Wash Feet

Wake on a Holy Thursday from dreams of birthing babies to gray skies and tree blossoms, pink and soft, unfurling.

Watch your small son eye wind-tossed wildflowers, pressing his forehead to the window, and imagine the worlds he inhabits, holds.

Notice the curves of his feet, wrinkled like overlapping petals, nestled with patterns never once made until he became.

Feel your womb waters turn as your baby stirs those small tides; the strain of connected bodies when the closeness grows heavy; the sorrow of inevitable separation.

Carry the melancholy of spring rain on green grass, smelling the decay in each story of failure that foddered fresh growth.

Pray for children, present and future, whose knowledge of what can be comes to us as heralded Reign clouds, a perfect storm to part the dark and cleanse with light.

Recall the spiritual mandate to wash feet as you draw a bath, place your son inside the large basin, pour water across his shoulders, and offer gratitude that this moment is salvational.

Breathe into your belly, to your baby, to abate your fear of the death that always comes when you break open, to bring inspiration, to begin again for your children.

Close the ritual of the lived day by lighting a candle, laying your body to rest, folding your hands, closing your eyes, and letting the dark bury you.

Rise once more, your heart a bud.

Strength

I count the colors of the wrinked tablecloth
by naming them: orange, green, blue, periwinkle.
I try to make my breath emanate evenly
in that floral pattern, vines winding smoothly
from bud to bud through pounding heartbeats,
but the tears stream in wordless apologies:
'I'm sorry I am not stronger. Everyone,
everyone who is alive or will ever be, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, my boy, that you see your mama cry,
that I don't know how to hold suffering without feeling it.
I'm sorry there is pain in everything, especially love.'
Later, at the moment I finally request forgiveness aloud,
I step out of the car and am instantly startled by
the haunting calls of two, coupled geese sailing overhead.
Suddenly, I am awake. Their message hovers in a cloud
of pale gray wisdom. Despair's spectrum colors collapse;
the clear prism rests on my heart, under a child's hand,
between wings touching: "You are never alone."
I learn that a friend's baby, who was born today,
shares a name with my son. Once again,
I cannot stop crying, this time at beauty's clear patterns -
lines, wingbeats, pulsing hearts across space.
Tonight, I find a fragile day lily growing through black, broken
concrete. It does not see its courage or consider its strength.
It only disregards the wreckage and rises.

What is Always There: Four Ways We Can Remember to be Human

1. Oak insisted on pulling his wagon along the side of the road on our walk through the neighborhood. His pace slowed me and Robby into more steadfast attention as the labor of his small body led us to tend more carefully to often-overlooked bumps in the sidewalk, patches of mud, slight rises and dips on the path. The tedious work of hauling the empty wagon only delighted him. We meandered slowly but happily - there was nowhere else to be. Dusk settled as we completed the last leg of our little journey; flying bats overhead raised all of our eyes to the darkening sky, where we noticed the first star of evening. "Bat." "Dark." "Star." Our boy echoed each revelation with syllables that sounded like an ancient tongue resonating in his tiny voice. My heavy belly stirred as the baby within stretched. I murmured reflexively, "Being human is pretty wild, isn't it, Oakie?" His silence was a perfect reply. The three of us sang together as we walked, "Twinkle, twinkle, little star - how I wonder what you are..."

2. Early this morning, Oak and I went to play in Big Rock Park. The only other person there was a man in a button-down shirt and dress pants, walking with a plastic bag, bending every few steps to pick up another piece of trash. The place was littered with styrofoam cups and paper and bottles. His silent pilgrimage came to a close near the playground, where we caught one another's eye and smiled. I said with feeling, "Thank you." He told me that he enacts the same ritual every morning ("They try to keep it nice, I know, but it's hard to keep this place up."). He said the park always looks the same when he arrives, that he never thought "No littering" signs would be necessary. He lamented the many unused trash cans around the park. There was no trace of despair in his voice, only gladness to share with a stranger. When I repeated my gratitude for his kindness, he replied with a genuine smile and conviction, "It's the least I can do. Enjoy this place." I wondered how he spent the rest of his day. My boy waved as he drove away.

3. We spotted a robin tugging a worm out of the dirt, stretching it thin like a rubber band. His thick neck thrusted back several times to fully extract his breakfast, which he tossed back quickly. Oak inched closer and closer, watching intently; instead of flying far out of reach, the bird simply fluttered in short distances around the park. Soon they were playing a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse, or boy-and-bird, across the large expanse of grass. Why didn't the bird leave the arrangement altogether, or my boy sit down and abandon the chase? Neither party seemed confident they would catch up to one another, but that did not deter my boy's enthusiasm or the bird's measured retreat. The inevitable end of this futile pursuit was that nothing of any consequence happened - nevertheless, the untempered energies of the young human and woodland warbler lent themselves to an unproductive but intriguing flight of wing and spirit. After a time, the robin perched on a branch over the creek where we watched him until he sailed across the water and out of sight.

4. Tonight, we made another loop through our neighborhood in the dark and wet. Oak pulled the empty wagon, Robby led the dogs on their leashes, and I held Oak's hand. As we walked the last stretch, our little one craned his neck to look up at the cloudy sky and pointed. "Dark, star," he remembered. Shortly thereafter, he dropped the wagon handle and ran with joyful squeals to hug Robby's legs. "Dad! Dad!" he proclaimed with spontaneous delight. His father laughed in surprise and bent down to embrace him, saying, "I love you so much!" Oak then reached out a hand to both dogs - "Dogs!" - then rested his head on each of them in turn. "Mom! Mom!" he said, turning back to me; we squeezed each other tightly. Finally, he embraced his wagon in sweet abandon. Robby and I laughed in contagious happiness at his unselfconsious affection. We all held hands and finished walking the rest of the way home. Cast under the spell of spontaneous gratitude, the moment accompanied us like another, familiar companion, refreshing as rain on an upturned face. The wordless lesson hung in the air like mist. Our feet were washed clean by wet grass. We ascended our front steps and walked through the door.

The Form of What Has Never Been Before

"Early this morning, there was fog & as the sun rose around us, everything began to glow & it made me wonder what this world will become for us when we remember in our bones that even the darkness is just another shape of light." - Brian Andreas

The day before the Unity Rally, I listened to Reverend Ray at Unity of Louisville share that their congregation believes every human being carries the Christ presence deep within - every human, even Donald Trump. They believe each person harbors at their core the capacity to be transformed and liberated in as little as a single moment. Therefore, although opposing people's unjust and violent actions is necessary, so is maintaining respect for their dignity no matter how abhorrently they have violated the dignity of others.

The next day, neighbors from across our city gathered in Unity to celebrate connections across boundaries and revel in the common Light of our being. While Trump spoke words of hate and division from his podium and his constituents instigated violence, those who attended our rally intentionally chose not to share negativity toward him or any other, instead holding up our common hopes and love. The clashing reverberations of Trump's rally further downtown and the lyrical, musical, community gathering at which I stood were almost as palpable as the thunderclaps overhead.

In spite of the beauty of the Unity Rally, this week has been shadowed by dark clouds of suffering and righteous despair in our city. Last night, when a friend invited me to meditation at the Drepung Gomang Center, I went to find some space to be silent and release my internal anxiety and fear. I sat and let the monks' mantras wash over me in cleansing sound waves that spoke of cosmic compassion, the noble venture to unify all beings, and the human task to honor our emptiness as individuals and awaken to our common identity.

The prayerful syllables painted mental pictures of snowy mountains and clear plains: soft, fresh, open spaces.I felt my awareness pan out to our planet as a collective Lifeform...and let myself dissolve into the silence, imagining generations of humans seeking to bring forth a new world. In the dark, I envisioned swirling particles and gasses aeons away in supernovae and nebulae, striving to form something that had never been before.

"If there were no internal propensity to unite, even at a prodigiously rudimentary level — indeed in the molecule itself — it would be physically impossible for love to appear higher up, with us, in hominized form...Driven by the forces of love, the fragments of the world seek each other so that the world may come into being."

"There is almost a sensual longing for communion with others who have a large vision. The immense fulfillment of the friendship between those engaged in furthering the evolution of consciousness has a quality impossible to describe.” - Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Last Saturday, I saw a Facebook status posted by a friend that articulated his vision for a peaceful, celebratory event in opposition to Trump's political rally happening Tuesday. I knew of Jaison from his extensive community work in Louisville but had never met him personally. Nevertheless, his idea resonated deeply with me: being 7 months pregnant and knowing I would have my 20-month-old in tow the day of Trump's rally, I, too, was looking for a nonviolent place to share with others. I reached out and agreed to make an electronic event for organizing.

Little did I realize that having my name on the electronic event would mean taking on a significant role in bringing it to life. Over the three days in which we planned this rally, I came to meet (first in virtual space, then face-to-face) many incredible, compassionate people I perhaps would have not otherwise met: Jaison, Muhammad Babar, Pinky, Reverends Valerie and Ray, and scores of others who showed up at the rally to make our time one of true community. 

Standing onstage and looking out at the bright diversity of ages and colors, identities and imaginations represented in those gathered together, tears sprang to my eyes. My son and nephew played drums and danced at the back of the room. I saw family members and friends and unknown faces that shone with a familiar longing. The baby in my womb kicked. I felt overwhelmed by the wonder of what can happen when we seek each other out and choose to recognize one another as extensions of the same body.

None of the key organizers had met prior to this event, but the mutual respect and trust shown between us in our planning, even as perfect strangers, left no one alien. All were invited to create this place of joy and celebration. It would have been impossible for any one of us to make the gathering a reality on our own. Tapped into the well of human potential, honoring the light and dark of each one, we gathered as a beacon against the gray hatred seething to the north. Here, simply by sitting together in our humanness, we demonstrated how our country can be great.

"In every age, no matter how cruel the oppression carried on by those in power, there have been those who struggled for a different world. I believe this is the genius of humankind, the thing that makes us half divine: the fact that some human beings can envision a world that has never existed.” - Anne Braden

I continue to read the rolling updates of the horrors that happened down the street that day at the other rally. Slurs and hate speech, attacks and assaults, outright recruitment for hate groups, all from people blazoned with ball caps declaring that such demonstrations will "Make America Great Again" swim across my screen. My chest tightens and my heart aches. What am I thinking, bringing babies into this world? How will I begin to teach them why these evils persist? How can I address my regular complacency when the injustice isn't echoing so loudly in my city streets? How will I know that I am tending well to myself and my family instead of escaping from the horror?

This morning, like a prayer or a gift or an invocation, thick flakes of snow began to fall as my family watched through the window. The spontaneous beauty took our breath away. In the half-light of morning, my boy and I settled in the dark for an early nap. We are tired, but this exhaustion empties me of my desires. Instead, I feel welling up an energy deeper than wakefulness. This awareness is light and dark, illumination and mystery. It is the look in my son's eyes when he says, "I love you!" and nestles his face in my neck. It is my husband's steady hand on my back when he knows I am afraid but am acting anyway. It is the knowledge that I do not stand alone and delighting in the discovery of each fellow companion. It is honoring my own faults, looking squarely at our country's gaping wounds, and feeling the pain. It is knowing that the body is not healed until all parts are healed.

I feel peace settle like snow across a tree branch, ephemeral and transient, sustained by each falling flake. I trust we can only create the world anew if we notice and try to create examples of how it can look. I believe we must let our children speak to us about their dreams to know what the future holds. I have faith that filling our hearts with music and poetry, celebrating humankind's myriad manifestations, and honoring each person as something precious to the earth will teach us why we stand together. I honor the cosmic movement in our collective efforts as we strive to form something that has never been before.

"Suddenly there was a great burst of light through the Darkness. The light spread out and where it touched the Darkness the Darkness disappeared. The light spread until the patch of Dark Thing had vanished, and there was only a gentle shining, and through the shining came the stars, clear and pure." - Madeleine L'Engle