you might like this.  i don't know, though.  you weren't really clear on your "list of things i like".   so sometimes I just hope you like what I like. here goes:

 

Peace comes infrequently, though it comes.  And those days it does, I wish I could capture every graceful, truthful action or thought into a jar.  For safekeeping, in case I run out someday?  Maybe.  It's hard to say who I am sometimes; to others, that is.  I have to remind myself often as I stumble through the awkward, false movements in the midst of "all the beautiful people," that I am not the only one uncertain about every. little. thing.  My most impactful prof in college would always remind me to not compare my insides to "other people's outsides." 

Weird the infinite layers that separate and muffle our actual selves from each other.

With caution, then, I can't help but share some inside-outsides that provoked some personal reflection this weekend.  Some friends and I decided to camp near Morris for the weekend; one of my favorite bands was playing a free show at the university campus. We had reserved a backpacking campsite, but because of a few wrong turns on the way there, we got to the state park around 11:30 pm. And consequently lost the motivation for the 2-mile hike, supplies on our backs, to our place of outdoor slumber.

Luckily, our lack of motivation received sympathy: 
Right as we pulled in, the ranger on duty drove up next to us.  He rolled down his window, stared at us, while we stared back--briefly.  I happened to be out of the car already, so I walked to his truck to explain ourselves.  I told him about our site and, without crossing, raising or furrowing his eyebrows, Ranger Dave suggested we camp at an open site much nearer to parking.  About 1.94 miles nearer to parking.  He offered to lead us to the site.  I got back in the car, we followed, and I was intrigued by his manner, but not sure why.

When we got to designated parking, he offered to walk us to our sites, to give us a flashlight tour.  As I walked with him, talking about how nice it was to see stars again, what it would be like to pitch a tent here as opposed to there, it became more obvious what it was that was so attractive about him.  His manner was saturated by eloquence, gentleness, calm.  Yes, his quiet and fluid voice could have convinced me into contented sleep, but the gentleness seemed to be a product of him just being present and centered--a natural inviter of comfort and peace in a situation that could just as well been treated with intimidation, thoughtlessness or distraction.  (I mean, whatever: it's his job. So: he does his job well.)  Throughout the weekend, he remembered us, asked about our comfort, signed us up for kayak rental, inquired about that experience too, all in the same gentle, aware way. 

I joked with my friends that I would marry him.  But mainly it was just that I found him beautiful.  Everything he said seemed to ride on the waves of the environment around him; nothing abrasive and unnatural, just an underlining of life as it is. 

Likewise, at the Cloud Cult show, lead singer Craig exuded a similar kind of grace.  As background, this guy started writing the music of what would be Cloud Cult during an intense, secluded period of grief over the loss of his 2-year-old son.  Most songs sing themes of a human grappling with tragedy, goodness, grief, and joy.   (And like a good artist, he wrote his own stories in a way that connects with all human story.)  So.  Already knowing this, I was prepared to receive the guy behind the mic with a little more belief.  I was surprised at how similar their live sound was to their recorded sound, and even more impressed by how personable Craig was to his audience.  He spoke to them with a gentle, sincere, appreciative tone. 

One song, called "Dance for the Dead,"  they hadn't done live until once before the night we saw them.  Craig said it was a special song they haven't wanted to perform live...that it was an intense song to play...and that he wanted the crowd to help him sing it in some parts...this is the dance that brings the dead to the living. Just say "I miss you every day, you know."...like a communal song of grief.  After it was over, he looked at his audience, glad, told them they sounded good, that it was good to be there.  And I (maybe we) believed him.  Perhaps we also wanted to give him a hug.

Mainly, my impression was, and it's the same with the ranger, that he seemed to have a certain truthful and peaceful relationship with his own being and even with gravity itself.  Like shaking hands with every one and every thing and saying "welcome...I will continue to love despite all the reasons not to."

To give others that feeling...that they do not threaten me into a spooked haze of human-actorship...that they are invited into the peace...into the calm that exists despite dark hikes into the unknown or the loss of loved ones along the way...that could be a beautiful person to be.

uh-oh...it seems I have come across a dry spell.  bum. mer.

lately, I have felt I have absolutely nothing of importance to say, but yet have so much to say, nonetheless.  a lot is happening--too much is happening--even if I am living the luxurious (ha!) life of the unemployed. and so, it's too much, too personal, too...unprocessed...to actually write to you, whoever you are, yet.


but I will tell you that, in the last week, I have lost my dear friend to Seattle, learned of a friend's tragic loss of his young son, and lost my bosom-buddy cousin to marriage and a new life away from Iowa, with her husband in Ohio (I am completely and genuinely happy for her, let me add).

reminds me of last summer.  but, these are worse losses.  I will move on, of course, through grief, rather than around it...but it kind of makes me want to pack my bags and head for the Bermuda triangle.

I'll mail you a post card.

(however, while noticing that loss is everywhere, I am also realizing I have the best friends in the world.  and I am lately beginning to believe God actually likes me. so, that's comforting.)

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I read a quote today (just the quote, not the original work): "Love all, trust a few." 

Shakespeare wrote it in "All's Well That Ends Well".

And I found it fascinating because I didn't get the distinction.  Can you love someone you can't trust?  Or, a better question, are you truly loving someone if you do not trust them?  Is it inherently loving to trust, or inherently trusting to love? 

They were the questions that first came.  I instantly disagree with the statement, but then my experience with trust began to inform my thoughts: trust is a privilege very few earn from me.  And yet, that doesn't stop me from loving more people than I trust.

But it makes me wonder...if perhaps I am not loving people, truly, in the first place.  I'll be the first to admit that I am horrible at loving people in that good, deep way that does not ask for, or even require, something like collateral beforehand.  It's a strategy for safe investments, to not go bankrupt (ha, and now the Tennyson quote about love and loss comes to mind).  I'm not really proud of it, though, since the love I have valued most I have received without having to offer my own sort of collateral. (well, I do  perform a little jig and rhyme to get the chemistry going)

Basically, I do not offer God-love all that much, (perhaps because I have only recently accepted he might like me) which, to me, requires trust...of a sort.

Which is another thing to mention in response to the quote: trust is a general term.  There are levels of trust, and in context of certain kinds of trust, I think the phrase is very wise. But, when I think of what kind of love people need most, I think part of it is to be loved enough to be trusted. 

Trusted to be capable. and good. and valuable.   people grow that way. 

...but, then again...I am an idealist...






so, this is where I cop out and go to bed.  but not before asking: what are YOUR thoughts on the quote?

I am reading Augustine, in a coffee shop with rugs hanging on the walls. A fleeting thought occurs to me, to check on my bike (though certainly not on the top ten list for bikes most likely to be stolen).  I look up, am pacified, but also feel an unexpected sense of security.  Not because of what I see but that I can see.  My well-chosen seat feels suddenly satisfactory and perfect because I can see my only material-necessity that has remained constant in the last 6 months. While car, home and job have all "failed" me (failing to exist in secure forms), I am comforted by the silliest, simplest sight of my bike, still chained to the "Associated Bank" sign.


maybe that's just ridiculous to report.  but I can't explain my feelings of late any better than that. I am in a coffee shop, I have my bike. something about it just sort of relieves the tension I can't help but feel at most other moments lately.

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this little bit struck me, especially the last line of the quote:
"...when I tried to think, these corporeal images stood in my way and prevented me from returning to you. It was as though they were saying 'where are you going to, you unworthy and unclean creature?'  All this had grown out of my wound; for you humble the proud like one who is wounded, and I was separated from you by the swelling of my pride.  It was as though my cheeks had swollen up so that I could not see out of my eyes.

But you, Lord, abide forever, and you are not angry with us forever because you have pity on our dust and ashes....Through the hidden hand of your healing art  my swelling abated and from day to day the troubled and clouded sight of  my mind grew better through the stinging ointment of a healthy sorrow."

-Confessions, St. Augustine

 
hello? is this thing on?

if only there was an actual mic and audience to justify my efforts.  perhaps effort extends outside of just the speaking part.  like to overcome stage-fright.


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Four months ago, I volunteered to spend two hours a month to sit around a table and talk with 9 other people about Minnesota's struggles in properly educating all young people (and many more hours to read all the 80-page reports written about it).  Our talk is supposed to focus on what it has to do with charter schools. Or charter schools and what they have to do with education. 

As if I know much of anything about either. My education was both fairly easy and stimulating, at the same time. Challenges? Staying awake while I studied.  Remembering the previous year's French lessons. School food.  Not: welfare. teachers. housing. absent parents. disorders. finally learning to use a pen in 11th grade. being black, being latino, being special ed, being at-risk, being a statistic, statistic, statistic.

So. "Innovation in education" was the buzz phrase for the evening at last night's discussion. bah.
If everyone had their own personal teacher: that's my (impractical) innovative idea, though not really that innovative at all.

Eventually, toward the end of our conversation as charter school policy review committee (I've never said the name without stumbling over it), I began to harbor resentment towards policy and its creators.  Yes, I was fascinated by all I heard: the theories, the ideals, the faction (if fact and fiction got married and had a family, with a dog, maybe).  The same four people talked, the entire time, quoting writers and policy-developers, which might as well have been famous scientists in fabric studies, for all I knew.  We rarely talked about the students. After a while, I had a hard time believing my ideas even belonged there; they seemed too simple, my passion-influenced tunnel-vision too irrelevant. I can't help it: the realities of my every day experiences are...my every day experiences. But--well, which is why I'm there, pondering the "answers" to every broken thing I accidentally discover. 

The idea of policy-work first occurred to me when I was in my first year of AmeriCorps. After project after project, I found myself thinking: "great. I see all this...deficiency.  I'm tutoring a new immigrant kid for two months, but then what? He will still fail the test designed to test him on someone else's knowledge, experience, and culture."  It seemed like I, with others, was only giving cough syrup and vitamin C pills to a naked kid stuck in a cold and constant drizzle. I began to wonder if something else was more effective in accomplishing the goal which, according to AmeriCorps' motto, is to "get things done." 
Until they come undone again, that is.
I mean, many times, yes, it takes many many hands and feet.  How else does the ninth ward get rebuilt?  But.
If the levee keeps sucking, then we'll keep mucking. (hey, it's my blog, man, illdowhatiwant!). 

So, I began thinking, around month 7 of NCCC, that maybe the real difference is made in the stuff that limits or permits both everything and nothing. You know: law, policy, etc. So I thought about social policy and thought it made sense.  I went to a "life-after-AmeriCorps" workshop related to public policy work and thought of how invigorating it might be to research and inquire and decide, all related to the question of "why?" which we never have time or resources to answer, it seems.  I thought I had found my calling.

But then our team was assigned to one of the more random service projects of the year: assisting with a mock emergency response for the city of Sacramento (a bowl of a city with levees nearly as insufficient as New Orleans').  We toured the high-tech digs of the city's emergency response center, complete with state-of-the-art computer and communication systems. While sitting amidst expensive equipment, we listened to the Chief of Police's describe the likelihood of a flood and how it would affect Sacramento residents, and, more interestingly, how prepared Sacramento really was in dealing with large-scale catastrophe.  While he talked, I had flash-backs to the Katrina museum in New Orleans, pictures of the poor protesting the army corps of engineers for (supposedly) blowing up the levees in the less "valuable" parts of the city to relieve pressure on the more "valuable" parts, after Hurricane Betsy in 1965.  The same conspiracy theory emerged after Katrina.  I wondered if it was true, at least metaphorically.  Or, indirectly--if decisions and limitations on funding and non-monetary resources were a form of bomb, detonated in places that lacked "compelling" evidence not to.  I also wondered at the ease in which people suspect disfranchisement and dismissal from those who govern.

And so I thought of involvement and people, and what it means to decision making, like how priority is reinforcing a failing levee system, to those in charge, rather than lose in the way, and do people who can't read really give a crap about a "disaster prepared-ness" brochure?  Information--it's so elusive.  Relevance. That too.

So what I'm saying is: what could "researched," almost all white people sitting around a table, suits, ties and admirably convoluted diction in tow, possibly know about the magnitude of the problems and their possible solutions, if they aren't facing the consequences of the failing solutions...?  Perhaps making policy should be innovated, before policy should seek to innovate.  You know, like include people. (I suppose I assume it doesn't happen--but I don't consider surveys and polls an adequate inclusion strategy).

I felt so awkward in our policy review meeting as people let themselves talk for many minutes about their great ideas, only to listen to themselves explain it one more time, because it sounds so smart.  I wondered what the students who walked across the stage during graduation night, to receive a deceptive diploma, would think of how these people will fix this and that in 20 years, if they would even care...
I felt awkward because I was so in the wrong place, embarrassed to realize I had no chance of helping the problem from the ground up. (Obama would not be proud of such self-talk).  So, I pretty much said nothing.

I got through the tango in the sky, walked out of the building and planned to never go to another meeting again.  But then the guy on the board of directors of the Citizen's League stopped me, and asked me, basically, why I was there. And so I told him.  Because things suck, because things don't work. Because I am so frustrated about the people who aren't included, who don't matter enough to figure out every. last. detail.  He told me I should have spoken up, that what I had to say was exactly what everyone at the table needed to hear.  He said "there need to be more people like you, experiencing the brunt of it, at these meetings".  I chuckled and looked at him doubtfully.  I also asked him to not tell on me to the Citizen's League for being a bad citizen. He laughed.  I felt included.

Perhaps I will give it another crack. But I may just opt to continue putting out fires, learning from each unique blaze. Because, it seems, relationships, not policy, develop society.