Alone - Maya Angelou (poem)

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Apparition - Mark Doty (poem)

The old words are dying,
everyone forgets them,
pages falling into sleep and dust,

dust and sleep, burning so slowly
you wouldn’t even know there’s a fire.
Or that’s what I think half the time.

Then, at the bookstore, a young man reciting,
slight for fourteen, blonde, without irony
but not self-important either;

his loping East Texas vowels threaten
to escape the fence of pentameter,
his voice seems to have just arrived here,

but the old cadence inhabits anyway.
He makes the poem his own
even as he becomes a vessel

for its reluctance to disappear.
All right, maybe they perish,
but the boy has the look of someone

repeating a crucial instruction
that must be delivered, word for word,
as he learned it:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

Quote - The Rev. Marta Valentin

Excerpt:

Isn’t it amazing
how we crave to know an outcome
before its time
even as we accept
that we cannot know
how anything will go?

Self-Portrait as a Door - Donika Ross (poem)

All the birds die of blunt-force trauma —
of barn of wire of YIELD or SLOW
CHILDREN AT PLAY. You are a sign
are a plank are a raft are a felled oak.
You are a handle are a turn are a bit
of brass lovingly polished.
What birds what bugs what soft
hand come knocking. What echo
what empty what room in need 

of a picture a mirror a bit of paint 

on the wall. There is a hooked rug. 

There is a hard hand as you are 

hard pounding the door. There is the doormat

owl eye patched by a boot by a body

with a tree for a hand. What roosts 

what burrows what scrambles 

at the pound. There is a you 

on the other side, cold and white 

as the room, in need of a window 

or an eye. There is your hand 

on the door which is now the door 

pretending to be a thing that opens.

Advice to Myself - Louise Erdrich (poem)

Leave the dishes.

Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in through the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

We have a soul at times - Wislawa Szymborska (poem)

 

We have a soul at times.

No one’s got it non-stop, for keeps.

 

Day after day, year after year may pass without it.

 

Sometimes it will settle for awhile only in childhood’s fears and raptures.

Sometimes only in astonishment that we are old.

 

It rarely lends a hand in uphill tasks,

like moving furniture, or lifting luggage, or going miles in shoes that pinch.

 

It usually steps out whenever meat needs chopping or forms have to be filled.

 

For every thousand conversations it participates in one,

if even that, since it prefers silence.

 

Just when our body goes from ache to pain, it slips off-duty.

 

It’s picky: it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds;

our hustling for a dubious advantage and creaky machinations make it sick.

 

Joy and sorrow aren’t two different feelings for it.

It attends us only when the two are joined.

 

We can count on it when we’re sure of nothing

and curious about everything.

 

Among the material objects it favors clocks with pendulums

and mirrors, which keep on working even when no one is looking.

 

It won’t say where it comes from or when it’s taking off again,

though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

 

We need it, but apparently it needs us for some reason, too.

The Big Miss

Ok, I'll say it. Republicans are NOT just acting out of loyalty to one man. They are choosing a means to an end. Trump and Trumpism are the means. The big lie justifies "voter reform" bills that ensure voter disenfranchisement, removing tools of leverage and power for people of color and their allies, and ultimately shoring up white control of government.

They don't BELIEVE the big lie; they believe in its power to cover their actions and justify their egregious, anti-democratic, racist actions. Policies that will disproportionately and negatively impact communities of color are racist policies. This is a racist lie; racist strategy; and racist outcome. 

Let's not miss the big picture here. Loyalty only begins to explain it. Trump doesn't just happen to be racist. He's the chosen leader of racists.

The Peace of Wild Things - Wendell Berry (poem)

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

First Lesson - Philip Booth (poem)

Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

Thank You Prayer (poem)

Thankful

To be hammered thin

Seemingly brittle

But strong enough

To bridge the gaps

Between strengths

Shading a space

For rest

Let me tell you about my marvelous god (poem) by Susan Stewart

Let me tell you about my marvelous god, how he hides in the hexagons
of the bees, how the drought that wrings its leather hands
above the world is of his making, as well as the rain in the quiet minutes
that leave only thoughts of rain.
An atom is working and working, an atom is working in deepest
night, then bursting like the farthest star; it is far
smaller than a pinprick, far smaller than a zero and it has no
will, no will toward us.
This is why the heart has paced and paced,
will pace and pace across the field where yarrow
was and now is dust. A leaf catches
in a bone. The burrow’s shut by a tumbled clod
and the roots, upturned, are hot to the touch.
How my god is a feathered and whirling thing; you will singe your arm
when you pluck him from the air,
when you pluck him from that sky
where grieving swirls, and you will burn again
throwing him back.

Life is Beautiful - Dorianne Laux (poem)

 

        and remote, and useful,
if only to itself. Take the fly, angel
of the ordinary house, laying its bright
eggs on the trash, pressing each jewel out
delicately along a crust of buttered toast.
Bagged, the whole mess travels to the nearest
dump where other flies have gathered, singing
over stained newsprint and reeking
fruit. Rapt on air they execute an intricate
ballet above the clashing pirouettes
of heavy machinery. They hum with life.
While inside rumpled sacks pure white
maggots writhe and spiral from a rip,
a tear-shaped hole that drools and drips
a living froth onto the buried earth.
The warm days pass, gulls scree and pitch,
rats manage the crevices, feral cats abandon
their litters for a morsel of torn fur, stranded
dogs roam open fields, sniff the fragrant edges,
a tossed lacework of bones and shredded flesh.
And the maggots tumble at the center, ripening,
husks membrane-thin, embryos darkening
and shifting within, wings curled and wet,
the open air pungent and ready to receive them
in their fecund iridescence. And so, of our homely hosts,
a bag of jewels is born again into the world. Come, lost
children of the sun-drenched kitchen, your parents
soundly sleep along the windowsill, content,
wings at rest, nestled in against the warm glass.
Everywhere the good life oozes from the useless
waste we make when we create—our streets teem
with human young, rafts of pigeons streaming
over the squirrel-burdened trees. If there is
a purpose, maybe there are too many of us
to see it, though we can, from a distance,
hear the dull thrum of generation's industry,
feel its fleshly wheel churn the fire inside us, pushing
the world forward toward its ragged edge, rushing
like a swollen river into multitude and rank disorder.
Such abundance. We are gorged, engorging, and gorgeous.

Nikki Rosa - Nikki Giovanni (poem)

Childhood remembrances are always a drag

If you're Black
You always remember things like living in Woodlawn
With no inside toilet
And if you become famous or something
They never talk about how happy you were to have
Your mother
All to yourself and
How good the water felt when you got your bath
From one of those
Big tubs that folk in chicago barbecue in
And somehow when you talk about home
It never gets across how much you
Understood their feelings
As the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
And even though you remember
Your biographers never understand
Your father's pain as he sells his stock
And another dream goes
And though you're poor it isn't poverty that
Concerns you
And though they fought a lot
It isn't your father's drinking that makes any difference
But only that everybody is together and you
And your sister have happy birthdays and very good
Christmases
And I really hope no white person ever has cause
To write about me
Because they never understand
Black love is Black wealth and they'll
Probably talk about my hard childhood
And never understand that
All the while I was quite happy

often brown feels like "but" - Vivek Shraya (poem)

conjunction

1. used to introduce something contrasting with what has already been mentioned

2. used to indicate the impossibility of anything other than what is being stated

3. used to introduce a response expressing a feeling such as surprise or anger

preposition

1. except; apart from; other than

adverb

1. no more than; only

noun

1. an argument against something; an objection

Help Me Prayer

Help me still the vertigo of my thoughts

Help me look up 

reset my altimeter

adjust my attitude indicator 

that I may know

rather than panic

about where I am relative to the bigger picture

Help me recognize changes and react with grace

enjoy banking to the left or right

before settling to center

oriented

once again

to the horizon's glow.

5 Types of Prayer

 The Rev. Bob LaVallee says there are only 5 prayers, which are also types of religious experiences:

• Wow
• Thanks
• I'm sorry
• Help me
• Help someone else

Remember to take a moment when we feel these things to give them space, a breath, to center ourselves in that feeling and branch out, reach out, send out to others, and connect with the "something more" of which we are a part but do not control.

Because being grounded does not mean being more in control, just more gracious and flexible and resilient and loving.

What do I need to be nourished?

 Sunshine or a scarf and a cat in my lap

Just enough chocolate

Time to work

Time to think

Voices from people of color who can forgive

Wise words with rhythm

An accent fingernail in blue

Team members who do work I don't even know about

The Power of Privilege - Tiffany Jana

 

Poem - won't you celebrate with me - Lucille Clifton

what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

More than words

 I believe 3 things are needed to sail through this to that, as Lucille Clifton wishes for us.

1) That we cultivate bold, just goals of equity in process and then ongoing equality in outcomes.

2) That we, at all levels, continually look for and root out the constraints and the causes of all the practices and institutions and systems that stand between us and the embracing and achieving of our shared goals.

3) That we individually do the work to build skills of valuing difference and negotiating conflict, unlearn implicit bias, root out prejudice, leverage privilege, cultivate compassion, and celebrate and share joy in community.

It is not enough to espouse our intentions. We know that impact is a better measure of justice. 

Strategic planning has taught us not just to find our vision but ask what stands in the way of that vision. If we all want justice, what is it that stops us from attaining it? 

On a macro scale, it's easier to point to the GOP's blatant racism in the policies that would disproportionately benefit white communities and undermine communities of color.

It's harder, on an individual scale, to find the barriers that keep me from having a diverse set of friends. Or why my beloved liberal faith, which professes the dignity of each individual and celebrates diversity as a source for life meaning and wisdom, is overwhelmingly white. 

And the answer, of course, is institutional racism scaffolding around white supremacy culture. And to achieve equality for all and diversity that we can celebrate? Dismantling systems of oppression in our church culture and in our personal interactions with those who are different from ourselves. 

And how to do that? To give up the privilege of comfort of white people as the norm. To accept the stress and the challenge and the adventure of being a traveler among other cultures - to learn from them, to interact with humility and curiosity and respect, to be very aware of the cultural identities that we bring into each interaction. To accept that diversity is to be the new norm, to give up the idea of the "universal experience" and instead be ok with the relativity of multiculturalism and intersectionality of identity. To learn how to see difference and not be afraid or offended. To experience offense and be brave enough and mature enough to say so in nonviolent terms. To ask for what you want in positive terms. (John Gottman's got this one nailed when it comes to the best relationships - anger is ok but say what HAPPENED that you didn't like and what you WANT TO HAPPEN instead, not criticizing or belittling or, in the case of a one community member to another, giving up on them altogether.)

This is the anti-racism that Ibram X. Kendi describes, as opposed to segregationist or assimilationist urges of the past. Again, easier for me to see at the national scale. Harder to see at the level of my church, my life, when I make decisions on what is "relaxing" and "refreshing" on a weekend. 

Although Kendi advocates "zero tolerance" on microagressions, my Unitarian Universalist faith means I cannot give up on someone - not that I have to embrace them or not hold them accountable - but following Ruby Sales, I cannot give up on anyone or write anyone’s obituary "until they no longer have breath in their bodies." 

"It’s almost like white people don’t believe that other white people are worthy of being redeemed." - Ruby Sales in On Being

Dr. Yaba Blay on Brene Brown's Unlocking Us talked about identity as three components, "the meeting of

• who you are, 
• who you believe yourself to be, and 
• who others tell you that you are."

I think we’re all trying to navigate that space to come to understand who we are. Because we can’t act like other people’s definitions of us or other people’s projections onto us don’t impact us. A lot of us are constantly massaging our identities to fit in a variety of spaces and places. And I think it’s healthy to do so. But I’m sure over the course of our lives, we’re constantly revisiting the question of, “Who am I?” That’s constantly changing based upon the experiences that we have, and for better or for worse, some of us might define ourselves according to our experiences, or some of us might try to meet an identity that is projected on to us.

 And the responsibility for our identity when it includes our street race, and perhaps how we land on others, even acknowledging, maybe especially acknowledging that implicit bias, stereotypes, and prejudice are real and present in almost every interaction, means that we must get better at being multicultural and intercultural to minimize the stress and associated negative health effects that come with it. 

The way Brene and Dr. Blay talk about codeswitching as stressful but unavoidable in the podcast link above is what I think white people need to accept. We are leaving/dismantling a world built for white comfort and instead building a world where we all must get more comfortable being uncomfortable, staying on our growing edge, growing our awareness and skill of using our bodies as antenna to notice when we or others have crossed a cultural line and offended or hurt someone, and getting much better - bolder - braver - more skillful - in asking for, hearing, and acting on feedback and then resolving conflict, repairing the relationship, and building trust again - one marble into the jar at a time (as Brene's daughter explained trust with her friends). Snowflakes? What a joke! This is the hardest work there is. Scorched earth is a white colonists solution to all conflict. Knitting? Weaving? Forgiving? Building community across difference? What fortitude! What wisdom! What maturity and dexterity and skill is needed!

And so I have dreams of anti-racism trainings that just drill offense, feedback, apology, repair. And eventually, you move to difference, (internal fear, deep breath, cultivating curiosity about an individual), laughter and/or questions, listening, stories, asking for what you want, discussing different values and needs, and brainstorming/working together on how to get everyone a little more of what they want and need.