bits of sunshine

prayer

prayer is about noticing
both beauty and pain
and naming these

praying attention

not just talking about praying
but giving our full attention

noticing deeply

and naming what we notice

this changes us from the inside

the beautiful outcome of prayer:
being changed on the inside

pray attention

pray with intention

what a beautiful gift to give each other
what a beautiful way to change our own hearts 

 

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

with a definitive nod to glennon doyle for introducing me and many others to the idea of praying attention.  what a beautiful practice.  

five little {or not so little} things

this bouquet :: flowers from my garden

these headphones :: for hearing the depth of the music

this polaroid :: they dressed up and posed with me

this email :: and the emails every day this week from my mom

this book stack :: reading new and old words about people and social constructs

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. . .. .... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. . .. .... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. . .. .... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. . .. ..

this video and song are both beautiful:  Lille 

have you seen the movie The Mule?  if not, you should.  and you should also read this article about the real Leo Sharp.

coronavirus is still taking lives - the total lives lost in the US, as of today is 127,329 - updated information here

fun poem about zoom and a link to tips for handling zoom fatigue here 

 

zoom

... zoom ...

almost impossible to make eye contact
but i can see you
see up your nose sometimes
and i see glimpses of your space

and i can see myself
and the space around me
as though i were an observer,
not an active participant

i think about you and your space
and wonder if you are happy with how you appear on the screen

i think about if i like how my hair and glasses look today
and i make sure that you can't see up my nose 

we talk about the business at hand
i look at my notes
a phone rings somewhere in another room
in another space
it echos oddly through the devices we all use

back to business
where are we on the agenda?
we discuss and observe and work

we have connected on some level

and yet, we have not made eye contact  

.. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

.. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

how many of us have a love/hate relationship with zoom right now? 

zoom allows us to see each other, to communicate, to social distance, to accomplish some work and to "see" our co-workers and friends and families, but using zoom can be exhausting.   

this article affirms that zoom fatigue is real and there are lots more studies and articles - just google zoom fatigue

there are also lots of great lists of ways to beat zoom fatigue - and anything that tells me to take a walk outside is advice i will take to heart. 

cheers to all of us as we continue to navigate this peculiar time.  go be wonderful.  love, e 

 

on reading cane river

In 2002, Cane River by Lalita Tademy was on my Grandma Eva's bookshelf. 

That the book was on her shelf, and that she had apparently read it, were both interesting facts.

She is the grandparent who, when I was in junior high, after we had seen a couple - he, black as blackest night, she, white as lily-white - looked me straight in the eye and said, with more force than I had ever heard from her before or since, "Don't you EVER get any ideas like that."

And yet, five or so years later, there was Cane River on her shelf.  And she told me I could borrow it.  

I read the book.  Maybe that's not the right way to say it.  I devoured the book.  It was equal parts eye-opening and affirming of things I already knew.  I was in awe over the amount of history Lalita could find 5 generations back.  I was fascinated by the stories of the women, by how long some of them lived, by the way they kept living and even thriving through the horrible circumstances they were forced into.  I identified with some of the mother-daughter interactions.  I wanted to see myself more in Lalita's family, but knew that I had the capacity to be the snobbish and horrible plantation owners.  I felt shame when reading about the rapes of enslaved girls by white owners and the friends or relatives of the owners.  I was shocked by the pictures of the Lalita's ancestors - how many of them did not "look black" to me at all.  Lalita's grandmother and great-grandmother could have passed for white if everyone in the area didn't know who they were. 



I remember being so sad, my spirit so torn, while reading the end of the book; I read the final sentences while tears coursed down my cheeks. 

I wish that I would have talked to my grandma about the book after I finished it.  But I didn't.  I put it back on her shelf without inviting conversation.  And the words and stories that I had read, I processed on my own.  Words to think on, to digest, to fold into my ways of knowing, my ways of thinking, the things I learned about the world.  

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

In 2020, the world is falling apart?  Exploding?  Imploding?  Becoming very peculiar?  

A year ago, I contemplated re-reading Cane River, but didn't dig the book out of the box in the garage. 

A month ago, when lots of friends and acquaintances and a lot of the people on my IG and my Facebook feeds started posting books that would be helpful / eye opening / worth reading, I went out to the garage and dug through the boxes, cut a gash in my thigh on the corner of one, and while blood welled, I found Cane River and a whole stack of books that I will share with you here over the next few months.  Books that I have read over the past twenty years.  

 

After I found my stack of books, my friend Shanna and I decided to read Cane River together (even though we are 1,385 miles apart).  It is interesting to reread almost 20 years later, to revisit Lalita and her family, to see through more years of living and learning, and also to have Shanna's comments as she reads the book for the first time. 

After the Civil War, Lalita's great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother both become land owners.  Shanna's comments, "It feels so weird for them to have freedom now. I never really thought about the confusion and uncertainty (but also JOY) that comes from being able to choose their future and how to use their time. And yet the white/black racist ideas still run deep."  Yes, the racist ideas continued to run deep for the white people and for the freed Black people. 

Because of the interracial rapes and liaisons, many of Lalita's ancestors were 1/2, 1/4, 1/8, 1/16, 1/32 Black.  And yet, any Black ancestor was enough for them to be treated as less-than, to be considered "mongrel" and "evil" and "tainted" and "inferior". 

Some of Lalita's ancestors wanted to keep becoming more and more white - they wanted to erase the blackness.  Others decided to purposely marry darker and embrace the deepening color and the social constructs that came with dark skin.

The very French overtone  caught my attention as I read this time - I guess I always assumed that all the white people in the states always spoke English ... Even though I have learned about the French trappers and fur-traders in the mid- and north-west.  Even though I know the Spanish people conquered parts of the Americas.  I guess I pictured everyone who enslaved Black people speaking English.  But in Louisiana, most of the white people were French.  So, as I thought about this more, I wondered how in the world English came to be the dominant language in the US.  (That is a question to research another day.)

And finally, as I came to the end of the book a few days ago, I was struck again with how the ways people related to each other seemed to ease at the end of the Civil War, but as times became more modern, the discrimination became more and more pronounced, the racism and bigotry and segregation louder and uglier.  I didn't cry this time.  I was too angry, too sad, and too filled with the need to continue working for change. 

There are still plenty of people who tell their white children how superior they are to anyone who is not just like them.  And there are still too many reasons for people to tell their Black children to quietly acquiesce to those who would remind them of their socially constructed place.  There need to be more and more of us who are willing to hear, willing to see, and willing to become uncomfortable as we change the social constructs around skin color, as we change the narrative to love and appreciation.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..      

God has made of one blood all the peoples of the earth.  Acts 17:26

 

ten plus one

i feel like i am swimming upstream.  

or like i am slogging through thick, deep mud. 

or that i am on a beach of loose rocks that make every step shifting and difficult. 

there is so much on my mind - and not enough room to process all of it.  so where to even start.  

the to-do list at work.  it feels awkward because i don't have an assistant and there are multiple zoom and conference calls schedulued for this week. 

the 1,451 COVID tests that were done in our community on friday and saturday are weighing on my mind - what might the results do for our slowly reopening way of life?

also, so much to read and learn and process about how people live and move and share space - thoughts to think, words to write, books to read, history to unlearn and learn.  

it is fire season, and all that entails - stretches of time apart from each other, reunions to look forward to and process. 

isaac and maddie are 15 and almost 17,  and parenting is amazing and hard and wonderful.

my parents were going to come visit us in a few days.  now, because of all the unknowns with COVID, they aren't.  

this evening, i sat in my backyard for a couple hours and moved with the sun, like some creature intent on staying in the warmest, brightest slivers of light.  my skin is warm and brown and salty.  summer is my best habitat.  

day 25

this is day 25.  that means the 21-day assignment is over and today is the last day of travel.  that means that this evening, we will all 4 be home together!  

before ben left, i asked for a picture of all of us together.  they humored me.  

two lists of *way more than* ten

two lists that have been in my notebook for just over a week now:

the one on a yellow post-it is all instagram accounts - some i have followed for a long time, some i have found recently - all of which have helped me learn and learn and learn.  i can tell you, from experience, that having variety in my feed has changed me, in a lot of really good ways.  

please consider following some, any, all of these, and reading and reading - listening.  if you have questions - scroll back in the feed - read more - follow the thread, the rabbit-trail, do the work of learning.  allow the feelings.  search your heart.  

i taught myself, some time ago, to read reviews / comments with the intention of hearing why those who like something or agree with it - why they do, and then why those who don't like it or agree with it - why they don't.  this is a really great way to search out why you may or may not like it or agree.  if a post brings a lot of emotions or thoughts to the surface - examine those, sit with them, and sort through the why.  

the list of names is all women i know who either have a husband or partner and/or children who are Black or Indigenous, or People of Color.  these women are people i know, who have names, who are REAL in my life.  these women are a tangible expression of the reason my heart aches and i write and i speak and i act and i work toward the recognition of and changes for BIPOC.  these women and their families matter to me and are worth my emotion and my time - also my work and my effort.  these wives and partners and mothers should have many, many moments of true peace and pure joy when they think of their loved ones. 

please, my friends, continue to learn, to go, to love fiercely, and to be wonderful.      

with so much fierce love, e

this post is harsh - harshly full of love

i fully admit that this graphic is harsh.  

i know that it to some of you, my readers and friends, it feels like it is too harsh.

and since i created it two days ago, when i have thought about posting it, i am sick to my stomach.  but when i have thought about not posting it, i feel even more sick.  and cowardly.  so here it is.  

i created it because i have many, many friends who are married to brown or black men, and many, many friends who have brown or black children

i created this graphic, because one of my friends posted on facebook yesterday that her white daughters asked her when they will have to start teaching their black brother (who is three) how to obey cops so he won’t get killed when there is a confrontation. and she felt like throwing up because she just typed that sentence.

the comments that followed ranged from sympathy to empathy to "maybe someone at our church can put on a class that will teach him how to react when/if confronted?" to "if you raise him right, you won't have to worry about it. right?" 

and my response was "maybe all of us WHITE people should teach our WHITE friends and WHITE kids how to not kill black people. maybe that is the MUCH MORE IMPORTANT conversation than teaching black boys and men how to not get killed."  and later, i amended my comment to not "maybe" - "CERTAINLY"

and i am going out on a limb here.  those of you who know me, know my heart - and know that this is coming from a place of love.  fierce love.  love that will say the harsh things because it must accomplish a new understanding.  love that will go out on a limb that may very well snap out from under me; i will land, maybe bruised, maybe bleeding; but i am willing to bleed. 

there are many ways to be complicit in the killing of people.  one of those ways is silence.  another is choosing to believe the death is somehow deserved.  another is doing the actual physical act of ending someone’s life.

i forced myself to watch portions of the video of George Floyd being murdered.  he was dying in all the ways. 

my heart felt like it was ripped from my chest and dragged over one of those box graters (you know the big metal ones that your mom or your grandma had for potatoes and carrots and cheese? - one of those graters that should mean love and good food and comfort).  i had this distinct mental picture/feeling of my heart being dragged over one of those graters over and over again.

and before you tell me that’s not ALL cops – I KNOW it’s not. (there are cops that i appreciate and cops that i love)

and before you tell me that’s not ALL white people – i KNOW it’s not.

but it’s SOME

and it’s TOO MANY

and also, listen to yourself when you say – not ALL white people – does it sound as though it’s very few and certainly not you?

and then we’ll say something about black people being portrayed as criminals and thugs - and listen to yourself when you say – not ALL black people – does it sound as though it’s very many and you are just saying this to sound not-racist?

George Floyd should not be dead

that miserable excuse for a cop knew when Mr. Floyd stopped breathing.  he KNEW. 

i have taken care of people on their death beds – you KNOW when someone stops breathing.  you KNOW. 

and he stayed on his neck. 

in the eight minutes of being asphyxiated, Mr. Floyd hardly struggled.   

until he couldn’t struggle.  because he had no more breath.  because he was dying.  

white people, white friends, we NEED to become uncomfortable, so uncomfortable that we can help to change this.  

i don't want to see one more hashtag of justice for a person after they are wrongfully killed.  

i want to know that my friends and their friends and their friends and their friends and all the people in this country we all want to be so great, i want to know that they can all go for a walk and sleep and play video games and drive and report and bird and have a picnic and put gas in their wife's car and play with nerf guns and drive with a tail light out and jog and walk through the skeleton of a house under construction and ask for help and leave a party and breathe and live without being harassed because they look "like somebody" or like they are "up to no good" or are "intimidating" or any number of "reasons" given.  

i don't want to read or hear one more justification - well, they shouldn't have been there, done that, looked like that, done these things in their past, as though any wrong choice should be a death sentence, as though any "wrong" look should be a death sentence.  

another friend, who is white, who has a biracial husband, two biracial children, one hispanic son, and one black son, wrote the following: if you are a white person who believes you are not racist because you "have black friends" (or a spouse or kids or family members) or you "don't see color", PLEASE learn the difference between prejudice and structural racism. prejudice is an individual disposition against someone for an arbitrary reason. racism is a system on which our country was built, and on which white people still reap benefits that people of color do not. it does not have to do mainly with personal choices. it has to do with how the systems are set up.

you can be a very good person and still (unknowingly - until you know) benefit from the racism in the systems in this country. please start doing some reading, listening, and learning.  read the people that you don't initially agree with.  read the people you do agree with.  work on what makes you agree and disagree.  sit with it.  read people who don't look like you.  read people who do look like you who have different experience than you.  sit with what you have read. 

i have been expanding my reading over many years.  i have been expanding my listening over many years.  i am asking God for discernment and trusting His leading as i read, as i engage, as i learn, as i love, as i write.   

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

three years ago, i wrote the following:

and now, i need someone to explain to me how it is OK for a white cop to kneel on a black man’s neck until he is dead,

but it is not OK for a black man to kneel on a football field in protest of that murder. 

and you'll tell me that it wasn't OK for the white cop to kneel on the black man's neck until he was dead, 

but his partners didn't stop him, 

and

the only explanation i see is that whiteness loudly does whatever it wants and any other color does not get to have a voice.

and the same person who called those who kneel "sons of bitches"

called the self-proclaimed white supremacists and white nationalists in charlottesville "very fine people"

and now he has said that "when the looting starts, the shooting starts" (link to why that phrase matters so very much) 

these statements are at best a dissonance, at worst a condemnation of one voice and an endorsement of another.  

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

for right now, i think this gives enough explanation for my graphic.   

it is a start. 

i love you, my friends, my family, my readers.  i want to learn alongside you.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

go gently (but sometimes, go stomping and roaring), love fiercely, be wonderful. 

 

 

lists of ten - a practice

1. i have been writing a list of ten almost every day since april thirteenth.  i was inspired by @alisha_sommer on instagram. 

2. it is fun/funny how writing the heading sometimes creates the first sentence i write.  

3. for example: ten. four. 1. writing ten. four. reminded me of riding with my dad in his work truck when i was a kid and hearing him check in on the radio.  2. federal firefighters and dispatchers don't say "ten-four" they say "copy".

4. and today: ten. thirty-nine.  1. 1039. (ten-thirty-nine) the maximum number of hours in a six-month seasonal hire for the feceral government. 

5. some days, i don't quite get ten.  sometimes just nine.  one day only two.  

6. once in a while, it's eleven or twelve.  or i pick up my journal and add a quote or something that i want to remember.  

7. on april 28, there were only six.  but number six was "time doesn't matter - only presence" (alisha sommer) and i felt like the number of items didn't matter, only that i had written a few.  

8. this exercise has been helping me get back into journaling consistently, and i like it.  

9. it seems that when i am listing, i give myself permission to write snips and bits and get a broader picture of my day than i do when i feel like i need to write whole paragraphs and complete sentences.

10.  writing a list lets me say the hard things on a line or two, process them, and then write a good thing on a line or two.  i like this practice. 

all the colors and lines

look at this rock!  i say to her.

we stop and look.  and look some more.

God showed up, she says.  

He makes the coolest things, i say.

 

and He showed up for us, here, today.

sometimes, God shows up in a rock.  in all the colors and lines and beauty and ruggedness.

so, we thanked Him for showing up.  for creating beauty.  for giving us this rock to marvel over.  and we each put a piece of it in our backpacks, to bring home and place in the front garden.  a bit of God's beauty and presence from our hike on 5.10.20 

where has God shown up for you, lately?