weapons

I won’t really get a weapon. At least nothing more than a baseball bat. A friend suggested the best weapon I could get is a camera. I wish my first instinct was to call the police. I don’t know why I engaged in an argument with that angry man. I don’t know why my first instinct is to fight. But I know that all of the times that I have been confronted with violence, and there have been more than a few, I have fought. Without thinking, I have struck back.

It surprises me. My rational mind is that of a pacifist. I am basically a pacifist except when I am high on adrenaline and fear. The poor Peruvian men who jumped me many years ago felt the rush of my anger. There were three of them trying to rob a friend and I was we hiked up a trail above the beach in Supe, Peru. I got really strong, really fast and grabbed the one that was jumping my friend and pushed him off the steep path. The other two ran away rather than facing this crazy wild American.

Then there was the time in Berkeley when someone threw a small boulder through the front door. I started screaming “get out of my house, get out of my house….” Jay and the dog slept through the screaming even. As soon as I knew the intruder was gone I called the police.

I have found my force and my anger are a sufficient weapon against violence. I think that was some of my surprise Sunday night. This young man was going to stay and fight back. He did not run from my anger. I think that frightened me even more. It was part of why I was pacing and looking for a weapon. I was afraid that his bravado might bring him back.

So, what does it mean to be a pacifist who has no doubt they will fight back when confronted or attacked? I can’t truly call myself a pacifist. I know that I won’t turn the other cheek in physical confrontations. And I know that once the adrenaline wore off, I prayed. I prayed as hard as I could. I prayed for those young men. I prayed that Jesus himself would come to them and talk to them about their actions. I prayed again to Jesus that he intervene and stop this violence and hatred. I don’t expect my prayers to be answered. Buy I wonder. I wonder about a religion whose scriptures preach love but whose pulpits preach intolerance. I wonder about a religion whose scriptures tell us to love our neighbor as ourselves but who labels those neighbors as being in need of conversion. I wonder about a religion that uses its scriptures as a weapon. I wonder where Jesus is in all this chaos and hatred.

hate crime

Officer Pool is walking around my neighborhood flashing his light into all the corners of neighbor’s yards. I feel a little safer, but not too much. I have fear pulsing through my veins still. My heart is pounding from the adrenaline.

I woke up about an hour ago to the dog fussing. Something was wrong. She was barking. I looked out the windows and saw young people walking by on the street. I calmed her down and went back to bed. But she wouldn’t settle down. Then I thought I heard voices. I walked around upstairs in the dark, looked out the windows, listened. I didn’t see anything. But I kept thinking I might be hearing voices, rustling. I turned on my bedroom light. It seemed like they stopped. I didn’t want to believe that someone was in my yard. But I still thought I heard rustling.

I opened my bedroom window. Now the sound was unmistakable. I yelled “get the hell out of my yard.” And I watched four large young men jump over my fence. One of them looked back at my window and started yelling: “Fucking Fag. You deserve to die you fucking fag. Read the Bible man.” I was stunned, confused. I said something like “I am not a gay man. I am a woman, a wife, a mother.” “Bullshit, fucking fag. We know your gay and you deserve to die.” “Why do you think I’m gay?” Then he just laughed. At this point I was trying to find the phone and call the police and he was still yelling at me, more vile gay bashing. Then a rock hit the house next to my rainbow “PACE” fag and I realized that they must have thought that my rainbow flag was a gay emblem – it is actually an Italian Peace Flag.

I haven’t put stickers on my house or car for years. I had a couple unpleasant vandalism events in my early 20s and backed off from being so bold with my politics. In the last few years I have become louder again. I have become willing to speak my truth and claim it. I finally felt safe to claim my beliefs and be who I am in the world. And now I am thinking about taking down the flag. I am scared. As the adrenaline in my veins wears off, I find myself crying. I don’t want to sit here and cry. I don’t want to pace. And so I write to keep myself from collapsing in a puddle. I am writing because somehow these words make me safe. I am writing because I don’t know what else to do and it is 2 am and there is no one to call.

I have been the victim of terrorism. I am the victim of a hate crime, thankfully just a small one. I am so grateful for the dog or else the crime might have been worse. I am trying not to let myself imagine their intentions. I am grateful that my boys slept through this. My younger son already struggles to fall asleep. He already is afraid each night. Will I be able to honestly tell him tonight that he is safe?

The dog grumbles. I get up and walk around the house again. Neither of us is going to be able to sleep after that encounter with hatred and fear. My own fear is bubbling to the surface and I feel my heart tremble. I don’t feel safe in my home tonight. It is 2:30 in the morning. I don’t know what to do. I keep the phone in my hand as a weapon. I begin to wish that I owned a weapon.

The sounds of Baghdad in the Morning/Mourning

There is no such thing as silence. Even at 6:00 am the sound of the house is loud, especially at 6:00 am.

The computer hums. The coffee pot chugs. I my fingers tap the keyboard and the mouse. The dog climbs into the boy’s bed and her collar jangles so loudly I expect them to awaken. No traffic noise yet. No bird song this early on a winter morning. No wind today. Fog hangs low to the ground and muffles the distant sounds.

I imagine the sounds of New York City already having started its day, the rush of traffic and yells of people on the streets. I imagine the sounds of my distant Nicosia, and its bright morning light and the cars starting up in the parking lot of our apartment and the grumble of trash trucks and construction noise.

I imagine Baghdad. I spent one night in Baghdad at the British Iraqi Archaeologic School in 1989. The memory is distant, 16 years old now. I flew into Baghdad on the local airline out of Cairo. I was the only woman on the plane. Arabic men and African men, laborers, smoked non-stop in route. They sat me in the most forward left corner seat, right next to the door so that I could be the first person off the plane. When I arrived in Baghdad it was about 2 am and I had been traveling for more than 24 hours. My hosts hustled me off to a bedroom beside a garden, closed all the shutters and left me alone. I remember being awakened at noon the next day, amazed that I had slept so deeply and so long, amazed at juxtaposition of deep silence and high sun.

I remember a garden in spring bloom and lots of quiet. We had to do some paperwork that first day. We drove around Baghdad taking my documents to various government offices for approval. I had to show them my HIV test, stamped by the State Department and signed by the Secretary of State. Of course he did not declare my HIV test valid, only declaring that this was an official piece of paper and that the State California, which had also stamped the document, was an actual state of the United States of America. I watched people who did not talk to me. I spoke no Arabic. Having never even listened to Arabic before it I could not even make out individual words. Arabic sounded more like music than speech to me then. It was illegal for Iraqis to ‘fraternize with foreigners’ so the only people who talked with us were business people, government clerks, and other foreigners.

I remember Baghdad as a quiet ordered place. People stood patiently in line for their documents. I don’t remember traffic disorder. Everyone was neatly dressed, well fed, comfortable. It was a city that appeared proud of itself. Not wealthy, not opulent, but clean and cared for, tidy.

Now, the news wires feed us images of disorder and array. The Baghdad I experienced has long disappeared after so many years of sanctions and war. This mornings lead is a picture of a bombed school. Shrapnel, random metal, armored soldiers are the norm. I imagine the perpetual noise of metal hitting metal. The awful scrape and scream that means something bad is going to happen. I imagine noise that is a stew of fear and tension and anxiety. I feel my belly grip as I imagine the sound of Baghdad today. I don’t imagine that anyone can sleep soundly there anymore.

I say a prayer this morning for all the people of Iraq. I remember the tension and anger from our own election this fall. Our election was divisive but not violent. No one threatened us for going to the polls. I did not worry about bombs at my children’s school. I did not worry that the car driving up in front of the county courthouse polling place might explode. We were tense but safe. I did not worry for my life. I say a prayer for peace and quiet in a land where we have brought violence and fear.

middle ages

I feel this ache in the old bones of my body: a peri-menopausal hip ache that arrives every 3 to 5 weeks accompanied by volatility and intermittent weeping. I have to watch myself. I want to flee my life during those few days. I speak the truth too brusquely and may hurt someone. The old voices that hurt myself arise during those days as well. Suddenly I perceive myself as fat, unemployable, worthless. I am glad for the volatility, the anger, that arises to lift me out of depression. I am glad for the energy that erupts and spurs me onto change.

I walk out of the other side of the emotional hurricane. I look in the mirror again and I am grateful for this odd beauty that has settled upon me in middle age. I read my words on the page. I remember that I have worth, that I am valuable, that I have something important to say. Someone says a kind word, a word of thanks for the writing I do or the classes I teach, and my heart begins to soften. I dance and do my yoga and the physical pain is eased. I become easier to live with.

I breathe deep and know that the body lives through all these cycles in one long passage. Time is not linear. Time is spiral. I return again and again to the same struggles. Middle age is a passage of losing patience with the limitations I have given myself. I don’t believe the limitations any more. I reclaim my beauty, my grace, my strength, my eloquence, my creativity. I reclaim the desires that were long ago silenced in the young adult willingness to conform and be part of the productive world.

why I am no longer a vegetarian, part 2

Then comes Thanksgiving and a potluck dinner with a group of friends who have frequent vegetarian potlucks. The vegetarian potluck was always done with some caveats, i.e. you can bring meat for your own consumption if you need to, a concession to the Atkins people. Once we gathered for pizza and there had been pepperoni and salmon pizza and no one had flinched. I knew if my sons were to willingly participate in Thanksgiving I’d need to bring them Turkey. So I put it out to the group. Would anyone else want Turkey if I cooked it? I figured I hear from a couple people, perhaps the other parents and cook a small breast for the kids. I started a landslide.

The debate still rages in the group: to eat meat or not to eat meat? Some members of the community abhor meat to the point that they don’t want to be in the same room with people eating meat. My stomach clenches as I repeat someone’s words: “I find meat repulsive.” I feel pushed away. I feel judged for my food choices. I hear my mind go into judgment, calling the vegans fundamentalists. I know if I let myself be judged I return to my mind controlling the eating. I return more likelihood of eating poorly, of being uncomfortable in this body again. I struggle with getting the mind out of the way and accepting my friends with all their vulnerabilities and limitations. This is another chance for me to learn about God and man in the collision of personal values, a ritual meal and whether or not we sacrifice a Turkey for our consumption.

Enough people wanted Turkey that I ended up cooking a 13 pound hen and a compromise was struck. The turkey would not enter the house but stay warm and cozy over a BBQ fire in the yard. The vegans wouldn’t have to enter the house and witness the sacrifice. The children could have their drumsticks. We would have our bird and eat it too, bringing the contraband to the table one plate at a time.

I laughed at myself. The woman who just a few months before wouldn’t cook meat at all is now in charge of the whole dam bird. I gave it my attention for days before the event. Moving it from the freezer to the refrigerator and finally to the sink to finish defrosting. Washing it lovingly, taking out the small gifts inside of organs and neck. Boiling those to make stock for gravy. Dressing the bird with olive oil and finding an appropriate pan. (I had given away my roasting pan years before when I last became a vegetarian.) Putting the bird in the oven early in the day and lovingly watching and basting it for hours. Giving the bird enough time to sit before carving it. Allowing the bird to become ready for the feast. Making gravy as my Grandma had taught me. I was worried about having to use rice flour, but to make the gravy accessible to all those gluten-intolerants I tried. I put the drippings, the stock, small tender pieces of neck flesh into a caste iron pan, and slowly stirred in the rice flour grue. I stirred in one direction as Grandma taught me. She said it would keep the gravy from getting lumpy. The gravy got very lumpy, looked like dumplings practically. Dam, I thought it was the flour and was very disappointed. But a miracle happened, by the time we ate it all the lumps had dissolved. Rice flour makes great gravy.

Then to carving this glorious bird. I had to clear off my counter to make enough space for the carving board. I had to sharpen the knives and make sure I had all the right tools. I removed the legs and arranged them on in the large shallow casserole I was going to use to serve the beast. I started in on the breast a bit hesitantly. I remembered it was important to cut perpendicular to the grain of the flesh, but I didn’t remember which direction that was. I was lucky and began in the right place. Slowly removing one beautiful slice of juicy flesh at a time, I had an epiphany. I said grace. I chanted my thanks to this magnificent beast. I knew this bird had lived a good life, a free range organic life. I acknowledged the life of the bird and the work of many hands that brought this bird to my kitchen. The flesh became a sensuous gift. Touching the flesh of the bird was like touching the flesh of a lover. Carving the bird became an intimate experience of flesh given in surrender to the receiver. The bird and I were to become one and I was honoring this beast by eating it with reverence. I was honoring this animal by lovingly consuming it.

And everything changed in that moment. Now I prefer to cook my own meat. Now I prefer to handle and bless the meat that I prepare for our table. I continue to purchase expensive meat, free range, organic beasts that I know lived a good life: wild animals; loved animals; animals nurtured by earth and by man. I touch their flesh with reverence and deep gratitude. I own my own flesh, my own animalness in this action of eating another animal. I ground myself to earth and the food cycle. I do so with great gratitude. I say thanks through the entire process of cooking and eating. I listen to my body. I don’t deny that I am flesh and blood. I don’t deny the tactile, fleshy, sensuous nature of this incarnation.

why I am no longer a vegetarian, part 1

I spent many years as a vegetarian. On and off for most of my adult life. When I was pregnant and nursing I’d eat meat. My body wanted it. And so I began listening. Slowly as an adult I have begun to listen to my body over my mind. My mind gets so busy around food and eating. My mind always wants to lose 10 pounds. My mind always thinks I should do something differently. As my mind tries to control the situation I end up eating worse. I end up bingeing. I end up gaining weight when I intend to lose it.

Over the course of the last year I have stopped being a vegetarian. There were a number of factors that came into play. We were overseas and there were fewer options for vegetarians. It was harder to come by some of my staples; soy milk and tofu aren’t to be found in every grocery store. And then there were my family’s food allergies to account for: no wheat and no dairy. No wheat and no dairy and no meat start making the food choices very slim. Jay, my husband, started losing more weight than was healthy for him. I wanted him to eat meat to stay healthy. I knew he was most likely to eat meat if I was also eating meat. Reluctantly I began eating meat again. I called myself a reluctant omnivore.

Slowly, slowly I started introducing more meat into our diets. Easy meats at first. Meats I didn’t have to cook. That was my bottom line for about 8 months. I wouldn’t cook meat. I wasn’t ready to handle it yet. I wasn’t ready for the tactile experience of the meat. I wasn’t ready to face the animal that I was eating.

riding the body

Languid, sexy, comfortable, deliciously sore muscles this morning. I am here, hosted in this body. I am riding this body. As my mind lets go of controlling my body comes to the fore. My body emerges as the leader. Here I am. Ride me. Follow me. I will lead you where you need to go. Here I am, whole, complete and in love with being alive.

The dance becomes everything, the whole world, my whole life, embodied in a moment and then gone. I feel the heaviness of your body still. I feel the work of lifting you and your flying on my back, on my shoulder. I give everything to holding you. I give everything and you fly on me and we rise together. Then you tuck roll, spin and I am flying. You have sent me over something, I can’t tell what and suddenly I am in a back bend suspended in mid air above you. Surrendered to the movement and the dance I fly. I find myself on your shoulders. You carry me like a child. I hug your neck with my legs and groin and I am warm and happy. Here I am. You bounce me up a little higher, easier for you to carry me and I remember riding Daddy’s shoulders and that feeling of being bounced up higher. I surrender and I fly. I then roll down your body and it is your turn again. Fly up, find yourself in mid air. Find yourself suspended upside down on my back. Don’t hold yourself back, give me all of your weight. We will fly together.

And I awake dreaming of your body and flesh and the touch. And I awake and roll over next to my lover and I am glad of his flesh and his touch. Here we are, two humans cuddled under the weight of a blanket in the depth of winter. We seek touch to warm our bodies and feed the sleep of our bones and flesh. We sink into this mattress and these sheets and we dream long slow dreams and then the click of the alarm engaging and then the sound of Scott Simon’s voice on NPR telling me it is 6:00 am but it still looks like midnight outside. I roll over and turn off the radio and pull the sheets back up and consider going back to sleep. I roll over and spoon into your side and your flesh and I am grateful that you are here this morning and that I have flesh to cuddle into as I awake to this day. I am grateful for a dry home and comfortable bed and warm blankets. I turn off the bed warmer. Slowly my body temperature lowers and I find myself ready to rise now and wash the smells of sleep and love and dance from my body. I am ready to snuggle in next to my sons and wake them too, but I find the dog already there. The dog craves that cuddle of flesh and pack as much as we do. We are all animals. We may choose to ride these bodies in ecstasy. We may choose the warmth of another. We may surrender to the Goddess in our flesh and come alive to our delicious animalness.

dance glutton new year

I am a dance glutton. I danced 4 hours on New Year’s Day. Two hours of ecstatic dance in the morning and 2 hours of contact improve in the afternoon. My body is deliciously sore today. My flesh feels deeply happy and satisfied. This year I will dance and I will move and I will continue to fall in love with life. This year I will glory in this middle aged body with all its lovely flaws. I will embrace my non perfection with excitement and build on all that I have.

Sometimes I think that I am split. I go off to these lovely playgrounds where we turn into our real selves. The dance floor allows us to morph into our deepest selves. The dance floor allows us to try on parts of our personality that we are not comfortable with in the outside world. I walk onto the dance floor and I drop all my inhibitions behind. I drop all the voices that say don’t and I am willing to walk up to the people I want to dance with and give myself 100% to them and the dance. Nothing is withheld. I look for those dancers who are in the same place. I look for the men who are willing to come in drag. I look for the men who are willing to throw away all notions of what it is to be a man. I look for the women who do the same. I dance from the deepest of my spirit. I dance with God manifest in each person in the room. I dance with God at play. God working out all of God’s foibles on the dance floor. I look for dancers who are willing to come from that place of abandoning themselves to the God within. I look for dancers who acknowledge their connection to the creative spirit in themselves.

I dream of dancing. I awake in the night with the touch of flesh in my dreams. I awake and I bring myself back to this moment and this warm bed and the beautiful flesh of my lover beside me. I awake and I am grateful that I was given this incarnation in the flesh to enjoy all my humanness. I awaken and I give myself to God again and again, in gratitude and with a request to align myself with God’s will that I might live rightly. I awaken and I know that the dance is a path for me to align with God.

cronia pola

Midnight was noisy, firecrackers, yelling, kissing, children hollering. The dog hovered in a corner afraid of the world. We toasted one another around a bon fire, kissed the kids goodbye (they went on an overnight) and went to bed. Snuggled and celebrated the coming year in our favorite fashion.

The morning rises quiet and dark. This is the Pacific northwest and the it looks like we might even have blue sky for new years day. The clouds are broken and moving across the rising sun rapidly. There is not even any bird call this time of year and no rain fall this morning, no wind, no cars, silence but for my fingers on the key board and the small sounds of the dog.

I dream we could wipe the slate clean and the world nightmares of the last week were just that, nightmares. But no, there are the stories on the front of the news paper, the numbers of dead ever rising. The horror of children lost, of villages literally swept away. I am abashed. I wonder what God might have been thinking. I wonder if there could be a God. Of course I know there is. I experience God in my bones and God in my lover and God in my friends and community. I’ll go to Portland today so I can experience God directly in the bodies of my community of dancers.

I pray for peace this morning. I send the intention of love to the other side of the globe and feel powerless to do much else. I imagine stroking the souls of the pained and wounded. I weep inside for a moment and then my attention returns to my life and I walk forward doing my work, dancing my dance, caring for my children. There is nothing else to do. Dance through the moments when you don’t know what to do next. Just stay in the stuck place until the next inspiration happens.

Blessed Be
Happy New Year