Amidst of all the national gore, there is the stuff that really matters. The little stuff. We grew the basil. We made dinner together. We ate outside on the deck on the first cool evening that we’ve had in weeks. Dogga sat at our feet waiting for a bite of crust. We savored our moment.
I have the lyrics of a James Taylor song running through my mind: Well the sun is surely sinkin’ down/ But the moon is slowly risin’/ So this old world must still be spininn’ ’round/ And I still love you.
Iris is a goddess in Greek mythology. She is like the postal service, delivering messages between the gods and humans. In ancient Greek, Iris means rainbow. ‘Iris links the gods to humanity.” She links humanity to the gods. Tease that tidbit of symbolism apart and she provides the connective tissue linking people to wisdom, human beings to truth.
Although rainbows appear as an arch from the ground, they are actually complete circles, light refracted and reflected through water droplets. The ancient Greeks would never have been able to see the full circle since it takes an airplane to see the whole of Iris but I bet they had no problem seeing the circular nature of truth; the end-less nature of wisdom available if one can climb high enough to see it.
Kerri tells me that it is not unusual to find a single iris all alone in the field. One messenger carrying one message at a time! This messenger stopped us in our tracks because it seemed so out of place. It was a surprise akin to the discovery of a frog in our little backyard pond. “Now, how did you get there?” I ask.
Later, I allowed myself to entertain the notion that Iris was bringing us a message. Her missives are always encouragements. Have hope. Keep the faith. Draw on your courage. The wisdom is within you. I liked the idea that Iris brought us a letter and that the envelope contained a morale-boost, a heartening. Her timing was impeccable. Her simple beauty inspired awe.
Today, as I write this, the nation is alive with Good Trouble protests. I wonder what it will take for the republicans, so dedicated to keeping their heads firmly planted in the sand, to receive the messages from Iris? I wonder what it will take – what they and we will lose – for them to climb high enough to see the circular impact of their actions? Can they possibly believe that undermining their constituents and driving them into poverty will not bring a tsunami to their shores? Do they not understand that turning their backs on the truth to protect a liar transforms them into tissue-paper-fools, too?
In a time that they have lost their collective spine, eschewed their moral compass, it is my hope that they receive a special delivery from Rainbow Iris, a single flower in a field: Find your courage now.
In Japan the clematis is a symbol of moral beauty. Consider it.
There are very few adequate synonyms for the word ‘beauty’ yet we know without doubt what it means. It’s a word of the senses. It is felt in the heart. It is a cup overflowing with awe and appreciation.
On the other hand, the word ‘moral’ has many, many synonyms. Virtue. Doing the right thing. Honest. Decent. Truthful. Upright. Right-minded. Just plain good. And from these adjectives – descriptions of a quality of being – we experience the undefinable: beauty.
Moral beauty. The clematis climbs. It aspires to reach new heights. Things that climb are often associated with gaining broader perspective and, therefore, wisdom attained from the experience of climbing, of overcoming obstacles, of persevering. From the heights – and the journey to get there – we see the landscape and our inner landscape more clearly. We are more capable of discerning between what is important and what is not, what has value and what does not, what is honest and what is not.
The clematis blossoms. Our blossom is called moral beauty.
It is why many of us shudder watching the ugly amorality goosestepping across this nation. It is a descent into darkness. Indecent. Dishonest. Wrong-minded. Synonyms of ‘ugly’ include perilous, dangerous, hostile, menacing, ominous. Are these not perfect descriptors of ICE?
The clematis climbs.
The nation falls.
Rather than beauty our nation reveres an alligator infested swamp. It champions a liar. Narrow minds threaten and erase greater perspectives. This nation, once a beacon of hope is now afraid of the light. Rather than overcome real obstacles, our leaders manufacture them to fuel outrage and circumvent and/or undermine the Constitution. Ignorance bellows over wisdom. History is whitewashed. The truth is hidden away in the files.
I return to the question, “What do we do?” The clematis climbs. It overcomes. It perseveres. We need not fall into the muddy pit.
It occurs to me that we have in our tradition a Golden Rule. It begins with the word “do”. It provides guidance for what we might do as a first step: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
It is a wisdom that comes from standing upon the heights after a difficult climb. That is why it is so simple. Do Empathy. Do Reciprocity. Do Consideration. Do Generosity. Do Kindness. Isn’t that what we want done unto us?
We know what to do, don’t we? We know where to start, don’t we?
Since I asked a question in our most recent smack-dab, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind: “What actions – beyond awareness-raising – will effectively save our democracy…?”
If you are like me, you are sick-to-death of reading posts from our elected democratic leaders decrying the latest moral-offense and breach of the Constitution of the republican administration. It’s become something of a game to read the first comment which inevitably is something like, “I know this already! So what are you doing about it?”
The operative word is “do”. The question for our elected leaders should not absolve us of responsibility and would better read, “What are we doing about it?”
We are aware. What are we doing?
Raising awareness is not action. It’s a step toward action but is not itself a useful action. Crying, “The house is on fire!” is necessary but if it doesn’t prompt a call to the fire department it is useless.
When I asked the question on my saturday-morning-smack-dab post I did not have a clear set of answers. I know the first action-set has to protect our elections since the current occupant of the white house has been manufacturing crises since day one so he might circumvent congress. His authoritarian power grab is nearly complete. All that remains is to rig or stop our next election. His party is already erecting voting barriers to women and people of color.
I want to be inundated with posts from democratic leaders detailing potent action rather than shared-awareness-alarms.
I do not have answers. I have ideas. Lots of ideas. I’d welcome conversations about doing that arrive at specific actions aimed at specific targets. I’d cheer if our democratic leaders went on offense rather than perpetually playing defense, reacting and responding. Stop telling me the house is on fire. I already know. Take the ball back. What’s in the playbook?
The morning glories are out. They line sections of the trail. They have a very short blooming season and so have come to represent transience. They caught my attention as we walked and I pondered my question about effective action. Because the morning glory grows in complex environments, the flower has also come to represent the overcoming of adversity and renewal. Our democracy need not be fleeting.
I realized the morning glory is the perfect symbol for my meditation/question. Don’t take this – our democracy – for granted. It will die. Renewal is our job. We live in a time that our job requires immediate action, targeted action meant to overcome authoritarian/republican adversity.
The house is on fire. We already know it. We can stand by and tell each other about the heat of the flames or we can get busy working together to douse the flame.
“In the language of flowers, the bluebell is a symbol of humility, constancy, gratitude and everlasting love. It is said that if you turn a bluebell flower inside-out without tearing it, you will win the one you love, and if you wear a wreath of bluebells you will only be able to speak the truth.” ~ Woodland Trust
Recently I much prefer the language of flowers to the language of people.
Flowers call to Kerri. “Stop! Take my picture!” So she does. I do not hear the voice of the flower but I do hear Kerri’s, “Ohhhhhh!”
When we walk the neighborhood en route to the lake we pass a house that at first glance seems overrun with flora. It is a butterfly garden. Intentionally cultivated, aesthetically chaotic and beautiful. It also encourages bees. It’s the place where Kerri heard the bluebells beckon and I heard, “Ohhhhh! Bluebells!” We stopped for an extended photo shoot. The posing bluebells wanted to make sure that Kerri captured their best side.
This morning she asked me to read something that she found disturbing. “If I have it in my mind then you have to have it in your mind, too.” It was layer upon layer of maga conspiracy theory; fearmongering deep state paranoia. At the center of it all was a dedicated victimhood. “THEY are out to get US.” The libs, the woke, the dems, blah, blah, blah, fido, fact-free, dark-mind, nonsense. The language of sad-angry-deluded-people swirled around in my mind so I walked out the backdoor to visit the day lilies. They are beginning to bloom and I love them. Vibrant orange. A few are the color of red wine. I said, “Talk to me.”
They must have said, “Go get Kerri,” because at that moment she came out the backdoor.
“Will you ask the day lilies if I should send bluebells to Washington, DC?” I asked. “They won’t talk to me.”
“What?” she wrinkled her brow.
I quoted: “…wear a wreath of bluebells you will only be able to speak the truth.”
“Ohhhh!” she said, looking over my shoulder, no longer listening to me. “I have to get my camera!” She disappeared into the house. She must have heard the day lilies because they began to primp for their photo shoot. Beauty unabashedly celebrating itself.
“Yes,” I thought, as the photo shoot commenced, “I very much prefer the language of flowers”.
I think we have it all wrong and that’s why we are now in trouble. Even in the dictionary this word, “community” gets an antiseptic scrubbing. Community is so much more than “people living in the same place,” or “people having a particular characteristic in common”. It is so much more than “a feeling of fellowship,” or “sharing common interests, attitudes, and goals.” All of those aspects are certainly important but they are superficial.
These definitions omit the soul of the communal body.
I found a startlingly simple yet profound definition of community in Martíin Prechtel’s book, Long Life, Honey In The Heart. I discovered my definition of community in his definition of “adulthood”. In his village, adulthood is not something that just happens. Adulthood is not simply a product of aging. It is not a legal definition. It is something that is learned and earned. One is not considered an adult until they embody and live each day from a real-to-the-bone understanding of mutual indebtedness.
Mutual indebtedness. People who are accountable to and for each other. People who are responsible for the well-being of their neighbors. People who know without doubt that their neighbors are accountable to them and responsible for their well-being. Reciprocal generosity.
No one walks this path alone. No one is truly independent. Everyone is reliant upon the gifts, skills and labor of others. Take a walk through a grocery store and try to try to grok how many people, how much labor and love it took to get the potatoes to the shelf. Or, if that’s too abstract, consider how many people were involved in the making of the screen you are presently using; how many generations of thought and imagination, how many hours and hours of someone else’s labor did it take for you to scroll and click? How many people all over the world did it take to mine the minerals and make the chips and manufacture and assemble the components and ship the unit across seas and over roads before you powered on and individualized your device?
Are we or are we not denying responsibility for the well-being of the people who each and everyday serve our needs? Or, as I fear, as is apparent in our current hubris, are we so deluded that we think we can exploit the lives and labor of others without the inevitable blow-back and ultimate societal collapse that “every man for himself” necessitates?
Bullies occupy playgrounds and make deals using big sticks – evidence of a childish mind. Adolescence is self-serving and simplistic.
Our current republican government’s dedicated enemy-creation and fact-free-demonization of others is the antithesis of community. It is, in fact, the intentional destruction of community.
Adulthood comes with the dawning recognition of interdependence. Mutual indebtedness. Responsibility to and for others. Labor as service. Governance as service. Artistry as service. Life as service. As the Beatles sang it, “The love you take is equal to the love you make.”
Community is an action, a verb and not a noun. It is a practice rooted in service to others. It is the adult recognition that a better world for me is only possible when I dedicate myself to the betterment of others. Well-being is a shared intention, something we owe to each other. I eat the food you grow and pick. You use the technology that I develop. We enjoy the fruits of each other’s labor. We survive and thrive because of the efforts of others. We are indebted to each other.
The soul of community is active gratitude.
“Indeed, I don’t believe you can practice love and be in community with folks without an incorporation of accountability as an ethic and a practice.” ~ Tarana Burke, Unbound
In chaos there is pattern. This is the pattern emerging amidst our national chaos: people are dying in floods because early warning systems were interrupted by “waste, fraud, and abuse” cuts to the National Weather Service. People all over the world are dying due to the shuttering of USAID. People are losing their social safety net and public services to afford tax cuts for the morbidly wealthy; it’s estimated that over 50,000 citizens each year will die unnecessarily due to loss of their health care and access to services. People are being plucked off the streets and out of their homes by masked government agents and being “disappeared”.
The pattern in the chaos: ordinary people are suffering and dying, sacrificed on the altar of financial gain. Apparently the common person is counted among the waste to be cut. Certainly, it’s clear that the everyday person on the street is seen as a resource to be exploited, used and discarded. Republican Joni Ernst in a contentious town hall told her constituents protesting cuts to MEDICAID that, “We are all going to die.”
Consider this: The children were swept away in a flood that surprised them because the early warning system broke down due to staffing cuts. There was no one staffing the office necessary to pass on the evacuation warnings. The director of the DHS couldn’t be bothered to sign off on an emergency response for over 72 hours after the flooding began. She was too busy posing for the camera.
Indignation is useful fuel but can only carry us so far. As Kara Swisher asked in a recent podcast, “Would you rather be right or effective?” Yes, we are right to be indignant about the lies, the gaslighting, the fraud, the corruption, the grift, the incompetence, the brutality, the immorality, the hubris…
And, as we watch our democracy swirl around the drain, it is obvious that we are not-at-all being effective in our response. Words to myself and to you: perhaps it is time to rethink our ranting and raising-awareness about how wrong this is. That certainly feels good to share in the indignation. It certainly feels like we’re doing something. A lesson I learned early in my consulting life: raising awareness is not action. It’s a step toward action. If raising awareness was action, gun violence would not be the leading cause of death of children in the USA.
If the republican’s BBB is any indication, we are not being effective at all because our actions are limited to awareness raising: we call representatives who no longer listen; we march in order to send a message to representatives who no longer care. The polls have the tyrant and his party in the basement and they do not seem concerned at all. We raise awareness within our social media bubbles with people who are already abundantly aware how wrong this is.
Calls to representatives. Marches and civil unrest. Polls. If you are hearing what I am hearing, then we have to realize that this is a whole new ballgame. They are playing as if our votes – our voices – no longer matter. We are assuming that our votes will eventually correct the course. The clear message that we need to grok is made obvious in the pattern: To them we are waste to be cut, an unnecessary obstacle on the road to their gluttony. We can protest all we want. They are aware. They do not care since democracy is not in their plan.
It’s way past time to be effective. Our right to vote, our representative government, is being auctioned off to the highest bidder. What actions – beyond awareness-raising – will effectively save our democracy from a leadership so bloated and corrupt that it cannot be bothered to care or to listen?
“We are exploring together. We are cultivating a garden together, backs to the sun. The question is a hoe in our hands and we are digging beneath the hard and crusty surface to the rich humus of our lives.” ~ Parker J. Palmer, Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation
I can’t believe I am writing this. The truth is that I enjoy weeding. While Kerri tends to the herbs on the potting bench, I pull weeds from the cracks between the patio stones. I am sometimes shocked at the satisfaction I feel when the deep root emerges with the stem. “Nice!” I exclaim to myself, dropping it into my plastic bucket.
It has not always been true that I enjoy weeding. Initially, it used to feel like a fool’s errand, an unwinnable war. Each new day would reveal new weeds – more weeds – overtaking my gains from the day before. Redoubling my weed-pulling-efforts seemed to produce the opposite of my intention: more and more weeds.
In retrospect I realize that I came to home ownership later in life and my weed wars were waged when I was relatively new to the job. I wanted to impress my new wife with my manly yard maintenance prowess. I’d mowed thousands of lawns in my life and all of them belonged to other people. This yard, our yard, did not yet feel like mine. I was in denial that I actually had a yard to tend.
I also had an Aussie dog whose sole mission in his young life was to carve multiple velodromes through the grass in his gleeful running of circles. And, as it turns out, Aussie pups, when overheated by running circles, dig deep holes in the earth to reach cool soil that they can lay on it. The backyard destruction was total and provided every gleeful weed known to humanity a perfect opportunity to sprout with unbridled enthusiasm. So they did.
I do not know when the crossover happened. I do not know when I surrendered the fight. I don’t imagine it happened all at once. There was no grand epiphany, no lightning bolt of illumination. Over time the war turned into a game and then the game turned into a meditation. One day, I walked into the backyard to quiet my mind and began to weed – and realized what I was doing. “Good for the heart. Good for the soul.” Brother Patrick’s words of so long ago came to mind. Never in my life did I think I would have a yard. Never in a thousand years did I imagine I’d love to quiet my mind by weeding. My wandering soul giggled at the revelation.
It’s been that way ever since.
“I don’t like weeding as much as you do,” she said, pruning the mint and tending the peppers. The potting bench is her happy place.
“I know,” I said, pulling a clump of crabgrass. It came out, roots and all “Nice,” I said aloud. Our old Aussie left his cool soil perch and came to investigate.
This sedum is a volunteer. It somehow took root beneath the deck and yet has found a way to reach the sun. It’s funny. Each day I check on this little plant because its resilience gives me some small measure of hope: good things can take root in dark places and through natural tenacity, find a way to the light.
When I step back from our national horror story and take in the whole picture, I am overwhelmed at the abundance of light. People showing up for other people. People expressing outrage at the treatment of others. The shadow spaces are small in comparison.
In this way people are no different than plants. Our tendency – our need – is to seek and find the light and the light is found in the community and what it values. A community can only stay in the dark for so long before it – like a plant – begins to perish.
“They have no respect for human life,” she said, showing me the latest video of an ICE arrest. And then came her list of disrespect: “Decimating USAID, cuts to Medicaid and SNAP…” It was a very, very long list.
I responded, “They have no respect for others because they have no respect for themselves.” It would be impossible to vote for that Big Bloated Bill and be able to look at yourself in the mirror.
They crawl into dark places to flee the light. The assault on the free press. The prevention of congressional oversight – and the nation – from seeing into their “deportation detention centers”. The restrictions (elimination) of due process and habeas corpus…This, too, is a very, very long list. Dark hearts creating dark places.
Here’s the thing: in dark places people lose track of where they are. Disoriented, they also lose track of where others are. In panic, they lose track of how important others are. They become physically, mentally and morally confused. They default into “every man for himself”. In survival-mode, people push others underwater in an attempt to elevate themselves. In the end, all drown.
In the dark we lose track of who we are because we can only know ourselves in relationship to others. Societies collapse in shadowy amorality and the dim fantasy land of every-man-for-himself (obviously).
It is the way of fascist regimes to drag the people of their nation into the dark. Our current leadership in these un-United States is following the Nazi playbook exactly. To perpetuate their dark intention they need to manufacture enemies; the trail of enemy creation will eventually lead back to themselves. They will eventually have to eat each other in their dog-eat-dog fascism. Even though it doesn’t look like it at this moment in time, dragging us into the dark will bring them to perish in an inky bunker.
Like the sedum rooted beneath the deck, it is our natural tendency is to reach for the light.
The only real question that remains is how much dark-malfeasance will we tolerate before we-as-a-nation say, “Enough,” break free and turn toward the light?
And, if we make it, if we survive this dark time and stumble back into the sun, I hope we will have the courage to look at what the light reveals to us – about us. I hope we have the capacity to see fully the totality of our history – all of it. I hope we are capable of asking why so many of us drank from a fox-fire hose of lies and so willingly embraced fantastic falsehoods. I hope we might once and for all align our actions with our rhetoric and put to rest the ugly idea that We-The-People only applies to a privileged few, but applies equally to all of us – a wildly diverse community dedicated to keeping the experiment of democracy vibrant and in the light.
“The caterpillar ate the dill,” she said. I laughed. It sounded like the first line in a children’s book. “No matter,” she said as she watched the caterpillar munching, “With all this rain and heat the dill has already bolted.” I raised my eyebrows. Not being up on my garden lingo, “the dill bolted” also sounded like the first line in a children’s book: the dill sprinted from the garden bench!
I thought but did not say: “I’d bolt from the room, too, if I discovered a caterpillar was gnawing on me.” Kerri puts up with enough of my random-mind-wander as it is. I’ve learned to keep some of it to myself.
Though, in my silence, I wished I’d had a pencil and paper to jot down the ideas but my hands were covered in mud. With the recent heat and rain, the weeds were eating the yard (I know! I know! Another great first line for a children’s book!) and I was waging a fruitless campaign to hold back the onslaught. No matter. Ideas come and go. I’ve let plenty of good ideas – and bad ones, too – slip by unrecorded. My muddy hands probably saved me from myself.
It’s worth mentioning that one of the many definitions of “bolt” is to “eat quickly.” To gobble or gulp. Watching the caterpillar eat I think it’s fair to suggest that it was bolting. Essentially the caterpillar and the dill both bolted and neither of them left the yard. It was a reminder to never assume to understand a single word someone else utters. Kerri might have meant that the dill was gulping rather than what I presupposed, that the dill was now dormant. I confess to looking up from my weeding to make sure that the dill was still in the pot and that the pot was on the bench.
Someday soon the bolting caterpillar will possibly fly through the yard as a Black Swallowtail butterfly. It quite literally will have bolted from one way of being into another way of being. Do not assume that you know what I mean. After all, I used the word “bolt” with clear intent to scramble the possibilities.
On the day we see the butterfly I will say to Kerri, “Hey! Look at what your dill produced!” She will give me “that” look and I will, of course, have no alternative but to make-like-dill and bolt.
The Direction of Intention 