Losing Touch

Last November I experienced a terrible pain from my neck, down my right shoulder blade, along the tricep and then down the forearm, into my hand leaving my index and middle finger numb.  They have remained numb since regardless of physical therapy, chiropractic work, acupuncture, dance, yoga and anything else I could think of that might help.  My doctor had me get MRIs done at which point it became very clear that nothing but surgery would remedy my pain and numbness.  So next Friday, September 6th, I will have surgery on my cervical spine to remove bone from C5, C6 and C7 that are compressing nerves. 

One of the biggest impacts this has had on my life is that it has made working on computers much more painful.  I'm on computers all day at work and have successfully re-trained myself to mouse left handed.  But by the end of the day, when I get home, the thought of opening my laptop and doing more work, as is my habit, became too much.  My websites have all lapsed, my social networking hit and miss, and no more mobile apps development.  So I've lost touch, not just from my finger tips, but also with friends, my writing, and my work.  I didn't realize how much of my connection to this world of people happens via the computer. 

On a more personal note I consider myself very tactile.  When I shop for clothes, which I loathe doing, I shop with my hands.  I don't buy clothes unless they are pleasing to my fingers first.  I love touching my daughter's hair, stroking my lover's skin, petting my kitties, tree bark, satin, mud, new baby green growth on the tips of the evergreen trees, and on and on.  I run my fingers over the surfaces of my dishes as I wash them to dislodge any remnants of stuck on food.  It's been interesting to note the things that I miss.  Also noticing when I burn or cut one of my fingers without notice has been a bit alarming. 

As surgery neared, and the details became more clear I sent out an email to those I hold dearest.  Most responded with good wishes but what stood out was one silent voice.  It's made me realize how easy it is to lose touch without even noticing.  A dear friend of nearly 30 years, who has co-written music and creative prose with me,  has disappeared into the mist of passing time - his reassuring voice lost to me on this occasion.  Admittedly, it is difficult to maintain fulfilling relationships at long distances, but that doesn't mean we miss them any less when we realize they are gone.

What is this life is it isn't one of relationships, of touching one another.  The worst feeling in the world is to be truly alone, isolated.  Ask anyone who has lived through solitary confinement.  As my immediate world contracts for a period of convalescence,  my heart expands, nourished by all the love and care that I'm receiving from my loved ones.    The surgeon expects me to get feeling back in my fingers in time.  As I heal, I intend to reach out with restored love and interest in touching this world in every way that I can. 

Who knows, I might even blog more....

Guns, Girls and Violence

When this image went around Facebook recently there were two reactions to it: one cheering her and her family on, the other reminding us of the toll guns take, especially on the innocent.  On the pro-gun side was the feeling that this girl will never become a victim because of her ability to wield this automatic weapon and that she may even one day become a defender of freedom, fighting for her country (presumably the USA).  Another strain of thinking are that  guns are the great equalizer for girls and women in a world full of crazy, unpredictable, and dangerous men.  Of course we also notice that she's wearing a hoody with peace signs showing a big disconnect in our culture regarding the meaning of peace.

My personal stand on guns is not as clear cut as some of my fellow pacifists.  Certainly I have abandoned the gun, the knife, the sword, the nun-chucks, the death stars, tasers and even the pepper spray, as my form of self defense.  I have adopted instead the form of defense used by Gandhi and other great leaders, my heart and my mind, or love.  Most of those great leaders that I'm thinking of ultimately died by the gun, assassinated.  But, the reality check is that if Gandhi or Dr. King had taken up the gun to start with, their time on earth would have most certainly been shortened by many more years.   But that's another discussion regarding large nonviolent movements, not the safety of home and family which seems to be the greatest concern evoked when looking at this image.

To start let me qualify my opinion with my own history.  I grew up eating venison and elk, a child of the great Northwest.  The animals had been hunted, cleaned and dressed by my father and grandfather.  I saw the deer cleaned.  I fondly remember the warmth of wrapping myself in their musky hides.   I even played with a severed foreleg from a deer for several days, fascinated by the way the tendons caused the hoof to flex.  My mother eventually took it from me, scolding my grandad for letting me play with this "dead thing".  I learned to fish and clean and cook my own catch from my grandfather.  I'm not easily grossed out or timid when it comes to hunting.  My ex-husband is also a hunter and although I refused to eat the dead squirrels in the freezer, I didn't faint from them being there.  It was part of his Kentucky heritage (yes, they eat rodents in the South and that's just the beginning).  I learned to shoot a gun from my father.  I enjoyed going to the shooting range with my husband.  So this is part of my heritage too.  But I have changed in my attitudes over the years.  But just as I'm not a militant vegetarian, I won't force my opinions on others, or condemn their choices as "wrong".  My world has never been black or white, love or hate, not even gay or straight, I've always been one that finds some middle ground, or something more akin to a tightrope, on which to walk my walk  This quote from Gandhi makes me wonder if didn't also have moments on the tightrope over this issue.

 Gandhi wrote in Chapter XXVII, "The Recruiting Campaign," in his autobiography, My Experiments with Truth:
'Among the many misdeeds of the British rule in India, history will look upon the Act depriving a whole nation of arms as the blackest.

I've spent a number of hours pondering this statement.  Some may say that Gandhi misspoke, or that he might have felt differently at the end of his life.  I don't know Gandhi's mind but what I see in this statement is the same message of fear I hear coming from NRA (National Rifle Association) that helps people sidestep skilful action and enter into the survivalist mentality pictured above.  Our culture associates guns with respect and the ability to protect and provide for oneself and family. Clearly even Gandhi succumbed to this argument.  But there is another reality, guns were designed for one purpose, the destruction of life.  So this is where my attitude begins to shift.

While living in the Bull Creek Wildlife Management area out in the swamps of Florida between Melbourne and Kissimmee I would keep a gun near my bed.  I was staying in a house, five miles from a paved road and a good 15 to 20 miles from any signs of civilization.  The gun wasn't to protect me against critters;  gators, wild boar and snakes of all variety.  The gun was for the people out there, many who bragged about killing based on skin color.  These people were also well armed so I'm not sure how I would have saved myself with the gun, but I found it reassuring.  My intent was to kill if anyone threatened me.  I truly believe I would have done so.  After leaving that place and encountering Buddhism I've had to look back on that intention with new critical eyes.  In my study I came to see that every moment and every thought is shaping what is to come, part of karma.  Karma isn't just in the physical action or the damage done in retrospect, but it is the intention as well.  So to keep a gun is to have the negative intention for my fellow beings.  Same is true for holding any weapon including the nuclear arsenal we continue to allow our government to hold.  That is Himalayan sized negative intention put into the world and it threatens all of us.

So what DO we teach little girls?  This image and its caption tell me that the author believes that girls are truly helpless without a big weapon.  Are you helpless without your gun?  Am I helpless?  I've managed to live 45 years without needing to kill anyone to survive.  Is my daughter helpless?  One thing I've told her time and again is that a man's Achilles heel is not his heel, and if a man ever tries to grab her she must hit and kick, even bite that tender area until he's crying on the ground and then run like hell.  Never, never let them take you anywhere.  But I also tell her that everyone she sees is hurting, but only a rare few will hurt her.  More importantly, we all need each other.  Within each of us are seeds for good and bad.  We cannot garden ourselves very well, so we depend on the intentions of others to water and nurture those seeds within us just as they depend on us to do the same for them.  If we go around looking at each other suspiciously, our hand on the butt of a gun, the wrong seeds will continue to sprout as they have been since the beginning of our nation.  Do we wish to be the Nation of compassionate people working for the well-being of this world and its inhabitants or will we continue to be the Nation of self-centered cowboys, cowgirls, gangsters, bankers and CEOs who value our possessions over life?  I know what my intention is.  I suspect that if Gandhi could glimpse the world today, the countless children killed or wounded due to firearms in homes, the dead black children in our inner cities, the school shootings, the nuclear arsenals, the white phosphor burns, the cluster bombs, the depleted uranium birth defects and cancers, he may very well have altered his statement.  All these weapons are all mind-made, and it is our minds that also hold the door to our freedom.

Water the seeds of good intention. 

The Rose City Invasion met with Love

The first thing to be disrupted by our commitment to nonviolence will be not the system but our own lives. ~ James Douglass

Every June in Portland we begin the celebration of the Rose City with a festival, but also with the Naval Fleet.  The fleet began visiting in 1907.  The girls come out of the woodwork to hook up with a sailor (certainly not the brightest thing for a young girl to do).   People flock to tour the boats.  It's a tradition, part of the cultural identity of this city and its festival.  But there are a hand full of activists who take a moment to stop and publicly question whether this is appropriate.  It's not 1907 anymore.  Our wars today are wars of aggression, wars to take what we want from other countries.  Our own people are losing their homes, their savings and their jobs to continue to feed a war economy with no end in site.  Does it still make sense to show our support in this way?  When the navy has been re purposed to save people, to help in coastal floods and tsunamis, rather than carry around an arsenal, then I will gladly take my daughter to see the ships.  Until then it's my duty as a world citizen to say in my loving and nonviolent way, "No, not here". 

My brother was in the Navy.  A good friend and colleague worked on the nuclear subs which ultimately sparked his interest in Physics which he later earned a degree in.  These are not bad people.  Neither were their commanders.  In our culture they were doing what they believed to be right and just way of earning a living and getting an education (and travel the world).  If we dehumanize them, or condemn them, we've lost and there will be no progress toward peace.  We need them to help us send a message to the top of the command chain.  We need them to know we care, we don't hate them for what they do.  It's helped me to watch this talk by Shelley and Jim Douglass to remind myself how to protest against these war machines.  They have worked many years doing this and are an inspiration.

So I put my sword down, and pick up my desire to heal these deep wounds between us and them.

My Two Year Protest

On May 1st 2010 I wrote in my journal about the great sense of freedom that I felt as I headed back into Portland on the train after leaving my Rav4 with Toyota Beaverton, beginning what would be a two year experiment in the car free life. Some interpreted my decision as an attempt to be green.  That wasn't why I did it.  I did it for the children of Iraq and Afghanistan.  Every time I filled the tank I knew it was with their blood.  Pretty soon I just couldn't drive it anymore.  This experiment was my personal protest.  Many people looked at me as if I'd completely mad. Looking back I can see their point. I'm a single Mom that works a full time job that's 15 miles South of the city. And naturally, I had to make that even harder on myself by moving 6 miles North of downtown to a community house where I would no longer be living by my own rules, without a clothes dryer (sweaty bike ride plus sour clothes, trust me, it's not a good smell), and add a nice hill climb on the bike ride home when I was the most tired everyday and you have a very bad DOE (design of experiment). As an engineer I should have known better than to change so many variables at once. But I always have tended to make my own life as hard on myself as possible.

The experiment started well. I had prepared to do this for well over a year, leaving my Rav parked while I tested out my theories and various routes to get around in life. At first I would ride my bike downtown and then put it on the bus for the 15 mile trip to Tualatin, where I work, and then ride the remaining two miles from the bus stop to my lab. Our city buses only accommodate two bikes, and it seems I wasn't the only one with this idea, so I was left stranded a couple times, enough to change my strategy. I would then lock my bike at the waterfront, get a nice cuppa at Three Rivers Cafe, and enjoy looking out of the sleepy morning river with it's dragon boat teams practicing their maneuvers. It was a nice start to the day, but gave rise to some jealousy. You see, I had been a regular kayaking fool before the experiment, but having no way to get my beautiful blue sea kayak to water I reluctantly sold her. I miss the times I had all alone on the water, whether a lazy paddle on the Tualatin, or something more aggressive on the Willamette or Columbia, it was my refueling station and after two years without it, I feel very empty.

After my quiet moments by the water I'd hustle to the bus stop, ride down the I-5 (often witnessing a beautiful sunrise), then catch a free shuttle, provided by the Tualatin Chamber of Commerce, or if the weather was nice I'd walk the two miles in. This morning trip takes about 1.25 hours. On the way home the duration stretches out for up to 2 hours, sometimes more. Yes, for the last two years I've spent 16+ hours a week in transit, about 800 hours a year (at my current rate of pay, that's almost $30k/yr). My company paid for my transit passes and my bike ride was free, so the only costs I had were for Zipcars, which is a car share program that helped me out in emergency situations. In my two years I've spent nearly $5k in zipcars, that comes to a little over $200 a month. So although my commute was free, in practical terms it was not at all free. Plus I could no longer work overtime because the weekend commute was impossible. I even had to walk out in the middle of important conversations because my shuttle was waiting. I'm a professional, and that's not acceptable. So the real cost is hard to calculate, but it was clearly getting to the point where a car payment and insurance made sense again.

When I started the experiment I thought about the health benefits.  As a middle aged woman nearing menopause, the battle of the bulge is nonstop.  I really had expected that this would be a non-issue if I took on so much activity.  To my surprise I gained weight, but that was more due to the shared eating at the communal house in North Portland and my lack of discipline to turn down the candy, ice cream and pies.  My cardio endurance did improve, but I did have quite a scare with chest pain last year.  It was nothing serious but a loud wake up call to my age and changing body.  My upper body strength has diminished considerably.  My occasional knee pain is now a constant companion.  The knee pain has caused my quads to waste to nothing.  I have more hip pain.  To do this commute also requires packing everything you and your child need on your back everyday.  I now have a constant dull  backache and worse posture, something new in my life.  So the health benefits associated with a daily biking/walking practice are questionable.  Mechanically it has caused me more trouble, but my heart health is top notch.

Regardless of my loss of freedom to move about the country at will, my lost time on the water, health concerns and the financial sacrifice, I persisted for two years in this, my personal protest.  The house experiment ended after only 9 months and I moved closer in to town to another community, but this one provides each resident with sovereignty over their own space and each unit has its own kitchen and thanks to the goddesses and gods, there's a shared laundry facility with a dryer.  My daughter's school is only a mile away and she can walk it easily after much practice (and the $1/mile allowance I gave her).  It has extended her endurance a lot and has also sensitized her to those around us who, not by their own choice, are also walking.  But after much consideration and seeing another summer approaching where there would be logistic hurdles to climb that stretched well beyond my creative capacity, I've ended my protest. 

So what has it got me?  The children here and abroad are no safer, if anything less so.  My one vehicle didn't make even a miniscule change in America's footprint.  As long as our military continues to burn fuel at their current rate, even every American going car free wouldn't matter.  But for two years, everyday, I've thought about my world in a new way.  I've made friends on mass transit.  I've listened to the stories of people I've met who struggle each day just to get out of bed to face commutes of more than 4 hours a day for maybe a 6 or 8 hour job.  I've listened to alcoholics who have lost their licenses.  One recently broke her ankle in three places and faces over a year of riding the bus with a walker and in pain to get to her job, which she cannot afford to lose.  I've sat next to smelly people, people speaking and even yelling and some invisible stranger and I've learned not to fear them or run another way.  I recognize my common humanity with all of them in a way that my insulated car life had blocked.  Sometimes I felt more like them, then this well paid professional that I am at work.  And my daughter took the ride with me and has shared in these lessons.  She hands money to the homeless without fear.  She cares and wants to know about the man with the Navy cap in the wheelchair with the scarred face and missing ear as our bus heads towards the vet hospital.  She's seen all kinds of people with various missing limbs, vision problems, hallucinations and colorful clothing, or lack of - and she seems to understand in a way that I never could have at age 7 that they are not monsters, but just like us only broken in different ways.  We are all on this big blue boat together, for better or for worse, so we should give each other respect, love and even a smile from time to time.  This world needs it - we all do.

One other thing my daughter has learned in her hours of waiting for buses and walking our city streets hand in hand with her Mommy - she's the queen of silly walks.  Watch out John Cleese, Alexa is making her moves. Oh, and although my protest wasn't about global warming, or being green, my choice in a new vehicle is.  Our new sled is a Prius C - so far I've been getting 50+ mpg consistently on my commute to work and it's plenty peppy.  I'm not quite ready to be so green as to go without a clothes dryer again, but this is a start.

A Mothers Day Request

I don't want cards or chocolate
I want to look at my daughter and know she will have a full life
living in a world worth living in
Where trees still beckon to the Great Spirit above
and the body of our Mother Earth is respected and cared for

I want my daughter's friends of all colors to be safe from harm
regardless of what resources they were born near
or that their parents can be exploited for cheap labor
I want technology to bring them together not rip them apart

I want her to be safe from men who would exploit her body for money
I want her to be free to trust without being betrayed
I want her heart not to be chained and bound by fear
I want her to love whomever she chooses to love

I want men to grow up so my daughter can have a long, safe life
stop blowing things up in our backyards, because they're your yards too
stop making bigger bombs, robots, and stealth killers
stop raping us and this planet - we are not your playthings
stop acting so stupid, so tough, and please pull up your pants

I want us all to give peace a real chance
turn the other cheek, but don't turn away from suffering
carry the extra weight if you can, helping the hurting ones
listen, don't talk
breathe, don't think
and start anew

Then I, and all Mothers Everywhere, may have a Happy Mothers Day

A Tale of Two Soldiers

There are two soldiers that represent so much of what is wrong in our war culture. One is Bradley Manning and the other is Robert Bales.

Bradley Manning, a queer boy bullied at home and abroad, in a final bid to fit the expected “tough boy” mold, joined the Army. In a futile attempt to suppress his feminine side, the very side that yelled every time he watched innocent people die needlessly, he finally succumbed in a desperate hope and belief that if American people could see the horror of war they would stop it. The kinds of atrocities that tore at the soul of Manning were exactly that very evil allegedly committed by Robert Bales.

Robert Bales is the Army Sergeant accused of killing 16 Afghan villagers as they slept, including 9 children. What drives a father of two to kill the sleeping children of others? What could have been in his mind as he stabbed innocent babes to death? Revenge? At whom? The Army that sent him back even after he’d suffered a brain injury? The villagers because he’d seen his friend lose a leg to a bomb earlier in the week and so he blamed all Afghans? At himself, hoping someone would stop him, put him out of his own misery and inability to help his own family—who, at that moment, were losing their home?

Both of these soldiers come from the Midwest; Manning from Oklahoma and Bales from Ohio. After Manning’s parents divorced, when he was 13, Manning moved to Wales with his mother. There he suffered bullying in the school system due to his effeminate nature. After passing his secondary school certification exams he returned to Oklahoma City to live with his father. Difficulties at home drove him to move in with an aunt in Washington D.C. After a series of low-paying jobs he enlisted in the Army and trained as an intelligence analyst. He was later deployed to Iraq, all the while a victim of redneck bullying by men probably much like our second soldier.

Bales is a well-established tough guy, fitting all the characteristics mandated by our violent, male-centric society. He played football through high school and college. He was 27 when 9/11/01 occurred. Two months later he enlisted to exact revenge for his country. One year into his service he was brought up on assault charges, which resulted in a warning from the judge to get anger management counseling. He gave up the next 11 years of his life in multiple deployments, the last one seemingly pushing him over the edge. While his government made up lies about WMD to send him to fight in Iraq, his family struggled in the failing war economy at home. Three days before his rampage his wife listed the house on the market, a short sell, as they owe more than the house it is worth, and they are behind in their payments.

Robert Bales had been a soldier in good standing, having been awarded several medals, suffering a couple injuries in the line of duty, including a head trauma. He fit the American stereotype of a hero, but was really a monster in the making. He begged the Army not to send him back, but lacked the courage to stand firm and refuse re-deployment so that he could protect his own home and family.

While Manning seemed far from hero material, he showed great courage by pulling back the veil on these wars. He showed us the murderers of the war—those who, as Bales is alleged to have done, engaged in killing because they’ve had too much trauma or stress and are no longer in touch with their humanity. How many more massacres, suicides, and homeless vets and homeless families will it take for Americans to begin to put it all together and see that war, and our “kick-ass” mentality, is just wrong. So many American men have been reduced to the level of mad dogs by this thinking and the alpha males in Washington D.C. are doing little to help them, their families, or the rest of us.

Both men sit in cells in Ft. Leavenworth. One has endured ten months of torture and abuse in Quantico before being transferred after pressure from a concerned public. His life has been dragged through the media, making a mockery of all that is sensitive and caring in his nature, reminding us all that the worst thing to be in a war culture is a woman or woman-like. The other has been treated with compassion and understanding by his captors and the mainstream media. The sad plight of his family is being used as an excuse for his behavior. One will likely spend the rest of his days in a military prison while the other might spend a few years in the system, only to be released into Dante’s next level of Hell, reintegration into a world he’s long lost touch with—or has he?

We are all victims of a war culture. We live in a society that can more quickly forgive a soldier who murders children in their sleep than it can a soldier who reveals the dark secrets of war, embarrassing higher-ups on The Hill with their own leaked words. In truth, Manning embarrassed us all, as war is fought in our names in what we so proudly call a democracy.

War and violence require secrecy. A culture of peace has nothing to hide. There’s no need for WikiLeaks in that world. What if America had evolved to embody peaceful ideas instead of perpetual violence and expansion? We might still have a state-paid body of rigorously trained people who could employ the latest technologies to help our brothers and sisters across the globe. Rather than kill their children to get their oil, we could exchange food and other products or services, providing them with farming technology rather than leaving their fields barren and toxic and littered with unexploded ordnance to ensure we continue to kill their children long after our troops leave.

We used violence to break free of an Empire more than 200 years ago, and we continued to use violence to take over the lands of the First Peoples and now we have become that which we once fought so hard to escape, an evil colonizing empire projecting power across the globe with an iron fist that has now outdone the British Empire.

Our children are weaned on First-shooter video games, teaching their malleable brains how to kill from an early age. The Department of Defense has infiltrated our High Schools and our childrens’ private records for recruitment based on personal family demographics, thanks to the No Child Left Behind legislation, clearly meaning no child left un-recruited. Since the early 1990’s fifth graders across America have enjoyed a fun-filled week at a military base under the guise of Science, Technology, Engineering and Math (STEM) education in a program named Starbase. They also get to tour the grounds, touch armored vehicles, look into cockpits of fighter jets, play with bomb diffusing robots and other whiz-bang technology ultimately intended to destroy human life. Even my seven-year-old daughter is not immune to the toxic environment that the war system brings. In her after school program she played with Legos with a boy her age. I commented that it looked like they had built a great city, but they excitedly corrected me that it was, in fact, bombs going off. My country has become so very entangled in the war system. The economies of most cities depend on Pentagon contracts to survive. We all contribute via our tax dollars, and often directly with our labor and knowledge in research. We suckle at the teats of this monster while it starves us both body and soul.

In 1961 Dwight D. Eisenhower warned us about the Military Industrial Complex as he made his exit from the White House. We didn’t listen. In 1971 Daniel Ellsberg released the Pentagon Papers, showing the Vietnam War with all its depravity reaching to the very top. Still we didn’t listen. In 2010 Wikileaks exposed volumes of memos and videos of troops gunning down unarmed journalists and civilians from a helicopter, purportedly supplied by Manning. Still we don’t listen. We ignore our own children as they toy with concepts of mass killing and death. We ignore our own hearts at our own peril. War has always been immoral. The question is, are you? All it takes to change is for you, me, and a few million of our closest friends to change our minds, to value life over death. Bradley may die in prison, but he’ll die with a clear conscience. He did the best he could to show us the truth. Bales will not have that option. If he did those murders, he’s taken what cannot be repaid. His best hope is to spend the rest of his days caring for war orphans to heal his own deep wounds and theirs. The karmic wheel of life will exact a toll on him far greater than any court could assign.

As these stories fade from the headlines, what will be their legacy? Will we learn or will we continue, killing more innocent human beings in Iran, or some other place simply to keep the engines of our cars and our war machine churning? Change takes courage. I challenge us all to have that courage to turn away from this and find another path before it is too late.

How Occupy Stole Christmas

Dr. Suess was the first author many of us learned and loved.  This time of year it is the Grinch.  I remember how I looked forward each year to seeing the Grinch on t.v. and hearing that wonderful deep narration by Boris Karloff and the singing voice of Thurl Ravenscroft (also Tony the Tiger for my generation t.v. viewers and cereal munchers).  It was the highlight of the Christmas season.  I've often wondered why that show, of all Christmas shows, was the one that was a must see for me.  Charlie Brown was cute, but not that interesting.  Rudolf was downright sexist (have you seen it since the 70s?).  There was Frosty and the others, but none captured my attention the way that the Grinch did.  Recently, I was asked to do a reading for a group that would help blend the message of the Occupy movement with the season and I immediately thought of my favorite childhood Christmas show.  Here's what I read:

It was quarter past dawn...
All the Whos, still a-bed
All the Whos, still a-snooze
When he packed up his sled,
Packed it up with their presents! The ribbons! The wrappings!
The tags! And the tinsel! The trimmings! The trappings!
Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mount Crumpit,
He rode to the tiptop to dump it!
"Pooh-pooh to the Whos!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming.
"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!
"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!
"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
"The all the Whos down in Who-ville will all cry BOO-HOO!"
"That's a noise," grinned the Grinch,
"That I simply must hear!"
So he paused. And the Grinch put a hand to his ear.
And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
It started in low. Then it started to grow...
But the sound wasn't sad!
Why, this sound sounded merry!
It couldn't be so!
But it WAS merry! VERY!
He stared down at Who-ville!
The Grinch popped his eyes!
Then he shook!
What he saw was a shocking surprise!
Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small,
Was singing! Without any presents at all!
He HADN'T stopped Christmas from coming!
IT CAME!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!
And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?
It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

What was the Grinch's complaint after all?  He was disgusted by the materialism of the holiday.  I feel this same disgust each and every year.  It's only exacerbated by the fact that I now have a 7 year old that thinks Santa should bring everything her heart desires. 

So what would happen in the US if families woke to find their homes "robbed" of all the Christmas loot?  I doubt we'd all join hands and sing in the streets.  You could probably even determine a person's political leanings by their reactions.  The Republicans would be looking in all the nearby neighborhoods and stealing what they could to make their own Christmas seem a little better (aided by the US Military naturally).  The Libertarians would form a well armed posse to seek out the sneakly 'ol Grinch and then they'd shoot him and mount him over a fireplace.  The Democrats would wait to see what everyone else did and then try to do what the Republicans are doing all the while smiling and assuring everyone that all is well.  There would be the idealistic folks that hold hands around the city tree downtown and sing - and they would be happy.  Then there are those of us who would be busy researching all the activities, blogging about it, tweeting it out, posting on Facebook, flash mobbing, and having a protest about it, but once we're certain that the Republicans are not behind the whole thing we might join hands and sing too.  The young, the visionaries and those who can see into tomorrow because it belongs to them, they would bring a tent and set it up by the tree, and they start singing loud enough to scare the Republicans, Democrats and Libertarians.  Those of us busy networking the event feel our hearts grow at least three times larger watching their courage and loving the sound of their voices rising up.  They are the Spirit of Christmas and of the Rebel Jesus.  They are the ones feeding the homeless.  They are the ones acknowledging the true worth and dignity of each living being.  They are the ones experimenting with real democracy at each General Assembly, sitting for hours to make sure even the smallest Who has a say.  It is their voices that soften the Grinch in people like me this season.  Merry Christmas Occupy!

PreOccupied

I completed my fifth year at Novellus Systems Inc where I manage the analytical lab and virtual library.  One of the benefits of this passage of time is that I was given a five week sabbatical.  So this was my year.  I was allowed to split up my time so my first week was spent at a retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh in Vancouver BC with my daughter.  The retreat posed many challenges for me, and as the Buddha would suggest, the rewards were equally remarkable.  Since my daughters birth I had come to compartmentalize my life - there's the spiritual woman on her journey to truth, the student of nonviolence, the worker and the mother.  As you may note I'm missing some crucial aspects of my life, but I'm still a work in progress.  On this retreat the biggest challenge was bridging my parenting role with that of seeker.  There was a constant tug between meeting her needs and following my own desires for the experience of mindful living in the larger community of lay followers.  After a few battles of will I finally realized that becoming the mindful parent was the beneficial outcome.  I had to let go of my attachment to a version of myself that was at odds with what I needed to be in that moment.  For the benefit of my small happy family I let go of it and came back to the present moment to give my daughter what she most needed - me.  My child is my practice just as much as sitting on a cushion is my practice or walking in nature or nonviolence.  It was not a lesson learned gracefully, but learned nonetheless.

As I looked over my calendar and contemplated my remaining sabbatical time I noticed a particularly busy time coming up in October so I scheduled three weeks off, from October 3rd through the 21st.  The USNPCA typically has it's conference the weekend of Indigenous People's Day (aka Columbus Day).  This year we decided to move it to Spring.  I decided to keep the time off scheduled so I could work on my new screen play and prepare for a training I had committed to that looked at the C-LARA technique for dialogue through the lens of trauma awareness for interested staff at Sister's of the Road.  My daughter's birthday is October 8th, so I also had a birthday party to organize. Then I had a couple web projects to start on and a presentation to give in Memphis for the PJSA/Gandhi-King Conference.  

As my time off approached I watched with curiosity as the Occupy Wall Street action unfolded on September 16th.  I was pleasantly surprised by the turn out and the adherence to nonviolence.  The week before my sabbatical started I heard that Portland would begin it's own solidarity occupation on October 6th.  As I eased into my lab free days I was called by my good friend Tom to assist in a deescalation training for some of the organizers for the Occupy Portland action.  It was naturally on the same night as my training at Sisters - so I requested Sisters to reschedule and they gladly did for the following Wednesday morning.  This was my first interaction with the local Occupy team.  Most were well versed in social movements and yet we heard subtle rumblings on the "diversity of tactics" topic.  It seems that every movement is plagued by this. It's like a badly scratched record that skips to the ending before it even begins. The following morning the organizers began their rally by meeting together for prayer and meditation.  They held firm to the power of nonviolence and the people came - thousands of Portlanders came with their children and their grandparents.  I saw all generations standing there at the waterfront.  The police were relaxed and jovial.  The 99% united in a moment of truth.  It was nonviolence manifest and a beautiful thing.

My next week started with word through the counter recruitment network that the Portland Public School Board intended to vote on Starbase again, and soon, as well as an option to allow counter recruiters into High Schools.  Another parent and myself crafted a letter for the board and principals of participating schools to please reconsider DoD Starbase, a civil-military program that introduces fifth graders to high tech military careers.   I then collected signatures from local organizations to increase the impact of our humble request.  We collected 25 organizational signatures.  I had also started a petition in September that asks the Board to end this program.  By the night of October 17th, the night of the vote, we had 141 signatures to present them with.  One of the parents who had originally started the movement 6 years earlier lost her temper during the proceedings, undermining our effort to remain respectful and professional.  When thinking about 10 year olds being bussed to a military base for a week of physics fun followed by career counseling on military jobs, it's easy to lose one's hold on emotions and slip into a tantrum, but as a strategy for success it rarely works.  Working against militarization of youth in our culture has taken a front seat in much of my work.  Even the presentation I would give the following week in Memphis was on this topic.  So few realize how insidious this is, but when you begin to read comments in local papers that rant about the "anti-war" people, the veil will lift.  Etched into the angry words is a common fear that the American way of life is not only wrong for the planet and the life on it, but inherently evil.  Programs like Starbase attempt to indoctrinate the next generation into this accepted view that the U.S. is at the top due to it's military, it's willingness to use violence and Divine sanction.  It's my hope, and those of others in this work, to broaden the American vision to include the rest of the world.

While in Memphis the angry parent from the board meeting proceeded to verbally assault members of the Portland Public School board via email.  The language was violent, even inappropriately employing curse words and repeating obscene military chants.  She went to the extreme of tying Starbase to the tragedy in Columbine and pointing her finger in blame to these people if any such tragedy were to happen here.  Admittedly there is a connection between militarism and cultural violence, but we must also consider media, parental acceptance of guns and gun violence, access to guns, bullying, and a host of other issues.  If I believed that ending this program would eradicate all potential for violence for our children, I'd make the ultimate sacrifice to stop it.  But it's only one cog in a much more complicated machine.  Remaining true to my convictions I intervened in the discussion sending a private email to the parent asking that she take it down a notch and suggesting she might look into a workshop on nonviolent communication.  My intervention worked, but not the way I'd hoped, as all her rage turned from the board member toward me.  Her vitriolic reply was copied to all, enraging yet another of the group.  When one other activist in our group defended my stand he also became the object of her scorn as she ranted about our personalities and how we live our lives but not about our tactics, or what was really the core issue causing her anger.  The second person that defended her argued for the diversity of tactics, justifying any language necessary to shock the board members.  No matter how unlikely it is that cussing out the board members will result in a vote in our favor, they insist on the right to do it as representatives of the group.  As a result I have largely withdrawn from the group but continue to work with other groups that have adopted a clear nonviolent code of conduct. 

During the conference in Memphis we were gifted by the presence of many academics, K-12 teachers and activists from across North America.   Occupy Memphis was in full swing and many from the conference joined them for a march to the Lorraine Hotel, where MLK Jr. was assassinated.  As I watch the Occupy movement grow in number Dr. King often comes to mind.  I believe his work to bring poverty to the attention of the world was what motivated his assassin.  He would be so proud of this new Occupy movement.  Maybe one day the rich will realize that the best way to stay in positions of advantage is to make sure there is no poverty.  Dolores Huerta gave a cheer for the 99%, "Si, Se Puede" - Yes We Can.  Another great soul Pancho Ramos Stierle told us about Karma Kitchen and how we all should practice radical kindness.  I had met Pancho years before in Oakland while there for an educators for nonviolence conference.  Then he and his family stayed with us at Whitefeather and my daughter just adored him.  He gives the best hugs and simply exudes loving kindness to all he meets.

While at the conference I listened to a great panel discussion on principled versus strategic nonviolence.  What I loved most was that the question of nonviolence was not at issue, there was no talk of the diversity of tactics amongst this esteemed group of panelist including Michael Nagler, Matt Meyer, Elavie Ndura, and Daryn Cambridge.  Gene Sharp provided 198 nonviolent tactics in his book and since then at least that many more have been added.  There is no shortage of diversity of tactics.  Maybe tactic is the wrong word, it's more like a vibe.  Will the movement honor a welcoming grandparents and child friendly vibe so that the real 99% can participate.  Or will it take on an adversarial and violent vibe that only the young and immortal can participate in.  

My three weeks of corporate freedom have long since ended.  I watched as the Nov. 2nd General Strike happened in Oakland - amazed by the people power.  The next morning I was saddened to see that the diversity of vibes had won the media with images of violence. But on the morning of the 14th I saw this image, of my friend Pancho Ramos Stierle, mediating at the Occupy Oakland.  He was one of 32 people arrested during the sweep early Monday in Frank Ogawa Plaza.  Now he faces deportation.  His action has brought awareness of the growing issues facing our immigrant population along with the issues already being forced into the open by the Occupy movement.  Looking at the various images from Oakland, it is with Pancho that I most resonate and feel the force of peaceful protest.  I would gladly take my daughter with me to sit with Pancho.  He has learned the lesson that I struggled with in August, and that the angry parent from Portland still struggles with - sometimes we have to let go of our own narrative and do what's best for the larger family of One. After all, isn't that what we're asking the School Board to do, the police, the politicians, and the 1% - how can we do any less.

Pancho's arraignment is at 2pm on Wednesday the 15th.  Please sign this petition for his release.  If you are in Oakland, be a peaceful presence at the courthouse.  Thanks!

http://www.change.org/petitions/free-pancho-now

How Empires Fall

This is not my work, but from another site.  I found the historical parallels quite interesting.  I'm hoping the ending will be written differently for America in that the masses rise up nonviolently, ending the US power projection abroad, creating a new egalitarian democracy and living up to the dreams of our founding fathers. 

We all know that our empire is falling apart (read Johan Galtung's The Fall of the US Empire).  It is up to us to define what replaces it.  

Reading the research of Chenoweth we now know that to create lasting democracy it must be a nonviolent people's movement.  A violent revolution typically only brings a more oppressive leadership, or just more of the same. We seeing the beginning of this now, with Occupy Wall Street which is spreading to Financial districts in many major cities.  If you participate, please take a pledge of nonviolence.  Let's stand together to make this country better for all of us, the 99%.

The link to the original piece is at the bottom if you're interested.

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The Romans (Americans) called the people who lived outside the Roman Empire barbarians (foreigners, terrorists or aliens). In the 4th century AD the Roman Army (US Military) had considerable difficulty in stopping these Barbarians (terrorists) from entering the Roman Empire (including all the occupied territories like Iraq, Afghanistan, all of Latin America - well, shucks, doesn't the whole world really belong to the US).  The Romans were forced to increase the size of their army. By the end of the 4th century AD it had grown to 600,000 men. Of these, 250,000 were stationed on Rome's northern borders (occupied nations).

Taxation had to be increased to pay for this large army. These taxes were higher than most people could afford and created wide-scale poverty (doesn't the war economy work for you?!). Some people were forced to sell their children into slavery (or just ignore them and let the gangs or violent media raise them), while others died of starvation.

Plague also became a problem and during one outbreak people in Rome were dying at the rate of 5,000 a day (you just can't afford a good health care system when you have wars to pay for). The population of the Roman Empire began to fall dramatically (the true blue European bred Americans that is) and this in turn reduced the numbers of people available to join the army.

The growth of Christianity also created problems for the Roman Empire. Large numbers of Roman citizens became monks and refused to get married and have children. This not only contributed to the fall in population but also reduced Roman tax revenues.

Some Christians claimed that Jesus had preached non-violence (radical religious zealots). Christians who interpreted the words of Jesus in this way often refused to join the Roman army. Even citizens who were not Christians were reluctant to join, and emperors were forced to recruit slaves, gladiators and criminals (Want to become a US citizen or join the biggest baddest gang on the planet?). It was also decided to employ barbarian mercenaries (Blackwater Boys or We don't practice torture but you're not staying in a US prison...). This created long-term problems as the barbarians did not always remain loyal to their Roman paymasters (Saddam, you'll be sorry...).

Some Roman citizens, upset by heavy taxation and suffering from poverty, formed themselves into an armed resistance group called the Bagaudae (The Tea Party). This movement started in Gaul in AD 283 but during the 4th and 5th centuries spread to other parts of the empire. These groups of rebels attempted to set up their own independent states within the empire (Waco TX, Ruby Ridge and who knows where else) but the Romans, with the help of barbarian mercenaries, were eventually able to crush them.

However, with the Roman army spending more and more time suppressing its own citizens, it became easier for the Germans to defeat those guarding the frontiers. Between AD 406 and 419 the Romans lost a great deal of their empire to different German tribes. The Franks conquered northern Gaul, the Burgundians took eastern Gaul, while the Vandals replaced the Romans in Hispania.

The Romans were also having difficulty stopping the Saxons, Angles and Jutes overrunning Britain. In AD 410 Emperor Honorius warned the Romans in Britain that they could no longer rely on reinforcements being sent from other parts of the empire.

Sculptured relief of Roman soldiers fighting the barbarians.

Alaric, a Visigoths leader, took part in several campaigns under the Romans. However, when he did not receive the expected promotion in the Roman Army, he led his people against the empire (Is this next?). Alaric now demanded that the Visigoths should have their own independent state. In AD 410 Alaric's army was strong enough to enter Rome. Roman slaves joined with the Visigoths in sacking the city. With the slaves joining his army, Alaric now had 40,000 men at his disposal. After roaming around the Roman Empire, the
Visigoths eventually decided to settle in Aquitania.

In AD 435 Gaiseric and his Vandal army captured Rome's African province. As Rome relied heavily on African food, this was a serious blow to the survival of the empire. From his base in Carthage, Gaiseric was able to launch sea-raids on Rome. In AD 455 Gaiseric was strong enough to invade Rome and plunder the city.

In the years that followed the Romans also lost southern Gaul. It now became clear that it was only a matter of time before the Roman Army would be completely defeated and the Barbarians who had been recruited into the Roman army began to desert in large numbers (Where's the loyalty?).

In AD 476, Odoacer, leader of the barbarian mercenaries in the Roman army, overthrew Emperor Romulus Augustulus, and installed himself as King of Italy. The Roman Empire in the west had come to an end. However, the eastern empire, ruled from Constantinople, continued for another thousand years. It was not until 1453, when Mehmed II captured Constantinople, that the Byzantine Empire, as it became known, ceased to exist.

http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/ROMbarbarians.htm

Before you Engage, Disengage

Last Spring I took a class on engaged Buddhism and one of our readings was Thich Nhat Hanh's book Interbeing. The book covers fourteen trainings, or precepts, to guide the engaged Buddhist. In this post I'll share some thoughts on the first. If you have thoughts to share I'd love to see your comments.

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Aware of the suffering created by fanaticism and intolerance, we are determined not to be idolatrous about or bound to any doctrine, theory, or ideology, even Buddhist ones. Buddhist teachings are guiding means to help us learn to look deeply and to develop our understanding and compassion. They are not doctrines to fight, kill, or die for.

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We are all seeking Ultimate Truth, but we must recognize that the conventional, or relative truths that we deal with in social justice and human rights are dynamic. Our version of truth is too often one sided, leaning to the benefit our own sense of righteousness. Those who protest the inhumane slaughter of whales and dolphins by Japan, but later sit down to a steak dinner, are pinched in hinge of relative truth. They can clearly see that the violence of a dolphin slaughter by others far away is wrong, but yet can turn a blind eye to the slaughter and suffering they ignorantly promote by paying for the flesh on the plate before them. A similar dilemma comes up with female genital mutilation which we take voice against, while we conveniently ignore the fact that our own infant sons endure their first cruelty from the world upon their birth with the archaic ritual of circumcision. By releasing ourselves from views and rigid dogma, we can untangle our perception of the world from our culture and religion.

Blind faith and obedience to religious leaders has caused so much sorrow in the world. Some of my first recollections of church were not kind. My parents were pleasant and friendly to people while at the church, but on the drive home they would pick them apart, speculating on this and that persons flaws, while reminding my brother and I not to repeat a word of what we heard. There were too many examples of hypocrisy in the churches we attended in my youth. It didn't seem to me that the message from the pulpit made much impression on the folks in the pews. Speech, thought and action were somehow out of sync. When we think about human nature one characteristic that seems true to me is the need for the world we perceive to make sense with the world we've constructed in our mind. When there is discrepancy in these two worlds we can either undergo personal introspection and analysis to see our way to a new level of truth or we can take the easier route and sacrifice truth and instead blame some aspect of the outside world for not matching up. To me, this is where religious extremism comes in. This isn't to say we shouldn't envision a better world in our mind and then work toward that goal. Have you ever gone a trip and had every detail work out exactly as you planned ahead of time? And when that plan didn't work out how did you respond? Did you give up and go back home, or yell at the airline attendant or taxi driver or hotel concierge? Or did you ask the locals for alternatives, did you adjust your thinking to the new truth and move forward with a smile.

One reason that Nonviolent Peaceforce is so effective is their dedication to non-partisanship. So many conflicts are delineated along national, ethnic or religious lines, so that a peace army must cautiously walk on the line of neutrality in order to build the necessary trust of all parties involved. In a time of political and religious fanaticism it is vital that the vision of the nonviolent warrior remain clear. We are living the global consequences of clinging to ideas.




In a few hours I will be on Amtrak, headed to a week long retreat with Thay. I feel so very fortunate to have such an opportunity as this and even more so that I can share it with my daughter. I will also share with those stopping by this blog. With deep bows of gratitude.

Mother's Love

This video of the cat hugging her kitten has gone viral to an extent rarely seen.  The comments are in every language.  I've watched it several times myself and each time I feel warmth radiate from my center accompanied by a sensation of belonging and love.  Every human on this planet shares the desire for mother's love.  I hope most have experienced this as infants, but the reality is that still so many do not.  It wasn't even until the 1950's that we began to understand just how important this affection between a primary caregiver (doesn't have to be biological mom) and an infant really is.  So much of our future happiness, our intelligence and our ability to engage in the world hinges on those first few months and years.  It's so interesting to me that our species has roamed the planet in our current form for ~300k years, and yet only in the last 50 years have we begun to really understand who and what we are in a scientific way.  Yet as we watch this video we can't help but feel the stirrings of our true self as a dependent, social animal that thrives by love.  Maybe if we could stop torturing our primate cousins for the answers, and begin listening to our own intuitive knowledge we would find these answers much more readily.  We are all needy.  We are not islands. 

Extending this to our political world it becomes clear why the American experiment is failing.  Americans have come to value independence so greatly that we continue force our young towards that goal from the beginning, often isolating them in a crib apart from the warmth and heartbeat of a loving adult from the moment of birth.  The message of "dog eat dog" capitalism pounds viciously against our need for cooperation.  This is the natural outcome of a population of adults who as infants were left to cry themselves to sleep in a dark room night after night, eventually realizing that there is no one, not even their mother, who will come to their rescue or assuage their fears.  Our brains wire to this reality creating a person that will be more aggressive, less compassionate, and less happy.  When primates are isolated the desperation and later, depression, become so intense they begin to chew their legs as if attempting to end their time in this existence, and many just die.  I think America is suffering from too much independence and now seems to be gnawing at itself in a national suicide attempt.  But maybe this little kitten is our suicide hotline.  Let yourself open to that sweet message and hug your children often.

Missed Perceptions

I've been thinking about perception a lot lately.  The beginning of this reflection was prompted by a recent trip in a zip car.  As I turned on the wipers and began to crawl through the NE maze to I-5 I became aware of how little I could see.  Even after the foggy windows cleared I could only glimpse the world through windows and mirrors with many blind spots.  Driving gives a false sense of security, of being safely ensconced in this metal box which could in an instant become a steel trap or worse, a coffin.  This sense of security leaves the mind free to roam miles away from the moment, to take a quick look at the latest text message, change the radio station or take that call, giving way to irritation and anger when other drivers, cyclists or pedestrians call  the mind back to sudden awareness of present moment and requiring a split second response.  Why is it that we get so irritated when people demand our attention at the present moment, shouldn't we already be there?

When riding my bike the blind spots, foggy windows and mirrors are gone, my vision of the world around me limited only by the flexibility of my neck.  I can see in front and behind, but never both.  The mind becomes focused on the next moment, will that car turn, will they stop for the sign, is the light going to change, where's the next clear space that I can dart through, and on and on.  The mind wanders less, feeling the cool air and rain on the face reminding that every moment counts.  The scenery speeds by, lost in a blur.  No time to stop and smell that newly bloomed red tulip.

Then there are the days that I take to the streets on foot.  The world unfolding slowly, each step moving me seconds through the mile.  Time to smile, wave, give a buck, smell a flower, watching the cyclists whiz by in deep focus and motorist motoring by in their own oblivion to the sweet smelling tulip that my daughter and I stop to inhale.

I deeply cherish these slower moments lately.  Ten days ago I experienced the world from yet another vantage point, a new perspective, that dropped me to stillness.  It was a normal Monday.  I cruised to work on the bike, enjoying the strong pulse of energy and oxygen surging through my sunrise express to the Portland waterfront.  About two hours into my work day I began to experience a discomfort in the center of my chest.  As the day progressed the discomfort demanded more of my attention.  By the time I was reunited with my bike I doubted my ability to ride.  By then my breathing was shallow and attempts at deep breathing caused a surge of pain into my neck and ears.  So I abandoned the bike, bused to my daughter's school and then we walked to another stop to catch a bus to the ER.  The courteous staff at Legacy Emmanuel wasted no time in collecting EKG data from me and entertaining my six year old daughter.  During my five hours in the ER I had ample time to practice mindfulness, taking comfort in the embrace of the compassionate Tara as her mantra diverted my mind from worries of the unknown.  As I was being wheeled to the CT Scanner, my housemate walked with my daughter down the same hallway and out of the ER.  In that frozen moment I felt a tear escape realizing that if my lease on this body was soon to end I had surrounded myself and my daughter with an amazing network of loving adults and young friends that would be there to help her on her journey.  In those moments I didn't think about religion, politics, my activism, the unfinished screen play, books and poems.  All of these concerns evaporated and in the remaining residue of my life I found only love and gratitude.

Before the night was over I had blood work, chest x-rays, a CT Scan and the relief of knowing I did not have a heart attack or anything growing in my lungs.  Again, the supportive housemate came to collect me at the ER.  I found a sleepy eyed and smiling daughter in my bed, where I gladly curled up next to her for some sweet slumber.  One week later all trace of the pain was gone.  I see a cardiologist next week just to make sure all is indeed well with my heart.

I haven't resumed my daily bike rides yet, but have opted for the slower route.  My daughter and I are monitoring the tulips each day, anticipating which ones will be fully open and admiring the variety of color they bring to our day.  There's a particularly sweet smelling red one on the corner of Multnomah Blvd and NE 21st St.  So if you rambling by in your car, or rolling past on a bike, you just might want to park it a moment and get out to inhale it's rich aroma.  Oh, and there's another little red one hiding it's vibrant colors under the next bush over.  It is amazing the world that exists just beyond our vision.

Walking in Sunshine

I've been walking more lately.  Riding the bike at rush hour with a kiddo on the back is stressful whereas walking is quite the opposite.  Admittedly it takes longer but I have more time between getting off the bus downtown and when I need to be at Alexa's school which is across the river and up 16 blocks.  It's only 2 miles so I can be quite leisurely with it.  Today she went to her father's and I still walked, in the sunshine!!  I forgot how much I love walking (and sunshine).

It would be hard to to plan, but if you're ever in Portland on the first sunny day after about 30 days of rain you're in for quite a show.  Just take a stroll in South East for the most interesting people watching you'll ever experience.  Everyone is happy.  Young girls with glowing white skin will skip around like their only eight, giggling as if they just spied a grasshopper in tall grass.  As we shed our layers of fleece and fuzz, the newly adorned winters artwork from the local tattoo artists shine in techno color.  The food carts become social centers for all the cool hipsters, freaks, geeks and hippies.  The crazy bikes parade down the street, taller than the Humvees and wayyyyy cooler.  Even our homeless are smiling and gregarious.  I stopped and chatted with Ron, a heavy set disabled man.  I asked him if he had been responsible for the sun's appearance today.  He laughed and said he was going to ask me the same thing.  We talked about Obama (a sign he carried asking how we liked Bush dark - Obomba ), our government, the empty houses and all the evils of capitalism.  I asked if he had enough for dinner that night, he said he could use a little more so I dug out my last three bucks.  I told him it was the least I could do for the guy who could get the sun to come out.  We waved farewell as if we were great pals, both happier for the interaction with our fellow human. 

There is so much wrong in the world and yet there are these special days filled with moments fleeting yet somehow frozen in time where everything becomes crisp, clear and perfect.  The world fills me up with its beauty providing this brief glimpse of how it could be if only we would let it.  May I learn to see every day as if it is the first break of sun after a long darkness.

My Resurrection

The taste of damp sweet Spring teases the palate
A craving for warmth sends chills deeper into bones
Tiny green sprouts struggle for survival
Feeding upon the humus of the old
Birth and death reflected in a drop of morning dew

As the shadows of winter fade my journey turns
Once maiden, then mother
resurrecting once again
Dipping an apprehensive toe into cool wise waters
Enter the crone

As fertility of my flesh fades
Seeds of creative freedom sprout
Feeding on memories of pain, passion, of youth
Dipping the quill into the dark
Rich ink of the soul
May life begin again

Last Sunday Rev Sinkford spoke about resurrection, how we are born and reborn many times in our life. One life change shaking us up and moving us in new direction. Pema Chodron dedicates a whole book to the idea that when things fall apart, when the solid ground beneath out feet suddenly becomes thin as air and we find ourselves in a free fall, it's not necessarily a bad thing. These are moments of tremendous growth.

As I gallop headlong through my 45th year of this life I am confronting new realities. My eyesight is less reliable, requiring drug store cheaters to read. Allergies are cropping up that have never been an issue in the past. And now I begin the transition into the crone phase of this full and wonderful life. With the onset of menopause come new challenges. My early morning meditations are often accompanied by a hot flash or two, reminding me ever more deeply not to mistakenly think myself immortal. Sleep can elude me more with the occasional night sweat.  Taking time to relax physically and mentally has become important. For this reason I have taken up knitting, finding that as I tie little knots into yarn, the tight bundles of knots in my mind loosen as do my muscles.  Another great relaxation is walking back from school with my six year old daughter.  The more present I am in the moment, the more relaxing it is.  Mindfulness is a practice for all ages (pun intended).

I search my feelings for anything hinting of fear or anxiety but find only a sense of relief.  I've wondered at this for a time and it has dawned on me that the women I most admire have all achieved their greatest accomplishments late in life.  I've caught myself many times searching for gray hair on my head and being disappointed when I don't find it.  I'm hoping that I have my greatest accomplishments still ahead of me.  Most of the women I work with in the USNPCA and the UU Peace Action Committee are older than me and I admire their wisdom, beauty, poise and relentless persistence for the cause of peace and social justice.  They are my constant inspiration and role models.

Our culture is so devoid of spirit and heart.  I find myself yearning for a ritual that would connect these moments of passage with my larger sangha or social circle of friends.  With first menses there is a blossoming into womanhood, the maiden.  It is a busy time of love, heartbreak, work, struggle and finding our inner strength. Many cultures have beautiful rituals surrounding this rite of passage.  As we birth new life, dancing with a new spirit who carries some of our spark, we connect with a deep, primitive force that makes us one with all of existence, past, present and future.  By burying the placenta under a rose bush for which my daughter is named, I created our own ritual.  Prior to birth our culture has the baby shower, and my pagan sisters performed a beautiful birthing ritual for me just prior to Alexa'a entry into this realm.  Suckling our young we feel a sense of the order and perfection of this life, just as we doze off to sleep the new born sleep.  We nurture our child and forget ourselves, focused on protecting that bit of our heart with legs, arms, and an inquisitive mind not yet afraid to engage this world.  We give all we have... and then we let go.  The hormones begin to slow, the family needs us less and at last there is space to create in a new way.  A chance to more closely examine the cracks in the mortar to see what we have blocked away in our busy-ness.  Finding wisdom hidden in the hair and mud buried beneath years of tacky wall paper.  In there we are all three; maiden, mother and crone.  In this sacred matriarchal trinity, I am reborn whole.

A New Year

A lot has happened since my last post in July.  I finished a five month web project redesigning the previous static website for United States Nonviolent Peaceforce Chapters Association into a dynamic site to help connect the chapters more closely.  I assisted in organizing the Annual Conference for the USNPCA in Boston, to be held the second weekend in October.  The conference was a great success.  We honored Gene Sharp, or maybe he honored us by attending and giving a talk, with a nice certificate and dinner.  After the conference time was slipping quickly into November, at the end of which I had to finish writing the first draft of a book chapter.  In fact, while my daughter enjoyed a big feast with family, I pedaled to the Red Cross, donated a little of my life blood, was gifted a pumpkin pie for my effort and I spent the remainder of that holiday in my office writing and eating pie.  After sending that off to the editors the holidays were well underway and the dark days upon us.  We enjoyed a beautiful solstice celebration at Whitefeather, leaving all electric lights off while each guest lit four candles upon arrival with four wishes for the New Year.  By the end of the evening the house was bright with candlelight and with renewed energy.  Just before solstice an opportunity came up to join a women's community home in NE Portland with other children, so Alexa would have mates to play and grow with and my bike commute would decrease significantly.  It was also a way to avoid going to see an allergist for headaches and asthma that had begun to plague my respiratory system since moving into the peace house.  So quite out of the blue I picked us up and moved us over the New Year's Eve weekend.  Last night my daughter and I enjoyed our first soak in the private hot tub in the back yard and I felt all the tension and hard work of 2010 begin to leave my weary bones, and today new energy is flowing in.  The morning headaches have vanished and I'm using the nasal spray less and less.  Although I'm a few miles South, I will continue to be an active member of the Whitefeather Peace Community. 

So I begin the New year with a new perspective and energy.  During the time since the IPRA conference in Sydney I've given much thought on my future and how I might bend my vocation more towards nonviolence.  I've explored teaching and leading workshops and find that much to my liking.  I also enjoy doing research.  That's what got me into science to begin with.  So my real interest seems to be in the intersection, looking deeply into the science of nonviolence and then sharing that learning with others.  After looking at PhD programs in the universities across the US and beyond I began to feel a bit stranded from my source.  I realized that for me this work had to be grounded in the philosophies from which it had sprung, my Buddhist leanings.  So I've decided to take a slightly less traveled path and take a course at Maitripa Buddhist College in Portland titled,  Engaged Buddhism: Non-Violence and Social Justice in Buddhist Thought and Practice.  As one who tries to walk the path of an engaged Buddhist, this class intrigued me.  This will be my first class at the college, but not my first event there.  I attended a talk by Robert Thurman - I love his books, but love his public talks even more.  His joviality does not come through in print as it does face to face.  I feel very fortunate to live in a city with a thriving Buddhist college, and I look forward to supporting it with my tuition and my attention.  After this class I'm sure my path will bend again, and I will come back to the blog and take you on that journey as it unfolds.

On another note for the unfolding year, I'm becoming more involved with the counter-militarism subgroup of the UU Peace Action Committee.  Looking back on all the violence in speech, politics and action unfolding in the culture around me I see an urgent need to hold a mirror up to people.  It seems we've gotten lost in the forest and can no longer see the bigger picture and how terribly disturbing it is.  More and more American's are embracing violence as the way to solve their problems, from school yard shootings to assassination attempts.  The NRA and it's supporters jump up and down about the right to bear arms while others are convinced that the government wants to take their guns away in order to control them and the rest of us wonder about the national insanity level and if there's any hope for a future here.  I think the entire country needs a time out, liberals in one corner, the conservatives in the other and the rest of us in whatever corners they leave.  While in that time out, clear your mind and just breathe for a moment.  We all want security for ourselves and our families.  We all want our children and grandchildren to have the resources and time to enjoy life, and a beautiful planet to enjoy as well.  We all really want peace.  But how to get there.  That's up to what you envision during your time outs.  If you're letting your imagination vision death and suffering to those you feel are to blame for your problems, then you will never have peace, nor will those around you.  Take those time outs to paint the reality you desire and begin to take steps to get there.  Look in the mirror everyday and try to see the good in yourself.  You CAN make a difference.

There's a sticker on my bike that says, "We're all in this together".  We need to help each other through this.  Let's make this a New Year we'll want to remember. 

Missing July but Finding My Way

July almost escaped me entirely without even a single blog post. It's been such a high speed, world traveling month for me that writing has been mostly of the private note-taking variety in hopes that I might sort it all out later and make some sense, or better yet, some use of it all. I attended the International Peace Research Association, IPRA, conference early this month in Sydney Australia. It was my first time in the Southern hemisphere, and my first time mingling in the international peace community. Both firsts were expansive and exhilarating for me.

Elise Boulding was one of the founders of the field of Peace Research and of IPRA. She passed away June 24th after an amazing life brimming with contributions to our understanding of ourselves and how relate with one another. I'd heard of her through many friends and colleagues. She was one of the first financial contributors to Nonviolent Peaceforce, and the inspiration to many of the original founders and supporters. The more I learn of her the more I continue to feel her hand changing my life's trajectory. I'd all but given up on getting a PhD, but when I learned she received hers at age 50, I realized I too might be able to do it. Who knows, I might even finish by age 50. The global reach of her work has further erased borders from my imagination. I hope to work in a global capacity, raising my little wonder girl to see the world as one large home with plenty of room and food for all. Looking at pictures of Elise, her sparkling eyes and warm smile convinced me to dust off the feminist hat and fit it squarely and proudly back on my head. Women and children are key to opening the doors of peace in this world.

As I began to consider various career paths from here, I found myself perusing the classes being offered at Portland State University this Fall. As I scrolled through the Psychology I notice the class, "psychology of women" and I had to wonder why we need to study that and not the "psychology of man", which wasn't listed. It seems to me that it's the abnormal psychology of man that has put us on the brink of extinction. If we could get some better understanding of that psychology we just might be able to save ourselves. I suspect that this class was designed by men for men - feels very Fruedian.

There was no point to that last paragraph, just an amusing aside as I ponder this passing month. I try to find the unifying theory of my lifeline. I still love technology, discovery, science, both social and physical, and I can only wonder at where all these passions will lead me as they churn and swirl around with peace and social justice issues in a world gone mad with war and the suffering it brings. I wonder if humans can learn to enjoy the benefits of technology without destroying each other and the planet in the process. What a terrible shame if we can't. Our entire food system, and likewise our health, has been ruined by the technicians approach to raising crops and animals. Now our food poisons us, millions of animals live in misery without ever seeing the sun or touching grass only to die at the hands of a frustrated and under paid immigrant trying to make his own way in life by taking this dangerous unwanted work. Technology at it's absolute most evil sees its anniversary in a week, the dropping of the first atomic bomb. August 6th, 1945,  America dropped the bomb, instantly killing over 100,000 human beings and slowly killing in excruciating pain another 100,000 in the days following.  If you haven't read John Hersey's account of that terrible event, you must.  That day, 65 years ago, Americans danced and celebrated in the streets. The day the Twin Towers fell in Manhattan, Muslim fundamentalists and others wounded by America's policies and actions abroad, danced and celebrated in the streets. We do unto others as they do unto us, over and over again in a retributive dance of death. And now technology makes it all the easier.   We can watch each other die and dance on YouTube, or get instant messages and Tweets as events unfold for our brothers and sisters.  And it also allows me to sit here and ramble on in this public forum or to say "I'm sorry" for America's horrible sins against humanity.

Each public event I attended in Sydney was started with solemn recognition of the First People of the area, the aboriginal tribe who had once lived on that land.  There was even a public apology from the white community to the aboriginal community for the missing generations, including a march that filled the Harbour Bridge with apologetic people.  The first event was followed by an annual "Sorry Day".  It will take a long time to restore the dignity to the First People just as it will for the First Nations here in America.  We haven't even begun the process of healing in America.  White America has never offered an apology to the African Americans or the First Nations, much less offered any reparation to ease the hardships faced by over a century of subjugation, abuse and treaty violations.  I for one am very sorry and will continue to work for an equal and just world. 

Communication is another key to unlocking the puzzle of peace in this world. I met Birgit Brock-Utne in Sydney. She was friends with Elise and has been a global researcher since the beginning of IPRA. She's studying the relationship between security and language. She's also looking at how histories are being rewritten with the radical changes taking place in South Africa. Language, communication, technology, dignity, respect, indigenous wisdom, equality, women, children...these are the rubrics of change that we must strive to satisfy. Somewhere in this matrix I will find my way. We must learn to bridge the barriers of culture, gender, language in order to build a better world for all our children and their great great grand children. Let's not allow the human race to end with us just because of some abnormal male psychology that we forgot to study before it was too late.

Killing from a Distance

The age of heroes
warriors
brave men
Fades with the parchment their stories are told on

Murder is mechanized
computerized
fun
In graphic color and surround sound war hums a new song

Only that dot blinking
A heart beat
A soul
A glassy eye can not see the tears
Cannot see the young of years

Sit safe in a bunker
while she cries
While he dies
And another dot on your screen goes out

Another dream ends
a nightmare begins
You play unseeing God with joystick in hand
As you spray the blood and brains of one "could-be" terrorist
You seed the ground to sprout a hundred more

You think you're safe
And for now you are
But we are all less safe for what you do
And who you give your dogged obedience to.

Pavlov is dead
Bite the hand
Put down the game of death
And come home.

War is over.

When you understand you cannot help but love

When you understand you cannot help but love. Thicht Naht Hanh

Sometimes I feel as if I'm walking in a wold of blind, deaf and dumb creatures - my fellow humans. At the same time I also recognize that my true nature is identical to theirs in that I'm also just a walking, talking cadaver temporarily gifted with breath and thought. I'm but a speck of dust that for some mystical reason has this amazing opportunity to experience wonderment, love, fear and anger. Each and every one of us is destined to die. What death is and what happens beyond death, or what happened before our birth, no one can say. It is the uncertainty that drives myth. We build enormous stories that place our existence within a larger context, anchoring us to something permanent. But reality pricks our thoughts, constantly reminding us with each passing moment that nothing of our world is permanent.

Many are born to unfortunate circumstance of place (man-made or nature made devastation), time, or with physical limitations or ailments, or preoccupied parents. Many of us will never grow old and many who do will feel pain and sickness as the body decays, eventually forcing them to abandon the shipwreck of a body. Some may never experience the comfort of a warm and loving home while others will have it in spades. Just as we have no control over the place and time of our birth, we also can not choose the time or place of our death and I wonder if this isn't part of what drives our insanity. We try to control the middle portion of our life, that brief wink between two unknowns. In this desperate attempt to find something solid, something not changing, not decaying, not falling in or out of love, but just there, we have caused much damage to the planet and each other.

Contemplation of the nature of our existence melts away the artificial divisions that separate us from each other. Eventually we will all return to dust and mingle again with the Great Mother. Regardless of our political views, our skin color, gender, sexual identity, our intellect, our wealth or poverty, we will all be equal in the end. The addled addict begging for spare change at the train station is no less than the Donald Trumps of the world, just as the obese, video game playing American boy is no less or more than the bone thin, starving babes of Africa. The rapist and the victim, the soldier and pacifist, the mothers that kill their children and those that nurture, we will all share the same coffin called Earth. All that ever remains is the whisper of our actions carried in the breath of those that follow. Did we make a child smile? Have we opened our hearts to those who suffer to ease their pain without questioning the cause. Did you plant seeds of love as you stepped through life, or did you cling too tightly to a false belief of security and permanence?

When the Buddha achieved enlightenment he smiled. Boy, howdy, are we lucky he smiled. That when you understand all there is to understand about the reality of this existence, there is joy, there is love. There can be no more or less. Maybe this is the truest test of knowledge and understanding.