Laughter flies into the face of fear and brings us back to hope.
In today’s world, we need to have courage and indulge in borderline insanity to laugh, but laughter redeems us. It takes us out of the shadows and into the sunlight. It exorcises the demons of ego and ignorance. It helps us accept our imperfections. We are after all, comical beings.
I keep a cache of films that I watch whenever I need a good belly laugh. They include among others Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday, Charlie Chaplin and his character the little tramp, along with the classics by Laurel and Hardy. Watching them I’m able to laugh at those moments when life seemed to take an embarrassing turn, or threatened to overwhelm me. For instance, the allergy attack that surfaced during my wedding ceremony and had me sneezing all the way through. (I should have known that the allergy was a strong hint about the relationship that ended in divorce!) There was the auspicious moment when I, the single mom, paddling as fast as she could exec left the house in a rush to attend a business presentation with my sweater inside out. Putting on my poker face, I promised it was a new fashion trend and the formal atmosphere shifted. I got the job and laughed all the way home.
When I was nine months pregnant I attended a ceremony with the Dalai Lama. Afterward, as I attempted to kneel to receive a blessing - not an easy thing to do when you have a 30-pound belly that defies any grace you might ordinarily possess. As I came close to ending up in a heap at his feet he gestured for me to remain standing. His belly laughter set me off. We both ended up in tears.
Being too rational not only stifles laughter, it puts the lid on creativity. Creativity happens when we cut loose from the boredom of logic and shoot for the moon no matter how absurd or impossible it may seem. Some of the world’s most creative people were laughed at for their ideas, only to have their detractors shuffle their feet in chagrin. In 1977, Ken Olson, the President of Digital Corporation said, “There is no reason for any individual to have a computer in their home.” We can all be grateful that Stan Wozniak and Steve Jobs who gave us Apple Computers didn’t feel the same way.
If there’s anything I’ve ever been sure of, it’s that the Gods have a sense of humor. We receive sound advice and then we ignore it and when we return, asking why didn’t you let me know; they laugh and laugh and laugh.
Five Reasons to Laugh:
1)When we laugh, we leave the ordinary behind.
2)Laughter helps us be freer, more spontaneous.
3)Laughter is a universal language.
4)Laughter aids digestion, comforts us and helps us stay alert.
5)Laughter helps save relationships.
When was the last time you really laughed at something you did and how did it make you feel?
Friday, November 19, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Labels Are Ghosts That Cling to Our Backs
Just because the message may never be received, it doesn’t mean it’s not worth sending - Japanese Buddhist teaching.
Labeling people is something I not only distrust; it makes me sad. For instance, Helen Keller, blind and deaf, was early on labeled as dumb – something that’s not uncommon for someone who’s challenged in speaking. She was fortunate enough to meet a woman who wanted to know her, to help. In the ensuing years, her gifts were uncovered, and she went on to become a well-known author and advocate for women’s suffrage and people with disabilities. She counted among her good friends, Mark Twain and was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
It’s easier to label the woman who washed clothes for years on end as the ‘help’, the one who could always be seen with her hands in soapy water, or bent over an ironing board. Then you learn when she’s retired or dead, that she saved close to a million dollars and left it all to scholarships for at risk children who promised to graduate from high school. I like to imagine that at least 10 out of those 100 went on to create a life very different from what others believed they were destined to live.
Today, labeling has become particularly insidious. It’s easy to call someone an extreme conservative or socialist commie. Sometimes, I wish I could sit down with one of them for an hour or more. As they began to preach about that person or party and the damage they’d done, I imagine a conversation that might go something like this:
1) Me: I can see that this really concerns you and I want to be sure I fully understand you’re saying. Could you please state that in slightly different terms?
(That tends to slow someone down, because they think that since you didn’t hear what they said, you’re probably slow, or even dumb.)
2) Then I would repeat what they said and ask if I got it right. Then I would give them more recognition. ‘I can hear how this concerns you. Is there anything else that concerns you about this? Can you expand on what you’re saying?
(Now they know you’re listening and they tend to talk not only slower, but more thoughtfully.)
3) After they’ve expanded on their thoughts, I tell them ‘I can see how that could
be really troubling. I’ve thought about that too, in slightly different way. I proceed to lay out my thoughts, seeking ways we can find a mutually agreed upon solution. At that moment in time, we be successful, but we may have opened a door to future dialogue.
The highly esteemed author and creator of Non Violent Communications, Marshall Rosenberg was once called to assist at a meeting of Jews and Palestinians that took place on the West Bank. The first day was rife with accusations and labels – ‘Murderer’ and ‘Thief’ as each side unloaded all of their loss and anger. Then came the second day. Each of those horrifying experiences were verbally recognized by the opposite side. Then, Rosenberg began to ask each one: What is it you really want? What do you need? What can’t you live without?
By the end, everyone in the room realized that the two things they wanted most were two things they all shared; safety, and a chance for their children to be educated. Then they began talking about small steps they might take to make those things happen.
Labels are the ghosts of our emotions and our imagination. Feeding those ghosts has them clinging to our backs. They speak through our words. They impoverish our conservations and our lives.
When you find yourself labeling someone else, stop and ask yourself:
1)Who does this person love?
2)Has he ever cried?
3)Is he lonely?
4)What changed him from the child he once was?
5)Did anyone ever tell him he mattered?
6)What is he really seeking?
Somewhere inside those questions, you may find a shared truth.
Labeling people is something I not only distrust; it makes me sad. For instance, Helen Keller, blind and deaf, was early on labeled as dumb – something that’s not uncommon for someone who’s challenged in speaking. She was fortunate enough to meet a woman who wanted to know her, to help. In the ensuing years, her gifts were uncovered, and she went on to become a well-known author and advocate for women’s suffrage and people with disabilities. She counted among her good friends, Mark Twain and was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
It’s easier to label the woman who washed clothes for years on end as the ‘help’, the one who could always be seen with her hands in soapy water, or bent over an ironing board. Then you learn when she’s retired or dead, that she saved close to a million dollars and left it all to scholarships for at risk children who promised to graduate from high school. I like to imagine that at least 10 out of those 100 went on to create a life very different from what others believed they were destined to live.
Today, labeling has become particularly insidious. It’s easy to call someone an extreme conservative or socialist commie. Sometimes, I wish I could sit down with one of them for an hour or more. As they began to preach about that person or party and the damage they’d done, I imagine a conversation that might go something like this:
1) Me: I can see that this really concerns you and I want to be sure I fully understand you’re saying. Could you please state that in slightly different terms?
(That tends to slow someone down, because they think that since you didn’t hear what they said, you’re probably slow, or even dumb.)
2) Then I would repeat what they said and ask if I got it right. Then I would give them more recognition. ‘I can hear how this concerns you. Is there anything else that concerns you about this? Can you expand on what you’re saying?
(Now they know you’re listening and they tend to talk not only slower, but more thoughtfully.)
3) After they’ve expanded on their thoughts, I tell them ‘I can see how that could
be really troubling. I’ve thought about that too, in slightly different way. I proceed to lay out my thoughts, seeking ways we can find a mutually agreed upon solution. At that moment in time, we be successful, but we may have opened a door to future dialogue.
The highly esteemed author and creator of Non Violent Communications, Marshall Rosenberg was once called to assist at a meeting of Jews and Palestinians that took place on the West Bank. The first day was rife with accusations and labels – ‘Murderer’ and ‘Thief’ as each side unloaded all of their loss and anger. Then came the second day. Each of those horrifying experiences were verbally recognized by the opposite side. Then, Rosenberg began to ask each one: What is it you really want? What do you need? What can’t you live without?
By the end, everyone in the room realized that the two things they wanted most were two things they all shared; safety, and a chance for their children to be educated. Then they began talking about small steps they might take to make those things happen.
Labels are the ghosts of our emotions and our imagination. Feeding those ghosts has them clinging to our backs. They speak through our words. They impoverish our conservations and our lives.
When you find yourself labeling someone else, stop and ask yourself:
1)Who does this person love?
2)Has he ever cried?
3)Is he lonely?
4)What changed him from the child he once was?
5)Did anyone ever tell him he mattered?
6)What is he really seeking?
Somewhere inside those questions, you may find a shared truth.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Five Reasons Why Returning to Your Senses Can Change Your Life
Their eyes are so clouded by emotions they cannot see – African Proverb
When I’m feeling dislocated or stressed returning to my senses helps me return to my self. Taste, touch, sound, sight and scent provide clarity, new energy and once again my mind is the beginner’s mind ready to dare.
What Lies Within the Senses:
1) Taste: Bitter or sour taste brings our attention to imbalance. Spicy flavors warm the tongue and the belly. Sweetness comforts. The sweet spiciness of curry in my rice adds heat to my belly and raises my energy.
2) Touch: Without touch we become isolated. Today, I shared an embrace with the checker at the supermarket who always wears a smile. He whispers the doctors have told me I’m dying. As we hold each other, we’re giving and receiving. I’m telling him ‘not yet’. His embrace tells me thank you for reminding me. We united by the knowledge of how precious the moment is.
3) Sound: The vibrant chords of Bach, Mozart and Vivaldi activate the brain. The sounds of a mournful sax brings to surface any sadness I need to let go of. The rhythmic beat of salsa makes me move. The words Once Upon a Time lead me to stories of heroes, witches, and laughter.
4) Sight: The light from the fire disperses darkness. Sunrise and sunset move me through the shifts of the day. The darkest hours of the night lead me into dreams.
5) Scent: The smell of sage freshens my memories of climbing to the top of giant rocks in the desert and discovering an oasis below me. The aroma of good food holds the promise of nourishment and community.
Five Reasons to Return to Your Senses.
1) Freedom from what has troubled you.
2) New energy comes to the surface.
3) When the senses are open, so is the mind.
4) You feel more connected to self and others.
5) With all of the above you’ve gained a little leverage to address what’s happening around you.
When we return to our senses in a series of moments during the day, dropping in whenever we feel the need, we’re gradually reforming our brains, our consciousness. We hear the messages that come from the heart.
When I’m feeling dislocated or stressed returning to my senses helps me return to my self. Taste, touch, sound, sight and scent provide clarity, new energy and once again my mind is the beginner’s mind ready to dare.
What Lies Within the Senses:
1) Taste: Bitter or sour taste brings our attention to imbalance. Spicy flavors warm the tongue and the belly. Sweetness comforts. The sweet spiciness of curry in my rice adds heat to my belly and raises my energy.
2) Touch: Without touch we become isolated. Today, I shared an embrace with the checker at the supermarket who always wears a smile. He whispers the doctors have told me I’m dying. As we hold each other, we’re giving and receiving. I’m telling him ‘not yet’. His embrace tells me thank you for reminding me. We united by the knowledge of how precious the moment is.
3) Sound: The vibrant chords of Bach, Mozart and Vivaldi activate the brain. The sounds of a mournful sax brings to surface any sadness I need to let go of. The rhythmic beat of salsa makes me move. The words Once Upon a Time lead me to stories of heroes, witches, and laughter.
4) Sight: The light from the fire disperses darkness. Sunrise and sunset move me through the shifts of the day. The darkest hours of the night lead me into dreams.
5) Scent: The smell of sage freshens my memories of climbing to the top of giant rocks in the desert and discovering an oasis below me. The aroma of good food holds the promise of nourishment and community.
Five Reasons to Return to Your Senses.
1) Freedom from what has troubled you.
2) New energy comes to the surface.
3) When the senses are open, so is the mind.
4) You feel more connected to self and others.
5) With all of the above you’ve gained a little leverage to address what’s happening around you.
When we return to our senses in a series of moments during the day, dropping in whenever we feel the need, we’re gradually reforming our brains, our consciousness. We hear the messages that come from the heart.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Being a Change Maker Has No Age Limits: 12 Tips for Daring Older Women
This year my birthday fell on the 10th day of the 10th month of the 10th year of the decade. I’ve never studied numerology – it just doesn’t light my fire - but I’m well aware that the number ten has gathered a collective energy that ranks high on the scale of all sorts of things like emotions; sex appeal; product reviews. Plus, ten can signify perfection or hell.
The days leading up to this unusual convergence of personal tens were steadily heading toward a great personal loss. Around midnight of 10/10/10, I received the email saying that one of the women I cherish most was being taken off life support. First came the tears, and the mourning; the sense of loss. Never again would hear her voice at the other end of the phone line, or see her smile when I entered a room. No more the irreverent glint that appeared in her eyes when the potential for mischief arose. We would never again share the secrets, the concerns, the prayers that women tell other women, nor would we walk arm in arm down the street.
In her 80s, she’d lived quite an extraordinary life. On her honeymoon, she slept in a palace and explored Jaipur on the back of an elephant. In Europe, she was on the cusp of elegance. As a hostess, nobody kept them laughing like she did. She could eat a pound of spaghetti and never gain an ounce. Above all, she loved her family. To her granddaughter, who loved the stories of a rosary toting fun-filled deb, she was known as ‘La Divina.’
Sitting up in the wee hours, I couldn’t help but think about how much she was a woman of her generation. Okay, she lived a life full of glamour and excitement, but in her later years, she talked about coming of age in the 40s; the toll it took. That side of her life was incredibly harsh. Like other women taught to follow the well-worn path of femininity she was warned of the risks, the isolation from family and friends that lay in choosing something more daring. Some women were braver than others. Many continued to hear the faint siren’s voice of what might have been, the silent longing for fulfillment on a deeper level. Some turned bitter rolling their desires into angry and sad packages of wishes and urgings they placed in the arms of their own daughters. It didn’t have to be that way, but more often than not, it just was.
After thinking about what I would miss about this dearest of women, I began to wonder if there wasn’t something I could give her, something in memory of her. The winds of unpredictability are blowing stronger than ever before. For women worldwide this seems to be particularly true. They advance and the demons that oppose change rise up to stop them. In the Middle East, it’s fundamentalist Islam, in the West, it’s also the fundamentalists. The people who just can’t seem to grasp that going back isn’t possible. What was once daring has become more satisfying. If that weren’t true we wouldn’t see so many young women getting college degrees.
If we’re going to do things that matter, whether it’s standing, walking or even while sitting in a wheelchair, we need to take more chances. It’s important to remember that Change Makers aren’t necessarily those who make great waves. They may be the quiet ones who carry light into dark corners so that others can find their way out. It doesn’t require being rich, climbing mountains, or building an empire. There are always slots for you to fill at 50, 60, 70 and beyond. Older women who dare have much to offer; their experience, their survival skills, their collection of stories. Being a Female Change Maker is a state of mind and spirit and the rewards are immense. If you’re interested here are important things to help:
1. Honor differences.
2. Practice compassionate communication.
3. Be intellectually hungry and seek out big ideas.
4. Laugh a lot.
5. Forget about the due dates society imposes on age.
6. By now you’ve stumbled, fallen and got up again. You CAN do it again.
7. Don’t be judgmental. Cultivate forgiveness.
8. Listen for the echoes. If more than one person is telling you something, there may be some truth in it.
9. Listen for the good stories, the ones that inspire and offer solutions. Then pass them forward.
10.Honor your wrinkles; they’re stripes of service to life.
11.Build on what you know, but be ready to modify or create something you’ve only dreamed about.
12. Hang onto your hat; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Do you have any other ideas to add to this list? Please share!
(Here’s looking at you, C. The stories, the laughter, the times we shared and the love you gave me are tucked in close to my heart.)
The days leading up to this unusual convergence of personal tens were steadily heading toward a great personal loss. Around midnight of 10/10/10, I received the email saying that one of the women I cherish most was being taken off life support. First came the tears, and the mourning; the sense of loss. Never again would hear her voice at the other end of the phone line, or see her smile when I entered a room. No more the irreverent glint that appeared in her eyes when the potential for mischief arose. We would never again share the secrets, the concerns, the prayers that women tell other women, nor would we walk arm in arm down the street.
In her 80s, she’d lived quite an extraordinary life. On her honeymoon, she slept in a palace and explored Jaipur on the back of an elephant. In Europe, she was on the cusp of elegance. As a hostess, nobody kept them laughing like she did. She could eat a pound of spaghetti and never gain an ounce. Above all, she loved her family. To her granddaughter, who loved the stories of a rosary toting fun-filled deb, she was known as ‘La Divina.’
Sitting up in the wee hours, I couldn’t help but think about how much she was a woman of her generation. Okay, she lived a life full of glamour and excitement, but in her later years, she talked about coming of age in the 40s; the toll it took. That side of her life was incredibly harsh. Like other women taught to follow the well-worn path of femininity she was warned of the risks, the isolation from family and friends that lay in choosing something more daring. Some women were braver than others. Many continued to hear the faint siren’s voice of what might have been, the silent longing for fulfillment on a deeper level. Some turned bitter rolling their desires into angry and sad packages of wishes and urgings they placed in the arms of their own daughters. It didn’t have to be that way, but more often than not, it just was.
After thinking about what I would miss about this dearest of women, I began to wonder if there wasn’t something I could give her, something in memory of her. The winds of unpredictability are blowing stronger than ever before. For women worldwide this seems to be particularly true. They advance and the demons that oppose change rise up to stop them. In the Middle East, it’s fundamentalist Islam, in the West, it’s also the fundamentalists. The people who just can’t seem to grasp that going back isn’t possible. What was once daring has become more satisfying. If that weren’t true we wouldn’t see so many young women getting college degrees.
If we’re going to do things that matter, whether it’s standing, walking or even while sitting in a wheelchair, we need to take more chances. It’s important to remember that Change Makers aren’t necessarily those who make great waves. They may be the quiet ones who carry light into dark corners so that others can find their way out. It doesn’t require being rich, climbing mountains, or building an empire. There are always slots for you to fill at 50, 60, 70 and beyond. Older women who dare have much to offer; their experience, their survival skills, their collection of stories. Being a Female Change Maker is a state of mind and spirit and the rewards are immense. If you’re interested here are important things to help:
1. Honor differences.
2. Practice compassionate communication.
3. Be intellectually hungry and seek out big ideas.
4. Laugh a lot.
5. Forget about the due dates society imposes on age.
6. By now you’ve stumbled, fallen and got up again. You CAN do it again.
7. Don’t be judgmental. Cultivate forgiveness.
8. Listen for the echoes. If more than one person is telling you something, there may be some truth in it.
9. Listen for the good stories, the ones that inspire and offer solutions. Then pass them forward.
10.Honor your wrinkles; they’re stripes of service to life.
11.Build on what you know, but be ready to modify or create something you’ve only dreamed about.
12. Hang onto your hat; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Do you have any other ideas to add to this list? Please share!
(Here’s looking at you, C. The stories, the laughter, the times we shared and the love you gave me are tucked in close to my heart.)
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Meet My Tribe - The Creatively Maladjusted
“Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted." Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
When Dr. King spoke of maladjusted, he was speaking of my tribe. The people who refuse to settle for normal, they’re alert to the possibilities that come when you look at the world from a slightly skewed perspective. And with 60+ years, I’ve never been so excited as I am now about this moment in history and the creatively maladjusted. Okay, there’s a lot I don’t like what’s happening, things that make me feel uncomfortable and afraid. However, I’m not about to feed that wolf - that hungry animal that thrives on fear. I know fear sells, but I’m not sold on it. I’d rather keep my eyes on the glory, the absurd that’s emerging from people who had the nerve to step outside the box.
It all reminds me of that amazing period in Europe called the Renaissance, the French word for rebirth and in Italian Rinascimento, from ri- "again" and nascere – to be born. A break through historical moment that gave us writers, architects and thinkers like Michelangelo to Dante, Brunelleschi and Da Vinci, to name a few. Underlying this astonishing creative eruption was a cultural and educational reform movement called Humanism. Humanists held the intent of creating well rounded citizens, women and men; people who would be able to write eloquently and with clarity and would be capable of persuading acts of virtue in their communities.
It seems to me that Humanists were what Jeremy Rifkin, author and advisor on sustainability to the European Community calls Homo Empathicus. As far as I’m concerned, they’re back in greater numbers. They’re taking the lead in promoting life supporting choices and change. Rifkin believes empathic consciousness will be the new organizing principle for global society. The Big Bonus: It’s extremely valuable in the lean years, as it offers support for both parties, which means greater opportunity for success. Without it, he believes we may not even have a future.
During the Renaissance artists were supported by some of Europe’s wealthiest and most powerful families, like the Medici in Italy. Today, millions are supporting others by connecting and providing access to their ideas and spirit on blogs, Skype, in local meet ups and flash crowds. Today, we have hundreds of thousands of people who become patrons and donors who use penny power and micro-financing to provide meals, and healthcare, and education. It seems to me that’s a whole lot of intentional international humanism.
The creatively maladjusted have moved beyond normal to empowering the wildly sublime.
When Dr. King spoke of maladjusted, he was speaking of my tribe. The people who refuse to settle for normal, they’re alert to the possibilities that come when you look at the world from a slightly skewed perspective. And with 60+ years, I’ve never been so excited as I am now about this moment in history and the creatively maladjusted. Okay, there’s a lot I don’t like what’s happening, things that make me feel uncomfortable and afraid. However, I’m not about to feed that wolf - that hungry animal that thrives on fear. I know fear sells, but I’m not sold on it. I’d rather keep my eyes on the glory, the absurd that’s emerging from people who had the nerve to step outside the box.
It all reminds me of that amazing period in Europe called the Renaissance, the French word for rebirth and in Italian Rinascimento, from ri- "again" and nascere – to be born. A break through historical moment that gave us writers, architects and thinkers like Michelangelo to Dante, Brunelleschi and Da Vinci, to name a few. Underlying this astonishing creative eruption was a cultural and educational reform movement called Humanism. Humanists held the intent of creating well rounded citizens, women and men; people who would be able to write eloquently and with clarity and would be capable of persuading acts of virtue in their communities.
It seems to me that Humanists were what Jeremy Rifkin, author and advisor on sustainability to the European Community calls Homo Empathicus. As far as I’m concerned, they’re back in greater numbers. They’re taking the lead in promoting life supporting choices and change. Rifkin believes empathic consciousness will be the new organizing principle for global society. The Big Bonus: It’s extremely valuable in the lean years, as it offers support for both parties, which means greater opportunity for success. Without it, he believes we may not even have a future.
During the Renaissance artists were supported by some of Europe’s wealthiest and most powerful families, like the Medici in Italy. Today, millions are supporting others by connecting and providing access to their ideas and spirit on blogs, Skype, in local meet ups and flash crowds. Today, we have hundreds of thousands of people who become patrons and donors who use penny power and micro-financing to provide meals, and healthcare, and education. It seems to me that’s a whole lot of intentional international humanism.
The creatively maladjusted have moved beyond normal to empowering the wildly sublime.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Finding Hope and Beauty in the Ruins: A Pilgrim's Journey to the Gulf Coast
And So It Was I Entered the Broken World – Hart Crane
A glossy sheen shifts over the swells and currents of the water. A shell-covered back road that winds through thick vegetation leads to a smaller cove whose entry is blocked by several lines of booms. In the center, a mother porpoise, two babies and the nurse playfully dive and surface. Cicadas rattle the air. A young girl’s bathing suit and a pair of tennis shoes lay abandoned on a small rise.
The Gulf Coast news reports waters turning from blue to black. The dead rise from the sea and wash ashore; dolphins, a sperm whale, countless birds and fish. Others sink silently to the bottom. All mute witnesses to a massacre they’re mostly some distance to the West of where I stand. It’s rumored that soon the beaches of Florida will be submitted to the same indignities.
Perdido, which means lost in Spanish acquired its name due to an entrance which can be easy to miss. According to local lore it was a hiding place for pirates. Spending two very short days here feels like a rare gift. Wild and thick, nature in this place packs a visceral punch. As in tropical zones, the beauty is transient, sometimes dangerous and always seductive. It’s easy to imagine a saber tooth tiger suddenly appearing to sip from the small freshwater brook meanders through the woods.
The diversity of creatures on land, in the air and the water is immense and as the land has been developed over the years you find their names appearing on lists with headings like: extinct, endangered, rare, and exotic.
We stop for seasonal sweet corn, cantaloupe and plump blueberries from a stand at the side of the road. Two dogs snarl, circling each other as they battle over territorial rights. The small mutt wins and the Lab retreats, shaking his coat, as if to say he doesn’t care. Getting into the car, I’m reminded it’s not always size. Belief and the willingness to risk all means I’ve just witnessed another David and Goliath story unfold.
At midnight, it’s still so humid and hot, that the air snatches my breath from my lungs. In bed, stretched out in the darkness, I quietly review the day. The patches on the water with an opalescent sheen, small black tar balls on white sugar sand. I am a pilgrim to a broken land that’s part of a larger broken world. I know there’s nothing here, or anywhere for that matter, that hasn’t changed, that won’t change. All the same, I believe one can find beauty and hope in the ruins. If I listen carefully, I’ll hear the prayers of what’s dying, what’s struggling to survive, and what wants to be born.
Day II
Two Red Flags:
Passing small restaurants and shops with hastily written red letters that advertise URGENT SALES, we arrive at the public beach. The red flags hang limply from the top of a pole on an empty lifeguard station. The sand is blindingly white; it makes my eyes sting. Under a loose gauzy top, my skin feels as if it’s been seared.
A few yards a vision that combines past, present and a possible future stops me in my tracks. Not a soul is in the water. A line of people stretches as far as the eye can see in both directions. No one moves. Those who speak do so quietly. They stare at the horizon, until inevitably their gaze drops to where curved lines of muddy looking foam lick at their toes.
This is where they come to swim and play, to relax. It’s home. One feels their anger. They’re mourning. My heart hurts as I step into line beside them.
For the outlander, Southerners and southern culture is deceptive. One is led to believe being slow in speech and movement local brains are pan-fried like the fish and chicken they enjoy eating. But if the traveler stays awhile, they soon learn that these are stubborn, hardy folk. They have a sly sense of humor that creeps up and slaps you on the side of the head. It takes a lot to survive the elements down here. Yes, they’re sometimes slow to accept new ideas, but they’re generous and the love they have for their home runs fierce and deep.
Late Afternoon. The Seafood Shack:
We pull into the parking lot in front of a white ramshackle building located on a quiet inlet about 8 miles inland from the Gulf shores. Outback a line of empty midsized shrimp boats bump against the docks. The small seafood distributor is where many of the locals go to buy crab, oysters, redfish, halibut, snapper and shrimp among others. Fishing was a $2.5B industry in the Gulf.
The man behind the counter wears a cap pulled low above pale blue eyes. His skin is weathered and lined. The name on his spotted and frayed short sleeve shirt is Bubba. The dictionary defines Bubba as a name commonly given ‘to white uneducated men who are gregarious with their peers.’ It rolls off the tongue like a word a small child might substitute for something that doesn’t fit or is difficult to say. It has an affectionate sound to it. Like most every Southerner, for Bubba a simple sentence isn’t sufficient about going to the corner to buy a pound of flour. Where’s the fun in that? My Bubba (I’m already thinking of him that way) launches into the story about the shrimpers, the boats, long nights and lost jobs. Jim Bob who’s had a few is currently sleeping on the dock out back. Twenty-five years as a shrimper and now nothing.
BP is hiring people with boats to patrol the Gulf. They call in when they spot a slick and wait for the skimmers. Sadly, not all of the fisher captains are hired because some slick operators who own boats they use on weekends have taken temporary leaves from work, or closed their shops and hired on. “Hell,” Bubba says, “there’s even some minister who drives a hundred miles, his boat in tow. He figures on clearing around $50K the next weeks.”
Further West, he informs me, some shrimper captains are leading ‘tours of destruction.’
When we ask how the shrimp are, he assures us they’re fine. We order three pounds. The shrimpers are sailing several hundred miles further. Ordinarily, they would unload at the docks in the back. Now, they loading up their pickup trucks and drive non-stop through the night to bring Bubba their shrimp.
As we leave, a group of young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will heading to the beach. Their faces are lined with exhaustion. Their eyes are dim.
Outside, a group of tired looking young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will be heading to the beaches.
How Do We Pick Up The Pieces?
The cosmos works by a harmony of tensions like the lyre and the bow - Heraclitus
We’re tearing nature apart limb-by-limb, creature by creature, sea to sea, mountains and deserts, rivers and lakes. We act as if the land is our slave. And each person that does nothing to conserve nature is accountable for her dying.
Once diversity goes, so do we. Science hasn’t come close to calculating the importance of the links between creatures and humans. There isn’t time when you line up the number of deaths and extinctions occurring at a breathtaking pace. Some links, however, are obvious. For instance, over thirty percent of the bee population has disappeared in the last few years. Without them we will be living mainly on grains, no fruits and fewer vegetables. As a nation we use more oil per capita than any other country in the world.
As nature writer Terry Tempest Williams wrote 'Each morning, we must ask ourselves how do we wish to live and with whom.'
The root of the noble is in the common, the high stands on what’s below.
Tao te Ching
We need to connect because it is in community with like-minded individuals we will find ways to conserve, and survive. In community there’s less chance of severe burnout. In community we are inspired. We learn to build on the work of others. Communities don’t wait on D.C. or dwell on who’s to blame.
All across America, regional groups and communities are busy creating solutions and preparing for what might come. Detroit is turning abandoned blocks and empty streets into parks and farmland, saving on utilities and bringing people together. Cleveland has taken an abandoned mall and turned it into an atrium where they’re growing vegetables and fruits. In town halls people are charting their destiny as they make group decisions as to the next step that’s needed whether it has to do with education, jobs, or basic resources.
In the Gulf, groups gather to form a center of concern. Blogs are created with videos that show what’s happening, along with to do lists. Amidst stories of childhood games of pirates, swimming with dolphins, and Independence Day picnics, neighbors pinpoint resources. Plans are drafted to protect this small corner, their corner.
The Morning of Day III:
Rising early, as I step outside to savor the view of the Bay one last time, a poem by Mary Oliver comes to mind.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
If I have made of my life something particular and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
Or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
(* This blog will begin to provide easy hook ups for anyone who wants to join a community that’s enabling life-supporting change.)
A list from ‘The Soul of a Citizen” for your bathroom mirror.
• Be Radical
• Be Radically Patient
• Keep your eyes open
• Find your community
• Seek Solutions
• Connect and be compassionate with others & yourself.
• Be playful
• Sleep
• Eat local and well
• Take time to reflect
• Give yourself credit
• Look for the light in the shadows of defeat, and beauty in the ruins.
• Celebrate the small victories.
The future will be created by not only by what we learn, it will be created by the values of hearts and souls.
A glossy sheen shifts over the swells and currents of the water. A shell-covered back road that winds through thick vegetation leads to a smaller cove whose entry is blocked by several lines of booms. In the center, a mother porpoise, two babies and the nurse playfully dive and surface. Cicadas rattle the air. A young girl’s bathing suit and a pair of tennis shoes lay abandoned on a small rise.
The Gulf Coast news reports waters turning from blue to black. The dead rise from the sea and wash ashore; dolphins, a sperm whale, countless birds and fish. Others sink silently to the bottom. All mute witnesses to a massacre they’re mostly some distance to the West of where I stand. It’s rumored that soon the beaches of Florida will be submitted to the same indignities.
Perdido, which means lost in Spanish acquired its name due to an entrance which can be easy to miss. According to local lore it was a hiding place for pirates. Spending two very short days here feels like a rare gift. Wild and thick, nature in this place packs a visceral punch. As in tropical zones, the beauty is transient, sometimes dangerous and always seductive. It’s easy to imagine a saber tooth tiger suddenly appearing to sip from the small freshwater brook meanders through the woods.
The diversity of creatures on land, in the air and the water is immense and as the land has been developed over the years you find their names appearing on lists with headings like: extinct, endangered, rare, and exotic.
We stop for seasonal sweet corn, cantaloupe and plump blueberries from a stand at the side of the road. Two dogs snarl, circling each other as they battle over territorial rights. The small mutt wins and the Lab retreats, shaking his coat, as if to say he doesn’t care. Getting into the car, I’m reminded it’s not always size. Belief and the willingness to risk all means I’ve just witnessed another David and Goliath story unfold.
At midnight, it’s still so humid and hot, that the air snatches my breath from my lungs. In bed, stretched out in the darkness, I quietly review the day. The patches on the water with an opalescent sheen, small black tar balls on white sugar sand. I am a pilgrim to a broken land that’s part of a larger broken world. I know there’s nothing here, or anywhere for that matter, that hasn’t changed, that won’t change. All the same, I believe one can find beauty and hope in the ruins. If I listen carefully, I’ll hear the prayers of what’s dying, what’s struggling to survive, and what wants to be born.
Day II
Two Red Flags:
Passing small restaurants and shops with hastily written red letters that advertise URGENT SALES, we arrive at the public beach. The red flags hang limply from the top of a pole on an empty lifeguard station. The sand is blindingly white; it makes my eyes sting. Under a loose gauzy top, my skin feels as if it’s been seared.
A few yards a vision that combines past, present and a possible future stops me in my tracks. Not a soul is in the water. A line of people stretches as far as the eye can see in both directions. No one moves. Those who speak do so quietly. They stare at the horizon, until inevitably their gaze drops to where curved lines of muddy looking foam lick at their toes.
This is where they come to swim and play, to relax. It’s home. One feels their anger. They’re mourning. My heart hurts as I step into line beside them.
For the outlander, Southerners and southern culture is deceptive. One is led to believe being slow in speech and movement local brains are pan-fried like the fish and chicken they enjoy eating. But if the traveler stays awhile, they soon learn that these are stubborn, hardy folk. They have a sly sense of humor that creeps up and slaps you on the side of the head. It takes a lot to survive the elements down here. Yes, they’re sometimes slow to accept new ideas, but they’re generous and the love they have for their home runs fierce and deep.
Late Afternoon. The Seafood Shack:
We pull into the parking lot in front of a white ramshackle building located on a quiet inlet about 8 miles inland from the Gulf shores. Outback a line of empty midsized shrimp boats bump against the docks. The small seafood distributor is where many of the locals go to buy crab, oysters, redfish, halibut, snapper and shrimp among others. Fishing was a $2.5B industry in the Gulf.
The man behind the counter wears a cap pulled low above pale blue eyes. His skin is weathered and lined. The name on his spotted and frayed short sleeve shirt is Bubba. The dictionary defines Bubba as a name commonly given ‘to white uneducated men who are gregarious with their peers.’ It rolls off the tongue like a word a small child might substitute for something that doesn’t fit or is difficult to say. It has an affectionate sound to it. Like most every Southerner, for Bubba a simple sentence isn’t sufficient about going to the corner to buy a pound of flour. Where’s the fun in that? My Bubba (I’m already thinking of him that way) launches into the story about the shrimpers, the boats, long nights and lost jobs. Jim Bob who’s had a few is currently sleeping on the dock out back. Twenty-five years as a shrimper and now nothing.
BP is hiring people with boats to patrol the Gulf. They call in when they spot a slick and wait for the skimmers. Sadly, not all of the fisher captains are hired because some slick operators who own boats they use on weekends have taken temporary leaves from work, or closed their shops and hired on. “Hell,” Bubba says, “there’s even some minister who drives a hundred miles, his boat in tow. He figures on clearing around $50K the next weeks.”
Further West, he informs me, some shrimper captains are leading ‘tours of destruction.’
When we ask how the shrimp are, he assures us they’re fine. We order three pounds. The shrimpers are sailing several hundred miles further. Ordinarily, they would unload at the docks in the back. Now, they loading up their pickup trucks and drive non-stop through the night to bring Bubba their shrimp.
As we leave, a group of young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will heading to the beach. Their faces are lined with exhaustion. Their eyes are dim.
Outside, a group of tired looking young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will be heading to the beaches.
How Do We Pick Up The Pieces?
The cosmos works by a harmony of tensions like the lyre and the bow - Heraclitus
We’re tearing nature apart limb-by-limb, creature by creature, sea to sea, mountains and deserts, rivers and lakes. We act as if the land is our slave. And each person that does nothing to conserve nature is accountable for her dying.
Once diversity goes, so do we. Science hasn’t come close to calculating the importance of the links between creatures and humans. There isn’t time when you line up the number of deaths and extinctions occurring at a breathtaking pace. Some links, however, are obvious. For instance, over thirty percent of the bee population has disappeared in the last few years. Without them we will be living mainly on grains, no fruits and fewer vegetables. As a nation we use more oil per capita than any other country in the world.
As nature writer Terry Tempest Williams wrote 'Each morning, we must ask ourselves how do we wish to live and with whom.'
The root of the noble is in the common, the high stands on what’s below.
Tao te Ching
We need to connect because it is in community with like-minded individuals we will find ways to conserve, and survive. In community there’s less chance of severe burnout. In community we are inspired. We learn to build on the work of others. Communities don’t wait on D.C. or dwell on who’s to blame.
All across America, regional groups and communities are busy creating solutions and preparing for what might come. Detroit is turning abandoned blocks and empty streets into parks and farmland, saving on utilities and bringing people together. Cleveland has taken an abandoned mall and turned it into an atrium where they’re growing vegetables and fruits. In town halls people are charting their destiny as they make group decisions as to the next step that’s needed whether it has to do with education, jobs, or basic resources.
In the Gulf, groups gather to form a center of concern. Blogs are created with videos that show what’s happening, along with to do lists. Amidst stories of childhood games of pirates, swimming with dolphins, and Independence Day picnics, neighbors pinpoint resources. Plans are drafted to protect this small corner, their corner.
The Morning of Day III:
Rising early, as I step outside to savor the view of the Bay one last time, a poem by Mary Oliver comes to mind.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
If I have made of my life something particular and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
Or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
(* This blog will begin to provide easy hook ups for anyone who wants to join a community that’s enabling life-supporting change.)
A list from ‘The Soul of a Citizen” for your bathroom mirror.
• Be Radical
• Be Radically Patient
• Keep your eyes open
• Find your community
• Seek Solutions
• Connect and be compassionate with others & yourself.
• Be playful
• Sleep
• Eat local and well
• Take time to reflect
• Give yourself credit
• Look for the light in the shadows of defeat, and beauty in the ruins.
• Celebrate the small victories.
The future will be created by not only by what we learn, it will be created by the values of hearts and souls.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
I'm Proud to be a MUTT
I’m a MUTT, and what could be better than that?
Purebred dogs are beautiful, but why settle for one dog, when you can have a combination of both or several?
Athough the rules changed in 2009, up until then you didn’t see mutts at the AKC Show, that country clubbish gathering with purebreds groomed to the tips of their toes and lashes. Where somewhere a sign was posted Real Dogs Are Forbidden to Enter.
Purebreds may be more beautiful on the outside, but mutts know inner beauty is what counts. Your purebred is more likely to be stolen, a mutt won’t. In Brazil and the Dominican Republic MUTTS are called vira lata (trash can tippers) which means not only are they survivors, they’re problem solvers. Known as quick thinkers, their boundless curiosity makes them well informed. MUTTS don’t get lost, but if you do they’re experts at finding people who will help.
Mutts enjoy going to places where you never know who you’ll meet. Back roads and barrios and parks where there are a lot of people to play with, especially kids with frisbees.
MUTTS get a kick out of making other people laugh because when there’s laughter, anger and sorrow are somewhere else. And sometimes they might even get a treat.
MUTTS make great pals. Bring them home and they’ll love you forever, because you knew a good thing when you saw it.
Purebred dogs are beautiful, but why settle for one dog, when you can have a combination of both or several?
Athough the rules changed in 2009, up until then you didn’t see mutts at the AKC Show, that country clubbish gathering with purebreds groomed to the tips of their toes and lashes. Where somewhere a sign was posted Real Dogs Are Forbidden to Enter.
Purebreds may be more beautiful on the outside, but mutts know inner beauty is what counts. Your purebred is more likely to be stolen, a mutt won’t. In Brazil and the Dominican Republic MUTTS are called vira lata (trash can tippers) which means not only are they survivors, they’re problem solvers. Known as quick thinkers, their boundless curiosity makes them well informed. MUTTS don’t get lost, but if you do they’re experts at finding people who will help.
Mutts enjoy going to places where you never know who you’ll meet. Back roads and barrios and parks where there are a lot of people to play with, especially kids with frisbees.
MUTTS get a kick out of making other people laugh because when there’s laughter, anger and sorrow are somewhere else. And sometimes they might even get a treat.
MUTTS make great pals. Bring them home and they’ll love you forever, because you knew a good thing when you saw it.
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