Thursday, September 16, 2010
“We don’t live only in this time.” Words heard on the radio, spoken by an author speaking of his explorations of a long-buried civilization under the streets and parking lots of present time Phoenix, AZ in the United States of (North) America. He spoke of finding potshards in vacant lots; of a parking lot that was demolished, unearthing hundreds of human remains and precious objects nestled in their bodies. Bicycling through the streets of Phoenix, he notices the dips and swells of land that are almost imperceptible to modern-day motorists (we in our air conditioned, soft-suspensioned, iron horses).
“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my mother’s daughter, my stepfather’s not-quite-successful (in his eyes) child, my grandparent’s pride and joy (along with my brother). I am the daughter of Irish and Norwegian immigrants and English conquerors. I am a former exchange student from a small town in central Mexico, nestled between Popocatépetl (the smoking mountain) and Ixtaccihuatl (the sleeping princess). I look in my ancestor’s photo albums and see indigenous peoples of Africa and North America.
“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my son’s birth mother, and his real mom. One day we may become friends. I see my g-d-daughter’s children as my grand-g-d-children, being a voice of protection and support in a sometimes-dangerous life. I am a surrogate parent for children of my church, a seldom-seen “auntie” to co-workers’ progeny.
“We don’t live only in this time.” My grandmother was a suffragette – agitating for the right to vote for women. My mother’s child-hood friend was taken abruptly away and placed in a camp for Japanese people during World War II. My first boyfriend was in the US on a green card, and is probably now an “illegal alien.” Those faces in my just-inherited photo albums, the ones dressed in formal mid-19th century dresses, peer out through the years, demanding justice, rights, and respect.
“We don’t live only in this time.” My great-grandparents homesteaded 40 acres in Washington, and gave 10 acres each to their surviving sons. (The women married either men or the Irish-Catholic Jesus of their faith.) I wonder what has become of that pristine woodland today? When I moved to the San Gabriel valley, strawberry fields and citrus orchards were my view as I drove across Arrow Highway from LaVerne to Azusa and on to Alhambra. There are remnants of those orchards surviving all over the Southland still. Will my son ever know the wonder of finding snakes and gophers and finches and robins and bugs among the wind fallen fruit? Will he ever smell the amazing scent of acres and acres of ripening strawberries, carried on the freshening afternoon breeze? Or will he be afraid to swim in the ocean, fearing a life-threatening disease should he have a still-fresh skate-boarding rash?
“We don’t live only in this time.” I hear a cry from the past echoing in the voices of our children. We must make time now to honor the past and make sure our children have a future. What will you do with your time?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Actions and consequences
8 September 2010
Here it is September again. Another anniversary that causes me to reflect not just on my own self, but on our collective self: we, the United States of [North] America. It breaks my heart and stretches my faith in humanity to realize that so many people in this land of plenty (for those who have plenty already) don’t seem to care at all about those without. I also am concerned about the religious hegemony some folks here in the good ‘ole U. S. of A want to impose on all of us.
I know that statistically very few people fall into the “fundamentalist” realm of religious practice. But they sure seem to cause a lot of problems and stink. I’m thinking now of the foul stench of hatred from the proposed Koran burning event being planned for this weekend. And the hatred spewing from our nation’s capital about a Muslim center being built near “Ground Zero.” As if that is the only place in the world that has suffered from terrorist bombs.
Dear ones, we MUST learn to appreciate each other, regardless of the type of religion we do or do not practice. In spite of the negligible differences in skin tone, reproductive plumbing or language spoken, if we humans are to survive and our world is to survive (dare I hope thrive?), we MUST learn to affirm each other for the inherent good in each of us.
Actions have consequences. When a member of my household doesn’t follow the house rules (which are for the continued safety and well-being of all the members, four-footed or not), I (currently being the recognized voice of maturity and reason) impose a consequence. We “Americans” pride ourselves on our government-sanctioned civil liberties. But even the acts of a small group of religious zealots will cause consequences that may reach far beyond the initial perpetrators.
Are you willing to bear the consequence of making Islam a scapegoat for our many political and financial ills? Are you willing to bear the consequences of supporting a military presence where it is not wanted? Be informed. Speak to your representatives. Be counted for positive gain in this world. It is the only one we are sure of, all else is faith and conjecture.
Here it is September again. Another anniversary that causes me to reflect not just on my own self, but on our collective self: we, the United States of [North] America. It breaks my heart and stretches my faith in humanity to realize that so many people in this land of plenty (for those who have plenty already) don’t seem to care at all about those without. I also am concerned about the religious hegemony some folks here in the good ‘ole U. S. of A want to impose on all of us.
I know that statistically very few people fall into the “fundamentalist” realm of religious practice. But they sure seem to cause a lot of problems and stink. I’m thinking now of the foul stench of hatred from the proposed Koran burning event being planned for this weekend. And the hatred spewing from our nation’s capital about a Muslim center being built near “Ground Zero.” As if that is the only place in the world that has suffered from terrorist bombs.
Dear ones, we MUST learn to appreciate each other, regardless of the type of religion we do or do not practice. In spite of the negligible differences in skin tone, reproductive plumbing or language spoken, if we humans are to survive and our world is to survive (dare I hope thrive?), we MUST learn to affirm each other for the inherent good in each of us.
Actions have consequences. When a member of my household doesn’t follow the house rules (which are for the continued safety and well-being of all the members, four-footed or not), I (currently being the recognized voice of maturity and reason) impose a consequence. We “Americans” pride ourselves on our government-sanctioned civil liberties. But even the acts of a small group of religious zealots will cause consequences that may reach far beyond the initial perpetrators.
Are you willing to bear the consequence of making Islam a scapegoat for our many political and financial ills? Are you willing to bear the consequences of supporting a military presence where it is not wanted? Be informed. Speak to your representatives. Be counted for positive gain in this world. It is the only one we are sure of, all else is faith and conjecture.
2009 November 6
2009 November 6
Friday. November. Fall. Simple words with such complex meanings and feelings behind, over and beyond them.
Now I walk in beauty:
Beauty is before me,
Beauty is behind me,
Above and below me.
In the US, many celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as “Thanksgiving Day.” The myth of the first Thanksgiving on the east coast of North America is pretty, but denies so much as to make me uncomfortable to celebrate without honoring those first people upon whom the various governments of North America have systematically, intentionally and without apparent remorse practiced genocide. For what or to whom can those soles be thankful?
This is the season in which I personally take stock of my life. Always, even in the depths of dark depression, I have much for which to be thankful: I am whole and generally healthy, with a beautiful son and many generous and true friends. I am employed and paid well for a good day’s work. Whether it is the cooler weather, the freshening and clarifying winds of Southern California falls, or simply the longer and colder nights that make pondering easier, this is the time that urges, nay, forces me to reflect on my life and where I am headed.
For without noticing in what direction I am going, like the un-aimed arrow, I will miss my target.
This moment’s target is to write reflectively. The world sees much turmoil—soldiers killing their siblings-in-arms, soldiers killing other soldiers and civilians around them, drug use weakening our youth and artists’ minds, the cradle of civilization continuing in unbroken, uncivilized strife through the millennia.
But a baby is born, young lovers are reunited and a flower grows triumphantly yellow petals to the warm sun from a crack in the sidewalk. A dog suckles a kitten and a curmudgeon underwrites a crack-baby’s education. Life, ever-abundant life pervades and perseveres. And what is to be my part of this parade?
Friday. November. Fall. Simple words with such complex meanings and feelings behind, over and beyond them.
Now I walk in beauty:
Beauty is before me,
Beauty is behind me,
Above and below me.
In the US, many celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as “Thanksgiving Day.” The myth of the first Thanksgiving on the east coast of North America is pretty, but denies so much as to make me uncomfortable to celebrate without honoring those first people upon whom the various governments of North America have systematically, intentionally and without apparent remorse practiced genocide. For what or to whom can those soles be thankful?
This is the season in which I personally take stock of my life. Always, even in the depths of dark depression, I have much for which to be thankful: I am whole and generally healthy, with a beautiful son and many generous and true friends. I am employed and paid well for a good day’s work. Whether it is the cooler weather, the freshening and clarifying winds of Southern California falls, or simply the longer and colder nights that make pondering easier, this is the time that urges, nay, forces me to reflect on my life and where I am headed.
For without noticing in what direction I am going, like the un-aimed arrow, I will miss my target.
This moment’s target is to write reflectively. The world sees much turmoil—soldiers killing their siblings-in-arms, soldiers killing other soldiers and civilians around them, drug use weakening our youth and artists’ minds, the cradle of civilization continuing in unbroken, uncivilized strife through the millennia.
But a baby is born, young lovers are reunited and a flower grows triumphantly yellow petals to the warm sun from a crack in the sidewalk. A dog suckles a kitten and a curmudgeon underwrites a crack-baby’s education. Life, ever-abundant life pervades and perseveres. And what is to be my part of this parade?
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