there might be another way: sexuality, spirituality, mothering, feminism, environmentalism

Archive for the ‘Spirituality’ Category

My Abortion Story

Las week when the call went out to send more abortion stories to fuel Wendy Davis’ filibuster, I thought that since I never had an abortion, I didn’t have a story. But I do.

Freshman year at MIT and the condom broke. The morning after pill did not yet exist. When the pregnancy test came back positive, I consulted with my mentor and my doctor. They didn’t judge me. They weren’t even phased. My devastation was treated as par for the (college) course. No big deal. Have an abortion, duh. That’s what college women do. The baby’s biological father, another MIT student, emphatically agreed. So emphatically, he would have put a gun to my head to make me have an abortion if he could have. So emphatically, he threatened to abduct the baby after birth and send it to be raised by his mother outside the country.

Young and naïve as I was, I convinced myself that I could appeal to the church to allow an abortion in this one instance. (Pause for laughter.) Hispanic teen moms were abundant and embarrassing. I was a rarity – a promising, proud, double-minority at the world’s top engineering school. I was always in the top academic percent. I did not belong in the common teen mom column.

Too embarrassed to consult with the priest on MIT’s campus, I walked the long mile to Harvard’s Catholic Church and spilled my guts. Again with the “no big deal” bit. The priest listened with great compassion but little affect. And then…I didn’t ask my religion’s permission. The priest’s ear, his presence, his tranquility calmed my terrified heart. In an instant, I grew the fierce and fearless fortitude necessary to defend my baby, defend my life, defend my choice. I made up my own mind, in that very moment, to have the baby. In an instant, I fell boundlessly in love with my child.

With my newfound strength and bravery, I defied the bullies that were my boyfriend and mentor and doctor, and I CHOSE life.


I moved back home to face my family and my community. MY CHOICE meant that I had to hold my head up high when my parents cried, my friends gossiped, and my doctor shook her head in seeming disgust and disappointment. MY CHOICE meant I had to hold my head up high at the welfare office. MY CHOICE meant I had to take full responsibility for my life and the well-being of my child. MY CHOICE meant taking accountability for my nutrition and emotional well-being to ensure a healthy pregnancy and birth. MY CHOICE empowered me to be the mother I am today. I can’t imagine the devastating emotional and psychic consequences of a forced pregnancy as much as I can’t imagine a forced abortion or forced adoption.

You who would defy my right to choose are no better than the people who tried to force me to have an abortion. I DEFIED THEM. I DEFY YOU.

I DEFEND my right to choose life or abortion because MOTHERS must go CONSCIOUSLY AND OF THEIR OWN FREE WILL into the decision to nurture and raise a human life. Their effectiveness as a loving, protective mother DEPENDS ON IT. And unwilling WOMEN ARE NOT INCUBATORS for adoptive parents.

BEWARE Right-to-Lifers. At present, the GOP’s observation of the 6th Commandment is selective and hypocritical; consider the death penalty! Granting the government dominion over women’s bodies can not be selective. If the government can FORCE you to incubate a baby, they can also FORCE you to abort a baby. Pro-Life legislation equates to INVOLUNTARILY INCUBATION. Does the government then get to legislate your prenatal nutrition and medical treatment? It is said that it takes great love to put a child up for adoption. What if an unfit mother doesn’t choose adoption? What of them? Shall we take away that choice too!?


Wild Woman Lost

When a loved one dies
Their immortal soul…consoles.
Where then is my solace when
My beloved friend’s spirit…expires?

Shallow grave of a live body and mind
Left behind.
Rude reminder of the wild women
Dropping before my eyes.

How am I to survive
One more woman selling her soul
Whoring her way to security
Well-worn path of obscurity

Settling down for a sickened society
Self-medicating with tv, coffee, consumerism
Prescription for an overdose of consumption
Drugs to mask authentic self-satisfaction

Wild Woman
Please don’t close your eyes
Beat back civility with all your might
Fight for your wildlife

For a woman is surely lost
Without her wilderness
If you’d open your eyes you’d find
The Sacred Union you seek exists within

Best to bring your insides out
Blaze a brazen path
Share your wild ideas
Passions, Purpose, Soul

Sure to enlighten, brighten
Shake-up humanity, your Man-to-be


I’ve finally come to identify
with the devious man who raped me
and his pathetic attempt to possess
my love, beauty, purity

Countless years in the making
my master lesson learned
transformed immense hatred and rage
into tolerance and compassion

For I too have used, confused
wanting you
with wanting me to be more like
the aspects of you I was desperately lacking

Are you free? Wish it was me
Wicked wit? I’ll have some of that
Strength, beauty, passion, devotion
Mine Mine Mine Mine

Obviously my tactics
were far from criminal
But I’m one to aspire higher
and loath to dismiss my psychic transgressions

Unhealthy attractions, self destructive distractions
from personal growth and advancement
They’ll pacify the mind ’til it believes
what it needs exists outside of your self

Now the first hint of clamor and despair over us as a pair
Is my clue, cue to delve deep into my soul
to find you’re merely the mirror
of what I am able, capable of self-actualizing

Because only in the absence of possession and lust
Rather, in the presence of friendship and trust
Can you reach me, teach me
And thus quench my obsession

How might our lives have been different
Had he, we, been told, taught
You can’t find happiness in another woman or man
And the Sacred Union we seek…exists WITHIN












There is no f***ing syndrome!
The ebb before the flow
the storm before the calm
isn’t a THE, it’s a SHE
and that bitch has a name

To insist on calling her PMS
is to resist and deny her
refuse to listen to her
blame and objectify her

She is not a condition
that infected you
she’s the awareness of your condition
Affecting you

She is your best friend
from whom you have no secrets
she is your personal she-ro
and she’s trying to save your life

and hers is the power
to open a woman’s eyes
to her innermost side

Hers is the strength
to bind your restraint
and your ability to not feel
everything in your life
that’s just not right

She lifts the levy that releases
your ocean of anger, rage
boredom and depression
you’ve been keeping at bay

This beast requires reckoning
she’s looking you square
behind the eyes
and her vision is crystal

While she’s looking out
your job is to look within
What do you see?

This is what awareness looks like

Now this premenstrual hero-bitch
is holding your good nature hostage
your shit has risen to the surface
and herein lies your power

To find the courage to affirm
the wrongs in your life
Your window of opportunity
to make them right

Oh yeah
that bitch has a name
mine is Lisa

Conversation with Goddess

My Goddess! Why have you forsaken me?! She:

Men are not to blame for taking
their rightful position as Children of God.

You forget
You are of Me

Allow him his God

I am your Goddess
And it’s time you assume your OWN divinity.

Burning Man: True Story

First, a prelude: A couple of months ago, I saw a friend’s photos of an event called Burning Man. “Cool,” I thought.
Fast forward to the week preceding this year’s Summer Solstice and me searching in vain for a worthy event to mark the occasion.
Fast forward again to the bookstore last night where my favorite section was crowded, so I went to my second favorite section to wait for a book to fly off the shelf and hit me. When it did, I read a woman’s short story about celebrating the Summer Solstice at an event in the desert called Burning Man. Sadly, it doesn’t mark the Solstice any more, but I didn’t “know” that at the time my true story happened…

It’s the middle of the night and I’m awake:

“I’m sorry” I said to the part of me who thinks she knows everything.
“You think you’re so smart” she said.
“That’s the difference between you and me.
You think. I know.”
“But you didn’t know!”
“I did, my love. I willed it so.”
Then I slipped into sleep and my dream self awoke.
As she traveled to Burning Man, she thought to herself:
“That’s funny. The story said it would be dry and dusty out here,
but I’m wet and moist as an oasis.
No dust. It’s all love and primal lust…”
Then my lucid dreamer intervened and spoke:
“Lest you forget, your dreams speak Symbology,
show you below the dusty surface to your soul.
Go to Burning Man, and your waking Solstice dream,
the one you knew about before you learned about it will come true.
And just under your skin, you’ll come alive –
that’s the moist and juicy part that is you.”

Then, I was suspended in my favorite place.
“Am I awake or asleep?” one of me wondered.
Then my mind broke the spell and tried to take credit.
“Ugh!” I say. If you only KNEW.