a new book

fiddling with the end of her braid
slight smile
quick flip of the page
A new book.

(Found this poem while cleaning up some old notebooks. Thought I'd try to push myself to take more poetry breaks.)

water and mind

I walk to exercise my body and to clear my mind. Were I to list out all the things to be thankful for, that my neighborhood walk brings me past this lake would be high up on it.

The sky around this lake holds the most amazing light. The water is tranquilly still or chaotically wind-blown, seeming to mirror my emotions, or acting on them.

Today, as I walk, I am thankful.

acting through mourning

I have given myself some time to mourn. Knowing the nature of grief and the cyclical nature of mourning, I know I am not through, may never be through, mourning this loss of faith in my country, I am, nevertheless, ready to begin action.

The leaders I admire most have acted for good in the midst of so much bad; they attempt to embody the world they want to see and so nudge - or drag - the world along with them.

I see a world that acts like a family, sitting together in a feast of Thanksgiving to honor the gifts of this world even though we disagree on how to use those gifts. A world that respects the rights of each member to live happily, even while we advocate for a different way. I want to be in a family that listens to each other with an ear for understanding, not waiting for a foible to pounce on.

And so, that is my first action.

who's road is it?

On my walk the other day I stepped over this sidewalk scribble, not quite finished. Perhaps the graphic artist was called in for lunch or nap time. The words filled the road at an intersection in the back of the neighborhood, almost at the end of a dead end, where the right turn leads to a gravel road. You would think this spot hardly needed a reminder for people to obey the rule to stop at an intersection. But these kids thought it did. 

That right turn leads to a popular public beach on the edge of our little lake, beside which is a fabulously accessible playground. It's also the route to the outside world for people who live in the little houses along these black roads. So, despite the many wobbly kids on bikes, baby carriages, dogs at the end of leashes, and gangs of oblivious teenagers in the middle of the road, people take this corner as if there is nothing in their way. But three out of the four houses on this corner are packed full of young kids, ranging in age from toddler to tween, who use the road, as kids are meant to, as their kickball field and skateboard park, to sell lemonade and create art.

This is their road. They can claim ownership more than any of us taxpaying visitors. And they need us to stop.

differences of remembrance

At the end of a story remembering a scene from childhood, the author says that her father, now long dead, doesn't care how she remembers him. And I gasped. Doesn't he? Do you really think that?
And then, catching my breath, I agreed. Of course he doesn't. I don't really think that my Dad knows how I'm remembering him - well, maybe I sort of do but the point it, that's not what upsets me about memories of my parents. What upsets me is hearing how others remember them. When their memories don't match mine I'm riled, defensive. Not the details - we remember different details, experienced from different perspectives - but the tone, the "Dad would"s or the "Mom would never"s. 
Um. Wrong. Your memory is wrong. Your opinions of these people I loved, love, so dearly is wrong. 
And I can't change my mind about this. 
I feel bad for my sister who has a completely warped picture of my Dad. She's missing out on the more tolerant, forgiving, accepting father of my reality. But I'm also, let's be clear, pretty pissed at her for her claims that my father, my father, would agree with her intolerant rants. My Dad could disagree with your politics and still respect that you came to your conclusions the same way he did, through thoughtful reflection. My Dad loved my pro-choice, pro-equality, pro-environment self even as he cast a vote for representatives who were anti all of those things.
Maybe Dad doesn't care anymore about how we remember him, but I care how he is remembered.

our "way of life"

I’m sitting comfortably, legs up on the couch, full mug of coffee within easy reach, knowing my girls are safely sleeping away this Sunday morning in their rooms. But the Boston Globe has a way of messing with that comfort.

I can skip most of the references to Trump, smile reading about Elizabeth Warren’s untiring fight, but I started reading the article about the latest shootings in the US and I lost all sense of contentment. It was this line, by the mayor of Burlington, WA, Steve Sexton, that got me. “The city of Burlington has probably changed forever,” he said “But I don’t think our way of life needs to change.”

Doesn’t it? If we don’t change our way of life, won’t this keep happening? Isn’t it time to think about change? That’s been my struggle these past few months. What, exactly can I do to help set things right? Something’s got to change, and each one of us has something to offer in this transformation, something that we must offer in order for it to happen. Don’t we?

The issues are so big and overwhelming that it’s paralyzing. What the hell can I do to influence police training so officers are equipped to handle difficult situations without firing a gun? Do I have a part in the Dakota pipeline protests? How do my choices about drinking water help or harm people in Flint Michigan?

There’s a movement afoot to focus on small acts as a way to overcome the paralysis but I’m worried that the time for small gestures is past. How can taking a moment to notice the place I’m in and posting a picture help? How can bringing cookies to my neighbors make any sort of a difference?

And yet, that would be a change in my way of life. I am not only insulated from the pain around me, I’m insulated from the life. At school I’ve been teaching the kids about the interactions between organisms in an ecosystem; how each organism has an influence and a dependence on others in the system. Our “way of life” seems to keep us separate from our own ecosystem but really just keeps us ignorant of our place in it. My drinking water choices do impact Flint, and Portland, and Boston, and Cynthia next door. Noticing those choices, thinking about the interactions I participate in with each of those choices is a small and necessary step. How do I continue along the path?

One small step is to stop saying we are not going to let the terrorists change us. They are changing us. They have created a space for a fear-mongering opportunist to scare us into voting for hate. They have caused us to turn away from families trying to pull their children out of war and into a safe childhood.

We are changed by every act of violence spread across the pages of the Boston Globe. Isn’t it time we choose how we are changed?

coffee in a mug

I wait all week to have coffee in a mug, not a travel cup, sitting on my porch with a book and time.