snow going

Hills and trees and houses are frosted with a thick marshmallow frosting of snow that dumped on us last night. The neighborhood is peaceful this morning, put into temporary time-out by Mother Nature. Everything is soft and quiet, no one is jumping up to do their Saturday chores and run out to Walmart. I think we mostly enjoy the forced opportunity to turn off the "go" switch.

So far the only activity of note has been at the several bird feeders hanging outside our window. Always a hot spot, today it's getting even more action, given the limited meal choices imposed by the snowy landscape. Yellow-bellied and downy woodpeckers feast on suet; the brilliant red cardinal stands out in relief against the black and white canvas of the yards below.

The harmonious buffet is suddenly disrupted by a few blackbirds that decide to start a brawl over the suet. Everyone flees the incursion and heads to a nearby copse to wait for the bullies to move on to other territory. There are no diplomats sent to broker a shared agreement; no avian Marshall Rosenberg is dispatched to build a bridge of empathy through communication. The language is clear and not negotiable: the weaker species yield to brute strength and aggressive force--it's just the way it is.

There are plenty of examples in the natural world--happily provided to us in real time via YouTube--of compassion and care among seemingly natural adversaries; the lamb does, on occasion, lie down with the lion--or at least the kitten. The anomaly fascinates and delights us, perhaps with the possibility that even the most primal programming can be overcome with instincts of empathy, nurture and play. Biologists, and social scientists of all stripes continue the debate over whether such models are tenable as examples for homo sapiens to emulate. Read more on one such theory in Frans de Waals book: The Age of Empathy: Nature's Lessons for a Kinder Society.

I am admittedly drawn to inquire and explore the issue of conflict among humans, the more "evolved" species. I want to believe that our human-ness gives us the capacity to act differently, despite the complexities, emotional power and biological legacy of survival that can become triggered when we engaged in even the most quotidian of disagreements.

The thought brings me back to the whole reason I started this blog, Listening for a Change: to ask questions, to venture into the territory of transformation. I am no intrepid explorer--a strange internal brew of something like anxiety mixed with hope prods me forward, usually when I want to run or look the other way.

For me the exploration starts with questions: How can conflict be constructive, rather than destructive? What are the tools we need to transform conflict into greater intimacy, trust, and fulfillment? How do we repair and reconcile relationships that have been severed through betrayal and abuse, even misunderstanding. What does it look like to forgive and to heal? Big stuff. I feel overwhelmed just writing it!

I don't know the answers, but often "I don't know" is a good map to use. I do know that my sweetheart and I are no longer a couple and that parting is painful. A friend and I are in a strained conversation about differing needs. A remark made by someone at lunch "pinched", and I retreated. There's no getting away from it or skipping over it. The way out is through. Hopefully we get to the other side without inflicting more wounds, without having amends to make, by forgiving and being forgiven.

Meanwhile, the hillside is filling with kids and dogs and sleds. Time takes time, healing can be slow going. And a good dose of fun can't hurt either.

Peace. It's not for sissies.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in his 1957 speech Birth of a New Nation, shared a gritty and radical conclusion, based on the influences of his own spirituality and the example and teaching of Mahatma Gandhi:
“The aftermath of nonviolence is the creation of the beloved community. The aftermath of nonviolence is redemption. The aftermath of nonviolence is reconciliation. The aftermath of violence is emptiness and bitterness.”

Images of inconceivable devastation in Haiti have captivated our minds and hearts this week. Yet in the midst of tragedy, there have been countless examples of generosity, humanity, and selflessness.

Perhaps these moments are hopeful glimpses that Martin Luther King's ideal of the "Beloved Community" could be a reality. We have come far, it is true. In Dr. King's day, it was inconceivable that a black U.S. president would be directing intervention efforts in a major international disaster. Still, I want to resist the temptation to focus on a romanticized notion of the dream that Martin Luther King dared us to actualize. On this day of remembrance, I am also compelled to acknowledge how far we have to go--in healthcare, in economic justice, in domestic and international peace.

As one friend said recently, "It's true that what Dr. King did was monumental, but who he was--a man committed to a relationship with God--was what made that possible." Dr. King believed in and relied on the power of Love, a power greater than himself, working through him to transform hearts and minds and communities into containers of healing and justice and peace. For Dr. King the idea of the Beloved Community was not a camp circle singing kumbaya. He led a movement which led real people voluntarily into real encounters with real violence and hatred. Certainly not a volunteer job for the pusillanimous. I admit I would much sooner sign up to serve disaster victims than face clubs and fire hoses in the name of equality, and am humbled to know those that have chosen, and still choose, to do so.

On my way to Atlanta Sunday morning I stopped off at a gas station in a small South Carolina town. At the next pump were two African-American men in their twenties, in suits, presumably on their way to church. I was struck with the realization that the possibility of being harassed, assaulted, and worse still lives in the recent memory (and current experience) of my black neighbors, friends and co-workers. Grandparents may still pass groves of trees where family members where lynched, or neighborhoods that were terrorized by midnight hordes robed in white.

And beyond the ravages of racism are other forms of violence that surround us each day, some explicit, some covert. In the U.S. child abuse is rampant, a sexual assault is reported every two minutes, homicides are a leading cause of death. And all this before widening our vision to the unbearable reality in Darfur, the Congo, Iraq; the list goes on and on. Our compulsion for power and force spawns infinite injustices in economic, socio-political, and interpersonal realms. Our relationship with conflict and violence is older than our humanity, and is unlikely to leave us any time soon.

Yet tragedies like Haiti consistently reveal our capacity to extend beyond self-interest and to experience the heart-expanding joy and goodness and creativity that is unleashed when that occurs. What would the aftermath of an earthquake of Love look like? Cataclysmic indeed. Dr. King could see that world, and he held in his words and example a radical vision for us to inhabit. Today I give thanks for his life and for the challenge of the gift he left in our care.

It's a scary thing to pray that God would use me--I might not like the assignment. Perhaps it is delivering water to disaster victims, perhaps it is defending the defenseless, perhaps it is sitting with others offering the metta-prayer. Perhaps, as President Obama said in his acceptance speech, it is living the commitment to "listening especially when we disagree." Whatever it is, I pray that I do it and that I will cultivate the internal resources to stand, hands extended, in the circle of beloved community. It's not for sissies.

So in many instances, we have been able to stand before the most violent opponents and say in substance, we will meet your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We will meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will and we will still love you. Throw us in jail and we will still love you. Threaten our children and bomb our homes and our churches and as difficult as it is, we will still love you. Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our communities at the midnight hours and drag us out on some wayside road and beat us and leave us half-dead, and as difficult as that is, we will still love you. But be assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer and one day we will win our freedom. We will not only win freedom for ourselves, we will so appeal to your heart and your conscience that we will win you in the process and our victory will be a double victory.

(Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered this message to the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, Christmas 1957.)

No Why-ning!

You want to ask the big W-H-Y? Check out "Flying On One Engine", Joshua Weinstein's unflinching documentary about the complex and heartbreaking life of a terminally ill surgeon who barely survives in the U.S., but drags his oxygen tank to in India each year to conduct mass-surgeries on children with facial deformities.

Why does this 8 time Nobel Prize nominee live in poverty? Why must these children live with such unbearable burdens? Why do soft drink executives sleep in 600 count sheets while a volunteer doctor shuffles around rats in his apartment....Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (birth defects) Why? Why? Why? (starving children) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (roof caves in) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (car breaks down) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (moms with cancer) Why? Why? Why? Why?(no job in sight) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? (dad goes away) Why? Why? Why? Why? (tornadoes) Why? Why? Why? (floods) Why? Why? Why? Why? (fire) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (greedy bastards) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (the Holocaust) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (war in Darfur) Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (deer ticks) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (war, war, and more war) Why? Why? (it didn't work out) Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (me). And so on.

So far, gnawing on it just hasn't proven fruitful. Karma? God's plan? Sadistic randomness? Greater minds than mine have contemplated the why's and wherefore's of Life's curve balls. I don't get to know the reason "bad" things happen. Besides, as a friend in recovery says, "'Figure it out' is just not one of our slogans.'" I guess what's more relevant, is...what now? I pray I can have even a thimble full of the courage and willingness displayed by the surgeon, parents, and patients in this film.

(But, if you simply must (whine), make it count! You can get a free hour to do so at Rob Brezny's Unhappy Hour where you can milk the why-ne for all its worth, and perhaps break through into the What Next?...

blessings all

green beds

I admit it, I'm a little jealous. My sweetie has been playing around in other beds.

Now why would he want to do that? We practically broke our necks and pushed our collective 100 years to the limit getting a mammoth mattress into the tiny loft of his cabin. It's now draped in deliciously warm and cozy blankets, including a moss-green one we affectionately call Green Acres, and a hand-dyed quilt that is somehow both rugged and gorgeous. Plus, a couple of days a week it has me in it. What more could he want?

Dirt. The man loves dirt. More accurately, he is in love with his garden and, like many garden-lovin' folks, spends as much time as he can between april and november tending to his raised beds with the devotion of a lover--tenderly placing seedlings and seeds in the warm soil of spring, weeding and watering and harvesting throughout the summer season, and, with the first frost, preparing the beds for winter with the tenderness of a dad tucking in his child.

This past Saturday, he solemnly led me to witness the hills of dirt covered in straw, ready to rest.

"They look like burial mounds," I said. "There could be bodies in there." I eyed him suspiciously.

"Look at this compost," he said, tactfully ignoring me. "This is good stuff. Come spring we are ready to go!" His face shines with satisfaction. I shake my head. You can't help but love the guy.

There are two kinds of people, garden people and non-garden people. I am of the non-garden variety, completely happy to enjoy the fragrance and visual appeal that edible landscapes add to neighborhoods, country roads, and even rooftops, but lacking any aptitude for the awe-inspiring process that brings juicy tomatoes and hearty zucchini from the earth.

Living in Asheville, home of all things green and progressive and organic, I'm admittedly self-conscious about this dirty little secret. (This is a gnawing feeling not unlike my fear that the Greenlife checkout gal will publicly shame me over the intercom for forgetting my canvas shopping bags, "Paper bag at line 2. She doesn't have her own bags." "I do have my own bags," I insist. "I just forgot them today!" Checkout gal rolls her eyes.)

Though I don't have the gardening gene, I do appreciate the hard work that makes the garden grow. I am a good appreciator, and glad to put in some sweat equity along the way. We devoured our summer feasts with gusto: thick slices of Cherokee Purple tomatoes, pestos bursting with the tang of thai and sweet basil, savory chutneys, and crisp yard-long beans. (Mustering enthusiasm about the steam on the compost pile is a little more challenging--this skill is for advanced appreciators--but I have diligently saved my banana peels and coffee grounds to do my part in building up the soil.)

Each summer morning before work, David would wade across the dewy grass to putter among the rows of beans and squash and herbs. Each night he would rush home eager as a suitor to visit the patch of soil on the south side of the creek.

"Are you going to see her again?" I teased.

While there are plenty of urban gardeners, my sweetheart lives out in the hinterlands of Western North Carolina. So when we first started dating (at the beginning of the growing season) I was a little skeptical about our country mouse/city mouse differences.

"I get allergic smelling hay," I sang in my best Eva Gabor accent.

How was this going to work? Could our attraction survive my pull toward urban activity and his pastoral past-times?

Joking aside, we considered the topic one day, sitting in the car during a spring downpour. I quoted Drew Barrymore in Ever After: "If the bird and the fish fall in love, where would they live?" Luckily I did not have to admit the source of the quote.

He stared thoughtfully through the windshield for a while, then finally answered in a quiet voice.

"Well, I know that we both need to be in a place that fits," he said. "And I also know that there's such a thing as a flying fish."

Well, he sure put that one to bed! How could you not love a guy like that? Compost, garden girlfriend, and all.

Scary stuff

These days we're way past worrying about tainted Sweet Tarts slipped to unsuspecting little Harry Potters and Hermione Grangers on Halloween.

What's REALLY scary this year? Germs.

Parents are spinning from warnings about contaminated costume masks. Or potentially germy candy wrappers handed out by careless, sniffling neighbors. As darkness falls on Saturday evening, legions of children will descend on neighborhoods toting paper bags and hand sanitizer. Maybe some will take the issue head on and dress as H1N1. (Thank you Laura D. in Seattle!)

It still remains to be seen whether the virus is truly a widespread threat or another highly successful viral marketing campaign based on fear. Despite the flurry of recent panic, experts still note that even in kids--the highest risk group for this strain--swine flu has been relatively mild. More people overall may get symptoms, but so far it's not even close to the impact of the garden variety seasonal flu which kills about 36,000 Americans a year. So far, the CDC has confirmed 1,004 swine flu deaths.

(Meanwhile, according to the National Association of School Psychologists, every five hours a child or adolescent in the United States dies as a result of suicide. Kind of seems like chasing a mosquito in your living room while a tiger is sitting on your sofa.)

I attended church last Sunday, not a regular thing for me in recent months, but being a card- carrying Episcopalian I get a hankering for the comfort of ritual and community. After the customary handshakes and greetings during the peace, we settled in for the communion portion of the service. The pastor paused before heading up to the altar.

"We're being mindful these days, so now that we've shared the peace, we are going to share the Purell. Just take a bit and pass it on down to your neighbor."

Huh? I hadn't noticed the little bottles tucked into the end of each pew. I dutifully squeezed out a blob, rubbed and handed it down the line. The sanctuary filled with the peppery smell of alcohol and citrus. My nose itched. I tried not to scratch it before approaching the rail, lest I be sent back for re-sanitizing. I imagined the scene with Jesus after healing the leper,

"Hey Peter, could you hand me that Germ-x?"

Maybe the flu is a real threat. Maybe not. Time will tell. But most days what can really infect me is fear. It sends me into hiding, into hoarding, into survival mode. It pits me against you. It's contagious. And it's on every channel, every news site, because it sells stuff.

But, fear not! Vaccines are available: Turn off the news. Hug somebody. Or at least go dress up as a germ.

spookily yours,
cj

Will the real idealist please stand up

Life only demands from you the strength you possess. Only one feat is possible--not to have run away.

~Dag Hammarskjold, Markings


A few days ago I was seated on a plane headed home after a week in San Francisco, where we had joined in the fun and celebration of my sweetie's daughter's wedding. I had felt a little torn about going, the internal voice that demands practicality and productivity really likes to be in charge. Especially when there's a chance to play or dance or relax. I decided to ignore it and go anyway.

As we were settling in for the long flight, I could hear the conversation of the two men behind us, their voices rising over the roar of the engines.

"It's been a tough year," one man said. "I'm an electrician and have been out of work. I'm not used to this, never had it like this before. I've been living on my savings."
"Where are you headed?"
"I'm on my way to my son's wedding. I'm not going to miss it."

I can read it in the headlines or hear stories on NPR, but somehow having someone sitting behind me on an airplane or the checkout line makes it more real. I'm not the only one wrestling with the uncertainties of this time. And every day gives me a choice about how to respond. Do I hunker down, get in my cave, try harder to fix it and figure it out?

Well, I could (and sometimes do) but people are getting married! Twenty-eight year olds who own playstations and work at software companies. And it's not just the chance to have health insurance. They're choosing to believe in love and commitment and a life together despite the odds and evidence set against success. Can you think of anything more deliciously idealistic and courageous than that?

It's true that the fairy tale ending is a myth. I think it was Alice Walker who said "There are no happy endings, only happy plateaus." This past few months I've been reading memoirs--not a genre that usually drew me, but the perfect one for this year--stories of people who wrestled with their own demons and challenges in between great moments of achievement and simple bites of joy. It's been a great reminder not to compare my insides with other people's outsides. Just about everyone has struggle and no one gets out alive. In weddings and memoirs I'm reminded that to show up for all of life is the assignment..and to share it is the reward.

FYI... here's my list: An Interrupted Life by Etty Hillesum; Reason for Hope by Jane Goodall; Fourth Uncle in the Mountain by Quang van Nguyen; The Story of My Life (restored edition) by Hellen Keller; My Name is Bill: Bill Wilson and the Creation of Alcoholics Anonymous by Susan Cheever. I'm currently reading Markings by Dag Hammarskjold.

blessings
cj

Postcards from Daisy

August 14
Dear Mom,

I can't believe you're going to be gone almost 3 weeks.--in canine time that is like 4 months! And who is this human you've left me with? What kind of name is CJ anyway? Are you sure she's qualified? You said it would be fun, but I'm not sure about this. I think I will go lie on my dog bed and sulk now.

your,
~daisy

August 16
Dear Mom,

I let CJ take me out today. It was a successful walk--even on the leash I caught a rabbit! I don't know why she made such a fuss and wouldn't let me take it home. I tried to explain to her that I am not a vegetarian, like you. Don't I get to have any fun while you're gone?

despondently,
~daisy

August 19
Dear Mom,
Things are looking up. CJ has a fun human friend that has a lot of hair, at least on his chin. And he likes to swim, too. Can we get rid of her and keep him?

Hiked on the Laurel river today. Good smells, high quality stuff--but the hairy one stops to check out more plants than I do!
your,
~daisy


August 20
Mom,
I think the training about the treats is going well. Not sure why she freaks out when I clean out the goodies in the cat box, seems like I'm doing someone a favor.

hygenically your,
~daisy

August 23
Dear Mom,

Spent the weekend in the country, at David's cabin. I guarded the front porch, and made friends with Rosie, the 3-legged shepherd next door. She showed me the neighborhood, where the groundhog lives, the best trash cans, etc.

Went on a couple of good adventures with the humans, rustled up a turtle and two deer; scaled a waterfall. I tried not to show off too much.

They still don't seem to believe me when I tell them you let me eat all I want.

hungrily yours,
~daisy

August 26
Mom,

CJ may be a little co-dependent, which is working out well. After some pitiful looks, I now have my breakfast served outside on the veranda. It wasn't my fault the screen locked behind her this morning. I watched her climb in the kitchen window in her butterfly pajamas. Usually tail wagging gets me a treat, but today I just stayed out of her way.

Back to the dog bed for a nap. I wonder what's for dinner?

your,
~daisy

August 28
Dear Mom,

It was fun to talk with you last night, though I don't know why she felt silly holding the phone up to my ear. I don't have hands, so what does she expect?

It seems like I'm doing most of the work around here. I was up every night this week at 3am barking at those troublesome neighbors. CJ seems to get a little agitated...doesn't she realize I'm doing my job? I'm going to take a nap now.

Can't wait to see you soon!
~daisy

August 29
Hi Mom!

Swam in a four-star waterfall today...I finally trained her to throw me that stick until I'm done.

Saw a bear and two turkeys. I tried to jump out of the car to chase a turkey, but she was too quick with the electric window.

Visited Mt. Mitchell. I had to be on the leash, but it was pretty cool to be at the highest point on the east coast. I consented to a photo.

You know, I think she's going to miss me when she leaves.

happily your,
~daisy