Having loved enough and lost enough,
I am no longer searching,
just opening.
No longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.
These are the irritations that rub into a pearl
So we can talk awhile
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea
And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions down,
and water every living seed.
And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel alone, but seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it is a door
into the endless breath
that has no breather
into the surf that human shells
call god.
Tuesday, September 15, 2020
Sunday, September 06, 2020
Quote - John Gardner
"Life pulls things out of you... You have within you more ... strength than has ever been tested, more to give than you have ever given."
-- John Gardner, "Personal Renewal"
Delivered to McKinsey & Company, Phoenix, AZ
November 10, 1990
domestic poem - Eileen Moeller
nightfall I sink
into dishwash meditation
steaming china prayer wheels
crystalline bells of the lost horizon
crockery mandalas
chanting din and lull of running water
breathing slows
moist heat muscles soften
zen poems drip from silverware
my air humming out
in a cleansing melody
washing the frantic stew of a whole day
down the drain
along with the suds
those transient rainbow things
with the thin skin of
a passing instant.
Poem - Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note - Amiri Baraka
for Kellie Jones, born 16 May 1959
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands.
Sunday, August 30, 2020
Poem - There is a Light in Me - Anna Swir
Whether in daytime or in nighttime
I always carry inside
a light.
In the middle of noise and turmoil
I carry silence.
Always
I carry light and silence.
I always carry inside
a light.
In the middle of noise and turmoil
I carry silence.
Always
I carry light and silence.
Saturday, August 29, 2020
Poem - 2 a.m. - Dorianne Laux
When I came with you that first time
on the floor of your office, the dirty carpet
under my back, the heel of one foot
propped on your shoulder, I went ahead
and screamed, full-throated, as loud
and as long as my body demanded,
because somewhere, in the back of my mind,
packed in the smallest neurons still capable
of thought, I remembered
we were in a warehouse district
and that no sentient being resided for miles.
Afterwards, when I would unclench
my hands and open my eyes, I looked up.
You were on your knees, your arms
stranded at your sides, so still --
the light from the crooknecked lamp
sculpting each lift and delicate twist,
the lax muscles, the smallest veins
on the backs of your hands. I saw
the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow
pulsing at your throat, all the colors
in your long blunt cut hair which hung
over your face like a raffia curtain
in some south sea island hut.
And as each bright synapse unfurled
and followed its path, I recalled
a story I'd read that explained why women
cry out when they come -- that it's
the call of the conqueror, a siren howl
of possession. So I looked again
and it felt true, your whole body
seemed defeated, owned, having taken on
the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists
loosely bound with invisible rope.
And when you finally spoke you didn't
lift your head but simply moaned the word god
on an exhalation of breath -- I knew then
I must be merciful, benevolent,
impossibly kind.
under my back, the heel of one foot
propped on your shoulder, I went ahead
and screamed, full-throated, as loud
and as long as my body demanded,
because somewhere, in the back of my mind,
packed in the smallest neurons still capable
of thought, I remembered
we were in a warehouse district
and that no sentient being resided for miles.
Afterwards, when I would unclench
my hands and open my eyes, I looked up.
You were on your knees, your arms
stranded at your sides, so still --
the light from the crooknecked lamp
sculpting each lift and delicate twist,
the lax muscles, the smallest veins
on the backs of your hands. I saw
the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow
pulsing at your throat, all the colors
in your long blunt cut hair which hung
over your face like a raffia curtain
in some south sea island hut.
And as each bright synapse unfurled
and followed its path, I recalled
a story I'd read that explained why women
cry out when they come -- that it's
the call of the conqueror, a siren howl
of possession. So I looked again
and it felt true, your whole body
seemed defeated, owned, having taken on
the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists
loosely bound with invisible rope.
And when you finally spoke you didn't
lift your head but simply moaned the word god
on an exhalation of breath -- I knew then
I must be merciful, benevolent,
impossibly kind.
Poem - Last Skin - Barbara Ras
Has anyone described the smell of wishbones drying
on the kitchen sill or the smell of glass, or the bucket of water
lifted from the well we go to when death takes the last thirst
from someone we love?
After my mother died, sometimes
I'd take the one piece of her clothing I'd kept
to bed and bury my face
in her flowered blouse to smell her last skin,
but even from the first it was futile.
What I got was the smell of goneness, the smell of screen
doors where moths have spent their wing powder
beating failingly to reach the light.
My massage therapist said she felt grief
in my body like hard empty boxes.
I felt like I was always handling dough,
never wanting the kneading to be done, never wanting
to bake the bread that meant the end of something having to do
with a mother and daughter in a kitchen.
My mother has been gone for years, and I begin to see,
in the spots on the backs of my hands, in the shelf
my cheekbones make for my cheeks, in the way I hold
my mouth against gravity's pull, that I carry her
with me, my skin, her skin,
her last skin.
on the kitchen sill or the smell of glass, or the bucket of water
lifted from the well we go to when death takes the last thirst
from someone we love?
After my mother died, sometimes
I'd take the one piece of her clothing I'd kept
to bed and bury my face
in her flowered blouse to smell her last skin,
but even from the first it was futile.
What I got was the smell of goneness, the smell of screen
doors where moths have spent their wing powder
beating failingly to reach the light.
My massage therapist said she felt grief
in my body like hard empty boxes.
I felt like I was always handling dough,
never wanting the kneading to be done, never wanting
to bake the bread that meant the end of something having to do
with a mother and daughter in a kitchen.
My mother has been gone for years, and I begin to see,
in the spots on the backs of my hands, in the shelf
my cheekbones make for my cheeks, in the way I hold
my mouth against gravity's pull, that I carry her
with me, my skin, her skin,
her last skin.
Poem - (After God Herself) - Justice Ameer
Adam ate an apple
it got stuck in his throat
and they called him Eve
the progenitor
the creator of all things
the mother of strength
and fortitude
and sadness
Adam ate an apple
choked on it so hard
a rib popped out of his chest
and they called it Eve
the progenitor
the creator of all things
the mother of strength and fortitude
and sadness
it takes the hacking of a body
to make a woman
Adam hacking up a piece of his body
it was just a piece of fruit
they called me fruit once too
they called me fruity
before they called me flaming
before they called me faggot
before they called me woman
i thought i would have
to hack this body into pieces
woman, a name stuck in my throat
right under the apple Adam tried to eat
choked on it for years
waited for my ribs to pop out
my chest to explode
for my Eve to be created
from the fruit i couldn’t swallow
they called me fruit once
until they called me woman
and then they just called me fruitless
as if it took a womb to be
progenitor
creator
mother of all things
strength and fortitude and sadness
they reckon God looked
at the image of herself
and called it Adam
they still don’t call me woman
they still don’t birth me Eve
even though they cast me out
my throat shrunken close
with the fruit still stuck in it
like Adam
before they called him Eve
and suddenly i am a stranger
to Eden
i am a stranger to this body
as if it hadn’t always been mine
i reckon God looked
at the image of herself
and called it me
but i don’t know if that
was before or after the apple
before or after Adam choked
which came first
the progenitor or the mother
the apple or the rib
the strength or the sadness
this body was God’s original creation
but they called it sin
they called it Adam
I reckon God looked
at the image of herself
and called Adam Eve
after she choked on his name
some fruit that bloomed
in everyone else’s throat
but she could never quite swallow
the fall of man was an apple
hacked up from a fruitless body
a woman learning what evil was
like a man forcing his name upon you
the fall of man was a rib
being torn from a chest
and men calling that violence holy
naming a woman based only
on the body parts she’s made of
the fall of man
was the beginning of Eve
Eve casting out Adam’s name
Eve discovering who she was
the progenitor
the creator of all things
the mother of strength
and fortitude
and sadness
the fall of man
was Eve becoming a woman
with or without Eden’s approval
and now
every time someone
tries to call her Adam
tries to force the apple
of his name down her throat
she laughs
she swallows
she looks at God herself
and she smiles
it got stuck in his throat
and they called him Eve
the progenitor
the creator of all things
the mother of strength
and fortitude
and sadness
Adam ate an apple
choked on it so hard
a rib popped out of his chest
and they called it Eve
the progenitor
the creator of all things
the mother of strength and fortitude
and sadness
it takes the hacking of a body
to make a woman
Adam hacking up a piece of his body
it was just a piece of fruit
they called me fruit once too
they called me fruity
before they called me flaming
before they called me faggot
before they called me woman
i thought i would have
to hack this body into pieces
woman, a name stuck in my throat
right under the apple Adam tried to eat
choked on it for years
waited for my ribs to pop out
my chest to explode
for my Eve to be created
from the fruit i couldn’t swallow
they called me fruit once
until they called me woman
and then they just called me fruitless
as if it took a womb to be
progenitor
creator
mother of all things
strength and fortitude and sadness
they reckon God looked
at the image of herself
and called it Adam
they still don’t call me woman
they still don’t birth me Eve
even though they cast me out
my throat shrunken close
with the fruit still stuck in it
like Adam
before they called him Eve
and suddenly i am a stranger
to Eden
i am a stranger to this body
as if it hadn’t always been mine
i reckon God looked
at the image of herself
and called it me
but i don’t know if that
was before or after the apple
before or after Adam choked
which came first
the progenitor or the mother
the apple or the rib
the strength or the sadness
this body was God’s original creation
but they called it sin
they called it Adam
I reckon God looked
at the image of herself
and called Adam Eve
after she choked on his name
some fruit that bloomed
in everyone else’s throat
but she could never quite swallow
the fall of man was an apple
hacked up from a fruitless body
a woman learning what evil was
like a man forcing his name upon you
the fall of man was a rib
being torn from a chest
and men calling that violence holy
naming a woman based only
on the body parts she’s made of
the fall of man
was the beginning of Eve
Eve casting out Adam’s name
Eve discovering who she was
the progenitor
the creator of all things
the mother of strength
and fortitude
and sadness
the fall of man
was Eve becoming a woman
with or without Eden’s approval
and now
every time someone
tries to call her Adam
tries to force the apple
of his name down her throat
she laughs
she swallows
she looks at God herself
and she smiles
Tuesday, August 25, 2020
"Lost is a place, too." - Paula Stone Williams
In a TedxTalk about being a transgender woman and dealing with sexism. She's a preacher.
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
Understanding Racism - Allegories - A Gardener's Tale
I keep going back to this video, where the public health researcher Dr. Camara Phyllis Jones tells 4 stories that help explain the different facets and fallacies of racism.
Dr. Jones was recently interviewed for an NPR story about CDC's resistance to examining its own institutional racism as a former employee of 14 years.
Allegories on race and racism
Dr. Jones was recently interviewed for an NPR story about CDC's resistance to examining its own institutional racism as a former employee of 14 years.
Her own work was on racism and public health, and she says she felt thwarted and undermined in her attempts to get the agency to address these issues. She says after a lunchtime presentation she gave on racism, she was asked to remove references to how racism " 'unfairly advantages other individuals and communities' off of my slide because that made white people uncomfortable."
Allegories on race and racism
- Japanese Lanterns: Colored Perceptions (starts at :53)
- Dual Reality: A Restaurant Saga (starts at 3:16)
- Levels of Racism: A Gardener's Tale (starts at 6:59)
- Life on a Conveyor Belt: Moving to Action (starts at 17:17)
Monday, July 27, 2020
Poem - Portrait of a Yo-Yo Artist - Caroline Harvey
He's the kind of man
that loves wide and strong but not often.
I don't know why,
but I hope it's me he chooses to notice next.
Now a stop sign is a large red object that commands
stillness.
The brakes on the car --
moody.
Put those two things together and
you get one missed intersection
combined with the distinct feeling that this night
is about to get real --
symbolic.
Now a yo-yo is a small plastic toy
held together by an inner core
split down the middle and
wrapped with a string.
Slip your finger thru the tiny hole
at the end of the string
and throw the toy away from you
with the intention of pulling it back in.
Much the same way assholes leave their girlfriends
and show up the next day with flowers.
He
is a 6' tall 380 pound man.
Lips like a dam
threatening to break
into the kind of smile that evacuates cities.
It's dangerous when a man like this is happy.
Now peanut butter and jelly
are two things that go together like ham and cheese.
But a yo-yo and a 380 lb man
make about as much sense
as combining the words military and intelligence.
It's as obvious as Peach
and the Giant James
But his name is David.
The undisputed yo-yo king, and he's big.
Absolutely, unbelievably, gigantically big.
Big like overflowing from within big.
Big like full right up to the brim big
and can't do anything but be big big.
Fuck super sized!
He is mad hecka mega sized ocean sized planet sized
the whole solar system got you hypnotized and mesmerized kind of
larger than life-sized. Big!
And I'm small.
But he says
you gotta trust me.
So I do it implicitly
because if a man this big is that great
with something as small as a yo-yo
then I know I'm in good hands.
Even though for most men
I am more than a handful.
We're headed to a club where yo-yo players
as good as David don't pay
and never ask twice for a refill.
And maybe the waitresses don't know it
but there is more to him than a small plastic toy.
He makes me want to do cannonballs into the Bay
just so I can feel like this tiny body
has the power to make waves.
I want to grab the places on him that don't fit into boxes
and steal some of his greatness for myself.
And I know there are people so small-minded
they would say he's too big
but it's amazing how small the word big is.
As we drive across the bridge
David pops his collar away from his neck
in two two staccato beats.
I can tell this silent monologue
is built into the marrow of his behavior
the way warmth is built into sunshine
and as this detail colors in his broad outlines
my first impression turns from draft to print.
Now, a bridge is an object that spans an obstacle
and connects two different points.
We are two people full to the brim
with what's been left unsaid.
Put those things together
and you get the kind of moment
that the old insist is worth growing old for
just so you can spend your life remembering.
Picture it: a girl leans onto the shoulder of a man
because she can't find words for what's in her heart.
Now a heart is kinda like a small plastic toy
an inner core split down the middle
wrapped with a string.
Kinda like people
held only by heart strings we wrap around fingers
throwing everything we have into a moment
where fear makes us feel like we're about to snap.
And every time we fall
most of us just hope we'll return,
safely wrapped and still in one piece.
Blindly trusting the good hands of a stranger
to spin us toward home.
that loves wide and strong but not often.
I don't know why,
but I hope it's me he chooses to notice next.
Now a stop sign is a large red object that commands
stillness.
The brakes on the car --
moody.
Put those two things together and
you get one missed intersection
combined with the distinct feeling that this night
is about to get real --
symbolic.
Now a yo-yo is a small plastic toy
held together by an inner core
split down the middle and
wrapped with a string.
Slip your finger thru the tiny hole
at the end of the string
and throw the toy away from you
with the intention of pulling it back in.
Much the same way assholes leave their girlfriends
and show up the next day with flowers.
He
is a 6' tall 380 pound man.
Lips like a dam
threatening to break
into the kind of smile that evacuates cities.
It's dangerous when a man like this is happy.
Now peanut butter and jelly
are two things that go together like ham and cheese.
But a yo-yo and a 380 lb man
make about as much sense
as combining the words military and intelligence.
It's as obvious as Peach
and the Giant James
But his name is David.
The undisputed yo-yo king, and he's big.
Absolutely, unbelievably, gigantically big.
Big like overflowing from within big.
Big like full right up to the brim big
and can't do anything but be big big.
Fuck super sized!
He is mad hecka mega sized ocean sized planet sized
the whole solar system got you hypnotized and mesmerized kind of
larger than life-sized. Big!
And I'm small.
But he says
you gotta trust me.
So I do it implicitly
because if a man this big is that great
with something as small as a yo-yo
then I know I'm in good hands.
Even though for most men
I am more than a handful.
We're headed to a club where yo-yo players
as good as David don't pay
and never ask twice for a refill.
And maybe the waitresses don't know it
but there is more to him than a small plastic toy.
He makes me want to do cannonballs into the Bay
just so I can feel like this tiny body
has the power to make waves.
I want to grab the places on him that don't fit into boxes
and steal some of his greatness for myself.
And I know there are people so small-minded
they would say he's too big
but it's amazing how small the word big is.
As we drive across the bridge
David pops his collar away from his neck
in two two staccato beats.
I can tell this silent monologue
is built into the marrow of his behavior
the way warmth is built into sunshine
and as this detail colors in his broad outlines
my first impression turns from draft to print.
Now, a bridge is an object that spans an obstacle
and connects two different points.
We are two people full to the brim
with what's been left unsaid.
Put those things together
and you get the kind of moment
that the old insist is worth growing old for
just so you can spend your life remembering.
Picture it: a girl leans onto the shoulder of a man
because she can't find words for what's in her heart.
Now a heart is kinda like a small plastic toy
an inner core split down the middle
wrapped with a string.
Kinda like people
held only by heart strings we wrap around fingers
throwing everything we have into a moment
where fear makes us feel like we're about to snap.
And every time we fall
most of us just hope we'll return,
safely wrapped and still in one piece.
Blindly trusting the good hands of a stranger
to spin us toward home.
Sunday, July 26, 2020
Saturday, July 25, 2020
Living Deeply
Today was Alicia Hawkins' memorial on Zoom. I'm watching the postlude now.
What a life well-lived.
Her granddaughter shared that her grandmother's love and equanimity was home. I want to live there!
She taught dozens and dozens of people - a dozen at a time - how to listen and love in covenant.
She worked, bringing value and peace wherever she went. Christine shared a story that she would offer to help people in ways that they wouldn't take as a criticism. She learned offering to do laundry was usually safe! So she did lots and lots of laundry.
I am feeling that I have failed the lesson she was offering me for years - how to live more deeply, listen more deeply, question more deeply.
And in this COVID moment, it's a lesson that I need more than ever. I am approaching middle age feeling very nervous about what I will have to show for my life. Whether I could go out with the grace that Alicia did. Knowing she had tended to all she could. Visited widely. Thought deeply. Loved deeply and well.
May her light shine in all who commit to shining for themselves and others.
What a life well-lived.
Her granddaughter shared that her grandmother's love and equanimity was home. I want to live there!
She taught dozens and dozens of people - a dozen at a time - how to listen and love in covenant.
She worked, bringing value and peace wherever she went. Christine shared a story that she would offer to help people in ways that they wouldn't take as a criticism. She learned offering to do laundry was usually safe! So she did lots and lots of laundry.
I am feeling that I have failed the lesson she was offering me for years - how to live more deeply, listen more deeply, question more deeply.
And in this COVID moment, it's a lesson that I need more than ever. I am approaching middle age feeling very nervous about what I will have to show for my life. Whether I could go out with the grace that Alicia did. Knowing she had tended to all she could. Visited widely. Thought deeply. Loved deeply and well.
May her light shine in all who commit to shining for themselves and others.
Wednesday, June 24, 2020
Coronavirus: Month 3
We are three months into the coronavirus, and the only thing that's different now than when all this started is that now there are over 2 million cases of coronavirus in the U.S. - and rising steeply - and almost 11,000 cases in New Mexico. And we miss each other.
The kids are antsy and want to see grandparents and friends. I want to see friends, too.
But nothing is any better. Actually, worse than 3 months ago, so what's to justify loosening our stay-at-home strategy? If there's anything worth emerging for, it's Black Lives Matter protests.
Instead, it's lots of walks. Lots and lots of walks. And work. And church. And games. And reading.
Which isn't a bad life. Just small. And scary. And claustrophobic. I'm not feeling brave like other families who are heading out camping and backpacking. That would probably be good. But I barely have the energy to make it from waking up to bedtime. How would camping go?
Hard to have the energy for much more than survival mode. And feeling thankful for that.
The kids are antsy and want to see grandparents and friends. I want to see friends, too.
But nothing is any better. Actually, worse than 3 months ago, so what's to justify loosening our stay-at-home strategy? If there's anything worth emerging for, it's Black Lives Matter protests.
Instead, it's lots of walks. Lots and lots of walks. And work. And church. And games. And reading.
Which isn't a bad life. Just small. And scary. And claustrophobic. I'm not feeling brave like other families who are heading out camping and backpacking. That would probably be good. But I barely have the energy to make it from waking up to bedtime. How would camping go?
Hard to have the energy for much more than survival mode. And feeling thankful for that.
Monday, June 22, 2020
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Alicia Hawkins - Quote Collections
Alicia Hawkins, beloved community member from First Unitarian in Albuquerque, New Mexico, passed away yesterday.
A year or so ago, Alicia mailed me a collection of quotes that she had been amassing for 15 years or so. She organized the quotes under topics: Perfection, Wounds We Can't Heal, Trust, Shadow...
In thinking of her, and in the spirit of sending out love and light into the world, as Alicia always did, here are a few relevant quotes from her brilliant collection:
Here's one of Alicia's own poems, which she categorized under "Living the Questions."
Under "Sorrow/Suffering," these words from Mary Oliver:
Under "Perseverance and Courage," these words from Jane Hirshfield (who wrote the poem "Optimism" - a real favorite of mine):
Under "Letting Go," these words from Christine Robinson:
Under "Death," these words from Rainer Maria Rilke:
And finally, these words from her dear friend and collaborator in three books, Christine Robinson:
A year or so ago, Alicia mailed me a collection of quotes that she had been amassing for 15 years or so. She organized the quotes under topics: Perfection, Wounds We Can't Heal, Trust, Shadow...
In thinking of her, and in the spirit of sending out love and light into the world, as Alicia always did, here are a few relevant quotes from her brilliant collection:
Here's one of Alicia's own poems, which she categorized under "Living the Questions."
Don't tell me your answers,
tell me your doubts.
Don't drag out your expertise
tell me what baffles you.
Let me wander around in your realness,
not in your carefully mended mask.
Under "Sorrow/Suffering," these words from Mary Oliver:
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
That this, too, was a gift.
Under "Perseverance and Courage," these words from Jane Hirshfield (who wrote the poem "Optimism" - a real favorite of mine):
The world asks of us
only the strength we have and we give it.
Then it asks more, and we give it.
Under "Letting Go," these words from Christine Robinson:
Practice all the letting go's you can. From letting go of your thoughts in a meditation practice to letting go of your attachments to things and relationships that leave our lives constantly, practice letting go. Every goodbye you say is a practice for the big goodbye. Don't let a day go by without letting go of something!
Under "Death," these words from Rainer Maria Rilke:
The great secret of death, and perhaps its deepest connection with us is this: that, in taking from us a being we have loved and venerated, death does not wound us without, at the same time, lifting us toward a more perfect understanding of this being and of ourselves.And these from Kahlil Gibran:
When you part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
And finally, these words from her dear friend and collaborator in three books, Christine Robinson:
The only legacy we leave is the light that shines from our life.
Sunday, April 19, 2020
Song - Comfort Me - words and music by Mimi Bornstein
This recording is from “Not Your Mama’s Hymns” by
Unfolding (Laura Weiss and Sarah Jebian)
Saturday, April 18, 2020
I Am Legend
I am being haunted by vague memories of this scary movie in which a global pandemic leaves this man living alone in his house with his dog, surviving the best he can while looking for a cure and for other survivors.
- I Am Legend (free withAmazon Prime)
- Plot summary (wikipedia)
I've been thinking of it so much, I figured I needed to just watch it to get it out of my head, like exposure therapy.
I got to the first really scary scene where the dog enters a dark building where you know the infected people must be. The thought of losing his one live contact in the world sent me reeling, and I fled to my balm of choice - Fixer Upper, where the most drama is just how annoyed Joanna will get with Chip's antics, and the most danger is whether they will find mold or pests in an old, old house.
I've heard people have been rewatching Contagion and Outbreak and other pandemic movies, but I hadn't heard I Am Legend mentioned. (One of the Late Night hosts I watch repeatedly used a clip from the end of The Hot Zone where the Julia Margulies character is infected with Ebola through a gap in her containment suit.)
It's unusual that I've seen I Am Legend. I haven't watched the other pandemic films. I avoid them. I Am Legend came out in December 2007. I can't remember whether I saw it in the theater, but that's hard for me to believe. I would have been just recently married, and this isn't the type of movie we would have picked together. Doesn't really matter. I've seen it, and now I can't get it out of my head, but I can't watch it, either.
It's brought a feeling of panic into my daily life that wasn't as on-the-surface before. It's compounding my reaction to Trump wanting the economy to open May 1 and to the conservative tea party extremists rallying to end stay-at-home orders and to the thoughtless hedonists in Florida flocking to the first open beach. Why are these people not scared into hunkering down? Are they really okay with the idea of tens of thousands of deaths? Survival of the fittest? Essential workers as replaceable?
I don't get it. And they scare me more than the virus. I'm scared for my family and my community and tribal communities and communities of color and my country and my world.
One of the scenes in I Am Legend is the Will Smith character hunting deer who have taken to flocking downtown Manhattan. I remember feeling incredulous that deer would pick this of all the other places on earth they could go. But I've been strangely tickled at the stories of wildlife taking back cities around the globe.
It's like watching the forest come back around Chernobyl. A reminder that the earth really doesn't need us and doesn't care much whether we live or die. In fact, maybe has a slight preference to life's variety if we all perish, or at least, lose our place on top of the food and resource pyramids. (I've also been hearing the Hugo Weaving character - Agent Smith - ranting to the Laurence Fishbourne character about how humans are a virus, a plague that's taken over the earth.)
- "I'd like to share a revelation that I've had during my time here. It came to me when I tried to classify your species and I realized that you're not actually mammals. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply and multiply until every natural resource is consumed and the only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. Do you know what it is? A virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer of this planet. You're a plague and we are the cure."
And what is the countermeasure?
- The Good News according to John Krasinski
- Zoom services from First Unitarian
- Brene Brown's podcast Unlocking Us (particularly the episode with Glennon Doyle, talking about Untamed)
- Cleaning my house, which I need to stop and do right now
May all things be well. May all measure of things be well. Namaste. Breathe. Be grateful. Don't yell at the children when they're only having fun. Go for a run outside (try not to hyperventilate while wearing the mask). Try not to think that this may not be temporary. Try not to miss hugs quite so much.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Poem - To Build a Swing - Hafiz
You carry
All the ingredients
To turn your life into a nightmare --
Don’t mix them!
You have all the genius
To build a swing in your backyard
For God.
That sounds
Like a hell of a lot more fun.
Let’s start laughing, drawing blueprints,
Gathering our talented friends.
I will help you
With my divine lyre and drum.
Hafiz
Will sing a thousand words
You can take into your hands,
Like golden saws,
Sliver hammers,
Polished teakwood,
Strong silk rope.
You carry all the ingredients
To turn your existence into joy,
Mix them, mix
Them!
All the ingredients
To turn your life into a nightmare --
Don’t mix them!
You have all the genius
To build a swing in your backyard
For God.
That sounds
Like a hell of a lot more fun.
Let’s start laughing, drawing blueprints,
Gathering our talented friends.
I will help you
With my divine lyre and drum.
Hafiz
Will sing a thousand words
You can take into your hands,
Like golden saws,
Sliver hammers,
Polished teakwood,
Strong silk rope.
You carry all the ingredients
To turn your existence into joy,
Mix them, mix
Them!
Sunday, March 22, 2020
Week 1: Coronavirus Quarantine
We just finished our first week -- not even a whole week -- at home together social distancing to flatten the curve, lowering the infection rate of the coronavirus to stave off medical disaster from all of us falling ill at once.
Most things have been shut down now. Restaurants are mostly closed or only doing walk-up or delivery, if they are open at all.
Stores are still open, but some shelves are bare.
I've been out once for groceries. Eric has gone out most days to buy something or other that we need. He gets stir crazy. I am fine nesting and being very grateful at the moment not to need to go out.
The kids are doing well with a new normal of an arbitrary structure of a daily schedule and help from Caroline on Mondays and Wednesdays, some help from Brenna, and some steering from us on the other days.
We've kept up game night and screen days. We fell off the wagon a bit this Sunday and last, watching more tv than we would have otherwise, but both days we worked on puzzles as we watched, so that *almost* counts.
I'm growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of real information. I don't even know what they think the infection rate is here in NM or whether the moves we've taken are helping to flatten the curve.
I work in City govt., yet I know nothing and have heard nothing from leadership since Sarita's email ordering us back to work one more time for "more direction."
I'm still resentful that I was made to feel like I was overreacting when I asked that my team be sent to work from home after APS cancelled school. Yet all the things that I mentioned in my email will soon come to pass as the standard routine, I think.
And I feel stupid carrying that resentment when there's a bigger picture that's much more frightening and warrants our full attention: the potential for this to be months long and millions of deaths in the U.S., thousands of deaths here in Albuquerque.
But even that's not worth worrying about beyond staying home and washing hands and surfaces, since it's impossible to get info about what measures the govtments are taking to build fever centers or even wings in the hospitals so that staff isn't carrying the virus from floor to floor.
Heidi seems lonely. Mom seems ok. Shelle told me Katon had come home from Spain and is under quarantine for 14 days.
I feel so grateful for everyone I know being well, and for being able to work from home, and for kids who still like learning and who aren't tearing each other apart -- yet.
And for Beckett's therapist, who is still coming to the house 5 days a week -- for now.
Heading into week 2, I want to remember more times during the day to take a breath and feel grateful and meditate to bring me back to now. To here. To safety in the ever-present now. For this to be enough.
Most things have been shut down now. Restaurants are mostly closed or only doing walk-up or delivery, if they are open at all.
Stores are still open, but some shelves are bare.
I've been out once for groceries. Eric has gone out most days to buy something or other that we need. He gets stir crazy. I am fine nesting and being very grateful at the moment not to need to go out.
The kids are doing well with a new normal of an arbitrary structure of a daily schedule and help from Caroline on Mondays and Wednesdays, some help from Brenna, and some steering from us on the other days.
We've kept up game night and screen days. We fell off the wagon a bit this Sunday and last, watching more tv than we would have otherwise, but both days we worked on puzzles as we watched, so that *almost* counts.
I'm growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of real information. I don't even know what they think the infection rate is here in NM or whether the moves we've taken are helping to flatten the curve.
I work in City govt., yet I know nothing and have heard nothing from leadership since Sarita's email ordering us back to work one more time for "more direction."
I'm still resentful that I was made to feel like I was overreacting when I asked that my team be sent to work from home after APS cancelled school. Yet all the things that I mentioned in my email will soon come to pass as the standard routine, I think.
And I feel stupid carrying that resentment when there's a bigger picture that's much more frightening and warrants our full attention: the potential for this to be months long and millions of deaths in the U.S., thousands of deaths here in Albuquerque.
But even that's not worth worrying about beyond staying home and washing hands and surfaces, since it's impossible to get info about what measures the govtments are taking to build fever centers or even wings in the hospitals so that staff isn't carrying the virus from floor to floor.
Heidi seems lonely. Mom seems ok. Shelle told me Katon had come home from Spain and is under quarantine for 14 days.
I feel so grateful for everyone I know being well, and for being able to work from home, and for kids who still like learning and who aren't tearing each other apart -- yet.
And for Beckett's therapist, who is still coming to the house 5 days a week -- for now.
Heading into week 2, I want to remember more times during the day to take a breath and feel grateful and meditate to bring me back to now. To here. To safety in the ever-present now. For this to be enough.
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