Quote - Call It What It Is

“At some point the press needs to stop adopting right-wing framing that this is a 'DEI purge' and call it what it is — white supremacist violence against our collective past.”

- A.J. Bauer, an expert in right-wing politics and journalism

- Huffpost 

Quote - Marge Piercy

"Attention is love, what we must give"

As the storm gathers

Today, I am unsettled. Itchy. Twitchy. Looking for things I can organize. Order I can create with a little effort. Asserting a little petty control on my immediate physical environment, as my old roommate used to say, nodding knowingly, as he came home to a whole new living room arrangement. 

On my way to church today (dragging myself away from shelves un-organized and cords still tangled and not tacked down), I found myself doing the math of how many years it's been since college. Since high school. As though nailing down the math will anchor me in this place now. 

Even those who avoid political discussions are asking me and each other - what does this mean? what will he do? how far will he go?

As far and as fast as we let him. 

And the voice of my wise friend Jimmy echoes a reminder: Don't let Trump be your spiritual center. He will expand to fill any space given over to him. He loves to be the center. A Moloch to whom we sacrifice our transgender and immigrant children.

But what do we do instead?

If we cannot demonize, because doing so is feeding the beast, then we must strengthen our muscles to love, to be of service, to smother hate with love, to bridge difference with compassion. The opposite of monomaniacal devouring is liberal multiculturalism - the affirmation of many truths, many values, many with worth of many kinds. 

And even as I write this, I think about how weak "And" can be. How small a dyke for such impossibly large waves of animosity headed our way. Aren't Democrats weak precisely when they try to be the most nuanced, which looks a lot like disorganization and disagreement to those who are used to the black and white certainty of a would-be dictator?

But I want to fight for the world I want to live in, and I want a world of many ands. Many sources of truth and meaning and values. And so I seek for the common ground with people who are acting and motivated by the wrong things right now. But still people who love. People who nurture their families. Who believe in working hard. 

And yes, I remember that ultimately, fighting for that world can mean taking up arms. And the winner gets to teach the lesson. 

And I fear. And gather my loved ones close. And organize another shelf. 

Take Love for Granted (poem) by Jack Ridl

Assume it’s in the kitchen,
under the couch, high
in the pine tree out back,
behind the paint cans
In the garage. Don’t try
proving your love
is bigger than the Grand
Canyon, the Milky Way,
the urban sprawl of L.A.
Take it for granted. Take it
out with the garbage. Bring it
in with the takeout. Take
it for a walk with the dog.
Wake it every day, say,
“Good morning.” Then
make the coffee. Warm
the cups. Don’t expect much
of the day. Be glad when
you make it back to bed.
Be glad he threw out that
box of old hats. Be glad
she leaves her shoes
in the hall. Snow will
come. Spring will show up.
Summer will be humid.
The leaves will fall
in the fall. That’s more
than you need. We can
love anybody, even
everybody. But you
can love each other,
the silence, sighing,
and saying, “That’s her.”
“That’s him.” Then to
each other, “I know!
Let’s go out for breakfast!”

Darkest Before Dawn (poem) by James Crews

Three days into the new year,
and despite the lack of adequate light,
our white phalaenopsis orchid
has eased open a third delicate bloom.

Perhaps coaxed by the warmth
of the woodstove a few feet away,
the orchid thrives in its tiny pot
shaped like the shell of a nautilus,
sending out new stems and glossy leaves,
its aerial roots— green at the tips—
reaching upward like tentacles
to sip the morning air. These blooms
stir something too long asleep in me,
proving with stillness and slow growth
what I haven't been able to trust
these past few months—that hope
and grace still reign in certain sectors
of the living world, that there are laws
which can never be overturned
by hateful words or the wishes
of power-hungry men. Be patient,
this orchid seems to say, and reveal
your deepest self even in the middle
of winter, even in the darkness
before the coming dawn.

It’s When the Earth Shakes (poem) by Chelan Harkin

It’s when the earth shakes
And foundations crumble
That our light is called
To rise up.

It’s when everything falls away
And shakes us to the core
And awakens all
Of our hidden ghosts
That we dig deeper to find
Once inaccessible strength.

It’s in times when division is fierce
That we must reach for each other
And hold each other much
Much tighter.

Do not fall away now.
This is the time to rise.
Your light is being summoned.
Your integrity is being tested
That it may stand more tall.

When everything collapses
We must find within us
That which is indomitable.

Rise, and find the strength in your heart.
Rise, and find the strength in each other

Burn through your devastation,
Make it your fuel.

Bring forth your light.
Now is not the time
To be afraid of the dark.

Let Rain Be Rain (poem) by Danusha Laméris

Let rain be rain.

           Let wind be wind.

Let the small stone

           be the small stone.

May the bird

            rest on its branch,

the beetle in its burrow.

May the pine tree

             lay down its needles.

The rockrose, its petals.

It’s early. Or it’s late.

            The answers

to our questions

             lie hidden

in acorn, oyster, the seagull’s

             speckled egg.

We’ve come this far, already.

             Why not let breath

be breath. Salt be salt.

How faithful the tide

              that has carried us—

that carries us now—

               out to sea

        and back.

Summons (poem) by Aurora Levins Morales

Last night I dreamed
ten thousand grandmothers
from the twelve hundred corners of the earth
walked out into the gap
one breath deep
between the bullet and the flesh
between the bomb and the family.

They told me we cannot wait for governments.
There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.
There are no leaders who dare to say
every life is precious, so it will have to be us.

They said we will cup our hands around each heart.
We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,
a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping,
the mourners will embrace, and grief replace
every impulse toward harm.

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,
so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves
into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes.

You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages
and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think
I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.
Let’s go.

Lake and Maple (poem) by Jane Hirshfield

I want to give myself
utterly
as the maple
that burned and burned
for three days without stinting
and then in two more
dropped off every leaf;
as this lake that,
no matter what comes
to its green-blue depths,
both takes and returns it.
In the still heart,
that refuses nothing,
the world is twice-born—
two earths wheeling,
two heavens,
two egrets reaching
down into subtraction;
even the fish
for an instant doubled,
before it is gone.
I want the fish.
I want the losing it all
when it rains and I want
the returning transparence.
I want the place
by the edge-flowers where
the shallow sand is deceptive,
where whatever
steps in must plunge,
and I want that plunging.
I want the ones
who come in secret to drink
only in early darkness,’
and I want the ones
who are swallowed.
I want the way
the water sees without eyes,
hears without ears,
shivers without will or fear
at the gentlest touch.
I want the way it
accepts the cold moonlight
and lets it pass,
the way it lets
all of it pass
without judgment or comment.
There is a lake,
Lalla Ded sang, no larger
than one seed of mustard,
that all things return to.
O Heart, if you
will not, cannot, give me the lake,
then give me the song.

Prayer - The Rev. Angela Herrera

We give thanks. We give thanks for hope, and that change is possible. We give thanks for this moment, and for our lives.

We give thanks for all that sustains us, for all that is the very ground of our being: for the air, which bathes us night and day: the air, our breath, and the breath of our ancestors, and the breath of the trees and the beasts, the air, which passes through ocean and sky.

We give thanks for the water, which flows in streams and storms and in our bodies, water, which formed a womb with the earth in primordial times, and gave birth to life and to us and to everyone we love.

We give thanks for the fire, burning in the sun, warm energy that dances with water and air, feeds the plants and trees and plankton.

And we give thanks for the earth, our mother, our home. For her nourishing darkness and mountainous strength, for her ageless patience. We give thanks for the earth.

In our gratitude, may we be wise, grounded and strong.

May we love and be loved.

May there be peace in our hearts.

And may we make our lives a blessing upon this world, through our manner of being.

Amen. Peace be with you.

"Ring the Bells that Still Can Ring" (poem) by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

 

(Title taken from the first line from Leonard Cohen’s song, Anthem)

“Let this darkness be a bell tower / and you the bell. As you ring, /what batters you becomes your strength.” (Rilke - Sonnets to Orpheus II)

Batter me, Love, like a bell. Till I ring
and ring and ring because everything
I am, my whole being, is vibrating
with the urgent, pressing call
for love—not the sweet love
of lullabies, but insistent love
that rings through walls,
love that drowns out any voice
not in service to the whole.
Batter me love, until there is no one,
including me, who cannot hear
the pounding imperative to be kind,
to find compassion,
until all beings feel real love pealing
through their bodies—
a resonant command
so true it cannot be unheard.
I have heard other love-battered
bells of humans, and the song of them
is charging me, changing me,
making me long to be rung only by love—
It is not easy to keep asking for the battering.
But worse to be silent.
Worse not to be bell.
Worse not to be an instrument of love.
Once I feared the battering.
Now, I fear it and thrill in the ringing—
love, the only song I want to sing.

"How the Light Comes" (poem) by Jan Richardson

 

I cannot tell you
how the light comes.

What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.

That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden
what is lost
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.

That it has a fondness
for the body
for finding its way
toward flesh
for tracing the edges
of form
for shining forth
through the eye,
the hand,
the heart.

I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.

And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies
to follow the arc it makes.
May we open
and open more
and open still

to the blessed light
that comes.

"Winter Poem" by Nikki Giovani

once a snowflake fell

on my brow and i loved

it so much and i kissed

it and it was happy and called its cousins

and brothers and a web

of snow engulfed me then

i reached to love them all

and i squeezed them and they became

a spring rain and i stood perfectly

still and was a flower

Compassion Drill

 Modified from:

"Just Like Me Compassion Practice" 

Become aware that there is a person in front of you... A fellow human being just like you. 

This person has a body and a mind, just like me. 

This person has thoughts and feelings, just like me. 

This person experiences pain, just like me. 

This person has been disappointed in life, just like me. 

This person has been hurt by others, just like me. 

This person sometimes feels unworthy or inadequate, just like me. 

This person worries, just like me. 

This person will die, just like me.

This person is someone's friend, just like me. 

This person is learning about life, just like me. 

This person is trying to be kind to others, just like me. 

This person wants to be content with what they have in life, just like me.

This person wishes to be safe, strong, and healthy, just like me.

This person wishes to be loved, just like me. 

I wish that you have the strength, resources, and support to live with ease.

May you be free from pain and suffering. 

May you be peaceful and happy. 

May you love and be loved. 

Purgatory

We are in the middle of a house renovation to make our master bedroom and bathroom bigger and add a sunroom (read: yoga space!). 

That's the good news. The bad news is that we've been sleeping in our living room for 6 months. It's ... fine but starting to grate on us. 

All the living room furniture is in a pod out in front of our house, along with bedroom detritus that we didn't need at first, but eventually... you need your stuff! (First world problems, yes, it's true...)

I'm trying to stay grateful for what we DO have - another den where we can still hang together as a family, fun family bed conversations and kids wrestling on the new king size bed, a robot vacuum cleaning the floors while I do a puzzle... and on and on. 

So life goes on, and the practice of being ok where you are, how you are, settles deeper into my bones.