our eyes once bordered with auburn-oak whiskers and tresses now speak through grayer thickets.
the smiles express from more than they did 131,400 hours before now.
it’s not that your younger grin inspired less or mine felt less.
it’s that our inner rungs have wrestled a lot since – a healthy stretching of emotive taffy.
so now intrinsic muscles flex these grins
upward with fuller comprehension.
understanding is a strange tenet of companionship.
because half the time it’s an exercise lassoed to self-realization:
do i see him as he is? or do i see him as projected interpretation?
(please, please have me see his uniqueness as it really lives
…the massive integrity of which deserves a cheering stadium of response).
in this particular hour, we join as we individuate
as love keeps renovating relational space.
while i search the trinity, and you the reach of euclid,
we diverge a little
expand a little
and through daily moments, we commune in progressive depth.
What’s identified here?
Shadows of force once deployed to desert lands now cascade as metal art.
A memorial reveals soldiered policing and rigor.
Rows of valor dip in sunlight and commitment; each extends the other in endless sway of clinks.
They breathe in subtle chimes despite breathless sacrifice.
A father’s eyes consume the swooping chains of identity, gazing from dot to dot to dot.
Up a little his lids climb each strand
then they skate back down the dots of shimmer,
then back up, down (pause) down more,
as if scrutinized knots and swoops can
make every tagged price more comprehendible.
Can you hear it?
A breeze floats up with symphonic consequence. Ripples of tinny, coordinated sound express memories of risk.
Loyalty, well-tested, flows like sandy heated air in an unseen flute of mourning.
A friend asserted today that “Adulthood means to vote.”
Other people in the conversation said political candidates were a turn-off and “…why can’t they get better people to run for office?”
Needless to say, our discussion pivoted around this year’s campaign season. The whole combative carnival that is this presidential race does not make for an obvious segue to greater spiritual understanding. But the above passionate assertions brought to mind a thought that’s not quite finessed in my brain, yet it’s led to some unanticipated views to spiritual commitment and community.
Starting with this:
The average citizen, myself included, passes the buck on achieving answers & real change in our country.
Maybe I’ve been online too much lately grappling with political and racial turmoil; but this election more so than others has triggered my theory that average voters don’t want to be inconvenienced in regularly exercising their voice and regularly working to improve the ills of community or the nation as a whole.
So when the presidential elections come around — all that dormant, unused activism explodes into a frustrated, screaming citizenry who wants immediate action, for things to change “ASAP” and for the “revolution” to get “someone out there to listen.”
Who do we really really want to own the poop storm we are in right now as a democracy? Who is the proverbial they (referenced in above exchange) that should drum up presumably better candidates on which voters should pass judgment?
….a galant knight?
….or progressive-conservative-libertarian-poor-but-self-sufficient-multi-racial candidate miracle worker?
It’s not the (always fictional) knight’s responsibility.
It’s not the (always fictional) perfect candidate’s responsibility, no matter who we elect.
Absolutely I have political preference on how this election pans out, and believe in the value of our vote. But that act of empowered adulthood in no way replaces the daily empowerment of investing ourselves, even to the point of it being inconvenient, to improve this nation one community at a time.
I believe each voter’s sense of ownership (me too) needs to step into the proverbial arena of commitment like these candidates have. Trump’s ethos scares the hooey out of me but dang he got into one of the most inconvenient marathons in the world i.e. putting his hat in the presidential ring. I admire that courage – in Clinton even more so – even if they are immersed in imperfection themselves.
What’s the spiritual relevance of community and political contenders? There’s a ton of nuance but right now, Jesus comes to mind. He fully committed to his community and his city as his life. As Henry Drummond wrote: “He (Jesus) looked at the city. Then He wept over it. Then He died for it.”
Jesus asserted the inconvenient habit of commitment. It seems a timely decision to reflect upon when investing efforts in between the presidential votes we cast.
Resource on Christ and community:
The City Without a Church by Henry Drummond (as referenced on Facebook by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli of Foundry UMC in July, 2016).
little ant woke up, his antennae leery of the cascading dusty cliffs
antie ant strolled near, skating on dirty turfs of pecan and vanilla
“how fast you glide, how smooth you hasten!” younger ant wispily admired
antie ant felt her cold blood glow, warming from an inside shine
then off they both veered
eager for their next stage: a maple flower shaded in caramel gray sky
what do you see or imagine?
A friend’s heartfelt expression today on Facebook about “ugly racism” stays on my mind. She emphasized a more conscious return to love and taking each day “one day at a time….and to take care of our own porch and neighbors” among other insights.
I shared below in response:
Your comments have triggered a thought about love: It is the answer.
At the same time, I invite an overt understanding of how love can be easily misconstrued in society as a decision void of discomfort – especially to the white privileged in our country.
I’m not an expert on the perfection of love; but the enacting of it exceeds the proverbial porch of our own comfort or sense of ease.
We as whites need to fully look and listen to how structural racism has strangled opportunity for Black people, strangled their right to decency, and their basic sovereignty to live out a loving life due to entrenched racist structures. The violence we have seen these weeks is nothing to the immoral hegemony that our white race has created in this country.
Consequences of this play out in less violent but demonstrative ways. Like I heard a white mom friend get angry that a Black student, as example, won the scholarship instead of her white son. Why? Was racist judgement at the root of her frustration? Or was she stressed at facing hefty tuition and I took her expression of disappointment in the wrong light? In that moment it felt uncomfortable to not question her. And it felt as uncomfortable to challenge a friend with such directness.
But in the moment, I believe to return to love as you mention is to also pursue truth and uplift it. So I inquired about her meaning; she was surprised yet forthcoming. I said her comments sounded racist. It was awkward but damn we talked about it. Hopefully a little greater consciousness was achieved for two white people.
Or here’s another scenario:
I’ve seen white people question the authority of a Black leader in front of a crowd; yet they remain silent when a white leader of same capacity asserts the same authority in the same dynamic. Love means divining the courage to call that out….which frankly I failed to do.
These are just mere slivers of the non-violent racist attitudes and structures that rage, along with the obvious blood.
What is the loving response?
It goes beyond taking care of your own porch. The first black family in my mom’s home town moved in, then a week later their water heater blew up in flames so they left. An actionable love surely means to wake up at the discomfort of how our decisions and perceptions can dehumanize people, limit them, and inspire horrendous fear.
It goes beyond the immediate localness of our porch and into the murky unease of learning that being white does not equate to an entitled sense of ease at the expense of minorities especially Black people.
Surely to God love means not only taking it one step and one day at a time. But it must include taking the consequences of white supremacy and dismantling them one consequence at a time. We must achieve awareness and that takes rigorous adjusting (and deflating) of white ego.
What is it about the pitch of a person’s voice that can convey a message, as much or more so than their spoken words?
A woman last week was walking much of 17th Street, the main street in our neighborhood. She walked a measured pace and yelled one word repeatedly as if creating a one-person protest; a few blocks away from intersecting her on the sidewalk – her screams of one word rang out in fierce volume penetrating us nearby with what felt like surround sound:
With every other step, she yelled “no” over and over in fever pitch.
The tenor in her voice held a mix of fierceness and anger. But it is unclear in my mind now how much of that fierceness was actually meant from her (or was instead being projected from the rants in my own head):
No! more polar political rages
No! more starving for food
No! more racist sexist binges
No! more denied grasps over boundaries as a fleeing people collapse on barbed wire
She kept screaming her “no” and I became concerned that I’d over indulge my own frustrations of this world, caving to a self-righteous pity party.
Then as the woman passed by and echoed onward, a memory of a good friend and colleague floated up about the relationship between justice and persevering. She once said:
“No, NO, NO ….I can’t sit still with the world this way.”
Yes, with some mercy and discipline (and an avalanche of love), forward let us go.
Sadness often gashes hope.
But when healing sets, what felt like an endless stinging void is now a hopeful chamber inside, a carved seat of cherubic protection.
A kind, raw-hearted man entered my work a while back (a church not far from the White House). He asked for information about good shelters in the area, and if we could sit together in the chapel for a while.
We sat in quiet some minutes before he shared he’d been hiding in a locked bathroom. His lover in a violent rage had beat him before he was able to scramble to the restroom where he locked himself in; meanwhile his partner attempted to break the bathroom door down off and on for about 48 hours. Eventually the threatening partner gave up and left. So this guy now in the chapel was at least out of immediate harm seeking shelter someplace else.
That’s all I know about that man back then and his vulnerable crossroads toward safer ground. In my imaginings since, I pretend (hope?) the start of his once beloved relationship held some kind of shared appreciation of rights — right to breathe, right to breathe in safety, a right to simply live in a space together, both aware of life’s unforgiving spikes (but as aware that each qualified for safety amidst the turbulence, an equal capacity of deservedness).
Who knows what triggered the violent partner. Did the straining complexity of life spark an evilness within him? Did a tidal wave of vulnerability or sensed lack of control press his weaker side into dominance and cruelty?
I just don’t know.
Something about the recent Brexit vote brings all this envisioning of that weary man to mind again, and his primal run for safety.
It is reasonable to say we as humans in general want to live a safe life. We want to live with loved ones in the framework of safe shelter, safe day to day experience, safe access to food and rest. It’s reasonable to say that’s what Britons want.
It’s reasonable to say that’s what immigrants want also. Immigrants are fleeing for new lands to find new space for safer ground. They are running from violent threats, from lack, from fear, escaping from horrific deficits of safety.
Given this common yearning for safe places, it appears Britons with the Brexit vote have met the immigrant flight from fear with fear itself.
There are many political and economic layers to Brexit and the EU that are in play here too; I respect this and am no expert on all of those dynamics. As it relates to immigration though, I keep comparing Brexit with the threatened man on the run long ago, arriving bewildered at the chapel.
I equate it to this “what if…?” possibility:
It’s as if when the fleeing man knocked at the church’s door back then, colleagues and I locked the doors and then our neighbor’s doors and the doors to potential shelters just to preserve our own territorial comfort. It’s as if back then we even may have slipped out from behind those chapel doors, let the fearful man in for a few minutes, then kicked him out letting the huge bolts of once welcoming safe, oak chambers clamp shut in his face.
It is as if back then we grew childishly discontent from the inherent civility and organizational energy required to share; …..so we elevated our desire for comfort above his primal need for safety. Our comfort then would have arrived at the expense of his basic need.
Brexit smacks of this fear and entitlement.
Surely they await around nearby corners, or even closer, …in hidden crannies of gentle space that relieve weariness and inspire unseen, intimate okayness.