People age like trees,
our branches heavy, weary
with the weight of loss.
Monday, April 1, 2019
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Loss & Chill
Autumn 2018
has brought me loss from within
and loss from without
and the beautiful days
that are natures gifts before the cold gray of winter
cannot thaw the chill I feel.
I lost my mom to the cancer that so often follows
organ transplants,
The medications that kept my kidney functioning in Mom's body
also, as it turned out, nurtured cancer cells.
My mom didn't ask for the cancer,
and aside from taking her anti-rejection medications
faithfully, so faithfully,
she did nothing to invite the cancer to grow.
But in taking the anti-rejection medications
she accepted the risk.
She took a chance, dabbled in the odds
and lost.
But she lost with grace and strength.
She set the terms and made the rules for how her life would end
and those of us who went with her on the final journey
were humbled and empowered .
The United States at this moment in history--
as it has been many moments before in history--
is not unlike my Mom in some ways.
Our country is plagued
by a cancer of hatred and vicious entitlement.
Money hastens the spread and
the toxic cocktail of privileged white males and power
undermines healing.
Whether our collective ultimate fate
will be civil war,
or the disintegration of our great democratic experiment,
or a slow national descent into factions, fear and politically approved
emotional and physical brutality
I cannot say.
Those who share the chill I feel
never asked for our country to be this way,
and aside from trying to live everyday lives of respect
and compassion and hope,
had no intention to invite the hated to grow.
Now I go on social media
and read postings by people I know,
people I care about and love,
who are mistaking hatred for care
and mistaking vicious entitlement for fairness.
And I hide their posts,
heartsore and confused,
my chill and fear spreading further
as each day passes.
A hopeful flame flickers inside me
that we can somehow right the wrongs before us
and heal
and rebuild.
But loss is a heavy thing
and the chill immobilizes
and the cancer spreads.
has brought me loss from within
and loss from without
and the beautiful days
that are natures gifts before the cold gray of winter
cannot thaw the chill I feel.
I lost my mom to the cancer that so often follows
organ transplants,
The medications that kept my kidney functioning in Mom's body
also, as it turned out, nurtured cancer cells.
My mom didn't ask for the cancer,
and aside from taking her anti-rejection medications
faithfully, so faithfully,
she did nothing to invite the cancer to grow.
But in taking the anti-rejection medications
she accepted the risk.
She took a chance, dabbled in the odds
and lost.
But she lost with grace and strength.
She set the terms and made the rules for how her life would end
and those of us who went with her on the final journey
were humbled and empowered .
The United States at this moment in history--
as it has been many moments before in history--
is not unlike my Mom in some ways.
Our country is plagued
by a cancer of hatred and vicious entitlement.
Money hastens the spread and
the toxic cocktail of privileged white males and power
undermines healing.
Whether our collective ultimate fate
will be civil war,
or the disintegration of our great democratic experiment,
or a slow national descent into factions, fear and politically approved
emotional and physical brutality
I cannot say.
Those who share the chill I feel
never asked for our country to be this way,
and aside from trying to live everyday lives of respect
and compassion and hope,
had no intention to invite the hated to grow.
Now I go on social media
and read postings by people I know,
people I care about and love,
who are mistaking hatred for care
and mistaking vicious entitlement for fairness.
And I hide their posts,
heartsore and confused,
my chill and fear spreading further
as each day passes.
A hopeful flame flickers inside me
that we can somehow right the wrongs before us
and heal
and rebuild.
But loss is a heavy thing
and the chill immobilizes
and the cancer spreads.
Sunday, September 2, 2018
In Spite of the Hate
Our political leadership is waging an ever more vicious war against immigrants from what seems to be all points around the globe. But especially hateful attention is being leveled at those who have come from Mexico and South America.
In the last few weeks Latino-Americans who were born in the United States have had the validity of their citizenship questioned, their passports taken away and have been refused banking services by the Bank of America.
Why?
Because that which is different is feared, and fear leads to hate.
Hate leads to ignorance.
Ignorance leads to dehumanization.
Dehumanization leads to places we have visited before: concentration camps, internment camps, abuse, stripping people of their rights, erasing their status as free and equal humans.
Yet in spite of this fear and hate and horror, acceptance still finds a way to fill everyday life, in everyday communities, between everyday people.
I believe acceptance is more powerful than hate and fear.
Yet in spite of this fear and hate and horror, acceptance still finds a way to fill everyday life, in everyday communities, between everyday people.
I believe acceptance is more powerful than hate and fear.
The kindness, empathy and generosity from which acceptance is created slips through the small spaces, takes root and grows from the ground up.
I've seen it.
In fact, I see it now.
I see the family from Mexico who lives in the mobile home next door to my Mom.
The mother and father work in the fields surrounding Salinas, California. They work hard to support their two sons, to keep their cars running, to pay the mobile home park rent.
The mother speaks no English. The father speaks conversational English and the sons, both born and raised in California, speak both languages, although the younger son's Spanish speaking skills are waning as more and more of his life is spent speaking English.
For over five years now the mother of the family has come home from work and walked up to Mom's door to bring her fresh produce. Sometimes it has been lettuce, sometimes freshly picked broccoli or cauliflower. Many times it was a box of perfectly ripe strawberries.
Whenever I called mom on the phone from whatever far-flung place we've lived she would tell me about the beautiful produce the neighbor lady brought over, and how much mom wished she spoke even a little Spanish so she could thank her and talk to her.
And Mom would tell me about how the two boys of the family would have friends over, but were always careful to quiet down when Mom turned her porch light off at night, and how the father often invited Mom over to join them for barbecued chicken and elote.
Sometimes over the years when I've been able to come visit Mom, I've stopped to talk with their sons in English, or to use my clumsy Spanish skills to talk with the mother and father, both of whom are about my age.
But it was this, now, my final visit with mom, that cemented in my mind and heart just how beautiful these neighbors were.
On mom's final night at home--August 13th--the medical transport finally arrived at around 10:00pm.
As the medical transport team approached the house I saw the mother from next door peeking out her kitchen window, a worried frown on her face. I waved briefly at her, but my attention was mostly focused on the concerned transport team members who could not fit the gurney into mom's front door and had to send for a mobile stairlift to be delivered.
45 minutes later the team was easing mom out the door and down her stairs. Mom was strapped into the chair at the shoulders, waist, knees and ankles, since she lacked the strength to hold herself upright.
I stood aside, numb and worried.
Then the neighbor came out and asked me in Spanish if my mother was okay. It took me a few seconds of shifting aside the gut reaction to speak Japanese in order to access my Spanish skills, but then I was able to explain to her in halting words what was going to happen.
Her face fell.
She stepped over to stand next to Mom, who was draped in blankets, eyes closed.
The neighbor reached out and began smoothing mom's hair back from her forehead, speaking soft, soothing words in Spanish.
Mom opened her eyes and smiled at the neighbor for just a moment before closing her eyes once again.
Then the neighbor came to me and pulled me into a tight hug, her hands smoothing across my shoulders and over my hair.
She finally let me go when one of the medical transporters called out that they were ready.
Tears stood in the neighbor's eyes as I said goodbye to her and climbed into the ambulance next to where mom had been transferred to a gurney.
Three days later, on August 16th, Mom passed away. She left just as she always said she wanted--surrounded by family and friends, kept comfortable and pain-free thanks to the medicines and gentle care of the nurses at Westland House.
After Mom's passing, after the family members had been hugged and had departed, after the papers had been signed and the mortuary contacted, it was late.
And I, accompanied by one of Mom's oldest friends, returned to Mom's house, where the hospital bed still filled the quiet living room.
I didn't see mom's neighbor for over a week, all of my energy tightly focused on starting the monumental process of being the executor of Mom's affairs.
But then, early one evening, the neighbor knocked on the door, a large box of strawberries in her hands.
She reached out to hug me and handed me the strawberries. When she looked over my shoulder and saw my then-visiting Mother-in-Law behind me she frowned and told me to wait for a moment. She ran into her house and came out with a bag of pre-cut salad.
A few days after that she gave us a bag of freshly harvested broccoli.
Now...
Sometimes over the years when I've been able to come visit Mom, I've stopped to talk with their sons in English, or to use my clumsy Spanish skills to talk with the mother and father, both of whom are about my age.
But it was this, now, my final visit with mom, that cemented in my mind and heart just how beautiful these neighbors were.
On mom's final night at home--August 13th--the medical transport finally arrived at around 10:00pm.
As the medical transport team approached the house I saw the mother from next door peeking out her kitchen window, a worried frown on her face. I waved briefly at her, but my attention was mostly focused on the concerned transport team members who could not fit the gurney into mom's front door and had to send for a mobile stairlift to be delivered.
45 minutes later the team was easing mom out the door and down her stairs. Mom was strapped into the chair at the shoulders, waist, knees and ankles, since she lacked the strength to hold herself upright.
I stood aside, numb and worried.
Then the neighbor came out and asked me in Spanish if my mother was okay. It took me a few seconds of shifting aside the gut reaction to speak Japanese in order to access my Spanish skills, but then I was able to explain to her in halting words what was going to happen.
Her face fell.
She stepped over to stand next to Mom, who was draped in blankets, eyes closed.
The neighbor reached out and began smoothing mom's hair back from her forehead, speaking soft, soothing words in Spanish.
Mom opened her eyes and smiled at the neighbor for just a moment before closing her eyes once again.
Then the neighbor came to me and pulled me into a tight hug, her hands smoothing across my shoulders and over my hair.
She finally let me go when one of the medical transporters called out that they were ready.
Tears stood in the neighbor's eyes as I said goodbye to her and climbed into the ambulance next to where mom had been transferred to a gurney.
Three days later, on August 16th, Mom passed away. She left just as she always said she wanted--surrounded by family and friends, kept comfortable and pain-free thanks to the medicines and gentle care of the nurses at Westland House.
After Mom's passing, after the family members had been hugged and had departed, after the papers had been signed and the mortuary contacted, it was late.
And I, accompanied by one of Mom's oldest friends, returned to Mom's house, where the hospital bed still filled the quiet living room.
I didn't see mom's neighbor for over a week, all of my energy tightly focused on starting the monumental process of being the executor of Mom's affairs.
But then, early one evening, the neighbor knocked on the door, a large box of strawberries in her hands.
She reached out to hug me and handed me the strawberries. When she looked over my shoulder and saw my then-visiting Mother-in-Law behind me she frowned and told me to wait for a moment. She ran into her house and came out with a bag of pre-cut salad.
A few days after that she gave us a bag of freshly harvested broccoli.
Now...
the neighbor is continuing to bring over fruits and vegetables several times a week, always asking me how I am doing and me always trying to say more than I have the words for.
This lack of words is a familiar sensation, for after living for nearly 9 years in Japan, I am more than used to sounding foolish, using drawings and gestures and just about anything I have at my disposal in order to bridge the language gap.
No matter how clumsy my efforts, I knew that real communication always transcends mere words when people really want to understand and accept each other.
Yesterday
my Mother-in-Law left to go home.
And I realized that it was just me now, in the quiet of my Mom's house.
Last night the neighbor lady knocked on the door, her eyes searching behind me.
She asked me if I were alone now.
I said yes.
Then she took my hand and led me over to her house and around to their tiny yard where her husband was barbecuing chicken and beef and ears of corn.
She bustled around me with styrofoam plates, loading them up with way too much food. I protested in Spanish and then in English, and then in Spanish again that I had eaten some soup and was okay and that, WOW, that was too much food.
Both of them ignored me.
It was only when both plates were nearly snapping under the weight of the food that she walked me back to Mom's house and put the plates on the table.
Then she gave me another hard hug, her hand once again smoothing down the back of my hair.
And she was gone.
Now
all I am is thankful for these neighbors who spent so long watching over Mom, sharing what they had with her, letting her know in ways stronger than words that she wasn't alone.
And thanks to their beautiful accepting hearts, neither am I.
Muchas gracias, mis amigos.
Stay safe.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Disposable.
I refuse to believe
that the only choice this country has
is to separate families.
I refuse to believe
that the only choice this country has
is to isolate babies
and to cage toddlers, children and teens
in barbed wire boxes.
I refuse to condemn parents for
trying to bring their children
to a place where they hope
to find
safety and hope
for their future.
These are people.
Just people.
Like me and you
and us.
What is happening to these people
is a warning sign.
Any government that is able to brainwash its citizens,
into believing that protecting this country means
tearing families apart
and inflicting permanent emotional and physical harm
on infants, toddlers, children and teens
is a government that will come for you next.
For me next.
What random power-fueled excuse will it be
when the next round-up is called?
Who will they next train their eye upon?
Which of us in in their way?
Professors and teachers perhaps for teaching history and reason,
for training young minds to think critically and deeply,
for nurturing new ideas and new voices?
Writers, artists and creators perhaps
for giving word, voice and form,
exposing the truth and
fanning imagination and hope?
Who will be next?
America has been here before,
it has stood on this doorstep
of intolerance and atrocity.
We know what it looks like
and we know the generations of
pain that follow.
The US has done this all before,
the circumstances both different and similar:
Native Americans.
Slaves.
Japanese-Americans.
Muslims.
Chinese Exclusion Act.
School segregation.
The Civil Rights movement.
Women's rights.
LGBTQIA+ rights.
So many others...
We watched it happen in other countries,
in Nazi Germany.
We condemned what was happening
"over there"
brazenly confident in our
great American democracy,
so sure
that it wouldn't be us.
And yet it has always been us.
Human history--
US history--
is awash with a river of
what were seen as "disposable people"--
people who were different,
people who were OTHER.
People who were seen as standing in the way
of whatever was defined as "good" and "proper".
But I ask you,
at what point are any of us
ANY OF US
safe from becoming
disposable?
that the only choice this country has
is to separate families.
I refuse to believe
that the only choice this country has
is to isolate babies
and to cage toddlers, children and teens
in barbed wire boxes.
I refuse to condemn parents for
trying to bring their children
to a place where they hope
to find
safety and hope
for their future.
These are people.
Just people.
Like me and you
and us.
What is happening to these people
is a warning sign.
Any government that is able to brainwash its citizens,
into believing that protecting this country means
tearing families apart
and inflicting permanent emotional and physical harm
on infants, toddlers, children and teens
is a government that will come for you next.
For me next.
What random power-fueled excuse will it be
when the next round-up is called?
Who will they next train their eye upon?
Which of us in in their way?
Professors and teachers perhaps for teaching history and reason,
for training young minds to think critically and deeply,
for nurturing new ideas and new voices?
Writers, artists and creators perhaps
for giving word, voice and form,
exposing the truth and
fanning imagination and hope?
Who will be next?
America has been here before,
it has stood on this doorstep
of intolerance and atrocity.
We know what it looks like
and we know the generations of
pain that follow.
The US has done this all before,
the circumstances both different and similar:
Native Americans.
Slaves.
Japanese-Americans.
Muslims.
Chinese Exclusion Act.
School segregation.
The Civil Rights movement.
Women's rights.
LGBTQIA+ rights.
So many others...
We watched it happen in other countries,
in Nazi Germany.
We condemned what was happening
"over there"
brazenly confident in our
great American democracy,
so sure
that it wouldn't be us.
And yet it has always been us.
Human history--
US history--
is awash with a river of
what were seen as "disposable people"--
people who were different,
people who were OTHER.
People who were seen as standing in the way
of whatever was defined as "good" and "proper".
But I ask you,
at what point are any of us
ANY OF US
safe from becoming
disposable?
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
People
This morning I woke up
got my coffee
and re-read an opinion piece
by author Christopher Myers.
He wrote it on June 24th, 2016-
a little over a week after the
June 12th shootings at the Orlando Pulse
nightclub.
And in that piece Mr. Myers
gently,
sorrowfully,
peeled back the layers
of fact, fiction and feeling
surrounding the Pulse shootings,
surrounding the aftermath,
surrounding the violence and death
suffered and caused by
People.
People.
The knot that seems to
always be in my chest
tightens and aches
as I write this.
It's a knot that has been in my chest
for too many years
because I have never fully
EMOTIONALLY
understood
how people could look at each other
and feel such
fear,
hatred,
intolerance.
It's as if what my brain intellectually knows and learns
doesn't quite sink into the deep core of me that feels.
Because I love people.
I love the idea of what people could...
could create
could dream
could reach
could cure
could heal
could be.
My love for people has grown
from accepting people.
And I admit my acceptance is
imperfect and ever-growing
because I,
like every other person alive,
must work at educating myself
so that I can better accept others.
I make mistakes
and keep working
so I don't make them again.
People think acceptance is easy,
intuitive and natural.
But it's not.
Acceptance is a relationship
and just like any relationship
it takes work.
We must work
to not be ignorant of
all the ways people yearn
to be recognized.
Recognition matters because many humans are made to feel like they are not
people.
They not accepted for what and who they are.
And when a person is not accepted for what and who they are,
they are made to feel
like they must prove who they are.
Like they must take it apart and make it explicit for those who refuse to do the work of acceptance.
Like the intolerance and hatred is THEIR fault and it is THEIR job fight against it.
Identity is perhaps the only part of being a person that cannot be taken away.
It can be silenced, mocked, insulted and tortured, but it cannot be taken away.
Not even in death.
Today I will re-read articles written in memory of the
people who died on June 12th
for no other reason than they were
being who they were,
celebrating the fleeting joy and acceptance of community.
They deserved to live.
and they deserve to be remembered.
Like all of us
they were people.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Rules
Mostly listen.
Speak carefully.
Feel for yourself,
Feel for others.
Wear a smile
until tears or fury
come.
Then put the smile
back on.
The rules are easy.
Give more than take.
Help more than demand.
Touch more than withdraw.
Make mistakes.
Own mistakes.
Learn from mistakes.
Move on.
Try
and try
and try.
The rules are easy.
Apologize when wrong.
Forgive.
Give yourself permission
be imperfectly human.
Accept that everyone is
imperfectly human.
The rules are easy.
Above all
believe.
And accept.
And care.
And dare
to dream.
Monday, March 19, 2018
No Easy Answers
Humans seem to be hard wired to seek out simplicity and to deflect blame.
We want easy answers.
We seek simple solutions.
We look for someone--anyone--to blame, as long as that
someone
is someone else.
These things have always been true
and are true now.
I consider the ever-escalating number of shooting deaths
that are happening
in schools
shopping malls
theaters
on our streets
in our homes
almost
everywhere.
People immediately polarized themselves.
"These shootings are caused by mental health problems."
"These shootings are caused by slippery NRA powers
and lax gun laws."
"These shootings are caused by faulty parenting."
"These shootings are caused by young people who
bully each other,
who #walkoutnotup"
The blame is tossed everywhere
and lands nowhere.
Meanwhile,
people are hurt
students die
and our next generation
is demonized for finding their voice.
This polarization,
and blame
change
nothing.
BECAUSE THE WORLD IS COMPLEX.
School shootings are caused by
layers
of problems,
layers
of pain,
layers
of political backroom deals
and lingering manifest destiny myopia.
Our world is complex and layered
and messy and uncomfortable.
Each of us,
every action,
every decision,
every great achievement
every heartbreak
every tragedy
every miracle
everything
comes from complex
layered
messy
bits.
Our ability
to
steer our
community
country
world
rests not with
a single leader,
a single political party,
a single solution--
but in the
beautiful complexity
of depending on each other.
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