Photos from the Women's March Oakland, January 22, 2017

Photos courtesy of S. Storch, photographer extraordinaire... even with a waterlogged iPhone!

One Final Fling

A dozen colleagues gathered exactly one year after our buddy Marc died. He came to the party under the redwoods in a unique costume. He would have been the first to pipe up about "making an ASH of himself."

Each of us walking along the path had to play both roles, imagining what our buddy would have said about flying free in the breeze 'neath the oaks and bays, dusting our shoes and clothing with his condensed essence as we flung ash by the spoonful, or poured it out prayerfully?

We got pretty corny about "Our friend, the answer, is blowing in the wind... our friend is blowing in the wind." (Sorry, Bob D.)

In life, Marc loved the redwoods, so we gathered in a circle in a sweet grove and read aloud, "Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye...

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

We sang perfectly imperfectly the words we could remember of Marc's favorite song: Luis Armstrong's version of  "What a Wonderful World." It was the last song to enter his ears a year ago.

And finally, "Hit the Road Jack" by Ray Charles.  That song contained Marc's marching orders. 

These three things he'd gathered as part of his choreographed departure. We honored him again Saturday as best we could, we fellow Somatic Experiencing colleagues of his.

I don't think it was more than a mile up from Linda's home to the spot in the grove that felt just right, in a regional park, but the visits we got to have spread out along the trail were sweet, deep, and nourishing.

Later, back at Linda's, we enjoyed breaking bread, continuing the conversation, and watching the perfect sunset out the window, over the Bay, between the pines. All were aglow with fellowship.

Thanks again, Brother Marc, for the final fling... of your beautiful white ash.                          You always were proud of your ash, buddy!  

Rest In Peace

What's New? Pussyhat! or You Tube Can Learn to Knit!

The first time I learned to knit, I was seven years old. It must've been my mom who taught me, but I don't remember the learning part, I just remember the odd shape that emerged out of working diligently with two wooden needles for several days. Probably, she started me off with ten stitches of the soft red wool yarn. The idea, I suppose, was to keep knitting until I had a nice tidy long scarf or something. But, by the time I cast off the final stitch, there must have been forty or fifty stitches on the working needle, so my finished piece looked nothing like a scarf. It had the profile of a blunt-nosed dog: The ten original stitches, which I managed to continue for maybe eight or ten rows being his snout, and, perhaps because I kept splitting the yarn or, via some other mysterious process, I kept adding stitches, so there was a slope where his eyes would be and on up to his flat-topped head. The opposite edge looked like major double chins on this flat, red, wooly "doggie." I kept the scrap for many long years, perhaps hoping to find someone who could sort out what I did wrong and teach me how to knit correctly. Help was not forthcoming from my over-worked mom. I give her credit for trying.

My husband's Aunt Faye taught me again when I was in my early twenties. Cousin June, who was somewhat of an extra grandma to our daughters, taught me again when I was in my forties. Every time it was as if I'd never done it before. Without using and reinforcing the skill, I didn't retain the steps.

Mid-January, one of my new Oakland friends sent out an email to her crafty friends. I don't consider myself crafty, but I do enjoy crochet as a meditative act. The email invited Judy's gal pals to join her in a Pussyhat knitting party one afternoon. I couldn't get to the gathering, but I was intrigued and wanted to learn how to knit yet again, so I could wear a bright pink Pussyhat in solidarity with my sisters world-wide who are concerned over endangered reproductive rights, modeling from our new president of bullying with impunity, and diminishing accessibility to health care. I was looking forward to the day of the post-inauguration Great Women's March. It seemed a reasonable goal to knit a hat by January 21!

I got a pound of magenta acrylic yarn at JoAnn's for under six bucks. I still had my grandmother's ancient ivory colored needles tucked away in a long narrow MacKenzie's Shortbread box. I had a visual memory of my mother with a gigantico knitting needle balanced upright on her knee and doing some magic hand-cantation over it such that the yarn wrapped itself around the needle magically. But, I had no idea how to "cast on," which is the first step in knitting anything.

As illiterate as I may be with computers, I do know how to get onto YouTube. So I did. It's amazing what you can learn from dedicated well-wishing-teachers and their super cool, slowed down so even I can get it videos. AND, you can pause, rewind and learn the steps over and over again! So cool!

Several practice sessions of casting on, knitting and purling later, I was on my way to knitting a simple rectangle suitable for folding into a Pussyhat. I learned a lot, both about knitting and about my persistent dyslexia. I kept saying "counterclockwise" but I kept throwing the yarn over the needle in a clockwise direction. Lots of rippings-out-and-starting-overs later, I finished the project at six o'clock the night before the march.

Kat Coyle is credited with disseminating the pattern on how to make the (now) iconic hat. She runs a shop called The Little Knittery in Atwater district of Los Angeles. Hats off to Kat (so to speak) for working with one of her customers, Krista Suh, to develop the pattern and make it accessible to hundreds of thousands of women. The act of knitting together for a mutually beneficial cause forged many friendships. I'm grateful to my friend Judy for giving me a private tutorial.

Saturday's march wasn't exactly anti-climactic, but rather a convention of kindness; an affirmation that yes, these folks with whom I'm rubbing shoulders as we walk down the street (v-e-r-y---s-l-o-w-l-y) toward Frank Ogawa Square (that is too small to hold all of us for the rally) are folks with whom I can work when the real work of protesting begins. Or when we need to get signatures for petitions, or walk door to door to check on our neighbors after a disaster, and when federal funds are no longer available to California because in Oakland, Berkeley, and San Francisco (and maybe other communities as well) we've self-designated as Sanctuary Cities, and the new powers that be are breathing punitive fire and rumbling and grumbling at the entrances to their caves about building walls, and turning away the down-trodden, tired, the poor, and the hungry. (Emma Lazarus is turning over in her grave.)

Yes, I can work with these folks. Yes, I will work with my community to maintain sanity when faced with the craziness of this new (and scary) administration. And, like our fear-mongering new leader does, but with tongue in cheek, We Shall OverComb. (One of my favorite signs of many at the march Saturday.)

Younger daughter Sunday asked me pointedly whether the energy spent by the multitudes all over the globe might better have been spent in performing actions that really create a change for good. I cannot disagree, but I think that the kindness and cooperation of all who marched (at least where I was in Oakland), was a first step in affirming that we're all in this world together, and we'd best learn how to cooperate to maximize our efforts. The plentiful pink pussyhats remind me that we are all made from the same cloth; men women and children, and that we all came into the world from our mother's life-giving womb. Let's not grab anyone by the short hairs, eh? "My grandmother didn't burn her bra so you could grab my pussy," was another of my favorite signs on the march.

Are there YouTube videos about knitting our communities back together, re-empowering all females, and watching out for each other? I think we just made some lovely, unifying heart videos Saturday.

Brazil Revisited

Nine women, all of us Norte Americana Somatic Experiencing Practitioners, arrived at the Spiritual Center high in the mountains outside Bello Horizonte, Brazil in the middle of the night, in the middle of our lives, in the middle of a lightning storm that took out the electricity for two days. We bonded with our host community by lightning flash, candle light, and warm hugs in the cold rain. Inside, there were wonderful aromas coming from something bubbling on top of the wood-burning stove. 

By candle light, we enjoyed savory soup and freshly baked bread. We were welcomed, warmed and reassured that this was our “home away from home”; a safe haven for our 11 day visit. 

The third night of our stay, after yet another delicious meal, we nine women sat on our cots just outside the kitchen. We began to explore the “why did you come” question. To the last participant, not one of us could state why… only that we couldn’t NOT come to Brazil to study with this man, of whom our teacher and founder of Somatic Experiencing said, “If you ever get a chance to study with Henrique, take it! He’s a bonafide shaman who has great skill in guiding people toward healing. He covers all that you’ve learned in my courses, but from a shamanic perspective.” 

So, we all came to Belo, were met in the airport by strangers wearing white who soon became friends. In the pouring rain, they drove us up the mountain to this emerald enclave where our minds were blown and our hearts touched by grace. Everything grows here, even in July, their winter. Chickens, ducks and turkeys wander the grounds.

Henrique, serves as pai (spiritual father) to the community. He met with each of us visitors individually over the course of two days. He threw the buzios (shells), and through our translator’s tireless efforts we were able to write down his karmic book vision version of where we’d come from, where we were in our current life, and where we were headed. 

His ability to see into the present moment somewhere else, or into the future was beyond belief. Unlike anything I'd ever witnessed.  During my turn, he had only the name and birthdate of my husband, but was able to tell me that my beloved needed to watch out for his kidneys. I didn’t then know, that at that very hour, allowing for the time differential between Belo and Los Angeles, my husband was being driven down the mountain from summer camp, where he was serving as a volunteer counselor, to our home in North Hollywood. He had a raging kidney infection. When I returned home and found out, every hair on my body stood on end. Henrique's accuracy was eerie and unexpected. He told me things about my family and about my own path which have been so helpful in the intervening thirteen years. Because he invited me to a broader view of what’s going on - what each person’s struggle is guiding him/her to do - it has been easier for me to be with each process, even if the process itself may be unpleasant in the moment. 

His gift of clairvoyance, clairaudience, and clairsentience gifted me with the possibility of a higher perspective. At least I know I will never know all I want to know, but the pressure is off. Someone else will know what I want to understand and I can ask for help.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Ceremony supports healing. Community holds the shattered bits of our soul so tenderly that the pieces come whole again in joy and celebration. We were witness to what some would call the miraculous. One person came with hearing loss in one ear and left with it restored. Another came with wildly fluctuating blood pressure and left on a much more even keel. Still another was in the midst of profound loss and grief when she arrived, but during the course of the stay was given real solace, real healing, and real perspective which is a balm to the soul. I left with a certainty about my path, and a healed right leg with which I can step out confidently on that path.

Using his understanding of Candomble, the religion that came with the people whom the Portuguese enslaved in Angola and brought from Western Africa to Brazil; Umbanda, the rituals and beliefs of indigenous Brazilian tribes; and Catholicism, the religion of the Portuguese conquerors, Henrique makes a weave. 

He taught us about the Orixás (the deities), the unseen mentors who guide him in the healings, herbs and mandalas to use for healing, prayers and songs. He enlisted our skills to be present for one another during the evening healing rituals, when each of us in turn would lie on the table, covered with a clean white ironed sheet on which fresh flowers, stones, crystals, wooden beads, and herbs were arranged in mini mandalas. 

Sometimes the ceremonies went on until the wee hours of the morning, yet the community was with us every moment. The musicians played drums (tabáque) while we danced in a circle. Henrique pulled from the Source and graciously gave sustenance to all participants… singing and singing… in a rich velvet baritone, in Portuguese and in Latin. He incorporated what was happening in the moment!  “Ah, the rooster is crowing! The sun rises”

Each of us nine left behind cherished friends in that community who were unconditionally loving and so generous with their time and energy and devotion to our healing. It was a tearful departure. Each meal was prepared with such love and artistry it nourished us to the bone and essence of our being.   I was so taken with the whole experience that I made repeat journeys to study further in 2005, 2009, and 2013. There’s yet another trip to Belo Horizonte in my future. I don’t need Henrique to tell me that, I feel it in my bones!                          

Jobs... (not Steve)

Kindness, compassion, and truth-telling. During her talk at the Golden Globes, these are the actions Meryl Streep called upon Hollywood colleagues and international journalists to display, going forward as a nation.

Bernie Sanders took a visual aid to the senate floor: A giant blow up of one of Donald Trump's Tweets from May of 2015,  saying that he was the first Republican candidate to say we cannot get rid of Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid. Millions of people voted for him because they believe him. Now we have to hold his feet to the fire. Bernie says that many Republicans want to do away with or privatize the trio of social footholds. He agrees with Donald. We cannot afford to do that.

There are so many jobs to be done these next four years, in the wake of the upheaval of our last election.

Among the most important jobs are:

Listening to and standing up for those whose voices are not heard by folks in the spot light. Folks who have been shunted so far to the fringes that they are invisible and silent to two of the monkeys whose eyes and ears are covered while the third is speaking evil.

Being vigilant, bearing witness, and stepping forward to stop bullies in our communities who echo and emulate the pokes and prods coming from the new "leader" of the "free" world is another job.

Standing together for the environment, as those who stood at Standing Rock did, to block outrageous perpetrators from doing more harm to our earth is another.

We can focus on what's going right, but not at the expense of rose-colored glasses blinding us to what's going on behind the scenes, in the streets, in our villages, and in our own homes.

Ava DuVeray's documentary 13th is a must see, to understand the methodical and systematic injustices being done to huge swaths of our population.

May we stay current and not let the angry tide swell to barbarism, branding, and banishment of brothers and sisters who need asylum, and opportunity to begin anew.

Let Emma Lazarus' invitation not become an unvitation. Let us find room in our hearts and communities for the disenfranchised, disempowered, and despairing.

Oh, and  if you're the prayin' type, let us pray the President Elect's health is maintained. Mike Pence might do even more damage.

So much work to be done.

Ms. Streep quoted her friend Princess Leia (Carrie Fisher), "Take your broken heart and make art."

Self compassion first. Extending a hand, a smile, or an understanding nod comes next.

Happy New Ear to us all.

Good Riddance and Welcome

2016 ended with unexpected horror.

Come January 20, President (not) Elect(ed by the people) Trump will be moving (maybe) from his Tower in NYC to the Oval Office in DC. Let us hope his hands are too small to reach the important buttons. 

I sent a letter to the Obama family, thanking them for their tenure in the Whitehouse and service to our country. I told them, I wish third terms were still applicable. I'd vote them in again.

Come January 20, I may be sitting shiva for the death of democracy as we know it.

Come January 20, I definitely will be sitting in watchful vigil that no harm come to this country from within or from without.

Democracy works like Twelve Step Programs: It only works when you work it! 

Complacency and being asleep could sound our death knell. 

When a frog is put into boiling water, it jumps OUT, immediately. If a frog is put into cool water and the fire is turned up slowly, the frog doesn't recognize, until it is too late, that it should have jumped out, and it dies. Too lethargic to leap.

Unless we stay awake and vigilant...

I fear for our country. I fear for the world. I fear for the disenfranchised, the systematically marginalized, the downtrodden, the ones who look different from the Great White Male: Trumpkin.  I fear for all women, for sisters and brothers who are LGBT, for colorful sisters and brothers who are already being bullied because of the example set out from the bully pulpit of the president elect. I fear for brothers and sisters who worship in ways that may also attract bullies who think there is only one way to worship: their way. 

I wish everyone, especially those in offices of leadership, would watch Ava DuVeray's 13th.

I hope for the best. I hope for peace on the planet, and dignity for all Earth's children. I hope for a concerted effort in turning down the temperature of Mama Earth - starting with minimizing my own consumption of energy and with checking its source. 

I grieve the loss of sanity. I grieve the loss of cooler heads and a steady hand at the rudder steering this ungainly ship called US.

I hold dear the invitation from President Theodore Roosevelt. He said,

"The President is merely the most important among a large number of public servants. He should be supported or opposed exactly to the degree which is warranted by his good conduct or bad conduct, his efficiency or inefficiency in rendering loyal, able, and disinterested service to the nation as a whole. Therefore it is absolutely necessary that there should be full liberty to tell the truth about his acts, and this means that it is exactly as necessary to blame him when he does wrong as to praise him when he does right. Any other attitude in an American citizen is both base and servile. 

To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public. Nothing but the truth should be spoken about him or any one else. But it is even more important to tell the truth, pleasant or unpleasant, about him than about any one else.”

(Itallics, mine.)

The only update I’d offer is to include “she” and “her.”

I welcome 2017 as a call to a new beginning of re-creating our democracy from the bottom up. Grass and tree roots, family roots, hair roots, teeth roots. Weeding out what does not belong is as important as planting what we wish to grow.

May we sow the seeds of kindness, compassion, joy, and love. Lofty goals? Yes. Doable? Only if we work it.

May 2017 be kind and inviting to you.