encountered poetry buskers before in New York City, Edinburgh, New Orleans—even Provo, Utah. I was fascinated by their vintage typewriters and their (sometimes) costumes, but most of all by the courage it took to put themselves out there and create something on the spot.
I would be putting myself out there like this.
I wanted it to be a meaningful experience for people—but how?
Who was I going to be in that tent?
What exactly was I going to do in there?
I wasn’t yet sure. But, strangely, I somehow felt ready for it.
The Glories of Menopause & a Dream About a Priest
Why did I feel all right about it when I didn’t know yet exactly what I was doing?
I think it was a combination of things.
For starters, menopause really is magical.
Crone status is liberating. (Don’t think of it as aging, sister friends—think of it as coming into your power!)
I’m not waiting around anymore for the industry to validate my work or my voice.
I value my work.
I like my voice.
And I want to share it.
But the glories of menopause are not the only reason I was feeling ready for the tent.
I had a dream.
For twenty-some years I’ve been mining my dreams to see if there are any tidbits my unconscious is trying to get through to me. If there’s a church involved, I pay a little more attention—and this dream featured a church.
So there I was (in my dream) at St. Paul’s University Catholic Center (Madison, WI), where our family spent a lovely decade of our lives. I hadn’t been there in a while (in my dream or in real life—in fact, they’ve since torn it down and built a whole new church), but I showed up there (in my dream) after decades, and the first thing my priest friend, Fr. Eric¹, did was hand me a basket and ask me (tell me?) to be an usher.²
In one very obvious interpretation, a woman finally finding her voice walks into a Catholic church and is immediately sidelined into helping people find their seats and passing around the collection basket. ’Nuff said.
But I felt like there was more to it. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.³ So I kept pondering it in the quiet moments between deckling paper and inserting batteries into flameless candles.⁴
Then, a few days before the event, it clicked.
As my opportunities to do workshops, discussions, and presentations have increased, I have often felt stressed in preparation because I’m not sure who or what I’m expected to be in each situation. Or, rather, I’m not sure that I can be what I think I should be in each situation.
If I’m supposed to get up there and be some expert/leader/guru with all the answers, I would feel like a fraud. Inauthentic. It’s just not who I am.
But get me in conversation on topics I’m passionate about, and good luck getting me to shut up. Get me one-on-one with a person, and I am present with my whole heart and soul.
With my personality (shout out to all the INFPs out there!), I’m more of a besider than a presider.
This revelation immediately unburdened me.
I didn’t have to fit myself into some mold that wasn’t me.
I needed to prepare well for any event I was privileged to be part of, but I could do it as me.
And however that was perceived—however my presence in any particular type of event was received or not received by others—it would just help me find my way into the kinds of situations where what I had to bring was a good fit.
Sitting With My Fellow Wayfarers in the Traveling Betwixt & Between Tent
I developed my Traveling Betwixt & Between Tent experience around writing “glimmers” for people traversing the liminal passages of their lives.⁵ The idea being that I would try to write something meaningful—personal—that they could carry with them.
I had selected a place for my tent off the beaten path, tucked away in the prairie art walk, where the incredibly talented John Pahlas of Center Ground Studios displayed his magnificent sculptures.
The first hour or so was quiet, as not many people had arrived for the festival yet. A lot of kids stopped in, which was delightful, and a grasshopper that liked my new book.
A visitor in the quiet early hours of the festival.
But then more people started arriving. And I didn’t get up from my chair for five hours.
It was such a beautiful experience.
Here’s how it worked: When someone wanted me to write a glimmer just for them, they’d sit down across from me. We’d close our eyes for a bit to ground ourselves, then I’d ask them to share two things:
Some place, person, or activity that gave them joy or peace.
Something they’ve been carrying or journeying through—but only if they were comfortable doing so.
I wasn’t sure if people would want to share what they were going through with me. I went out of my way to make sure they knew they didn’t have to.
But everybody did.
This was the most remarkable part of the experience for me. It truly did feel like we not only entered the liminal space of the tent together—but that we entered a shared voluntary liminal state—a suspension of normal interaction between strangers—each of us making ourselves vulnerable before the other, to make space for something meaningful to occur.
It felt sacred.
To write the glimmer, I would close my eyes again, fingers to keys, waiting for something to emerge. Sometimes it took a minute. “She’s sleeping,” one little girl with fairy wings kept whispering to her mother. I would smile but just keep sitting there with my eyes closed, waiting until something came. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel stressed—this, from me, who will order something random from the menu if I haven’t decided because I don’t want to inconvenience the waitress.
I would read over what I wrote before I tucked them into their envelopes.
I’m glad I called them “glimmers.” Not just because none of it was world-class poetry.⁶ But because that’s what they felt like they were.
We all must walk our own lonesome valley, but it was a privilege to stand on the side of the road in the dark, handing out these little lights.
Kind of like an usher at church, passing out candles at Easter Vigil.
Notes
A frequent Jungian animus in my dreams.
#$%!?&%?!!
There was also a random apple pie I needed to keep an eye on in a side pew. Leave your interpretation in the comments.
Didn’t want to burn the trolls down prematurely.
Of course, I did.
A great exercise to exorcise the author-ego.
