ARE WE LOSING OUR HEART?

     

I am having more and more conversations with people who are overwhelmed by what’s happening in our communities, country, world.  The News inundates us with repetitive stories of calamities from hurricanes and tornadoes, fires, floods, to mass murders, threats of WWIII.  Newscasters repeat and repeat the crazy tweets of an unhinged President who threatens those who disagree with him, insults war veterans and disabled people among others.  Meanwhile, Servicemen are killed in Niger, thousands of people are hungry and without water or electricity in Puerto Rico, deaths are rising.  We watch over and over again as our President insults football players for “taking a knee” during the Star Spangled Banner.  Meanwhile, he continued to laugh and joke with FOX News’ Sean Hannity while a Retreat Ceremony was happening at a military base.  It is too much.  Many are beginning to cry “uncle”. 

Many have stopped watching or reading the news, as the enemy of compassion shows itself in pity, both for the victims of the disasters and for themselves who feel like they are drowning in a flood that never ends.  “I can’t take it anymore.”  “There’s nothing I can do.”  I sense and hear people’s anxiety rising as their voices rise in volume or speed; anger and disgust in their tone.  And I’m concerned about myself and others who watch and listen, trying to feel empathic, but feeling more and more the dullness of indifference and aloofness that is the enemy of empathy.  As our minds and emotions are being overwhelmed, are we losing our heart?

Again it is a friend who has provided me with the inspiration for this blog.  I recently read her blog.  There were things in her blog that I understood completely, and there were solutions she’d reached that made me cry; some wounded me deeply and all made me think and reflect.  She often put into words what I have been struggling with and trying to express.  . 

            “Thoughts and prayers are what we say when we don’t know what to do

            and when we want to be seen as doing something.  They are what we say

            when we wash our hands and throw the troubles of others to the divine.” 

I have limited my TV viewing and newspaper reading.  I’ve limited my time on Facebook and don’t do twitter.  Yet I sometimes feel mired in helplessness and the guilt of not doing enough that competes with the question, but what can I do?   I agree with the first line of the above quote from Sarah's blog, but I disagree in part with the rest.  If our goal is to be seen as doing something, or if we are washing our hands of troubles and throwing them to the divine, we are not truly praying. 

Prayer as I’ve come to know it is action.  The only appropriate action at times may be heartfelt prayer as we go deep within to meet our Divine Center and join that Center with others around the universe.  We may pray for insight to see what we are to do, and pray for the strength and courage to do it.  Sometimes the answer to our prayer is to do nothing—to wait, to plan, to connect with others who have a workable plan.  Sometimes that is the action needed.  If I am truly praying actively, the strength and courage will build, with visions of where and what is needed to be done.  I will be awake and open to readings, to people, to appropriate actions that I might not have recognized without taking time for intentional listening for guidance.

My friend has been hurt by the institutional church, as have I also.  We have both grown through our experiences and reached seemingly different conclusions.  But have those conclusions been so different?  Near the end of her blog she says:

            “Thoughts are silent and impotent in themselves.  Prayers are,

            by my accounting, not actually feeding the hungry, clothing the

            naked, rebuilding Puerto Rico, or bringing back the life, health

            and hope of those who found themselves in an impromptu war

            zone instead of a concert.  Thoughts and prayers may comfort us

            when nothing else does, and that is indeed good.  But what thought

             and prayers alone cannot do is save the world from the harms

            humans wreak upon it.”

Those jobs are up to us as co-creators.  It’s up to us to create a society that screams ENOUGH with violence.  It’s up to us to push our representatives in government to act in ways that serve people, not greed.  It’s up to us to have hard conversations with those who regard any human as less.  It is up to us to work for justice in our homes, our home towns, our schools, our nation, and abroad.  It is up to us to demand that we feed the people of Puerto Rico, rebuild Houston, and Orlando..  It’s up to us to never let another Trayvon, Tamir, Philando be killed because of the color of his skin.  It is up to us to speak, to act, to act up, to act out, and to live fully what we think and for what we pray.  We are the thoughts and prayers of our world in action. 

My friend, has not lost her heart and we need heart.  We need the heart to hear and see, act and live in this world, however hurtful and dangerous it seems.  We need the heart that keeps our head up, not buried in the sand.  A heart that enables us to stand back and see what is happening and not just complain and pity and throw back insults, but to join with others on making our voices and our bodies count as we take our place in healing a soul-sick world.  We may not do big things, but small things add up.  Our voices matter whether it is speaking to a crowd or one-on-one with a neighbor or friend who regards anyone as less because of color, sexual orientation, disability, or nationality.  Our voices matter when we write to our congressmen and women, people in power in churches and businesses.  Our bodies matter when we show up at town meetings and other events for peace and justice. 

Do not lose heart.  We need yours and all the hearts we can get. 

A Reflection on The News

October 13, 2017

  

What, exactly, is “the news”? For me, it used to be something that I heard snatches of on the radio, or sat down to watch at 6 o’clock or maybe 11 p.m. if I stayed up that late.  If I thought about it, I felt proud to live in a country with a free press, where journalists worked to uncover and reveal “the truth” about events in our lives.  I read the morning  newspaper daily and worked what I could of the crossword puzzle.  I was informed, but not excessively so.  Lately “the news” has felt overwhelming, and I’m feeling a creeping anxiety that I know is not healthy.  I’ve tried my favorite way of sorting out my feelings and thoughts—journaling, but I still struggle.

Last Friday in our writing class, a classmate read an essay she had written.  It expressed well what I had been trying to uncover and said what I want to say.  I came home and started rewriting what she had said, using my words to make it mine, adding a bit and subtracting a minor detail or two that did not fit me—she uses electronics and reads more newspapers than I do..  She has given me permission to publish our reflections on my blog page in the hopes that we can start a conversation with others on this subject.

In recent years the pace of the news has been building up, until last year when I become more acutely aware of nearly continuous and repetitive news coverage—often flashing on screen as “BREAKING NEWS…”  I began to see more and more stories posted and reposted by like-minded friends on Facebook.  Most of the posts were things I agreed with, although I occasionally talked back angrily to the post on the screen that represented a political opinion different from mine.  I felt proud and hopeful that a well-educated woman with excellent credentials and a desire to work with all people was running for our highest political office.  I didn’t agree with everything she said, especially when she called some people who didn’t support her “deplorables,” but we all make mistakes, right?  No one is perfect.  I was also proud of many other women who were running for offices in their states.  I didn’t always agree with everything they said, but mostly I listened and found that for the most part we shared common goals.

As the presidential race of 2016 progressed I began to check the news on my tablet and on the computer.  This was new behavior and I alternately cheered my candidate and groaned as a man I didn’t support positioned himself to be her opponent.  He seemed to be getting an enormous amount of negative attention.  His name showed up everywhere.  Cameras followed his every move.  Journalists seized on the foolish things he said and seemed to repeat them endlessly.  At first, he seemed like a joke, and it was entertaining to read about his gaffs; about all the times he misspoke.  But I soon became uncomfortable with the way he and his activities seemed to dominate the news.  The newscasters no longer seemed to be talking about policies. He made daily combative comments on Twitter, a form of social media that I had dismissed as something the younger people used for quick messages to friends, or a tidbit of  gossip—the way my friends and I, in times past, used snail mail or passed notes to each other in school.  If some important issue was brought up, his tweets seemed to ricochet all over what was being reported, and the reports became about him, not about the issue.  

My friend, who originally shared this piece told me she began to worry as she recalled something her Dad once said:  “Get out there and make an impression on people.  It doesn’t matter if it is a good impression or a bad one.  If people remember you, you will end up having influence over them.” 

I began reading everything that came across my Facebook feed—booing and shaking my head at the inane things I was hearing.  I also read bits and pieces from the New York Times and other newspapers, though not a lot.  My eyesight makes it difficult to read newspapers anymore.  I listened to PBS, ABC, CBS, and MSNBC, and some Fox News and CNN.  I began to be drawn to the evening news shows where an anchor would flesh out the day’s stories along with knowledgeable commentators.  At first it was enjoyable and refreshing to watch smart, reasonable people analyze what was happening.

But this was all happening to the drumbeat of “breaking news” and somewhere along the way I felt like “the spin was drawing me into a media rip-tide”.  I was confused and perplexed.  Had my desire to stay informed become an addiction?  Was the news becoming toxic?  Were my senses being dulled by daily assaults on my values and sense of decency?  When is enough, enough?

When reporters uncovered a plot by a foreign government to manipulate social media to further polarize people in our country I realized I was witnessing a new way to conduct warfare that had nothing to do with guns.

The opinion writer Peter Wehner writes:  “Objective reality exists, truth matters, and we have to pursue them with purpose and without fear.”  Well and good, but it is getting harder, it seems, to discern objective reality.  Wehner also reports that people have a tendency to attach to news that confirms to what they already believe.  He cites a physiological response where a “feel-good” chemical, dopamine, is released every time we agree with others.  I thought about those I know who warn me against paying attention to acquaintances with conservative beliefs.  I admit to feeling uneasy about some of their conservative viewpoints.  Conversations with more liberal friends are more reassuring.  But when I listen to people with opposing views, I sometimes wonder if all of us are paying too much attention to the news too narrowly.  I wonder if I pounce on the opposing sides’ mistakes too eagerly.  I suspect I am somehow complicit as I sit in my comfortable home in my comfortable neighborhood, and I ask myself what is my purpose in these last years of my life?  How can I make this world a better place?

Are there ways to stand at the periphery to get a clearer look at what is happening in our country?  How do I embrace my beliefs more firmly and find a way to act on them?  Stay tuned.  My questions, like the news aren’t in any danger of diminishing.  I will undoubtedly keep reading and listening, though I’ve cut done my time doing so.  I hope I will do this calmly, looking for signs that signal strength and courage in a democracy that rises to meet the challenges, political and natural, that the media continue to reveal.  

NAMASTE

    

      *NAMASTE

She walked the narrow path

head down

her feet bearing the weight

of a world gone wrong.

Grayness flooded her world,

masking beauty,

blurring colors, shapes,

even sounds of life.

If she had looked up

she would have seen

white clouds changing faces

and forms in the blue sky,

birds that sang merrily from treetops.

She barely noticed the crane family

that kept pace alongside her

so great was her grief—her fear.

Walking toward her on the narrow path

glistening white in the spring sun,

a vision to challenge her reality

caused her to look up

Namaste, he said quietly

As he bowed to her

His smile was warm

Was he real?  Was he imagined?

Who was he?  Who was she?

Namaste, she replied shyly

bowing slightly.

When she looked up

the world had changed.

She turned around, watched

the retreating figure fade.

The heart prays, she thought,

Lovers meet,

Sun shines,

Birds sing.

The world turns.

            II

Nothing had changed,

Everything had changed.

The weight of a world gone wrong

no longer shrouded her in shades of gray

No longer blurred the colors.

The bright blue sky

The dancing clouds

Singing blue birds,

Friendly, silly cranes,

Smiling, happy families

This was the world

she longed to embrace.

Both existed.

Gloom would not heal the world

Nor would a smile.  However,

a smile and a kind word

healed her heart that day.

Namaste brought her love

Returned her to her better Self.

She could do as much for others.

Would she?

·         *Namaste, loosely translated means, The good in me greets the good in you.  It honors the divine that resides in each of us.  

QUIET VOICES:  No Speech, No Words

            The heavens declare the glory of God…

            There is no speech; there are no words

Their voice is not heard.

            Yet their voice is heard and

            their words to the end of the world.

                                                Psalm 19:1-4              

            Earth and heaven do have a voice. Perhaps it is more correct to say voices—Voices that are being heard throughout the world and will be heard to the end of time by those who choose to listen and to HEAR their words.

            How many of us have been stopped in our tracks and felt the life-giving awe of a glorious sunset or sunrise?  How many have stopped short when unexpectedly coming upon a grove of trees ablaze in brilliant colors of fall?  Have you ever looked up at the night sky and seen the living, moving patterns of the Northern Lights?  Or perhaps, if you’re from the plains of Western Minnesota or the Dakotas, your first glimpse of a towering mountain range? 

            I remember lying, one January morning, in the snow next to a gurgling mountain stream in a mountain valley a mile up from Lake Chelan in Washington State.  As I looked at the brilliant blue sky with its fluffy white clouds, I could see snow-covered mountain peaks.  Lying quietly watching and listening, I first heard the stream gurgle, then a bird or two raising their voices in celebration of the day.  And when I was eventually quiet enough, I heard a distant waterfall tumbling and dancing down the mountainside.  The sun shown on the snow creating crystal-like sparkles.  Heaven’s fairy dust, I thought, the voices of earth and sky going out through all the earth. 

            In the present times, the voices—the words of the heavens and the earth are not always beautiful.  The awesome power they speak can be of danger, of impending disaster, and death.  Hazy skies tell of poison gases and an ozone layer no longer protecting us as it once did; of water poisoned by chemical waste, of diminished bird and animal and fish populations due to lack of respect for their habitat of land, water, and sky—the beautiful gifts we have been given and have misused. 

            We have forgotten that we are one with nature—with the heavens and the earth and all living things.  It is imperative that we respect the awesome power that can create life or destroy it.  As co-creators it is up to us.  It is imperative that we listen with respect and take whatever action we can to love the earth, water, and sky, plants, animals, fish, and humans, and to help heal them.  It is in our nature and within our power to do so. 

            We can start by waking up to the beauty that surrounds us every day.  We so often take it for granted and do not see or hear it.  Look at the sky, the sun, moon, and stars, the birds, water, earth.  See the critters of the earth, large and tiny.  See, not only with your eyes; hear not only with your ears, smell, taste, and touch, as you would a lover—with your heart and soul.  Hear the awesome voice of the heavens; the quiet, powerful words the earth speaks; the music of the lakes, rivers, streams and of the oceans.

            .

            In times of chaos, it is imperative that we discover the voices of the heavens and the earth emerging from their chrysalis of darkness and death into a new world of beauty and peace.  Only when we see them with our hearts and souls will we fall in love, and in that love find our place as loving co-creators of the earth with which we have been entrusted.

            

Respect Goes Deeper

September 20, 2016   

            There has been a Facebook exchange recently highlighting a video of President Obama without his hand over his heart for a playing of the National Anthem.  The writer implies in CAPS that President Obama REFUSED to place his hand over his heart thereby showing disrespect for our country. 

            I have gone years without putting my hand on my heart.  For a long time, I was taught it was a choice and I chose to stand in respectful attention with my arms at my sides singing with all my heart.  The flag and my country were always and are still dear to me. 

            As I’ve gotten older, I’ve questioned some of the things I/we do automatically— because it has always been done.  I’ve come to a conclusion in this case.  Please hear me out.  The flag is a piece of cloth with our country’s symbolic design.  Other countries could have the same piece of cloth made with their symbols.  The cloth is not sacred, nor is the design.  It is A Symbol of our ideals and as such holds deep symbolic meaning for the people of our Nation.  It deserves our respect.  The National Anthem is also a symbol of love for our nation.  It too calls for our respect. 

            For me it goes deeper.  Deeper than the flag.  Deeper than the Anthem.  Respect may be shown in placing our hand over our heart.  It may also be shown by kneeling on one knee or by standing respectfully with hands at your sides. (I’m not sure about the whooping and hollering that goes on before the anthem is even finished at ball games, but sharing a good time is also part of our nation’s past-time.)   

            However, the hateful vitriol that is spewed in some places and at some times almost before the National Anthem fades away does not show respect for our Nation or our Anthem.  It does not show respect for people or the constitution.  Showing respect for our symbols—the flag, the Pledge, and the National Anthem—must go further and deeper than a hand over our heart.  It must honor the complexity and diversity of the many people who make up our nation.  It must reach into our heart and love us into being the loving, accepting, welcoming, diverse and united nation our forefathers and mothers dreamed of and that I trust we continue to strive to be. 

OUR UNRAVELING WORLD

Witness the unraveling world.

A loose end begins to unwind,

Unnoticed at first, it picks up speed.

Some applaud and cheer

Some laugh nervously

Some hide behind ridicule and disbelief.

Some shut their ears, close their eyes,

go on about their lives as the world unravels

one day at a time.

If the drink is bitter, Rilke says,

Turn yourself into wine.

Gathering speed, continuing to unravel, the world turns.

Those who love the world are able to see and hold

            hate and fear,

            war and killing,

            oil spills,

            destructive winds,

            floods and fires.

They turn it over and discover the sweetness.

It is okay not to be brimming with hope.

Those who have learned to dwell with grief turn it over.

The world needs those who are present for the healing:

            who don’t run away.

            who are awed by sunsets and sunrises,

            who embrace gentle wind and rain,

            who see beauty in the music of diversity,

            in the creativity of the homeless, the lonely, the ones not like us. 

 Those who love the world discover

The Great Turning:

            new ways of living with the unraveling,

            new ways of caring for neighbors near and far,

            new ways of caring for the land,

            new ways of sharing wealth,

            new ways of loving.

Rilke asks,

Is not impermanence the fragrance of our days?

*

Thank you to Krista Tippitt and Joanna Macy whose interview last Sunday on NPR's ON BEING inspired this writing.

WORLDSHAPING

WORLD SHAPING

             Near the end of the chapter “Solace,”in David Whyte’s book CONSOLATIONS: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words, solace asks three very direct and forceful questions.

1.      How will you bear the inevitable that is coming to you?

2.      How will you endure it through the years            ?

3.      How will you shape a world equal to and as beautiful and as astonishing as a world that can birth you, bring you into the light, and then just as you are beginning to understand it, take you away?

            These questions stopped me in my tracks.  And as I so often do when that happens, I picked up my journal and started writing.  I’m still puzzling and writing and musing over my answers.  These past two years have opened me to the inevitable that I, like so many others, try to avoid thinking about and dealing with.  I’ve gone through many pages writing of various stages of dealing with questions one and two.  Answers have varied from burying my head in the sand, to kicking and screaming  “No, No, No,” to drifting peacefully into the dark night. 

            Question three got my attention and put the responsibility on me.  “How will I shape my world equal to and as beautiful and as astonishing…?”

             I sit back, relax and stare out my window. My living room at street level, is like a tree house.  My condo is built into a hill.  The maple is in full summer greenery and leaves dance gracefully.  A cardinal flies past the window and settles momentarily on a branch.  Robins twitter and flit back and forth.  Several black crows fly toward the house, swoop upward out of sight.  The dove coos softly from its nest near the condo.  The sky is blue.  Cirrus and cumulus clouds float lazily.  I follow them and find myself in a field of tall grass.

           

            Small children are running.  Exuberant, joyful, their shouts of laughter bring smiles to the moms watching from the backyard or the kitchen window.  I am one of the children.  My exhilaration grows with a sense of freedom as I frolic and flop in the tall grass.  Flattening the grass in patterns, we create the rooms where our bodies can rest as we catch our breath— momentarily.  Then up we jump and off we run—our excited laughter ringing out on the warm waves of summer.

           

            It’s my first day of kindergarten and I’m walking with my daddy and Mr. Hyduke, his friend, to my school which is next door to the high school where they teach.  Dressed in my finest new school clothes, I’m excited to meet my teacher, new friends and go to school.  My motor mouth asks a zillion questions as we walk and my short legs try to match strides with daddy and “Mike” (I could never call him that out loud.)  I flash to other days when daddy rode me to and from kindergarten on the handlebars of his bicycle. 

           

            My favorite memory floats by:  I’m “doing tricks” with my daddy, standing steady on his hands as he lies on the ground then stands up slowly and carefully raises me high to the sky where I stand proudly, hands on my hips, smiling at whoever is around to watch.         

           

            Mommy, her friend, Hazel and I are walking across a cow pasture.  “Be careful, Susan.  Don’t step on the cow pies.  Watch where you step.” 

            I laugh, “Uck, I’ll be careful.” 

            We climb over the stile to the other side of the fence and continue our walk into the woods.  I skip along happily and stop to examine a purple flower.  Mommy names it for me and tells me a bit about it.  I love to walk with Mommy and Hazel, listening to their easy conversation.  Mommy knows everything about the trees, wild flowers, sky and clouds, and she shows me the difference between fir, pine and spruce needles.  She shows me and has me feel the different kinds of bark on the tree trunks.  We walk to the edge of the “South Campus” as we called it.  Gustavus Adolphus College was three miles east. This is the property of the Insane Asylum, as it was known in that day.  There we turn around for our walk back to town.  I skip ahead.  My exuberance slows into a slow, shuffling.  “I’m tired.”

            “We’re almost back to Hazel’s,” mommy says quietly.  See here’s the stile.  Energy returns for a moment, as I climb quickly, jump off the top step, and amble slowly across the cow pasture watching for cow pies.  Yuck!                 

           

            I flashed to years later.  I returned to GA college from the town where we had moved to after my kindergarten year.  I spent Tuesdays at the then State Hospital visiting patients on the closed ward for the insane.  On Sundays, I sometimes went back to play ping pong and pool with inmates who were non-psychotic.  I wanted to be a psychiatric nurse at that time.  I enjoyed the company of the mostly young men (I don’t remember any girls).  It was where I learned to play pool—though not very well.  Ping pong was my game, though I seldom won.  It was there I learned that we are not so different from “the other”, and that they had much to give me, including friendship.

           

            Mommy, daddy, sister, Carol, and I are out for a Sunday drive in our new old car.  We’ve finally gotten rid of our rotten egg blue ’37 Ford that had to be cranked to start.  It’s a sunny warm fall day and we are driving east out in the country.  Moorhead is very flat, primarily farmland with few trees.  We’ve driven into a hillier, more woodsy area.  The trees are brilliant in their fall colors and I watch with wonder.  As our car reaches the top of a small curving hill, my breath catches.  Down below us is the awesome artistry of a hillside rich with oranges, pinks, reds, greens such as I’d never seen before glowing in the late afternoon sun.  I’m startled and a bit embarrassed to find tears flow down my cheeks.  My first memory of spontaneous tears of and beauty coming up from my heart.  

           

            Other memories, float in front of me of joyous times, simple times, family times, lasting friendships, singing around a campfire in the arms of love.  My first child—and the second, third, and fourth.  My first grandchild—the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth—all special and one of a kind.   I see my grandchildren standing in front of me holding out my Christmas present, excitedly urging me and squirming for position as they waited for me to open it.  Overwhelmed, tears streamed down my face.  “Don’t’ you like it?”  they chorused.

            “I love it more than I can say.  I cry when I’m happy and I couldn’t be happier now.  I love it and I love you,” I sniffled and smiled as I looked at each page of the calendar; their pictures and memories gracing each month’s page. 

            The last, a powerful memory of the day I
snowshoed on the beach of Lake Huron.  In the silent beauty my heart was split wide open, but that’s a story for another time and place.

            This is the simple and astonishing world that birthed me and brought me into the light of pure joy and awe.  And this is the simple and astonishing world that just as I am beginning to appreciate and understand it, can take me away.  Starting today, and for the time I have left, how do I shape a world as simple and astonishing as the world that birthed me?

            It won’t be the same as the world that birthed me, but with the things I’ve learned in my lifetime, the sorrows I’ve lived through and healed from, the fears I’ve overcome, the joys and blessings I’ve discovered and recovered I believe it is possible.  I’ve learned that it’s the little things that bring me joy.  I missed a lot of joy and beauty before I learned to watch for it.  I’m learning to notice the small things that really are the most astonishing.