feminoggles

I am excited to say that I have found a new home. (When I say that, I picture this animal who’s somehow discovered this perfect refuge deep in the woods that had been waiting to be found.) It is not final quite yet, but I have the pen in hand and am just waiting for them to slip the lease in front of me. I was telling my sister about the place and, between the not-so-subtle hints that she wanted to live with me, she kept saying, “I want a home.” I told her this place feeeeels like home, all excited.

“But you have a home, girl.”

“No, I want a home,” she says all pitiful and sad.

“Like a house?”

“Yeeeeah.”

“Babe, those things are expensive.”

So, I’m not always the perfectly empathetic sister. The point is, finding a home was not just locating a structure within which I could survive. Finding a home is art. Now, don’t make fun of me. We come to the search with a list of things—non-negotiables. However, a place that fits all your criteria doesn’t necessarily fit you. I realized this as I was standing in an apartment, the landlord skirting about the place doing some final touches. My boyfriend and I walked around the place. I mean, it was good. More than that, it was a good deal ($$$$).

Alas, I left uninspired. That’s the word that stuck in my mind. I feel uninspired. That’s when I realized that Eden (the Artist) had to be stirred towards life even by an apartment. After another day of talking to my parents, my boyfriend and friends, I was swamped. Literally, the 30 some-odd places and people I had contacted, all their damn amenities and details— parking, high ceilings, cats only, sober house, daylight basement (come on now, that’s a contradiction right there)—all of it had me stuck.

I had to go on a walk. Clear my head. Granted it was a two minute walk, but my head cleared nonetheless. What did I want? I had to separate that out from all the other voices, whether literal or self-imposed. Well, come over after May 1st and you’ll see.

When it matters, do not settle for anything less than inspiring. A space has to breathe. A home has warmth. It makes you feel safe, coddled—like a heavy, warm blanket on a cold blustery day. It feels nestled and grounded. But it simultaneously inspires vision—an almost prophetic space. It will move you into your future. I’m not sure where or how I started this, but I have a tradition of praying in each space before I move into it.

Walls and floors bare, I entrust my person to its care. Amen.

Here I am stalking craigslist for the perfect apartment to live in. I have lived with 5-6 people for the past four years and, although it’s been grand, I’ve had quite enough of that, thank you. I am looking for the best bang for my buck (ie. not looking to be screwed over and not wanting to screw anybody else over).

I was recently almost craigslist scammer-prey. I was selling a camera and other various items via craigslist and got several bites. One person, “Jessica”, wanted to buy the camera for $100 bucks more than my asking price. Sweet deal, you say. Yes, so did I. She had a niece that she was getting it for who was going to be really excited. Three days later, I am racing back to the post office.

“Yes, my name’s Eden. I just mailed a package there and I need to cancel it. Can you pull it aside?”

“Okay, ma’am. No problem. Where was it being sent to?”

“Nigeria.”

“Oh, yeah. Wow. Okay, I’ve got it right here. I’ll set it aside for ya.”

Yes, Nigeria. Somewhere between the post office and my house, it occurred to me. I’d been scammed. There was no sudden proof or evidence that surfaced in those 5 minutes. It just hit me like a wall. Like a wall that was about to eat $1000 of my pretty US dollars.

Somehow I had dismissed all the little and not-so-little hints. She was out of town and it needed to mailed right away. She was offering to pay way over the given value. She didn’t even want to look at it. She signed her emails with a totally different name a couple times (Jessica and then Carol). Every time, I gave her (or him, for that matter) the benefit of the doubt.

Now, I am not stupid woman. And…

(Three days later…)

Irony of all ironies, as I’m writing the above entry, I fell victim to yet another scam. In my search for apartments, I jumped on a place advertised as a great deal. That morning actually, I had told my dad it was the best deal I’d seen thus far, I just wonder if there’s a catch.

Well, let’s just say I found the catch: identity theft.

This round, I didn’t catch it in time. All of my information is out there. I feel like someone’s just ripped all my clothes off, but I’m standing in the dark…terrified of them turning on the lights. Again, it wasn’t some huge revelation of evidence, it was just a building dread and anxiety in my body that made me see that this great deal was indeed a scam.

So, I’ve pretty much locked up every aspect of my life, figuratively speaking, which also means I feel pretty jailed and constricted myself.

“Somebody should monitor this stuff,” I told my dad. “And who would that be?” “I don’t know, Cyper McGruff?”

But seriously, how do we protect ourselves, our children from a different kind of victimization: cyber-crimes. We have police officers who patrol our streets in uniforms and uniformed cars. They’re a visible, tangible reminder of protection, consequence, and civic responsibility. They’re called the police “force”. Where is such a “force” in the cyber world? A presence that represents and reminds us of safety, consequences and justice?!?!

Needless to say, I could do some major verbal damage to the people who did this to me. I’d also feel better after a couple punches and maybe an elbow to the nose. I want these cowards who never see the faces (in person) of their victims to see my face.

It was a movie date last night. The last movie I saw in the theatre was the Christmas Carol in 3D Imax. I was crying and burying my face into my boyfriend’s shoulder at the scary parts with every other 8-year-old in the crowd. What can I say? I have a sensitivity to the depiction of evil.

I put that out there because I have not been a big fan of Tim Burton in the past. No moral, ethical reason—more for stylistic or aesthetic reasons. So, I was skeptical and was very ready to bury my head once again in Michael’s shoulder. Except we arrived and there were only single seats left. So, I would have to go it alone.

(On to the movie…) Friends, this movie was poignant for me. It is the theatrical articulation of much of what I have been studying for my research paper. The movie begins with a party that Alice Kingsley and her mother walk into. We find out it is to be Alice’s engagement party. Tim Burton so beautifully illustrated the immensity of what that moment would have felt like to a young woman. All the expectations, all the choking ties, and restraining corsets (that she refused to wear, I’ll add).

Where is choice? Where is the space to see your own face, your own desires and thoughts in a sea of faces of people who have all conformed and expect you to do the same? All the presuppositions these people look at you with, ready to drape you—nay, drown you with.

It is a part of growing up, right? Her pretty face won’t last forever. As an adult you see that choice is an illusion, a childish dream when there are responsibilities and expectations. And because there is no other place to go, Alice runs off towards that sliver of hope: the illusion.

So, Alice falls into a hole in the earth and lands in Underland, where impossibilities are daily realities.

From here on out, I will attempt to quickly (or not so quickly) touch upon a few themes…

1. Presuppositions. Conformity is expected and nearly forced upon her, but there is enough of a voice inside Alice to steal her away for the hope of something more…more Alice. As children, we assume everything is as it must be—is as it has always been. For Alice to see, in the sea of faces, a talking rabbit with a clock!?!? It is her hope against the loss of her self. That little rabbit hole she chases and falls into is the narrow path of her salvation. (Amen)

2. Creativity. Oh, the imagination of a child! We see it as clear as day in this story. Creativity is squelched in Alice. Conformity kills creativity. To accept that things are as they should be prevents us from imagining what they could be. And this is the surrendering of Eden—the surrendering of a better future, of a life beyond what we  know.

3. Choice. Several times in the movie, this theme arises, not so subtly (which I like). We are given the contrast between the engagement scene and the illusion of choice and the scene in which she can choose to be the “champion” for the white queen. The queen asks for a champion, not even looking at Alice. Everyone eventually looks to her, and the queen tells her, “It is your choice, Alice. It must be. For if you choose to go, you will…go…alone.” Alice runs off in tears. She is torn. She sees that all these people want her to be someone she does not believe she is. In this moment of despair, I see the emasculated Alice—the polite, soft, pretty girl she is bred to be—fight with the championess. It is a dual of self-esteem, of realities, of truths. Who am I? And what is my choice?

4. Voice & Identity. From the moment she meets all the characters in Underland, it is a question of, “Is this the Alice? The Alice who is foretold to kill the Jabberwocky?” Alice is convinced that she is not that Alice. The blue caterpillar who meets her the beginning of her journey responds, “You are not hardly her.” At the moment of deciding whether she would step up as a champion, she meets the caterpillar again, who says, “Alice, (sigh) at last.” This entire journey through Underland is a journey of freeing up her mind, her self, and emboldening her voice. And when she returns to London, into the moment of her engagement party, she definitely has a voice (chuckle chuckle).

5. Dream & Reality. Alice keeps on telling herself this is just a dream. I can wake up at any moment. I cannot be hurt. And this becomes an excuse—that “rational” voice interrupting the journey of finding herself. Once she accepts and understands that Underland is a place of real emotions and relationships, of impossibilities made possible, she sees that it is worth facing her fear. As she battles the dragon, she counts through what she knows as true: the 6 impossible things, she has found possible. I loved this! It is speaking truth to the self for the sake of life. Alice has found her own truth and remembers, recounts these truths as she battles the Jabberwocky. This is so beautiful because these memories, this act of remembering empowers her and gives her that last bit of courage to step fully into her “calling”. Counting your truths and remembering them is powerful in the face of fear or oppression.

So, go see the movie and if your journey to self has been similar to mine, maybe you’ll be crying as Alice battles the Jabberwocky—not because it shouldn’t die, but because….well….it is Alice, at last.

Integrating traditionally feminine qualities into leadership, government and societal and economic values is part of the journey—the hope of wholeness in humanity. When I hear the word ‘stewardship’ I think of pews and someone standing up front lecturing me on giving money to the church, spending my money wisely and in godly ways.

A different kind of  picture of stewardship caught my eye in the New York Times this week. In Amman, Jordan, the city has recently put in sidewalks and park benches. Michael Slackman, the writer, puts exclamation points after park benches, which to me is a little mind-boggling. I walk by at least 20 benches a day. Apparently, the city is getting some slack for spending money on such seemingly superfluous things as park benches whilst bigger issues remain without funds, or without ample funds.

Michael points out though that, “to talk to those behind the sidewalks and the benches is to see these ubiquitous objects as powerful tools of social planning, tearing down walls between rich and poor, helping a city bereft of an identity develop a sense of place and ownership.

For an ancient city which has struggled to move into present day, this little make-over has brought a sense of stewardship, nurturing Amman’s self and identity as a valuable place in the world—worthy of a delight, of enjoyment, of a good sit-down on a park bench on your lunch break.

(photo from the article, by Shawn Baldwin for the New York Times)

When my professor put up the slide of the sculpture, “Christa” by Edwina Sandys, I think my jaw physically dropped.

“Where did you find this? I haven’t ever seen a woman on a cross before.”

Even as I said the words, I knew I had—maybe not physically, crucified on a cross. But I had seen many women time and time again, pouring themselves out, dying. Yes, I knew exactly what that looked like. Only, I had not seen it put so…forthrightly, I suppose.

I have seen images of a white, a black, an asian, indian, african Jesus on the cross. And my thought is, of course, Jesus died for all of these. Yet, my gender on the cross—breasts, waist, hips, vagina, my skin—is such a rare vision for its particular and heretical offense that I see my first at 28 years old, in the year 2010.

It is hard to explain what happens in me, looking at this image. It is as though my life with all its pain, tragedy, lostness and despair becomes legitimized. My female body is recognized on the cross and redeemed through the cross as much as your male body. *(Your) and my femininity is recognized as much your (and my) masculinity. I saw that in my attempts to be like Jesus, I had also been trying to be “male”. I implicitly understood that there was some unique, gender-exclusive, salvific endowment in the male skin of Jesus that, of course, I would never, ever never attain to.

So what?

If my self—including my female body and my femaleness—is recognized on the cross as much as your male body and your maleness, then my experience of salvation can bear (and need bear) the marks of my particular, female self. So, what does it mean then, that Jesus has saved me?

Slowly, I can let my story as a woman into the places of my salvation that have been dominated by the stories of the powerful—men. Feminist work acknowledges that theology has been done from a place of power. Because of this, salvation, justification, sanctification, sin, grace, theology in its entirety have taken on a masculinity that denies and suppresses rather than complements femininity. In that dynamic, so too has the female body taken on and become a physical representation of sin.

My current research is taking me into the study of the epistemology of women—how a woman understands her self and her world, how she comes to know herself as a knower. This feels like a way of almost re-acquainting myself with a self that others have and I have denied and suppressed. Out of this work will, I hope, develop a series of questions to be addressed and contemplated on behalf of women towards a theology that is gender-inclusive.

*My thoughts here split in two directions. Obviously, seeing the body of a woman on the cross is seeing a biological woman on the cross. This brings forth the issue of sex: male or female—that all humanity, which is divided into these two categories, is redeemed through the work of the cross. There is also the issue of gender: male(ness) or female(ness)—that within any one human is both maleness and femaleness, masculinity and femininity. These categories are severely affected culturally, socially, etc., but I do believe there are differences there which, shared, represent the oneness of God, or humanness of God. It is both the work of redeeming the female body out of its current position of shame and the work of reconciling maleness to femaleness.

**I would also be interested to hear a man’s response—emotive and intellectual—to image above, “Christa”. Do any women come to mind as you look at her? Why?

Sandra Oh plays one of the stronger, more ambitious, focused characters on Grey’s Anatomy: Cristina Yang. She is someone I had pegged as a woman who would never forsake her career, her passions, ambitions for a person, a man, a lover. Her love has always been, in my eyes, her job—surgery. She fights and she fights hard for the most complicated and glorious surgeries. In recent episodes, Cristina proved her priorities, it seemed. She said, in the heat of a moment, that she would trade her man (to her superior, Teddy) for the life she has felt working with Teddy—to keep her at the hospital.

This confession made me incredibly ambivalent and uncomfortable. She’s gone too far…aaannd I kind of get it. And I got it more, watching last week’s episode, in which Owen confesses he knew what she had said and that he was trying in some sense to allure her away from her devotion to her job—”screw her into submission.” And he tells her he feels like he doesn’t know her, doesn’t even know about the biggest love of her life: Burg. And so, she tell him (and all of us, I might add, who had been judging her).

“Burg? Burg was uh…he took something from me. He took Little pieces of me. Little pieces over time, so small I didn’t notice. He wanted me to be something I wasn’t and I made myself into what he wanted. One day I was me: Cristina Yang. And the next I was lying for him and jeopardizing my career and agreeing to be married and wearing a ring and being a bride. Until I was standing there in a wedding dress with no eyebrows and I wasn’t Cristina Yang anymore. And even then I would’ve married him. I would have. I lost myself for a long time, and now that I’m finally me again…I can’t…I love you. I love you more than I loved Burg, I love you. And that scares the crap out of me because when you asked me to ignore Teddy’s page, you took a piece of me. And I let you. And….that will…never… happen…again.”

No matter how determined and ambitious we might appear, we (as women) need affirmations in our vocations—in our pursuit of a life work(s). The majority of men grow up into the jobs and careers and purposes that the world, their parents, their teachers have all affirmed them into. As women, when we step into roles or jobs that terrify us—tell us we are unworthy—there is a self-violence that echoes the world’s disapproval or merely lack of approval interpreted as disapproval. Just as a kitten at a new home needs to be held and stroked and spoken kindly to, so does a woman’s ego need the affirmation that her work (note: I’m not saying her body) is good and valuable and necessary.

Cristina Yang responds so emotionally and fiercely here, and it is a standing up for her self that she did not do as she slipped away into bride-liness for Burg. It is a work we all must do—find our skin. I must find the boundaries of me—where you stop and my skin begins. Cristina lost her skin, and literally, her eyebrows.

As infants, we start with the shared skin (self) of our caretaker(s), which in most cases is the mother. A boy develops or differentiates his self apart from the mother with greater ease by virtue of the glaring differences: physical/genital differences. Whilst a girl may find it harder to separate from the mother (to set boundaries, relationally) as she is similar to the mother physically. So from the start, boys have greater ease in differentiating their selves and girls have to push more into the question, “How am I different? What makes me, me?”

In other words, our “skin” starts off a little blurred from the get-go. And this, on top of social, cultural and religious discriminations regarding gender, we’re walking into the game as underdogs. If even Cristina, who has such ambition and lust for her work, can get lost in her partner, how much more the battle for those of us who continue to wrestle for a sense of vocation, life work.

I grant that I have not talked much about Owen in this scene, which I feel needs to be addressed. Partially because leading up to the quote above, I would actually say that the “traditional” roles of male and female are reversed between Owen and Cristina. Owen plays the “expendable” lover, always kept at arms length emotionally. Cristina seems to be the driven, ambitious, emotionally distant counterpart. If I’m honest, it isn’t even until this scene that I thought of Cristina as a woman, with familiar vulnerabilities.

What is brilliant about their relationship in this scene (because I’m not sure how I feel about it outside of this interaction), is the hope for them that we’re left with. He is listening to her “self” speak, and she is speaking. Will he honor her “self” the next time she is paged? Will she allow him the same grace, when he feels lost?

Ultimately, its about finding a partner who will not only let you be you, but who will want you to be you and call you out from the shadows when you are retreating. Can you be you when your lover is your lover? Can both of your voices co-exist and are you sensitive to when your lover has lost his or her voice? In that case, will you help and wait for your lover to speak instead of continuing to speak over him or her?

I have to admit there was not much appealing to me about this movie when I saw the trailer a while back. It took a good friend of mine recommending it for me to watch it. After waiting for it to come out, I’ve finally watched it. And wow, was I wrong. It’s not life-changing, mind you. I mean, it has Ellen Page in it. If anything, its all very understated, but rest assured, it’s stated.

Props to Drew Barrymore who directed this film—not sure I would’ve expected a piece like this out of a woman who often plays the sappy (but sometimes shamingly enjoyable) desirable girl in your standard romantic comedy.

Ellen Page plays a 17-year old girl named Bliss (irony irony irony) growing up in the small town of Bodine, Texas. Her mother has forced her own failed dream of becoming a champion pageant girl on Bliss. On a shopping trip in Austin, Bliss sees these strong, sexy, vivacious women on roller skates as they’re passing around flyers for their next roller derby competition. Bliss goes through some of the quintessential coming of age experiences (falling in love, losing her virginity, rebelling against her parents), but there is a twist. We’re not left with the happy-go-lucky, “Well, it sucks that he was a bastard, but now she’s prettier and has a better guy who wants her.” Rather, Bliss transforms into “Babe Ruthless”—a young woman who falls in love with her self and learns to fight for that self with grace and with bruises.

When her parents find out she’s been skating for the roller derby, of course they take away her skates. Just as though they’d  taken away Bliss’s dating privileges because they disapprove of a guy, she says, “You don’t understand, I am in love with this.”

It struck me that, it is rare we see a coming-of-age movie in which the girl falls in love with a purpose—a calling, the deep stirring of life in a girl whose self has just been hatched.

I found myself at several points during the movie saying, “How (f)emasculating.” We see Bliss standing at the mirror in each white dress she wears for the pageants. I think I remember wearing one exactly like them at my 8th grade graduation, and then another one (a bit poofier) for my debutante ball, and then always dreaming of another one (the poofiest of them all) for my wedding someday. And then we also see her transformation to Babe Ruthless. In Bliss, where there’s voicelessness, complacency and even physical androgyny, there is purpose, strength, desire and body in Babe Ruthless.

“Coming-of-age.” It’s the battle we all go through—when we nice, complacent girls get a glimpse of the kinda bad-ass, strong, confident, passionate, and caring women we could become. But we have to get a little ruthless. Rack up some bruises. For most men, it probably looks a little different—the strong athletic, ambitious young man gets a glimpse of connection and vulnerability, a passion that may not lead to becoming a lawyer or a doctor.

In that moment, we have to answer for ourselves…

Whipped or whip it?

I went into a local Barnes & Noble today to pick up a book for one of my research classes (ironically a book about women’s patterns of knowing, from infancy, adolescence, and into adulthood). As I was walking out, purchase in hand, I glanced at the featured books lining the exit hall—a last attempt, or first, at selling a title. One caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks, to be honest.

I turned and faced the book with my body, feet planted, jaw dropped. The title of book was, “7 Habits of Effective Teens,” by Sean Covey (I assume some relation to the awe-inspiring person and now corporate entity Stephen Covey).

Now, some of you may be thinking as the back-up of people behind me probably were, “She’s crazy. What’s jaw-dropping about that? Walk on lady.”

Well, along with many fundamental problems I have with the idea and expectation communicated in the title alone, it hit a button. A button that goes waaaaay back to 8th grade. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, eyes wide open, pen in hand. My dad has just brought me a 5-year plan he drew up in contract form. FOR ME. MY LIFE.

Now, I’ll just say it. THIS IS NOT NORMAL. I mean, God bless the man. He’s a brilliant business man, truly, and brilliant with business relationships. However in this case and a few others, when it came to relating to his 13-year old, pimply, puberty-stricken, hip-bustin, I-don’t-know-how-to-fix-my-hair-yet-so-it-doesn’t-do-THIS daughter, he resorted to what he knew better: business.

So, without my lawyer present, I signed this contract (although, of course there was no real consensual, mutual agreement here).

And my point in sharing this is that our “need to be effective” as people, teens, young adults, professionals often results in the objectification of the other as a means to an end, and provides a shield behind which we forgo (hide from) real connection to other human beings. It is this work of learning to be, to connect, to listen, to be listened to, and be intimate that we are losing (or debatably, have already lost).

I would much rather, much much rather, invite my teenager (the one I don’t have) to read a book titled, “7 thoughts on Identity for Teens.” We do not need a world of more “effective” teens. Hell no. We need a youth that will, I pray, locate an individual and collective self. Increasingly, our (American) youth has been released into a space—a kind of postmodern relativism/constructivism, everything goes, but nothing goes for sure playground.

I would pray for a youth, a generation of teens who can find a center within them (individual self) and connect to the center they are a part of (collective self). Feeling a sense of responsibility to self and community will, I believe, inherently foster an effectiveness out of the intimate connection they participate in.

All that said, I haven’t read the book. I just read the cover. And you know what they say, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

Response to this New York Times article. Photo of Manuela Maier, courtesy of New York Times.

Manuela Maier, a mother of two daughters, gets screamed at in stores and attacked by other mothers in her hometown, Neuotting, Germany. In Germany, grade schools have maintained a tradition of ending at lunch, making it difficult for women to integrate their personal life with a professional one. However, the admission that women are needed to play an active role to aid the country during a time of economic crisis has led some schools to begin offering full day sessions of class.

After enrolling her daughters for full day schooling so she could go back to work, Manuela began to feel ostracized by the other mothers. She faced questions like, “Why do you have children, if you can’t take care of them?”

It is disheartening to hear women speaking against women—eye-opening to see that structures are still in place in the “developed” world which continue to prevent women’s roles from expanding freely. I am not saying that for all women a fulfilled life has to include both motherhood and professional pursuits. Although, I can’t help but think some of this hostility comes out of these mothers’ own ambivalence about desiring something more and guilt for wanting more.

Can both men and women open their minds to at least consider that participation in both parenthood and a professional life may be a fulfilling and worthy balance to aspire towards? That there is a need and desire for both caretakers to take care of their selves? If that means that for a while the father stays home to watch the kids, and the mother continues working, great. If that means, the father works for a while and the mother stays home for that time, great. If it means, both parents work and trade off as to who stays home during the week (my current, personal preference for me), fantastic.

The point is (as I spoke a few entries ago), we are better parents if we are attentive to our desires and needs as well as our children’s. Manuela Schwesig, 35 year old mother with a toddler, said, “I love my son, and I love my work. I am a more fulfilled mother for working, and a more motivated politician for having a child.”

Amen.

For the past few years now, I lived life at times suspending my past beliefs, structures, expectations, and assumptions. We grow up, our parents drop us off at college with hope and pride in their eyes. We get lost in collegiate freedom. We graduate with robes and toss our hats into the air. And then we join the ranks of everyone else in the world. We become one of many needles in one of many haystacks.

I’m talking about the “real world” as my parents more than occasionally threatened me with growing up. Granted, there are steps into this glorious thing we call freedom. College is one of those steps. Within the collegiate world, you can still be a hero. You can still be somebody. You are still given a purpose. A goal. Deadlines. Grades. You are still operating fairly mechanically, though there are moments of wonderment and fear—glimpses of an outer world wide open and intimidatingly vast.

Nearly six years out of college, I still get anxiety scanning through job listings. I get anxiety thinking about my future. Thinking about marriage. About kids. About life, relationships, and work during kids, after kids. How do I do this?

I have the desire and, if I’m honest, feel the pressure to have a job that provides for me and my future—the future of a family and kids, and their futures. Society says I should be able to provide for myself, to not rely on anyone or wait around for someone (ie. a husband) to pay for my every whim and fancy. (This is, to some extent, what the article in my previous entry addreses: increased concern in women over financial responsibilities.)

Amidst all these thoughts, I go into my feminist theory and theology class, which, as I should’ve foreseen, exacerbated my anxieties. In drawing them out, however, I began to see them more clearly and began to hope for relief from the pressure of which they are symptomatic. These are the questions and thoughts that arose…

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Who am I as a 21st century woman?

How does my experience of being a 21st century woman impact my self and my salvation?

And how then does my experience of being a 21st century woman impact my self and my salvation as a professed Christian?

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Somehow, these things intersect: Christianity, concept of the self and salvation (psychology), and my experience as a 21st century female (human experience). It is intricate, complex, and far from black and white. Still, they must all overlap at points—share some tenants or perspectives which are greater and more powerful as a united whole than as separate, finger-pointing stances.

All in all, there is so much tension in and between all of these perspectives. I am trying to live a life of integrity and meaning, and it feels like all the arrows are pointing in different directions. And in the midst of that, it is hard to discern what I want.

That is the tricky part: what I want. Is it what I’ve been told to want? What I’ve been bred as a woman to want? What my parents have manipulated me to want? What the church has said I should want? And is it really possible to untangle these voices from mine? The context from its inhabitant?

Stay tuned.