Growing Outrage

Today I am not feeling very hopeful.

I feel outraged. I feel isolated in my peaceful home, surrounded by flowers and smiles and relaxation. I feel impotent as I become more and more aware of the hatred, the duplicity, the injustice in the world, and the reality that there is not much I can do about it. I sit and watch news reports, watch videos of the flotilla being attacked and people being killed, read reports of BP's hospitalized, silenced workers and the insane amount of time the oil is predicted to continue gushing, look through photos of malnourished children in tent cities in Haiti, smiling sadly for the camera amid the trash and rubble. The problems are real and serious. What can I do? How do you sow love instead of hatred, light instead of darkness, peace instead of injustice?

I am frustrated and angry at the news. So many sides to the stories, so many things that are true and so many that are not. And how to tell the difference? Any hatred is bad. Lies are bad. All I know is that people are desperate; people are human and have the right to live life fully and with dignity; people should not be objectified; people should be protected, not ignored, not attacked, not starved, not silenced.

But these are just thoughts. Where is the action that matters? How can we find the truth in these situations and move towards justice, instead of becoming stagnated by choosing sides and arguing over the "facts"? And how do we personally work toward these things when we are but one small part of the whole, lacking influence, lacking opportunities, lacking knowledge?

I am at a loss.

Hope is the things with feathers

Last night before I went to bed, I was thinking about hope. Foremost in my thoughts was a poem by Emily Dickinson:

"Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
and sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
and on the strangest sea;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me."

I thought of the hopes I have--the real hopes, not just "dreams" or "wishes." I hope to be better. I hope to grow; to grow in goodness, in love, in right action, in resolve; to be less foolish, less selfish...which led to me thinking of St. Francis:

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace
where there is hatred...let me sow love
where there is injury...pardon
where there is discord...unity
where there is doubt...faith
where there is error...truth
where there is despair...hope
where there is sadness...joy
where there is darkness...light
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled...as to console
to be understood...as understand
to be loved...as love...."

Hope is the thing with feathers. It is alive and active and constantly present. It remains a living presence in my soul, spurring me forth to grow, to renew, to never give up trying. The hope that says "be better," "sow love," "so peace," "seek understanding," "look outside yourself."

It struck me that hope was an interesting thing to be contemplating when so much despair surrounds; when I have for the first time felt a sense of hopelessness and helplessness. Crushed lives, crushed communities, crushed structures in Haiti--devastation on an incomprehensible scale. Gushing oil uncontrollably attacking the Gulf, seemingly unstoppable. The economic recession still resulting in waves of job loss, foreclosure, and spirals of debt and worry. Earthquakes around the globe, flooded cities, uprisings in fragile governments. I've never felt so hopeless for situations, as I sit on the couch watching it unfold on the TV, without any way to plug the oil or rebuild homes in Haiti.






Yet, from the rubble and sewage of Haiti comes a beautiful tin carving, with three little birds perched in a tree, brought home from Stephen's recent trip. Even Haiti, where the continuance of life seems so endangered and hope seems so absent, hope is the thing with feathers; people are surviving.



The oil gushes and the pelicans and gulls are mired, but one at a time they are washed clean, surviving. Hope is the thing with feathers.



The bird hope may be small, but hope is present. Amidst so much despair, it's song seems so dim. The bird hope in my soul is restless--I feel useless; but I can sow goodness here in my place. I can stir up hope in the souls of others so that together we may amend, or at least begin to heal, what these unhindered atrocities have destroyed. Hope may seem small, but hope is stalwart. How do we follow hope's quiet and constant call? I don't know, but I'm trying.

Good Things (that I didn't have to do)

One of the benefits of buying a house is that sometimes you can mooch off of the work of others. We have a little house in Homewood, 3 bedrooms, 1 bath with an extra art room. It is just right, having lots of finished details in a small space. The garden already has raised beds, bird feeders mounted in stone-paved corners, roses growing over an arbor, irises and lilies by the lamp post in the back; all we have to do is take care of what has already been prepared. We are good at keeping things up; not so good at taking on projects (hence, the still-present GIANT stained and sagging ceiling above the kitchen table from the late-winter monsoons, or was it fall? I lose track. It is a lovely accent to our kitchen). One of the latest benefits to our house are the beautiful hydrangeas blooming in the front and back yards. All I have to do is reap the rewards! There is one downside to our small space (setting aside the leaky roof, which Stephen has so expertly repaired)--two words: one bathroom. The key is to ask MC if she has to go before you get settled (something we often overlook, to our own detriment).

Pre-Summer Slump

I have been in the process of drawing a cow for about 3 weeks. It is a big one...18x24 pastel of a big rust-colored cow grazing by a river on top of a green hill. Normally I can knock one of these out in a long day, or maybe 2. Why is this cow taking me so long? I blame it on a pre-summer slump. Spring rush of art shows and end-of-year preschool activities coming to a close make me tired, and the heat outside makes me lazy. My to-do list has gotten lost and I just poked around the house today, with half-intentions to get myself together. Ah, but alas, the approaching summertime heat and cold mint sweet tea call to me and I just get stuck in the middle, between productivity and relaxation. I suppose I should pick one. I'll let you know which I choose. Too bad summer doesn't mean "break" anymore!

(If I could, here is what I would choose. Ahh, the days when we had so few responsibilities)

Boogers and Leaves

Today when I came home from teaching preschool and pastel class, my poor little MC was sound asleep on the couch with a fever. Patrick and I stayed outside on the front porch where I could hear if she woke up, because keeping the dude quiet inside for more than a minute was never going to happen. 3 hours and many mosquito bites later, we finally saw Mary Clare's little face at the door, feeling better. Patrick and I had spent the afternoon decorating pine cones with monkey grass and clover, throwing rocks into the monkey grass, smashing mosquitos, singing songs, making butterflies out of flowers and pretend-catching the moon.

I'm so used to being busy and always having something productive to do (and feeling guilty if I'm not). As I sat on the porch watching him follow birds and bumble bees, I felt very relaxed for the first time in a long time. Happy to watch him play and to just sit and smile on my peeling, paint-layered steps, feeling the green all around me. And now as I sit and my kids run and play and pick boogers, my 5 day head ache has finally faded and life feels good. Even with the boogers (that he so dutifully wiped on a tissue)

Growing Compassion, Growing Community

There is a man (really a couple of different men and a woman who alternate) who sits next to the ramp from Hwy 280 to Lakeshore Drive. He holds a sign and waits, rain or shine. We take that exit each day after preschool and see him there. Mary Clare has asked what he's doing and knows he is homeless and needs help. We have given him what little cash or coins we have, but seem to always end up with a green light or in the wrong lane to offer anything. But Sunday after a meeting, while Stephen was at work, we passed the man again and the kids and I decided to pack a bag of food to give to him. The kids were so pumped about it and got to work right when we got home. Almost entirely on their own, they packed a bag full of things they thought would make him happy...goldfish, fruity pebbles, dried cherries, oreos, cokes, magazines, a piece of chalk in case he wants to draw, a pad of paper and a colorful pencil in case he wants to write something, toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, deoderant, washcloth (toiletries which Patrick so carefully placed in a ziploc bag for the "little man" as he called him), a (clean) pair of filched socks from Dad's drawer, a cheerio and teddy graham plastic container in case he wants to save some things, and a few other items. The bag was finished with some pictures. The exact words are better than my retelling: Mary Clare said "I think I'll draw him a monkey because monkeys are silly and they make you laugh, and if you laugh you feel happy. Mom, would it be okay to draw a heart and write 'I'm sorry you don't have a house?'"
It's hard to think of anything to say after that. We are so proud of the compassion that has grown in their little hearts...and that they are able to share it in a real and tangible way even though they are only 2 and 4 years old. I felt myself receding into the background as they worked away, on their own initiative and with their own sweet ideas of what someone without a house might like to have; an onlooker torn between smiles and tears. Their little hands taught me a lot and the picture above sums it all up for me.
This is what I feel "church" should be...community, meeting needs, restoring humanity in ways big and small. It doesn't have to take a lot of preplanning and structure...just compassion, love, and action. It doesn't take a lot of searching and waiting to grow up...just simplicity, honesty and kindness. When we gave the man the bag after school yesterday, we asked him if there was anything else he needs that we could get for him (MC was worried he needed a pillow and blanket, so I told her I'd ask before we took it). He said "I'm just trying to get food and enough money for a hotel room. This helps so much!" Simple needs. People worry so much about what "homeless people" will do with the money they offer, so they don't offer...the man just wants a place to sleep and something to eat. Instead of worrying so much over taking action, we just need to help however we can.
We will now always have a bag full of food, necessities and a few happies in our car so we'll be ready to help, just like MC says.

First Fruits...I mean vegetables

We have planted a small garden at our house--three little beds with herbs, tomatoes, squash, pumpkins, beans and peas, radishes, carrots, red onions, peppers and very sad lettuce. So far I'm doing a good job taking care of it; watering, weeding, observing, keeping little feet from stomping the plants back into the dirt. Today was a momentous overcast morning...we pulled up our very first veggies. Radishes. The kids thought they were amazing and beautiful, even if covered in dirt. I was suspicious because they were all split and weird looking and was afraid they would taste terrible (radishes already taste odd anyway). We brought them in and they tasted pretty good as far as radishes go, to me at least. MC and P spit them out into the trash. Ah, well, it was exciting nonetheless.
I started this blog today because, as I was pulling weeds, I thought about what a pervasive metaphor my garden was for my life. So much involved to keep it healthy; a little neglect and you're in trouble. I never liked to blog, worried it was narcissistic--who wants to hear what I have to say anyway? I was always the girl in the back of class who never said anything unless I thought it was really relevant (which wasn't often), and got annoyed at people who seemed to talk because they liked to hear their thoughts. So I'm beginning a blog without expectations of "readers," but it helps to record my musings with the thought of an invisible, if perhaps imaginary, audience.
So, we'll see how it goes.
(And yes, Patrick is wearing Mary Clare's shirt...not my doing, not that I really care)