Hope to Sin Only in the Service of Waking Up
by Alice Walker
Hope never to believe it is your duty or right to harm another simply because you mistakenly believe they are not you.
Hope to understand suffering as the hard assignment even in school you wished to avoid. But could not.
Hope to be imperfect in all the ways that keep you growing.
Hope never to see another not even a blade of grass that is beyond your joy.
Hope not to be a snob the very day Love shows up in love’s work clothes.
Hope to see your own skin in the wood grains of your house.
Hope to talk to trees & at last tell them everything you’ve always thought.
Hope at the end to enter the Unknown knowing yourself. Forgetting yourself also.
Hope to be consumed to disappear into your own Love.
Hope to know where you are –Paradise–if nobody else does.
Hope that every failure is an arrow pointing toward enlightenment.
Hope to sin only in the service of waking up.
Since June 1, I’ve been trying to write about the uprisings/protests/riots happening right now in a clear and thoughtful way. With anger and sadness, between meetings and work, the words jumbled together in a near stream of consciousness, fragmented and all over the place. Reading and rereading my written thoughts, I struggle to find the balance between professionalism and honesty, between honesty and unintended (?) consequences. And yet, it feels profoundly important to write something for this blog during this time.
I am an Asian American woman, daughter of Asian American activists. My father was a part of the Third World Strike at UC Berkeley in 1968/9, when Black, Latinx, and Asian American students came together to demand Ethnic Studies. My mother, a bit older than my father, marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. My paternal grandparents were incarcerated during WWII at Topaz, Utah. My paternal grandfather fought in WWII with the 44nd Regimental Battalion made up of Japanese American men. I am also the wife of a Caucasian man and the mother of two incredible Hapa children. I am a Person of Color. These uprisings have affected me deeply.
Monday was a struggle, trying to find the words to adequately describe my feelings while going from meeting to meeting, where the uprisings became the main topic of discussion. I ping ponged between anger and intense grief. I cried about 3, maybe 4 times. Cried at the injustice, cried for the strides we haven’t made, cried in anger, cried in sadness. There was also frustration as colleagues reminded our workgroups to make talking about racism a normal part of our conversations. Such privilege to have to be reminded to make this a normal...
Blackie's Pasture
by Redwing Keyssar, RN, Poet Author
May 9, 2020
placid water
mt Tam rising
blustery wind
catching geese
on its tail
as it wags
across the powder blue background
of the pale grey clouds
While yarrow shine
their golden yellow
under the chins
of lavendar blossoms
while shocking pink-purple
iceplant lay low
bearing witness
The glare
of preciousness
of the moment
is blinding.
Where I walk is holy
I am walking
in a pandemic
making history
that someone else’s children
and their children
will hear about
and wonder...
what was it like
in the U.S.
B.C?
Before Covid
Where I sing is holy
In the shower
walking by water
waking from dreamland
sitting
or dancing
alone
with eyes half-closed
feeling the warmth
of the sun without wind
streaming through my
dirty city window
filling me with
light
filtered
by glass
Where I pray is holy
Alone
in water
on mountains
under Moonlight
and Sunlight
in Ceremony
in circles
of Healing
Where I work is holy
In the realm
of the invisible
using words
and color,...