Another year older another year wiser

I turned 35 yesterday. I feel wiser, somehow. Here is a list of, in Oprah's words, "What I know for sure."

Stress comes from inside. I used to think that stressful things happened to me. Now I realize it's how I choose to react that causes or prevents stress. This is a daily practice for me. I don't apologize for going my own way, for creating quiet and contemplative space for myself because it's what helps me stay centered.

Love is more about hard work than romance. I used to be one of those girls who thought that my one soul mate was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. I think we have lots of soulmates: friends, sisters, neices, nephews, lovers. Relationships require committment and time to become what you want them to be. Sure, some are more work than others but I have learned to choose my relationships wisely and spend my time working toward worthwhile goals and I think they have payed off.

Dwelling on the negative stuff causes the mind to get bogged down and is anti-productive. I am learning how to express myself and let go of things. It's important to acknowledge the wrongness and ugliness in life, but only if lifes beauty and justness are equally honored. This is a hard one I battle every day. Many of us are raised in a culture, society, and in families that make meaning through negativity. It has become a bad habit, but one that is reversible.

That's it- three little things that have come clear to me in my 35 years on the planet. I feel lucky and blessed to have lived this life and figured a little bit out.

"I's Married Now!"

In the words of Nettie- Celie's sister from The Color Purple. We did it! It was a lovely affair. 95 degrees in the shade. Hot as hot can be. It was a magical day- one of our friends called it "enchanted." It's hard to describe in words. Perhaps pictures will do it justice.

Following Studs Terkel

Last night I dreamt of Studs Terkel
He was living in a junk yard
Abandoned silo-looking warehouses full of stuff
Pieces of ripped fabric and couch cushions had turned yellowish brown by age, wind, and dust
His dog was trailing as he went from warehouse to warehouse
Looking for something he had left behind
All the while I followed
Noticing his hair was half gone, his face pockmarked, tired
Where was my hero, the man who went to places he did not belong
In search of stories no one really wanted to hear?
He must have tired of interviewing poor black folks,
White middle class people with all their guilt
Maybe it drove him crazy, the uselessness of it all
Most would rather not read the words of the oppressed
Let alone write them
Now all this great man did was search the rubble
And I was there following him
Even though I didn’t know what we were looking for.

Happy Juneteenth

What? You didn't realize today was a holiday? Well, it's not officially, except in Texas. I'll be thinking today of how we can celebrate the end of slavery and the beginning of freedom for black people when we have such a long way to go until we are truly free. I'm taking a class called gender and ethnicity that is causing me to look at systems of oppression and the institutionalization of racism, classism, sexism, ableism, etc...

When I was a child, I remember wondering why black folks were still treated so badly when it was white folks that had done us so wrong. It made no sense to me why I had to worry about prejudice when I was clearly the innocent party. Then I grew up to understand that fairness and justness is subjective. That whites were still mentally enslaving whites with their doctrine of (covert) supremacy. It was just more subtle now, almost imperceptible.
Some folks will say that we should move on from the past, that what's done is done and we need to forgive and forget. But there is residue from that past which lives inside us. It is the legacy of slavery that people of color live with the mental side effects of the institution of slavery.

The writer Shelby Steele talks about the development of the "anti-self" in black people that has resulted from years of internalized oppression. This anti-self is "... an interal antagonist and saboteur that embraces the world's negative view of us, that believes our wounds are justified by our own unworthiness, and that entrenches itself as a lifelong voice of doubt." When I think about this concept of the anti-self, it is easy for me to see why so many of our black brothers and sisters end up in jail, on drugs, or both. Why many can't seem to lift ourselves up, but instead break ourselves and each other down. It is hard to be hopeful in the face of such devastating oppression. So, when someone tells me that racism is no longer a problem and they don't see color I just can't believe them. People of color live with the reality of racism every day. We are still fighting to have our voices heard and our experiences believed. We have a long way to go.

Check out more on juneteenth at:
http://www.juneteenth.com/

Letting the light in

A few months ago, we decided to cut down a huge laurel tree between our house and the neighbors. What we didn't know was that there was a blue jay's nest in that tree. As the last few limbs were cut, four featherless baby birds came flying out of the safety of their nest at my face. I ducked and they hit the gravel, squaking for their parents, who were perched nearby watching. To make a long story short, Brad gathered them up with gloved hands, placed them back in the nest, secured the nest to wire mesh, and relocated it to a nearby (leafless) tree. At least a few of them were sighted weeks later attempting to fly. Happy ending, right? Yes, but it is not always so...

The other morning we awoke to chainsaws snarling a few feet from our bedroom window. The neighbor is cutting down the biggest (over 100 feet?) doug fir on the block. We think he wants to build a deck and the tree is too close to his house. The neighbor's missing limbs (they haven't felled the entire tree yet) let more light seep in to the understory of our yard.

A few days after the chainsaws started, a block away, a swath of trees seven acres wide was clearcut in a matter of days. There is a hole in the sky that lets in more sun than we ever thought we'd get in our shady back yard.

This as me wondering what we value more: light or trees? The developers who are going to build tract homes on the now barren wetland probably haven't asked that. I hear we need more homes- Olympia is growing. But I just can't get used to driving by where there was a whole ecosystem and now there's what? Piles of logs and mud. Seems like a shame. But once there were more trees where my house sits.

Last night I dreamt of Grovey- remember the lizard who escaped? Maybe his wildness was in my consciousness, his determination to be uncaged and uninhibited. Perhaps this is what we lose when the trees come down. Then again, it is nice to let the light in.

Weather Report

Spring is here, birds are chirping, the honeysuckle vines attached to the wrought iron on our house are blooming toward the sun, and it is, of course, raining.
Not just raining, but cold- brrrrr....
I heard on the radio we haven't had such low temps in June in 20 years. Wow! I don't hate the rain, though. At least not at this moment. I love how it waters my plants for me, cleanses everything- especially my incredibly dirty car I've been meaning to wash for weeks.
The South African acapella band Ladysmith Black Mambazo sing about rain:

Rain rain rain rain
Beautiful rain
O come, never come
O come, never come
O come to me
Beautiful rain

Granted, they're singing about drought- you always want what you can't have- but I love the idea that rain is beautiful. Those who have read my musings on northwest weather are probable scratching your heads, but I have what you could call a love/hate relationship with the rain.
I love it when I haven't seen it for a while and I'm in that pensive (somber?) mood that rain elicits and when it serves a purpose (doesn't it always?)
I hate it when it sticks around longer than I want. In the beginning of summer, say, when all I want is to feel sun warming my skin.
So, it's spring and I feel like I can't complain about the rain because that's what spring is about right? Showers...

If they haven't stopped by the beginning of July, I might feel differently.

Death don't have no mercy in this land....

I sit in a doctor's office waiting room reading my book on race, class, and gender thinking about how tenuous this thing called life is.
I'm only here to have my throat checked. A five day bout with fatigue and soreness has me wondering if I have strep. This has led me to wonder just how long I'm going to walk this earth. It's a stretch, I know, but I'm prone to overthink things at times... So, I take my tired ass to the clinic because I'm one of the lucky ones who has health care. I sit in wonder at how many "sick" people there are here. I don't know what they're sick with and to be fair, some may be in just for a check-up. But, most, I'm sure, are sick.

An obese woman in a wheelchair scoots past me, her husband not far in tow. He sits behind her. She shouts, "Did I take my 1:00 pill." He (tiredly?) says, "Yes." Wow, that's love.... care. I realize how seldom I am around, let alone interact with people who are disabled, people who face death in their physical (or mental) challenges every day. How different their perspectives must be. Someone recently told me that once you have cancer, every little ache and pain takes on new meaning. they must be asking themselves, is this a sign that the end is near?

Death and dying is just not something we want to talk about. Except in religious terms like heaven and hell, I don't remember the last time I had a discussion with someone about death- and I am part of a circle of people (artists, writers, counselors) who will talk about just about anything. It is the proverbial elephant, no- the wooly mammoth in the room. But, why? Why don't we teach our children about death? What scares us? What keeps us from admitting that it is just a part of life, the other side of the coin?

Back to the hospital room. Minute by minute, my aches and pains don't seem so bad. An old lady hobbles back from the closed door and I wonder what her prognosis is. And why am I here again? Do I want someone to tell me I'm not dying? Aren't we all, really dying? Perhaps, slowly, but dying nonetheless. And why is it morbid (read negatively) to talk about death? Maybe it is the mystery of death we don't like. Maybe it's the not knowing that turns us off. I guess I'm just talking about Americans (or Westerners) here. The Tibetans have a whole book (The Tibetan Book of The Dead) dedicated to death, after all.

My good friend had her best dog friend pass away this year and is dealing with her own perceptions of what that means. As we get older, family members with health problems cause us to ask tought questions with no answers:
What happens to those who pass away?
What would change if we knew the answer to this?

Back at home, I'm still feeling crappy. The doctor tells me I've got the same thing everyone else has this flu season and it will pass. "You're getting older," she tells me. As if I didn't know. Perhaps that's it. Getting older. Getting wiser, maybe, but essentially, weaker. The (negative?) thought that I might get sideswiped while checking the mail suddenly feels oddly inspiring. It seems too cliche to say it makes me want to live every day as if it was my last... But do any of us really know which day it will be?

Growth

The sky grows from grayish-white to blue
as the day grows from morning to afternoon
Little baby birds we rescued after cutting their tree down
grow soft black feathers too
Students grow from wide eyed freshman to
can't wait for next year impatience

And I'm watching this new building from my office window grow
Each day a new layer of cement and a new floor
Men are lifting wood panels
With giant insect armed cranes
Placing walls up in geometric configurations
Too gingerly for such enormous machinery
What must it feel like to know you made something grow?

We all wait for the building to be done
So that there will be a place to relieve overcrowded classrooms
We hope our "space issues" will be gone
But I will miss the beep beeping
The clank of metal
The surprise of something newly made
that greets me in the morning
The chance to watch something grow.

His Holiness Comes To Town

Monday morning I drove an hour north to be in the presence of greatness. As I stood in line fingering my green prayer beads, I wondered who were these other people in line with me, what were they here for, what was their motivation? I entertained the idea that they, like me, would upon hearing his holiness speak, be transported to a place where everything is ok- a kind of utopian mindspace where things aren't good or bad, they just are. Then, we would all use this moment of clarity to dedicate ourselves to peace. Suddenly, we wouldn't judge one another or ourselves, but instead we would work together to achieve peace in ourselves, our communities, and the world.

Then I saw the protestors. They were Chinese students and scholars holding up signs that said "I love Tibet," and "I love China." They shouted into megaphones that the Dalai Lama did not do enough to keep Han Chinese from being killed in recent demonstrations. There was even a banner flown overhead that read,"Dalai Lama- your smile charms, but your actions harm." I looked around and marveled that we who had thought ourselves so compassionate, waiting to become enlightened, were now forced into awareness of the other side of the story. This struck me as ironic. Suddenly, I was not so sure the issues were cut and dry. Suddenly, I was open to this other view point that the spiritual leader I revered was an anti-savior to some. Judging by the looks on my fellow linemates' faces, I was not alone in this paradigm shift. When the demonstrators started singing Amazing Grace for their fallen brothers and sisters, I was pulled by the familiar song of grief. I have no doubt that the Dalai Lama would approve of the compassion I felt for them. Still, I felt a lingering disequalibrium.

Soon, we sat shoulder to shoulder in the packed auditorium, waiting patiently for His Holiness to appear. Finally, he walked to the stage, posture slumped, bowing to us with hands clasped at his heart. Tears rushed to my eyes and I blinked them away. I wondered why his presence made me this emotional. What is it that he represents to me?

He received his honorary doctorate with much humility, playfulness, and a little bit of mischief. What I remember most are the following sentiments:

• We are old and tired, so we pass on the responsiblity for peace to you young people.


• I don't know. I am not an expert.


• In response to the question of what to do about AIDS in Africa: They must use rubbers.


• Peace must start from inside with yourself, then it can affect family, then neighbor, then country, and finally whole world.


• It is possible to have a peaceful world in the next few decades.

By the end of the talk, I could tell he was tired, wondering why he (a simple monk) was being asked about things which he was no expert on (global warming, affluence, domestic violence). I began to see him as just who he is- a human, albeit a very compassionate and giving human. Someone not so different from myself who wants peace in this world. I began to make sense of the words he spoke as a gentle reminder. A reminder of how to live in this world, of how to be with others. A reminder that the answers to our most pressing questions are simple ones we've known all along.

This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.

-His Holiness, The Dalai Lama

I love art...art loves me

Here is my latest artwork- a series of boxes exploring Erik Erikson's stages of psychosocial development.

Weather Report

It's the end of January and as dark as Washington winters come, but there is still a little bit of light pushing through. Lately I've been waking up to a thin blanket of snow on the ground, branches that I expect to be stripped of leaves bear the weight of this mysterious white substance. Sometimes the forecasters freak out the schools and I have a surprise day off or a late start. People complain that their precious schedules have been thrown off or that the roads are trecherous. I just smile for a break in the norm.

By noon, the roads are clear and the branches barren again, except for the tiny buds forming. The young birch tree outside my window sways back and forth, its crown bending toward the ground until I'm sure I will hear a snap, but miraculously it continues to thrive.

The orchid I bought last summer bloomed briefly, then went dormant. A few weeks ago I noticed it sprouted another stem and every day I watch over it to coax its buds open. Perched on my window sill it sits, shyly opening it's petals, pushing through the cold dark winter.

We Celebrate

We celebrate in remembrance of our heroes:
Martin, Malcom, Rosa, Frederick, Harriet- the famous ones
While we remember the countless others:
the nameless, the faceless, the ancestors

We celebrate by remembering their struggle
Their movements are in our bodies as we dance,
Their words are in the songs we sing,
We celebrate that we have come this far
We celebrate change

We celebrate, knowing we have further to go
Until American history is learned as African-American history
we have further to go
Until the so-called color blind open their eyes to see
we have further to go
Until we believe that this country was born and raised
on the backs of black women, men, and children
we have further to go

Still, we celebrate (we celebrate in dreams)
We celebrate in hope that we shall, once again, overcome
We honor those who fought -soldiers in the army of equality-
so that their work will not be undone
We recognize that the good work they have done
Allows us to do the work that remains.

Sometimes the struggle seems too much
Sometimes we don’t have the strength to continue Sometimes it breaks us down
Sometimes we feel like motherless, fatherless children
A long way from our home

But continue, we must
as our heroes Martin, Malcolm, Frederick, Rosa, Harriet did for us did We must do the impossible for ourselves, our people, our future
We must face oppression, we must remember the tragedy of the past Not just for one day, but every day we must have the courage to hold on
In the face of ignorance and hatred and fear
We've got to hold on to our dream of equality

HAPPY 2008!!!

Can't believe it's been three months since I've posted. What can I say? Life gets the best of me and I'm lucky if I can eat, sleep, and study let alone find the time to write. I've missed blogging my thoughts, feelings, and frustrations out. It truly is therapy.

So, 2008 huh? Kinda snuck up on me. I am usually very excited come new year's, but I don't think I have ever been this hopeful. Hopeful for change mostly. I must admit I love change. Clean slate and allathat. 2008 is the year for a new U.S. president (and a new St. Martin's president and vice pres. coincidentally), the year I'm getting married, and the year I will finally get fit. I'm not jokin ya'll. I joined a gym and I'm actually working out. Gravity has kicked in and I've decided not to let it control me. As we say in developmental psychology, "Do you have it (the weight/body issues) or does it have you? I love the idea that we can choose.

I'm sure you're wondering (as was the trainer at 24 hour fitness) what makes this time different? Did I mention I'm getting married? That means a white-ish dress which means it's hard to hide the junk I've accumulated in my uh.. trunk. But you know what really is different? That I've grown to actually love my body- my badunkadunk and my curves, my small ankles and wrists and my big ass feet. What's different is, at this point in my life it's about health first and looks second. I mean, I do not want my clothes to feel too tight, but more importantly I want to feel healthy enough to be active and live my life. This has been a HUGE awakening for me. I am so contemplative- often this means chillin on the couch with a good book or spending hours painting- very little range of movement folks! All the while, mountains are being hiked up, yogis are being stretched, booties are being shaken. I could get nostalgic right here and reminisce about the days when I was a thin and trim hiker in great health, but really I was more "accidentally fit." Probably in worse health than I am today- certainly I was partying more often. But that's another story...
The point is, I am ready to do this thing called life with intention and that is what the difference is.
So, here's to a year of change, creativity, love, self-care, and health!
See you on the treadmill?