Community/Interconnectedness – Page 12

What I Might Have Said

[A Beacon on a Beacon Street Sidewalk, Somerville, MA, 2015]

A week ago I held a “No War in Iran” sign at a peace demonstration near US Congressman Mike Capuano’s office. Although engrossed, lately, in issues that feel far more immediate and urgent and, yes, that I am called to do, that horrific sound of The War Machine once again revving its powerful, deadly engine compelled me to show up. So I did.

Halfway through the hour long demonstration—on a crowded sidewalk at lunchtime in front of a mall and office building complex—one of the MoveOn organizers passed around a mic and invited the forty or so protesters to say something. One right after another, five or six men made cogent, impassioned speeches.

“Why is it only men?” I marveled aloud. Overhearing me, an older man invited me to speak. Twice.

Reader: Although that kind man’s repeated invitation felt genuine and inclusive, I declined.

Why?

Mostly, Dear Reader, because what I was feeling and what I longed to say aloud wasn’t cogent, it wasn’t linear, it wasn’t about facts about Iran. No, what I wanted to talk about would have been rambling and quite possibly incoherent unless worked on, edited, rewritten, read aloud; my usual writing process.

Most likely what I would have shared would have been about what had JUST happened a few minutes before, when two lovely, young, elegantly-dressed women had come up to me and said, “Thank you. We’re from Iran.” And how I’d grabbed them and hugged them and, probably to their confusion (or, possibly, their horror) I’d called them “My sisters!” And how I’ve been protesting wars for over fifty years but have never actually hugged someone from Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan or . . . at a peace demonstration. And how, having physically touched those two women, I was feeling my deep and profound and chromosomal connection to the women and children everywhere!

But I also could have expressed my impatience, my indignation to once again show up to protest another @#$%^&* war! “I got things to do!” I could have declared, arms on hips—which would have made holding a mic pretty tricky. “Like the rest of you, I’m working on urgent, in-your-face, this system’s broken; roll up your sleeves stuff! Like climate change. Like our broken criminal justice system. We don’t have time for another war!”

Most of all I would have wanted to clutch that mic, stared out at the crowd with earnest, beseeching eyes, and in a tremulous voice talked about how War and Climate Change and BlackLivesMatter and all the other ways we ignore and deny and desecrate our Wholeness and Interconnectedness reveal our collective brokenness. And how, with every breath, we must acknowledge that Wholeness, that Light. And let it guide us.

(How do you think that would’ve gone over? Yeah. Me, too.)

“Is not this Joseph’s son?”

In the silence of meeting for worship on Sunday, in the midst of my own faith community, after spending a week with others of my faith but not of my community, a touching moment from the Gospels came to me. (That I could not quite remember how the relevant passage was worded may mean I’m destined to sit in silence with a Bible on my lap. Maybe.) This moment from Luke 4: 16 – 30, is one sentence long; a bit, you might say, a little piece of theatrical business to explore or illustrate dramatic possibilities.

So let’s set the scene: Jesus of Nazareth has just returned to Galilee after spending forty days in the wilderness where he’d been tested by the devil—and passed. Having begun preaching in other Galilee synagogues, he returns to Nazareth and his own synagogue and on the sabbath, reads that stirring Jubilee passage from Isaiah. (Some of it. Jesus edits, apparently. But that’s another story, another post.) Like he’s been doing all over Galilee, Jesus wows ’em with his “gracious words.”

But here’s the bit: “They [his former neighbors, friends of his parents, the parents of his childhood friends] said, ‘Is not this Joseph’s son?’ ” (Mary’s son, too, we might add.)

Yep. He is. Composed, well-spoken, “filled with the power of the Spirit” after his wilderness-and-devil-and-forty-days’-fasting ordeal, he’s all that, he’s Local Kid Makes Good. Speaks Good. And his wowed listeners are both profoundly moved and remembering him when he was ten and, say, worked in his dad’s woodworking shop or carted water jars for his mother.

And we know thrilling moments such as what happened to Jesus’s hometown residents. We’ve been there. We’ve attended other people’s sons’ and daughters’ rites of passage and experienced, maybe for an instant, a thrill, a frisson.

To be able to witness another person’s growth, change, transformation is holy. And while, of course, it’s touching when a child does these things, watching an adult transform is, for me, seeing Spirit made manifest.

Which, I believe, is Good News.

“. . . Helping One Another Up with a Tender Hand.”

To those three bicyclists I pissed off in Porter Square yesterday:

I’m sorry, gentlemen. My fault; I was totally in your bike lane—and forced you to get around my silver Suburu during rush hour by making you actually walk your bikes onto the sidewalk to get past, keep going. I’m sorry. I really am. You did not need an additional, aggravating hassle on your already fraught commute home.

Not for nothin,’ though: my husband and I and a dear, disabled f/Friend had just driven from Vermont where we’d spent six days with fellow Quakers “living into a covenant community.” “Huh?” “Wha?” you say? Exactly. I’ll spare you chapter and verse to just say this: I’d just spent six days with six hundred people talking about how being in a faith community is about—well, wait! Maybe this will help. Here’s a quote we heard read twice yesterday, just hours before your unpleasant encounter with me on Somerville Avenue:

Our life is love, and peace, and tenderness; and bearing one with another, and forgiving one another, and not laying accusations one against another; but praying one for another, and helping one another up with a tender hand.” (Isaac Peninington; 1667)

So I guess you could say that when, having just dropped off someone with mobility issues at the most convenient place for her to walk to the Porter Square T and, starting to pull away from the curb, I saw the three of you and an SUV approaching, I was in an altered state when I thought: “That SUV will let me in because that’s the Right Thing to do. That’s how these moment-to-moment urban negotiations work.”

Hah!

I’m sorry.

Re rebranding?

[Coal Barge, Ohio River, Louisville, Kentucky, 2015]

Along the same lines as thinking that fussing over a Confederate flag will truly address the deep, deep brokenness of this country, last week I tried to remove the visible label from a Coal purple, acrylic beanie my grand-daughter wears. (She loves the color and looks adorable in it.) Really?

The label wouldn’t come off. (Let’s hear it for Chinese workmanship!) So I was forced to, you know, accept, embrace, move on, maybe even consider that by naming their clothing company after a hated fossil fuel, the Seattle hipsters who started Coal were trying to tell us something about moving on, about transformation; rebranding, so to speak.

(Or not. Got into a conversation with a hipster recently about the coffee beans sold at a neighborhood cafe. He’d just bought a bag but had abandoned it on the counter—where I picked it up. I was reading the coffee beans’ label when he showed up to claim his purchase. “Is it fair trade?” I asked, handing it over. “I don’t know,” he answered impatiently. “I just know it tastes good!” )

Here’s where I am: I accept that my attempted label-removal was ridiculous, nutzo. But given that NStar, purveyors of another fossil fuel, just rebranded itself Eversource, thereby discarding that pesky N for natural gas—slick move, NStar, but I say fossil fuel and fracking and the hell with it—I shall remain vigilant!

[I will be on vacation next week. Check this space in 2 weeks.]

“GOOD MEN trashed”

[“GOOD MEN trashed,” Cambridge Common, Cambridge, MA]

Here we are again. Another slaughter and its ghastly, rote aftermath of stunned horror and outrage and flowers strewn, impromptu shrines erected—and prayer meetings and stand-outs and the NRA not missing a beat to issue its usual, obdurate public statement and, again, demands for gun control and better mental health policies and politicians spouting whatever they believe plays best with their constituency: “Tear down that Confederate flag!” “It was an accident!”

And something stunningly different: The families of the victims uttering the word “forgiveness.” Oh, my.

As I contemplate what I am called to do in the face of another horror perpetuated by another slight, white young man—Dylan Roof, Jahar Tsarnaev, James Holmes, Adam Lanza, Elliot Rodger, Dylan Klebold—those young men’s wide eyes haunt me, beg me to pay attention to the pain behind their eyes. Ask me to at least pray over that pain. Ask me to consider—with compassion if possible—why these young, slight, American males* murdered school children or movie-goers or families watching the Boston Marathon or college students on a Friday night or people of color in the sanctuary of their own church.

That the Emanuel [God is with us] African Methodist Episcopal Church victims’ families offered forgiveness as their contribution to our mourning nation’s conversation BEGS us to get beyond rhetoric and “We’re all complicit” and stridency. Yes, by all means let’s talk about slavery and racism and the white supremacy movement and mental illness and gun control; absolutely. And let’s talk about violence, war, let’s talk about bullying, messaging, gender expectations; let’s connect dots. Let’s get to work, the hard work of going deep, searching, praying for guidance. Yes.

* Jahar Tsarnaev was naturalized on September 11, 2012

“Dangerous Optimism”

[“Rainbow Fountain,” Bryant College, Smithfield, R.I.]

This week, rather than writing something, myself, I’d like to share this wonderful and poignant excerpt from a speech Martin Luther King, Jr. gave at Bennett College, Greensboro, NC, in 1958.

After reading another piece I’d written recently that referenced Dr. King’s “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice,” my friend Katy sent this excerpt along. She had transcribed the entire speech when working at Boston University—Dr. King’s alma mater. Katy is responsible for the ADDED EMPHASIS.

“…This [after acknowledging that a lot of progress in civil rights had been made] would be a wonderful place to stop–be a great place to stop. But I’m afraid, if I stopped here, I wouldn’t be telling the truth, I’d be stating a fact. YOU SEE A FACT IS MERELY THE ABSENCE OF CONTRADICTION BUT TRUTH IS THE PRESENCE OF COHERENCE. IT IS THE RELATEDNESS OF FACTS. [laughter, then applause] You see it’s a fact that we’ve come a long, long way—that’s a fact—but it isn’t the truth. You see in order to tell the truth, you’ve got to go on and put the other parts in. If I stopped at this point, I would leave you the victims of a dangerous optimism. If I stopped at this point, I would leave you the victims of an illusion wrapped in superficiality. So in order to tell the truth, I must move on [laughter], say clearly that we’ve not only come a long, long way [applause]–so I must say that we’ve not only come a long, long way, but we have a long, long way to go….” [emphasis added]

Word.

“A Thousand Tongues Can Never Tell”

[“A Thousand Tongues Can Never Tell,” a spirit root sculpture by Bessie Harvey]

Mother’s Day, I woke up to a mockingbird practicing a song unlike anything I’d ever heard before from a mockingbird. Sleepily I remembered a Mary Oliver poem.* Sleepily I wondered if I might be hearing the theme song from “the Rockford Files.” (Especially that doodle-doodle-dee-dah-do-do bit at the end of the first phrase?) But then, more awake, I realized I needed to get a grip. “Unlike Mary Oliver, you do not know what music that bird’s been listening to!” I scolded myself. “You do not know all the songs, human and bird, to identify what you’re hearing! Only that bird knows. All you can do is to appreciate that lively, inventive music.” So I did.

Later that bright, sunny morning, wearing a “Black Live Matter” sticker on my Mothers Out Front tee shirt, I joined thousands of people in Boston for the 19th annual Mother’s Day Walk for Peace. Although I was walking with other Mothers Out Front folks, the groupings and clusters of people and baby carriages and dogs snaking our way through the streets of Dorchester were pretty fluid—so at one point along the 5K route I walked beside a young African-American woman I’d never met before.

“What brings you here today?” I asked her after we’d chitchatted about the gorgeous day and how the crowd seemed bigger than ever. (An estimated 10,000 marchers participated this year.)

“I have a son,” she said. “And I want him to grow up safe.”

Such simple words! But a thousand tongues cannot tell all that her stark statement encapsulates, all the stories of all the mothers and all the sons in Dorchester, in Baltimore, in Ferguson; every place and every time since time immemorial. Like that sleepy moment earlier that morning, I was humbled by all I will never know.

“I want your son to be safe, too,” I replied. Because that was all I could say.

*The Gift

I wanted to thank the mockingbird for the vigor of his song.
Every day he sang from the rim of the field, while I picked
blueberries or just idled in the sun.
Every day he came fluttering by to show me, and why not,
the white blossoms in this wings.
So one day I went there with a machine, and played some songs of
Mahler.
The mockingbird stopped singing, he came close and seemed
to listen.
Now when I go down to the field, a little Mahler spills
through the sputters of his song.
How happy I am, lounging in the light, listening as the music
floats by!
And I give thanks also for my mind, that thought of giving
a gift.
And mostly I’m grateful that I take this world so seriously.
Mary Oliver

“They Are Our Kids”

[19th Century Young Girl’s Grave, El Campo Santo, San Diego, CA, soon after Dia de Muertos, 2014]

Don’t get me wrong: I love my daughters, I love my grandchildren. I loved sitting in my Quaker meeting this morning watching Meeting children happily search for Easter eggs outside. I love Christmas, I love birthdays, I love making any child happy by buying just the right gift.

Here’s what I don’t love: The disparity between children like my grandchildren and those happy children I watched this morning and the poor children of this country. As a recent “New Yorker” article put it: The American dream is in crisis, [Robert Putnam, author of Our Kids: The American Dream in Crisis] argues, because Americans used to care about other people’s kids and now they only care about their own kids. But, he writes, “America’s poor kids do belong to us and we to them. They are our kids.”

Here’s what deeply moves me: That on October 31, 2014, someone placed those plastic necklaces and those two dolls on the grave pictured above. A Mexican-American child decorated that child’s grave for Dia de Muertos, I’m guessing. She swept the dirt, she arranged those bricks as best she could, she threw away—God knows what that child discovered in that gritty, surrounded-by-bars-and restaurants cemetery in the heart of San Diego’s Old Town. That generous child is very likely one of those “poor kids” Putnam wrote about.

My kid. Our kid.

“Things Fall Apart”*

[Ohio River derelict boatyard, Louisville KY]

Yesterday, gorgeous, sunny, and warm, my two and a-half-year-old grand-daughter and I strolled the neighborhood, stopping at a small park, once a vacant lot, the next street over. (Full disclosure: I was one of the many neighbors who maintained that open space until the city assumed responsibility for its landscaping and maintenance.) She and I quickly dis-covered that over the winter, countless dog owners had let their pets loose to do their business in the snow; melting snow revealed layers and layers and piles and piles of dog shit. An unbelievable quantity. Trust me.

After my initial outrage, after wondering if I could enlist the abutting neighbors to help patrol or take pictures of the miscreants (owners not dogs), after considering calling the head of Parks and Open Space and loudly demand he lock the park entrance—(until what, Patricia? Those horrible dog owners agree to clean up their dogs’ mess? C’mon!); in other words after lots of indignant, First Word Problem stewing, I realized I had a spiritual challenge—literally—in my own back yard.

Here’s how far I’ve gotten (and it’s not very far): Although we are neighbors, I don’t live in the same neighborhood as those dog owners. We see ourselves and how we interact with this neighborhood in profoundly different ways. And although all of us live now, right now, those dog owners and I have a major difference about time. About the relationship between the here and now (and the expedient) and, yes, what comes next. Like spring. When the snow will melt. And how present action has consequences! Always. And, finally, what does it mean that I live in a neighborhood with people who don’t believe their actions have consequences? Whose centre is themselves?

Like I said: not very far.

*”Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” is a line from “The Second Coming” by Yeats

Climate change

[A Greyhound lost in a snowstorm; February, 2015]

Yesterday afternoon I took the #77 bus from Arlington center to Harvard Square, sitting on one of the front seats reserved for the elderly (I qualify.) Seated so close to the young, pretty driver, I got to watch her negotiate Massachusetts Avenue traffic and curb-side snowbanks that might impede her passengers’ getting on and getting off. I’d give her work performance an unqualified A+.

I also got to watch her interactions; how she welcomed passengers as if the bus were her own living room, how polite she was, how solicitous, how she created a climate of respect and kindness in that grubby, enclosed, metal, moving space. I noticed how, over and over, people responded to her warmth with surprise at first and then with gratitude, and how almost everyone getting off thanked her! After thanking her, myself, I exited reluctantly, not at all eager to rejoin the jostling, distracted and self-absorbed crowds.

The day before I had been at Suffolk County Superior Courthouse to support a friend—but wasn’t clear what time his case had been scheduled or which courtroom. But when I stepped inside a courtroom to see two older women—clerical/administrative workers I’m guessing by their clothing—in an otherwise empty courtroom, I sensed my search, in a multi-story building filled with tanned, briefcase-wielding lawyers and those caught up or lost in our nightmarish criminal justice system, had ended. Surely these women will help me, I thought. Sure enough, they stopped what they were doing to consult a computer which, once I’d supplied the right keywords, revealed where I was supposed to be and when.

And, yes, I thanked them, too.

That seventh bee sting

[Side-yard path formerly used as a shortcut until the homeowners erected that fence]

Last night in the moonlight I shoveled a path from my kitchen door to a birdfeeder hanging from a wrought-iron hook attached to our deck railing. And then, beneath the quiet magic of an almost full moon, Jupiter beside it, I filled the feeder with the best birdseed Target sells so, first thing this morning, my neighborhood’s sparrows and juncoes and house finches and cardinals and blue jays and, yes, pesky squirrels (when I’m not keeping watch), could have breakfast.

After the first blizzard dumped two feet of snow, I’d waded through my backyard’s drifts and climbed up the snow-covered steps to the deck and shoveled the first, such path. But after our second storm and another foot or so, the snow was just too deep to wade through, again. Opening the kitchen door with all that new snow drifted against it? It would only open an inch or so. So I gave up.

Yesterday had been a hard day; I’m going to respect the privacy of a family member and just leave it at that. And just getting around, going about my usual, day-to-day life in a densely populated community under more than three feet of snow? Very challenging, very tiring. (Thank God the Patriots won or folks would be even more cranky!)

So, worn out and blue, I’d opted to lie on the couch under a thick quilt and read.

But then, something pulled me off the couch and into a kitchen drawer to find, yes! A metal, broad-bladed spatula, i.e. a tiny shovel. “I can dig a bit at a time until I can get the door to open wide enough to get a shovel out there,” I reasoned. And I did, scooping the “shoveled” snow into a bowl and dumping it into the sink.

There’s a theory concerning poverty that says that being poor, being oppressed, is like being stung multiple times by bees. A stung person can handle the first two or three stings, can treat the pain, but when the numbers climb—let’s say that sixth bee sting—he or she just gives up. Endures. Tries to ignore painful reality.

And some say that this is true—but not a universal phenomenon. One article I read discussed empowerment as a variable, for example.

First acknowledging that in a very deep way I will never know what it means to be poor and oppressed, I wish to simply acknowledge the power of moonlight. And grace. (Which is all to say, mystery, right?) I do not completely understand what compelled me to do something I, exhausted and depressed, had given up on but am so very, very grateful I could.

So are all the sparrows and juncoes and . . .

“Everybody has a backstory.”

[Union Square Farmers’ Market; my farmers’ market]

Last week I attended an open mic featuring young writers from the Books of Hope* program at Mystic Housing Project’s learning center—a daycare center/classroom/activity room/arts and crafts studio located in the housing project’s multi-purpose building. And witnessed an amazing moment:

Like most open mics, the readers, who have been working with the program’s facilitators on poetry and personal reflections re Black Lives Matter, signed up to read their work. As the sign-up sheet clipboard was passed around the center, these public-housing youths ate pizza, socialized, listened and observed an equally talented, young DJ do his thing while they worked on a piece of writing inspired by a Black Lives Matter declaration. And then, in the order they’d signed up, these talented young people, most in their teens or early twenties, read aloud. And were amazing!

One of the last to be called up was one of the youngest poets. Let’s call her Angela. Angie is maybe eight, ten, twelve and had never before participated in an open mic. So one of the learning center staff—I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name—volunteered to be her opening act. (Apparently he’d promised her he’d be “silly.” But proved to be a non-silly, gifted storyteller) The DJ played “2001: A Space Odyssey”‘s opening theme, everyone “gave it up” for Angie, and a young, terrified girl clutching a much-handled piece of notebook paper walked to the front of the room and stood behind the microphone.

She couldn’t speak. Not even when flanked by her opening act and Heather, another learning center staff member. So then, everyone in the audience was invited to come to the front of the room; we all did, maybe fifteen, twenty of us. And then Angie, in tears, began to read—accompanied by Heather: “The police . . .”

Was she terrified because she’d never performed before? Or did the word “police” and what she wanted to say about them trigger her terror? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that just about everyone standing beside her did know. That community of young people, whose lives almost never overlap mine, brought their deeper understanding of Angie’s backstory, whatever it is, to their simple act of kindness.

* Books of Hope is a youth literacy empowerment program inspiring the next generation of young authors and performers from Somerville, MA and the Greater Boston area.