The bittersweet passion of being a mother in multi color world

Following the grand jury's decision about the fatal shooting of the teenager Michael Brown, I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to be the mother of a young black man in America today. It's not as if I haven't thought about it before. I have. And I've made an effort when possible to help, and as a woman especially my African female friends. But I, like many other white women who are mothers, tend to get wrapped up with what's close to my own life. My own child, her welfare and my daily battles and victories make it easier to forget. I can't pinpoint one particular reason why this tragedy has captured my attention in such a powerful way. But it has. But this morning, I sat down to envision what it would be like to start the day as the mother of a teenage African american boy. I would fix a healthy breakfast while the two of us talked about our plans, to do lists; who we would be seeing and where we would go. And underlying this conversation would be the understanding that my boy's beautiful coffee or deep black skin color could provoke mistreatment and scorn at any given moment in anyplace. I wouldn't have to tell him be careful of the police, they might hurt you, we'd already had that talk. And deep down, I knew there would be times when nothing I could do would change the violence he'd might face. He would already know he shouldn't walk too fast because that would make him look guilty. And unlike the time when my white boyfriend ran down the street toward the drive in dairy in an all black neighborhood at the edge of a ghetto, the police wouldn't pull up and ask if he needed help. Nor should he walk too slow because then he'd look suspicious. He would know not to keep his hands in his pockets and avoid hoodies. As he gathered his books, I would remember the old white woman in the supermarket who took one look at him, turned and sped down another aisle. The time when we'd stopped at a liquor store so I could buy a bottle of wine. I'd disappeared to the back when I heard shouting. Rushing to the front, I saw the owner aiming a gun at my boy. Threatening to kill him. My boy's hands were empty. He hadn't taken a thing. And he was angry. 'Go ahead and shoot me, old man,' he'd shouted. And faced with a gun, what does a mother do? I told the 'gunslinger' we were leaving and dragged my boy outside. My son wouldn't have been happy. He would have resisted, but my visceral instinct as a mother was the overwhelming desire for him to live to see another day. To let him intelligence and creativity take him places he'd only imagined, but was afraid would never happen. I would have told him, there are other ways to promote and support change. Maybe he would already know this because he'd attended the self esteem classes for teen age black boys held by the teenage african american friend of my daughter. And as he left for the day, I would have held him. And as he walked away, wearing his non offensive clothes, with his non offensive hair cut, his careful walk, I would have been hit by the pain of knowing I might not see him again. Of knowing that if he did come home that night, something might have happened that took him to place full of anger and rage. An alien place where a mother's love couldn't enter. A place where a mother's worst night mare would come true. None of these happened to me. They were told to me by African american women who are mothers and friends, soul sisters, grandmothers. I can imagine what it felt like. I can write about it. I've even cried about it. But even, I've gone as far as a white woman can truly know. What I do know down deep is that good mothers have never been more important than they are today. As women who are mothers we need to own that innate power we share and up the ante. Join with others of all colors and creeds. Start in our neighborhoods, at churches, in coffee shops and libraries to talk about how we can empower mothers. As mothers we're usually the ones who spend the most time with children. Invite the rainbow of mothers and children into our homes. Share stories. Stories passed down by our mothers and grandmothers about victories. How we got help. We need to tell them about failure, self forgiveness. How we let go and moved forward. And most of all they need to hear every single day that we haven't lost faith. That we're not giving up. That as mother gatekeepers, we promise to keep the passage that leads to the future open because all children matter.

Coming Home is a longing that's particularly strong in me on this gray, wet day. And isn't that the feeling that sent me out into the world on a lifeline search. Find Home. The first time I went looking for something other than the war zone of my parent's home was at the age of six. I ventured several blocks away and found a small avocado tree where I spent the night. Shivering with fear of the monsters that lurked outside its sheltering branches on a road where there were few streetlights and houses were set at distance from each other. There've been many other times in the years since then that I've ventured into the world hoping to find a home away from pain and anger and hopelessness that rise up from the obstacles life throws in my path - many of my own creation. There were the tears from loneliness and want after seeing the happy homes depicted in movies, books and on tv, only to discover they were nothing more than a cruel Hollywood myth. The rage and loss of balance that sent me to a wreck of one room apartment waiting to be renovated. A hotel room on the West Side of I rented during my first job in NYC, which I decorated with small pots of ivy, dried flowers, candles and colorful pillows. This morning, I waded to shore after floundering in my own tempest of self indulgence of helplessness. This time I was afraid I might never walk normally again. You see I've been told I need a knee replacement. The pain keeps me up nights and wakens me before I'm ready to get out of bed. The fears centered around questions like 'what if I didn't find a surgeon my health insurance would cover? What if the surgery went wrong. Would I ever be able to long walks in the country or dive into those adventures I enjoy walking for hours through cities and towns? What if I'll never be abe to do my yoga stretches again? Dance around the living room to pounding rock and roll or salsa, twitching my hips in a way that makes me feel more like a woman? And what if I'm left with a portion of the surgeon's bill that will be a burden for months to come? Without fully using my body, I tire more easily. Other aches and pains emerge. But this morning I arrived home, or at least to the front door. It's open because even if I never walk normally again. If my health starts sliding downhill from lack of exercise, there's still enough time and life to make what's left to me count. To live large with what's at hand. You see, if all those fears manifest into what is, I want to be like the woman I met a few years ago. A retired attorney whose resided in an assisted living facility. Whose bed was covered by books, along with a computer and ten telephones, all of which she used to do pro bono work for people who couldn't afford the services of an attorney. Home for her about compassion. She lived large; creatively and courageously. Thinking of her, I managed to conjure up a place where the door was open. There was a fire inside the fireplace. Fragrant smells coming from a cast iron pot bubbling on the stove top. The one I use for delicious soups, hearty stews and jambalayas. Looking down the mat on the doorstep said Welcome Home.

The Answer(s) Are Blowin' In The Wind

Was feeling a little blue last night thinking of missing the saturday night dance, in a town that remains new to me; a fairly isolated one at that. Went out on the deck with a glass of white wine. Dylan's voice drifted outside - 'the answer is blowin' in the wind.' That little bump brought a giggle as I remembered letting go of the Saturday Night Dance fever a long time ago! My days are busy with work, exploration and although I've had a couple of intriguing meets, those deep meaningful friendships in a new place can take time.
The phrase lingered as I drifted off to sleep.
The story of the man stranded on his roof as the river rose. You may know the one. He's praying for rescue. A boat arrives, then a helicopter. He sends both away saying he's waiting for Divine Salvation. When he arrives in heaven, he asks... why didn't you answer me. You darn, fool, I sent help twice and you refused.
Thinking that maybe Dylan had something going on, I was reminded how easy it is to miss the boat!
This morning, after my morning routine of meditation and breaking fast, I checked my email. Anjanita had posted a photo of flowers and an excerpt from The Little Prince and his one rose. (author St. Euxpery). On the deck were two gorgeous pink rose blossoms. Most of the roses didn't survive the excess rain, but these two exuded a beautiful perfume.

Went outside to sweep the front entry and noticed that the mat was facing my way. It said Welcome!

The Saturday Dance has begun...

Five Reasons for Laughing In Times of Adversity

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?

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.

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.

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.)