Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés
This is an encore presentation of a previously posted column. This column first appeared Aug. 4, 2008.
Oh do not be too exuberant, for as you know, we’ll have to tie down those leaping bones, cramming them into a much smaller carapace. As in foot binding, we’ll let the true spirit ache under man-made strictures, and force the children to forget or else pretend that they cannot see what they truly see, hear what they truly hear, know what they truly know.
This is an encore presentation of a previously posted column. This column first appeared June 8, 2008.
In our rural immigrant family, we had an entire gaggle of old women who were devotees of little St Francis of the animals. They loved him because he spoke to the birds and the creatures. “Like we do.” They liked Francis because he worked hard outdoors. “Like we do.” They liked him too because they considered him a village healer. “Like us.”
This is an encore presentation of a previously posted column. This column first appeared July 8, 2008.
My grandmother, Katerin, used to talk back to the priest on TV. She had an entire litany: Don’t tell me to be like Blessed Mother if you don’t really mean it all the way down to your bones, Father. Blessed Mother didn’t let anyone tell her what to do, except God. So, unless you’re God, don’t be trying to tell us what to do all the time. I just got a big phone call from heaven: God says there’s a big difference between really being God, and just thinking you are.”
This is an encore presentation of a previously posted column. This column first appeared June 30, 2008.
Make art about whatever of God
you have been given to apprehend.
Make enormous and miniscule art,
the kinds we may have to look at
through a microscope at first,
in order to truly see... God.
And make the kind of art which,
even from miles away,
is of such magnitude,
we cannot take it all in.