tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73166912446266829002024-02-07T05:06:21.694-08:00The Sister from Below When the Muse gets Her WayNaomi Ruth Lowinsky: Award-Winning Poet, Author, and Jungian analystFisher King Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01252617630238504236noreply@blogger.comBlogger153125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-35652879678119867332023-11-27T21:10:00.000-08:002023-11-28T20:07:24.498-08:00The Sister from Below <h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b>Is Pleased to Announce</b></span></h3><div><span style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsZAXoZRE7XUONSlL7kw1Noq1LQrKgE0ZCsaJ4wbBVZ62M2IWtEKCKRwMl7xI7nh1Od76S1duYAdZ1qdxukoeHVk6jj-0vRm3mfjamLI-qoBL-hTQOOPFyS0QLKqWlJ5Aov7lH80Xq6eXMfmYmr5Nt-_A7DxVKvZ2Xj60FWww2MY_27WdiGEp6TwZt2AI/s1584/Screenshot%202023-11-27%20at%2010.48.33%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="956" data-original-width="1584" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsZAXoZRE7XUONSlL7kw1Noq1LQrKgE0ZCsaJ4wbBVZ62M2IWtEKCKRwMl7xI7nh1Od76S1duYAdZ1qdxukoeHVk6jj-0vRm3mfjamLI-qoBL-hTQOOPFyS0QLKqWlJ5Aov7lH80Xq6eXMfmYmr5Nt-_A7DxVKvZ2Xj60FWww2MY_27WdiGEp6TwZt2AI/w640-h386/Screenshot%202023-11-27%20at%2010.48.33%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s poem:</b></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b>“The Ghost of My Father Remembers Himself</b></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b>Playing the ‘Moonshine’ Sonata” </b></h3><div style="text-align: center;"><b>has won Synkroniciti’s “Space” Poetry Contest.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Katherine McDonald, the editor of <i>Synkroniciti</i> writes:</div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Synkroniciti</i> is thrilled to announce the winner of our “Space” poetry contest, Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s “The Ghost of My Father Remembers Himself Playing the ‘Moonshine’ Sonata.” Much of the poetry we received for the “Space” issue was outstanding, but this poem stole our hearts and brought us to tears. Naomi’s father grew up Jewish in early 20th century Germany and was a great believer in the European musical tradition, a student of the musicologist Besseler, who studied with the esteemed philosopher Heidegger. As the second World War began to brew in Germany, he found himself not only homeless and stateless, but a cultural orphan, disowned by the institutions he respected and cherished. Immigrating to America greatly disillusioned with culture, institutions, and God, he found community in the American South and began to reconstruct his life through the redeeming power of music. Announcing the sorrowful “Moonlight Sonata” by Beethoven, which he translated as the “Moonshine Sonata,” he was momentarily baffled that the southern audience laughed, but played anyway. “In America I learn Moonshine will get you drunk.” Naomi’s command of language, her rich imagery, and her use of visual spacing as a tool to slow and control narrative rhythm are finely honed and the effect is breathtaking, rich in empathy, vulnerability and drama. The poem is in three parts, three episodes from her father’s life, presented out of chronological order. The second and third sections take the visual form of waves, recalling both the undulations of the river Neckar and the broken accompaniment of Beethoven’s most famous sonata.</div></blockquote><div>We will be publishing two of Naomi’s stunning poems in “Space” and two more in “Family (March 2024).” “Space” debuts at the end of the month.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is a <a href=" https://synkroniciti.com/the-ghost-of-my-father-remembers-himself-playing-the-moonshine-sonata-by-naomi-ruth-lowinsky-wins-synkronicitis-space-poetry-contest/" target="_blank">link</a> to the “Space” issue of <i>Synkroniciti</i>:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-70629528225317379262023-10-30T17:25:00.030-07:002023-10-31T19:28:13.018-07:00The Muse of the Promised Land<div style="text-align: center;"><b>News from the Muse of</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Promised Land</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Naomi Ruth Lowinsky</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhNrxGHKLfvdbPMaSlIlVxmFprN_YVsl0BoI3Lp8sjRK978unSnqs3itfpvTypOgyeKS12wLww-uHCUZfS2DIZHYvv9BkAwiRmDKAEukV-nWZPmSgdGgtPKAAhy-EJbCuzUHnWYiAHjW10HukW-MjzsBLMbph8GLf4VKeytoMug6IbHfBVblJs-ETwL0/s968/1%20-%20Jerusalem%20%20Sliman%20Monsour%20.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="968" data-original-width="688" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhNrxGHKLfvdbPMaSlIlVxmFprN_YVsl0BoI3Lp8sjRK978unSnqs3itfpvTypOgyeKS12wLww-uHCUZfS2DIZHYvv9BkAwiRmDKAEukV-nWZPmSgdGgtPKAAhy-EJbCuzUHnWYiAHjW10HukW-MjzsBLMbph8GLf4VKeytoMug6IbHfBVblJs-ETwL0/w284-h400/1%20-%20Jerusalem%20%20Sliman%20Monsour%20.png" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jerusalem Sliman Monsour</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A Dream of Jerusalem </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Jerusalem sits in mourning. She’s sitting shiva.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> —</span>Yehuda Amichai <i>Open Close Open </i> p. 136.</div><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj904J-r1bnoqwQS9Md1Pc_d-lGsMg-XgKccBSGAXxMOM0lrc2qL5ZqUYttAAtLjfWVxc3UmOoD6SsYuUz3pmBrMYpQdfU7PNEXTMg0ICrQ9ThHAx_M100UR14lHX2OpLs9t_LDMLqTGR801C28KAOGoGIvU9lJRhMtTWxDV2pKCQUf8YRa4oG7Ll3QS-A/s1228/2-Safed%20%20Isaac%20Frenkel%20Frenel.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="566" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj904J-r1bnoqwQS9Md1Pc_d-lGsMg-XgKccBSGAXxMOM0lrc2qL5ZqUYttAAtLjfWVxc3UmOoD6SsYuUz3pmBrMYpQdfU7PNEXTMg0ICrQ9ThHAx_M100UR14lHX2OpLs9t_LDMLqTGR801C28KAOGoGIvU9lJRhMtTWxDV2pKCQUf8YRa4oG7Ll3QS-A/w186-h320/2-Safed%20%20Isaac%20Frenkel%20Frenel.png" width="186" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isaac Frenkel Frenel</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">This blog piece was inspired by a dream: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am in Jerusalem, standing among others outside an imposing structure—part city hall, part synagogue. But this is not a sanctuary for the living. It reverberates with spirits who seem trapped within it. They lament and they clamor. They beat their spectral heads and hands against the walls and windows, demanding the Jerusalem we always said we would return to, next year—as part of the Passover ritual. It is as though the building itself is possessed—writhing in an agony of dead Jewish souls. This almost living being is trying to contain the torment, the longing, the sorrow, the rage of generations of ancestors railing at the living, demanding the Jerusalem of their souls. My paternal grandparents, who died in the Shoah, tug at me, as though they want to join those inhabiting “The City of God,” a protest tent city that sprang up after tens of thousands of Israelis hiked in 95 degree heat from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem to protest Netanyahu’s Judicial Coup. One sign reads: “Bibi, haven’t the Jews suffered enough?” This cacophony of suffering invoked in me the Muse of the Promised Land—that shining angel of hope in Jewish history—which seems to lurch from catastrophe to miracle and back. But history had other plans.</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Catastrophe</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Have You not, O God, abandoned us</i>?</div><div style="text-align: center;">—Psalm 60:12 Translated by Robert Alter</div><div><br /> <div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbaGMos-Cl-BpVnDJop0kmCChc_60cv9XURTGzL2Sw7WDacd55Dah8g5MHw3ze_9ZfueRMNoB_DvqQUpNxERIIX_w3Y-RLMvtqpVisu1XDZFYP3Xk3WWnFdmLBAAVMyuTQiumPgBvl6MZP6o8cmjiXojUTBV6ShhZurnEG5QyR2Jb8qjT-J8gW31A-8U/s1872/3%20-%20%20By%20the%20Rivers%20of%20Babylon%20-%20Gebhard%20Fugel,%20c.%E2%80%891920.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1174" data-original-width="1872" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbaGMos-Cl-BpVnDJop0kmCChc_60cv9XURTGzL2Sw7WDacd55Dah8g5MHw3ze_9ZfueRMNoB_DvqQUpNxERIIX_w3Y-RLMvtqpVisu1XDZFYP3Xk3WWnFdmLBAAVMyuTQiumPgBvl6MZP6o8cmjiXojUTBV6ShhZurnEG5QyR2Jb8qjT-J8gW31A-8U/w640-h402/3%20-%20%20By%20the%20Rivers%20of%20Babylon%20-%20Gebhard%20Fugel,%20c.%E2%80%891920.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>By the Rivers of Babylon</i> - Gebhard Fugel, c. 1920</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On October 7th—a Saturday as well as the holiday, Simchat Torah, which celebrates the end and the beginning of the annual cycle of reading the Torah—the Jewish world was blind-sided by a brutal, entirely unexpected attack on Israel by Hamas, which invaded its southern border with Gaza by land, by sea, and by air. How could this happen to a warrior nation, famous for its masterful military and cunning intelligence capabilities? How could terrorists have crossed the border of Gaza, entered Israel, killing and taking hostage Israelis in their homes, towns, kibbutzim and at a night long music festival held near that border? Three thousand mostly young people danced and sang in the Negev desert until dawn to celebrate Peace, Unity, Love and Sukkot—the Jewish harvest festival. Suddenly, at sunrise, sirens clamored, rockets and missiles fell from everywhere, hundreds of terrorists shot at the revelers from every direction. The children of Israel were slaughtered, raped, stolen away on motorcycles—hostages to be taken over the border to Gaza. Survivors keep saying: ‘It’s the Shoah, all over again.’ What happened to Israel’s vaunted Defense Forces, its Iron Dome, its Pegasus spyware?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That refrain, ‘It’s the Shoah all over again’ is a trauma response among Jews that sends us whirling downward into a pit of despair and agony—there seems no way out of it. I lived much of my childhood in that pit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;"><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>In the Wake of the Shoah</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>when my father’s fierce fingers made Bach flow</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span>our dead came in and sat with us a ghostly visitation</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>and my grandmother sang lieder from long ago</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span>—Naomi Lowinsky </span><i>Adagio and Lamentation </i>p. 27</div><div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxFsdYCrE8VA4-CXMia-E0hV3Hr-EBvhJy91fOmg3t6R8ZyDlrUUeNURe7YOLyTDosYHcGS5M2hhgwB6i8NMzX64l7edhMG5vIjUh5i7Z3ESWcKhVFrEuD0WIvgktcP6noLy7PtuTFQOFWBBV2ichIuzgIQW4c_AN1asKVZQfTd1DfJYBWcUntl5tDsU/s1454/4%20-%20Haunted%20%20Unknown%20artist.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="1454" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxFsdYCrE8VA4-CXMia-E0hV3Hr-EBvhJy91fOmg3t6R8ZyDlrUUeNURe7YOLyTDosYHcGS5M2hhgwB6i8NMzX64l7edhMG5vIjUh5i7Z3ESWcKhVFrEuD0WIvgktcP6noLy7PtuTFQOFWBBV2ichIuzgIQW4c_AN1asKVZQfTd1DfJYBWcUntl5tDsU/w400-h315/4%20-%20Haunted%20%20Unknown%20artist.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Haunted</i> - Unknown artist</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As a child I lived in the dark undertow of the Shoah. The dead were an unspoken presence. I felt them in my father’s rages, in my mother’s depression, in the sense of dread that emanated from the dark corners of the house; I saw them in my Oma’s haunted eyes. We were a family of Jewish refugees from Hitler thrown back and forth between catastrophe and miracle. There was nothing in between. The catastrophe that had befallen the Jews of Europe was just behind us. Daily catastrophes assaulted our household. My brothers chased each around the house, disturbing our father’s work on a musical score. He came roaring out of his study, looking and sounding like Hitler, grabbed each little boy by the ear and knocked their heads together. They wailed. My mother, who had married a distinguished thirty-year-old scholar when she was eighteen, had no authority over him—no gravitas. She wept. And I, terrified of father’s Hitlerian furies, hid out in a corner, said nothing. That was my catastrophe.</div></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Miracle</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Justice and law are the base of Your throne</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>—Psalm 89:15</i> Translated by Robert Alter</div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0BDRSrSuH8tpTVQnpuS9ivxHmPYI7IZEScL9SnaoXMpewjIwwn6eIXh-kelSRiogVZY3tEOqtpUjE01oaduH0fyPHOgdu9w5FMSdHPKpysv01zQGGRU62OyGAytXKLlhI0pwD7YqU98z0AeQ6DUhL-2yDvXyEkvuHTvvXJtSaV7oLqpuYj09hKTEFby4/s1744/5%20-%20Promised%20Land.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1744" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0BDRSrSuH8tpTVQnpuS9ivxHmPYI7IZEScL9SnaoXMpewjIwwn6eIXh-kelSRiogVZY3tEOqtpUjE01oaduH0fyPHOgdu9w5FMSdHPKpysv01zQGGRU62OyGAytXKLlhI0pwD7YqU98z0AeQ6DUhL-2yDvXyEkvuHTvvXJtSaV7oLqpuYj09hKTEFby4/w400-h269/5%20-%20Promised%20Land.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Promised Land</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">But there was redemption. The Muse of the Promised Land visited us often and cast a spell of hope and joy. She was a shapeshifter, answering to different names: Palestine, America, Israel. When She arrived, often on Shabbat, I watched my father’s face light up, I heard his language become mythopoetic, as he told us miracle stories of how he, our family, our people were saved from Hitler’s plan to exterminate the Jews by those three Promised Lands which took in Jewish refugees. Father told a magical story of how, in the clutch of history’s brutal fist, his path opened before him, and he was shown the way to sanctuary. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHC-sNv6mq7XJAYK10MTKeoNhPJlwGNtzYod74xBEOyXvECc-J-ChZfMUIO3t5aj72_Whc8qPjx4kObGKCfU4FfXXAiO3x6Go1ZOPZrFmVqFfRGV-nvFV1D9gOOBhwTDe-UZzemBZWerGd6SX18yqJINb2SC_AbFrcFq-MaPsQamV_sINvlM9ROwDgS1k/s858/6%20-%20I%20and%20the%20Village%20Marc%20Chagal.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="568" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHC-sNv6mq7XJAYK10MTKeoNhPJlwGNtzYod74xBEOyXvECc-J-ChZfMUIO3t5aj72_Whc8qPjx4kObGKCfU4FfXXAiO3x6Go1ZOPZrFmVqFfRGV-nvFV1D9gOOBhwTDe-UZzemBZWerGd6SX18yqJINb2SC_AbFrcFq-MaPsQamV_sINvlM9ROwDgS1k/w265-h400/6%20-%20I%20and%20the%20Village%20Marc%20Chagal.png" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I and the Village - </i>Marc Chagal</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My father was born in Stuttgart to a family of impoverished Jews who fled the brutal pogroms which targeted Jews in the Russian Pale. They found refuge in Germany, in the early years of the 20th century. Father was the only son among six children. He was destined to be the chosen one, the one who would bring the glories of German culture and the patina of knowledge and success to the family. He was well on his way, pursuing a doctorate in Musicology at Heidelberg University in 1932, just before Hitler came to power. I can hear father now, in the spellbinding tradition of Russian Jewish storytellers who leap gracefully from the everyday to the mystical and back:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div></div><blockquote><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>A Stuttgart policeman—not a Jew—was the first miracle. He warned my family that we were under suspicion because my sister had a communist boyfriend. He told my mother to flush the left-wing pamphlets down the toilet and flee the country immediately. Word got to me in Heidelberg and I—again a miracle—was able to complete my dissertation in six weeks and—another miracle—cross the border to Holland at dusk, while the guards were looking the other way. And wasn’t it a miracle that my dissertation was about a Flemish Renaissance composer, Orlando di Lasso, who was of great interest to Princess Juliana of Holland whom I happened to meet on the street one day, which led to my becoming the royal piano teacher, which led to my becoming the piano teacher for the Hoffman family, which led to my marrying the youngest daughter—your mother—just before the Anschluss, when Hitler annexed Austria in 1938. We knew Holland would soon be invaded. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The Promised Land was calling all Jews to get out of Europe. My father-in-law saw it clearly—no place in Europe was safe for the Jews. He was a miracle maker who had the means and the intelligence to figure out how to get people out. He helped to get three of my sisters passage to British controlled Palestine years before it became Israel. What a miracle that they found refuge and community, that they were able to marry and raise families in the <span style="text-align: justify;">Jewish homeland. Your Opa would not have thought it a miracle that he helped my sisters emigrate, or that he found passage out of Holland for his family and new son-in-law. He was a practical and ethical man who would consider it the only thing to do under the circumstances. </span></i></div></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Father never spoke about the difficulties of the family’s long passage. The Promised Land of America was calling. But America was in no mood to take in Jewish refugees from Hitler—anti-Semitism was widespread, and the country was recovering from the Great Depression. The Hoffman–Lowinsky family had to wait in Cuba for 20 months before the miracle of entering the Promised Land could happen. How my Opa managed that was never clear to me until well into my midlife, when a relative’s death brought letters into my possession that explained what had happened—Opa had purchased Haitian passports. No wonder my family identifies so strongly with people of color. The passports worked to get the family into America but were no help when it came to getting visas, or citizenship. I gather, from the letters, that Opa had to go through a difficult legal struggle. A few months later, shortly after I was born, Opa dropped dead, while playing chess with himself. He’d had a stroke. He had devoted himself to helping many members of our family immigrate to America. I heard the Muse of the Promised Land in the stories my mother’s cousins told of how Opa had saved them. Whenever I hear news stories about the difficulties refugees from dangerous situations face when they try to enter our Promised Land, I feel grieved and furious. But for luck and Opa’s skilled perseverance, none of my family would be here.</div><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><b> Catastrophe</b><br /><i> I reviewed Arab history <br /> found no dream to borrow…<br /> the tortured homeland infiltrated me</i><br /><i> Siham Da’oud</i> The Poetry of Arab Women p. 92</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDI1EdFkSyaPtDfReOKTr_hE186GEV4dZpQhwkYVMF-M0urAUiEEajUepfdGKY4pj5MxIW3ZI3uTe8C2Y5A_aostTDXRg_GMAZ2tkMrMs8R4NZS1a4fS6JVi_WbNsOuuiksXM1g3WZYUo4mUsWDPnMKQJXzGoed5n8hI0Q7GYogRwUIu3hYDkixMm07lM/s1614/7%20-%20Olive%20Harvest%20in%20Palestine%20%20Maher%20Naji.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1108" data-original-width="1614" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDI1EdFkSyaPtDfReOKTr_hE186GEV4dZpQhwkYVMF-M0urAUiEEajUepfdGKY4pj5MxIW3ZI3uTe8C2Y5A_aostTDXRg_GMAZ2tkMrMs8R4NZS1a4fS6JVi_WbNsOuuiksXM1g3WZYUo4mUsWDPnMKQJXzGoed5n8hI0Q7GYogRwUIu3hYDkixMm07lM/w400-h275/7%20-%20Olive%20Harvest%20in%20Palestine%20%20Maher%20Naji.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Olive Harvest in Palestine</i> - Maher Naji</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My ancestral rememberings are constantly interrupted by news from Israel and from Gaza. I feel suffused with the news. I remember when my husband Dan and I visited Israel in 1987, just before the first Intifada—Arabic for Uprising—every Israeli home we visited had the television news on constantly. They lived in a state of perpetual vigilance. These days I feel like an Israeli, caught up in my own Shoah trauma vortex. But of course, I’m not living in the horror of today’s Israeli reality. I’m not hearing sirens and rockets go off many times a day. I don’t have to drop everything I’m doing and run to the bomb shelter. I’m not getting news of dear friends or family who have been slaughtered or taken hostage. I’m not going to funerals. But I am flooded with the agony of the moment. My moral compass keeps spinning. My heart hurts for the Palestinians in Gaza who are being brutally bombarded day after day. They have no bomb shelters. My heart hurts for the mother in Jerusalem whose beautiful 23 year old son was at that music festival. His left arm was blown off by a grenade attack before he was taken hostage. Is he alive? My heart hurts for the mother in Gaza City, where the siege of Israeli bombing has begun. How can she find food and water for her little ones, without risking her life? Israel has stopped the transport of food, water, fuel and electricity. How will she and her little ones survive? My heart hurts for Tony Blinken, our American Secretary of State, who has a Shoah history much like mine. His grandfather fled from Russian pogroms. His stepfather survived Auschwitz and Dachau. He’s engaged in indefatigable shuttle diplomacy in the Middle East, trying to calm the fevers of war. He too must be in a trauma vortex. </div><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><b>Miracle</b><br /><i>Always there is hope<br />always one is born to pay off<br />an old debt…</i><br /> —Anat Zecharia <i>A Winding Line</i> p.145</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYItZxw1Xc1kbEq6lTu9HhnD18eeRHOCpV7HNwA6e_I9Yv_PWdeIrv4gd5MSdBe0fN3IQ5l0uKLsmjz-R-ehSn0mRcHOdsRIayxjWyJwOW226FuS3CAOzK0xqR-iVIOtsxKVJhGYWbk3nNYqHDzXPY_7vSZI6rxjWRVb_CgBXPkANP7mLynfzM8ioseg/s1522/8%20-%20Zvi%20Adler%20%20%20Judean%20Hills.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1082" data-original-width="1522" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYItZxw1Xc1kbEq6lTu9HhnD18eeRHOCpV7HNwA6e_I9Yv_PWdeIrv4gd5MSdBe0fN3IQ5l0uKLsmjz-R-ehSn0mRcHOdsRIayxjWyJwOW226FuS3CAOzK0xqR-iVIOtsxKVJhGYWbk3nNYqHDzXPY_7vSZI6rxjWRVb_CgBXPkANP7mLynfzM8ioseg/w400-h284/8%20-%20Zvi%20Adler%20%20%20Judean%20Hills.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zvi Adler - Judean Hills</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back in 1950, the Promised Land of Israel, opened its doors to my mother’s sister Ilein. She chose to make Aliyah rather than remain in America with her parents and sisters. She married, became a chicken farmer, selling eggs on the outskirts of Haifa. Unable to bear children, she adopted them. My Oma, an accomplished painter of portraits, landscapes, and still lifes, visited her Ilein often and returned with glowing canvases—the beach at Haifa, the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea. The Muse of the Promised Land spoke to me through those paintings, gave me a vision of Israel as a land of light blessed by its ocean port. Many of these trips happened in the 1950s, before people traveled by air. Oma must have seen the Port of Haifa often, as her ship approached The Promised Land. </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Muse of Israel added trees to this vision. She spoke through my father on Shabbat, who loved telling stories of “The Miracle that turned the Desert into Paradise.” How had this been achieved? By the planting of trees. At Sunday School the Muse took the form of small blue and white metal boxes with slots for coins. We were urged to make offerings to the “Miracle of Trees in the Promised Land.” </div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Muse of Israel spoke in the voice of my Tante Ilein, who came to visit every few years, bringing laughter, joy and music to my mother and our family. We had chamber music evenings. She played the cello, Mother played violin and viola, Father played the piano. Tante Ilein told stories of the wonders of this new land. She told us about a Kibbutz near her home. She marveled that these intentional communities revolutionized family and gender roles based on egalitarian and communal values. In the Kibbutz she knew, children lived together, played together, studied together, and worked on the land together. Maybe their parents would visit them on Shabbat. Maybe not. Maybe they’d grow up to continue in the community, work on the land, keep the traditions. Maybe they’d leave, go to a university, learn a profession. The Muse of those times in Israel was not interested in whether you studied Torah, or kept kosher, or observed Shabbat. She was a free thinker, agnostic, progressive. But I never heard Her speak of what happened to the Palestinians whose houses and lands were stolen in the mass displacement of indigenous people that occurred during the 1948 Arab Israeli war—despite the United Nations resolution calling for two states—and continues to this day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;">Catastrophe versus Catastrophe</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;">My longing weeps for everything. My longing shoots back at me, to kill or be killed…</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;">I am from here, I am from there, yet am neither here nor there.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">—Mahmoud Darwish </span><i style="text-align: left;">Unfortunately, It Was Paradise</i><span style="text-align: left;"> p. 4</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDzb3KImGRMYdo66hzByKeMlhJPNWxhuFIIdoQBqNgfsnkVzpUY6ks5MF0heLFhkBWwoBRP-W51IwRJKpNPe_HiDGt1twM9_VJB8y6huQAc5uQqUIrfR4XCI_qmSotoWpEtjY1ec1rekzTYEYncWujORMppmstPNBPG3QT88eRXB_NM0N5jbUtj1DFpXk/s890/9%20-%20To%20Where%3F%20%20Ismail%20Shammout.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDzb3KImGRMYdo66hzByKeMlhJPNWxhuFIIdoQBqNgfsnkVzpUY6ks5MF0heLFhkBWwoBRP-W51IwRJKpNPe_HiDGt1twM9_VJB8y6huQAc5uQqUIrfR4XCI_qmSotoWpEtjY1ec1rekzTYEYncWujORMppmstPNBPG3QT88eRXB_NM0N5jbUtj1DFpXk/w293-h400/9%20-%20To%20Where%3F%20%20Ismail%20Shammout.png" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>To Where?</i> - Ismail Shammout</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many say that the painful history of the Palestinian people is behind the horror of the October 7th attack. Palestinians lost their homes, their land, their way of life when Jewish refugees from the Shoah—which means catastrophe—took over what Palestinians believe belongs to them. Israelis, however, see the land as their ancestral homeland. Palestinians call their mass displacement and dispossession during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war The Naqba—which also means catastrophe. The agony in Israel and Palestine has its roots in these competing catastrophes. Israel’s 75-year history is filled with attempts to negotiate a way for both peoples to live together peaceably, interrupted by wars, uprisings and the intrusion of Jewish settlers into Palestinian areas under Israeli Occupation—notably the West Bank.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">The recent attack on Israel came from Gaza, a narrow strip of land into which 2 million Palestinians are crushed—commonly referred to as an “outdoor prison—because the Israelis on the northern and eastern side and the Egyptians on the southern and western sides control the borders. Though Israel disengaged from Gaza in 2005 many consider it an occupying power due to its continuing blockade of the territory. The Israeli government doesn’t agree. At this point Israel is at war—the fifth Gaza war since 2007. It is also the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, when a surprise attack by Egypt and Syria crossed ceasefire lines and entered the Sinai Peninsula and the Golan Heights. Again my moral compass is spinning. The Hamas terrorists committed horrendous atrocities. Israel needs to fight back. But if the Israelis, and their allies don’t consider the context out of which these catastrophes emerge, they will continue to repeat this catastrophic history. Some say Hamas is also responding to the normalization of relationships between Israel and other Arab countries, such as Saudi Arabia which Netanyahu is promoting. They feel squeezed out, forgotten. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span></span></span>Mister, Prime Minister</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span></span></span>you must be very proud of your country</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span></span></span>as you observe what’s going on with your eyes shut…</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span></span></span>Which gives us a reason to stand for years</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span></span></span>in the square and sing.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span></span></span>—Anat Zecharia <i>A Winding Line</i> p. 131</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbI1H9ibfJgQfUM6yDZVebc5TqaHm_Y4Fw2NgR5Tm24dwJO1DQH-E4IpMxym8RExMzFUDHoLOO3zyplml2lb1-SMmlqJ4ZiySkUBGCjnN1sqg_ABTUrGstHGYFRmw0k5lQ2gcFU7qjYFl7ohpVc9zLandBQZxkdf4cXh21FtGBwgd5ccGg1VYafA9cJY/s1128/10-The%20Spring%20that%20Was%20%20Ismail%20Shammout.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1128" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbI1H9ibfJgQfUM6yDZVebc5TqaHm_Y4Fw2NgR5Tm24dwJO1DQH-E4IpMxym8RExMzFUDHoLOO3zyplml2lb1-SMmlqJ4ZiySkUBGCjnN1sqg_ABTUrGstHGYFRmw0k5lQ2gcFU7qjYFl7ohpVc9zLandBQZxkdf4cXh21FtGBwgd5ccGg1VYafA9cJY/w400-h309/10-The%20Spring%20that%20Was%20%20Ismail%20Shammout.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Spring that Was</i> - Ismail Shammout</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On October 8, the day after the attack, an editorial in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz laid the blame for what happened on Prime Minister, Netanyahu, and his policies concerning Palestine. In Haaretz’ view the catastrophe was the result of Netanyahu’s “fully–right” coalition of Ultra-Orthodox, racist ministers who took “overt steps…to annex the West Bank and to carry out ethnic cleansing” in areas the Oslo Accords had protected, including the Hebron Hills and the Jordan Valley. The editorial holds him and his cronies responsible for the “massive expansion of settlements and bolstering of the Jewish presence on Temple Mount, near the Al-Aqsa Mosque, as well as boasts of an impending peace deal with the Saudis in which the Palestinians would get nothing.” Haaretz expressed outrage about the “open talk of a ‘second Nakba’ in his governing coalition.” They point out that a Prime Minister who has been indicted in three corruption cases will hardly have time and energy to attend to matters of state.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before the Israeli–Hamas war broke out, I thought I was writing about a different catastrophe, one that has also been attributed to the Prime Minister—his treacherous Judicial Coup. The autocratic, self–serving and criminal Netanyahu has made common cause with extreme right wingers in a plot to strip the judiciary of its power and independence. This would mean no judicial checks and balances on government power. In response to this there has been a mighty wave of protests. Of course, as soon as Hamas struck the demonstrations stopped. Israelis rallied to the war effort as they must. Army reservists who had threatened not to serve because they were angered by the Prime Minister’s assault on democracy, rushed to protect their country. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">This story is fast–moving, changing every hour. As I write a ground war against Gaza seems to be the next step, putting two million civilians at risk. The Israeli government is warning citizens of Gaza City to leave. Where are they supposed to go? They have already been denied food, water, fuel and electricity by the Israeli government. Hospitals are running out of power, just as thousands of civilians are being bombed. This is punishment of non-combatants, considered a war crime, just as the Hamas brutality against civilians is a war crime. My ancestors, always with me, are lamenting-- “Oy veh is mir”. </div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">In what feels like a ray of light in all the chaos and misery of war news, my favorite former American president, Barack Obama, makes a significant statement: “Thoughts on Israel and Gaza.” No longer constricted by the politics of his former role, Obama tells a truth that calms the clamoring ancestors in my soul, who have been crazed with worry about the very danger Obama names. After expressing his outrage at the “horrific attack against Israel” Obama goes on to argue that the way Israel is conducting the war is likely to backfire. My ancestors say, “That’s right. It is very bad for the Jews”! Obama says:</div><blockquote style="text-align: justify;">The Israeli government’s decision to cut off food, water and electricity to a captive civilian population (in Gaza) threatens not only to worsen a growing humanitarian crisis, it could further harden Palestinian attitudes for generations, erode global support for Israel, play into the hands of Israel’s enemies, and undermine long–term efforts to achieve peace and stability in the region.</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Obama, you may remember, made a valiant attempt to achieve such a peace in 2010 and was undermined again and again by Netanyahu’s refusal to withdraw from the occupied territories in the West Bank.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Catastrophe American style</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>My family had a Sabbath ritual</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>We lit the candles sang Go Down Moses sang Swing Low </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Sweet Chariot sang slave music freedom music secret signals </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>in the night music My father said you never know</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>when Pharoah will be back</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i> </i>—Naomi Ruth Lowinsky <i>Death and His Lorca</i> p. 16</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhzGXzsAuuvAD3ItcRFTL5fwPYCTOEE6y9XDkZb3g4yhpz7PrvUgUzpVaSV9yeFnel22e0_vxcN6smCFlyto7H50DdwLBVVCmqddHIo_nwsBrEFLaf5Jw6SGBsz5KRcnICAnKtYo3AgIfa0JaAiCAtqsRYP1H_4wHYlZefl46-K3SAaGQfSA1jthyphenhyphen8Ok/s1102/11-Moses%20with%20the%20Ten%20Commandments%20%20%20Rembrandt.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="886" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhzGXzsAuuvAD3ItcRFTL5fwPYCTOEE6y9XDkZb3g4yhpz7PrvUgUzpVaSV9yeFnel22e0_vxcN6smCFlyto7H50DdwLBVVCmqddHIo_nwsBrEFLaf5Jw6SGBsz5KRcnICAnKtYo3AgIfa0JaAiCAtqsRYP1H_4wHYlZefl46-K3SAaGQfSA1jthyphenhyphen8Ok/w321-h400/11-Moses%20with%20the%20Ten%20Commandments%20%20%20Rembrandt.png" width="321" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Moses with the Ten Commandments</i> - Rembrandt</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the first-born child of refugees I saw the Muse of America as a guardian angel. I heard her in my father’s voice, extolling the virtues of the American Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence—“liberty for all.” He knew full well that America had not lived up to those ideals, that Black people were discriminated against, as were other minorities including Jews. But because we had been lucky enough to find our way to the Promised Land he was grateful, and believed devoutly that America would fulfill its promise. He was a Martin Luther King liberal. On Shabbat and at Passover we sang “Go Down Moses” because for us Black Moses and Jewish Moses were the same.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Muse of America as the Promised Land lit a passion for the Jewish ethical tradition in my father as it did in me. I clearly remember my first experience of the Great American Shadow—the Army McCarthy Hearings of 1954. I was 11, recovering from eye surgery, which freed me to stay home from school and listen to the drama on the radio. I can hear McCarthy’s noxious voice to this day, shouting: “Point of order, point of order Mr. Chairman.” McCarthy was a Republican Senator from Wisconsin, a bully, a demagogue, a virulent anti-communist who saw communist infiltration everywhere—the government, universities and the film industry. He chaired the subcommittee on Government Operations which accused the Army of harboring communists. In the dramatic story I followed day after day the Senate was investigating the conflicting charges made by McCarthy and by the Army. Joseph Welch was chief counsel for the Army. I took pride in reporting the events of the day to my father when he came home. I was filled with righteous indignation until the day the tables turned. McCarthy had accused a young lawyer on Welch’s staff of Communist sympathies. Welsh responded with words I will never forget: “Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness… Let us not assassinate this lad further senator. You have done enough. Have you no sense of decency?” That phrase—no sense of decency—proved the downfall of McCarthy. The American people in 1954—glued to their TVs—could see what a bad actor McCarthy was. The Muse of the Promised Land won that battle. </div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Most of a lifetime later, it grieves me greatly to see a similar bully, provocateur, and criminal—currently facing 91 felony counts— who trumpets his anti-democratic and autocratic attitudes as he leads the charge against justice and ethical behavior in our land. He led the attempted coup against his own government on January 6th 2021. I hear “Have you no decency?” as a subtext of the myriad indictments made against our former president who wants to be president again. It disturbs me profoundly that the question of decency, of telling the truth, of not being cruel, of being ethical seems to have little power over a renegade politician these days, at least in America.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But in Israel, before the attack by Hamas, the story was different. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators filled the streets of Tel Aviv, Haifa and Jerusalem shouting “Busha!”—the Hebrew word for “Shame!” It comforted me that Jews in the Promised Land were standing up for our ancient ethical tradition. I was moved by an urgent and devastating request for support by Mika Almog, of USA4IsraeliDemocracy.org. She is an Israeli writer, journalist, political activist and the granddaughter of the late Shimon Perez—former prime minister and former president of Israel. Here is some of what she said:</div></div><div><blockquote style="text-align: justify;">Israel is facing the greatest threat in its 75 year history…We are literally fighting for our survival, not just as a democracy but as a homeland for the entire Jewish people. The ground is burning beneath our feet…The Judicial Coup is not an internal Israeli matter…This is about shaping the future and the story of the Jewish people. Israel is the glue that kept us together for millennia, our homeland is a safe haven for a people without a home.</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Reading this I was in tears, reminded of a story my father never told his children—though he was born in Germany in 1908 he was stateless because, in those days, Germany had no birth-right citizenship. I learned this recently, when my nephew, Hillel, moved to Germany to marry Aurelia, a German woman he met in Israel. He petitioned to become a citizen under German laws that allow for the renaturalization of Jews whose ancestors were victims of Nazi persecution. But he needed to show proof of German citizenship. My mother’s family fled a few months before Hitler came to power. And my father, it turns out, was a citizen of nowhere—not Russia, not Germany not Holland. No wonder the Promised Land was so essential to him. It hurts my heart now, generations later, to imagine how frightening it must have been for him and his kin to be stateless and unprotected. Hillel has created a Café in Hamburg, which he calls <i>Lowinsky’s</i>. His logo is a photo of his grandfather’s face. He has brought his Opa, my father, back to a very different Germany than the one from which he fled.</div></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLZbof0ppU4OV5SS6tjSkRl0R1D_0C5wwtkoOwoBAROfV5eeW41Bv4ihWaJKZo3B8PSof9U9s35D6WezfLYux6iGbczliUAFPLAL7F_8hjQ5QGLqQTiZhTlgipymKnaFQgDDxOmdvmKEx9ENms5ZT_UySiL0r7hqfOBmtc6wZ5Tz_QfKkQWwJoj5W7H8/s1424/12%20-%20Lowinsky%E2%80%99s%20NY%20Coffee%20and%20Tea%20in%20Hamburg.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="1424" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLZbof0ppU4OV5SS6tjSkRl0R1D_0C5wwtkoOwoBAROfV5eeW41Bv4ihWaJKZo3B8PSof9U9s35D6WezfLYux6iGbczliUAFPLAL7F_8hjQ5QGLqQTiZhTlgipymKnaFQgDDxOmdvmKEx9ENms5ZT_UySiL0r7hqfOBmtc6wZ5Tz_QfKkQWwJoj5W7H8/w400-h269/12%20-%20Lowinsky%E2%80%99s%20NY%20Coffee%20and%20Tea%20in%20Hamburg.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lowinsky’s NY Coffee and Tea in Hamburg</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> As Almog said: “No war is as dangerous as a government attacking its own people.” Isn’t that what happened in Germany? Didn’t a version of that happen here in America on January 6, 2021, when the outgoing president provoked an attempted coup? Isn’t avoiding that the whole purpose of the Promised Land?</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>“Where There is Much Light There is Much Shadow”</b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Emma Hoffman</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsa_p007M8Bi4m4MjQSOEenVkk1LkNoCiDzE1KrN8vzkczcZG908__woiwGe9gI5F2E15lOywkTVzmHT8uBy1ruYkVQ4jF1U6Netiqq1YJRjAhNnBsAC9gq1iYx6UfSQYt8nOTp9bBjmjVk90mCR4LHvDE869mKL5sJFguT9mjcP707RRbykNOPkgs3k/s1226/13%20-%20The%20Ghosts%20%20Miki%20de%20Goodaboom.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1226" data-original-width="914" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsa_p007M8Bi4m4MjQSOEenVkk1LkNoCiDzE1KrN8vzkczcZG908__woiwGe9gI5F2E15lOywkTVzmHT8uBy1ruYkVQ4jF1U6Netiqq1YJRjAhNnBsAC9gq1iYx6UfSQYt8nOTp9bBjmjVk90mCR4LHvDE869mKL5sJFguT9mjcP707RRbykNOPkgs3k/w299-h400/13%20-%20The%20Ghosts%20%20Miki%20de%20Goodaboom.png" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Ghosts</i> - Miki de Goodaboom</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That is what my Oma used to say to me, when I complained to her about my father and his rages. At night, deep in the pit of my Shoah trauma, I hear her voice saying: “That is true of countries as well as people.” I don’t know if Oma ever read Jung. But she was an artist who worked with shadow and light. She used shadow to delineate the shape of what she drew and painted. As I think about her wise words, heroic stories coming out of the agony of the war come to mind. I marvel at the Muslim medic who stayed to take care of the wounded after the attack on the music festival. He thought speaking Arabic would protect him. Unfortunately, it didn’t. I marvel at the doctors and nurses at the hospital in Gaza City who do their best to care for the sick and wounded despite Israel’s blockade of medications, food, water, fuel and electricity to the suffering population. I marvel at the son whose mother, an Israeli peace activist, is believed to be a hostage. He said: “Vengeance is not something to build foundations on. It is not a strategy. How many dead Palestinians will be enough for us to feel safe?” (Quoted in Nicholas Kristof’s column, October 27th 2023.)</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHz6FJLzv22OkUJW-m4-tPLKw9mA1UZEQS1prrxP4Ws8tvZsEOlkQBNGwnR0t5bMh2gZ-EnNVUnfPOarUZ59wkCFN1GrRiinVZrJK48OWInooqovDC_ygtxTinM6gw1Cr1bjs-azyRHgEhpTXRL68ktPUm1c8ZelIZyJ56HAfRIGrnDFDhl6V24atYHqQ/s888/14-The%20Camel%20%20Carrier%20of%20Hardships%20%20Sliman%20Mansour.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="606" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHz6FJLzv22OkUJW-m4-tPLKw9mA1UZEQS1prrxP4Ws8tvZsEOlkQBNGwnR0t5bMh2gZ-EnNVUnfPOarUZ59wkCFN1GrRiinVZrJK48OWInooqovDC_ygtxTinM6gw1Cr1bjs-azyRHgEhpTXRL68ktPUm1c8ZelIZyJ56HAfRIGrnDFDhl6V24atYHqQ/w273-h400/14-The%20Camel%20%20Carrier%20of%20Hardships%20%20Sliman%20Mansour.png" width="273" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Camel Carrier of Hardships</i><br />Sliman Mansour<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Shadow and light, catastrophe and miracle seem to take turns on the stage of Jewish history. Consider the <i>Psalms</i>, to which we turn for comfort and support when we feel overwhelmed by suffering and grief. Judaism gives us a deity who can be ruthless and cruel as well as just and loving—which, of course, is true of us all. The <i>Psalms</i> move from shadow to light and back. Sometimes it is the Lord who puts us “in the nethermost pit,/in darkness, in the depths” (Psalm 88:7), sometimes it is other humans: “How long the Wicked, O Lord,/ how long will the wicked exult? (Psalm 94:3). But Psalm 89:1 sings “the Lord’s kindnesses forever.” And Psalm 95:1 invites us to “sing gladly to the Lord.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Robert Alter—whose translation of the Psalms is the one I quote—points out in <i>The Art of Biblical Poetry</i>:</div><blockquote><div>The God of biblical faith…is not a God of the cosmos alone, but also a God of history. A good many psalms…are responses to the most urgent pressures of the historical moment. (p. 121)</div></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjydawuZubWlUjsoJ4gioy3LaVG0VG25B95HrP4bbOlKz9T2SVV7xCD3rJjoEyvIpXBW_tEnvPrGpfqPghAAroxHdoziFzmnaL1NYCOYG6d_2196_Ak4EOTJv6dGTiTonto60CtpzkNsK67J6GbL4EGh1OTH390yHofinFXCkEI_Lw9Ce45DAhBlsaFFA/s890/15%20-%20Perseverance%20and%20Hope%20%20Sliman%20Mansour.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="722" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjydawuZubWlUjsoJ4gioy3LaVG0VG25B95HrP4bbOlKz9T2SVV7xCD3rJjoEyvIpXBW_tEnvPrGpfqPghAAroxHdoziFzmnaL1NYCOYG6d_2196_Ak4EOTJv6dGTiTonto60CtpzkNsK67J6GbL4EGh1OTH390yHofinFXCkEI_Lw9Ce45DAhBlsaFFA/w325-h400/15%20-%20Perseverance%20and%20Hope%20%20Sliman%20Mansour.png" width="325" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Perseverance and Hope -</i> Sliman Mansour</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wanted to sing gladly to that God of history on the morning of October 18th when Dan and I woke to hear the voice of our President, Joe Biden, speaking from Tel Aviv—the only American president who has visited Israel in wartime. I wept, listening to his empathic, strong and ethical response to the atrocities:</div></div><p></p><blockquote><div>Shock, pain, rage—an all-consuming rage. I understand, and many Americans understand<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">You can’t look at what has happened here to your mothers, your fathers, your grandparents, sons, daughters, children—even babies—and not scream out for justice. Justice must be done.</div></div><div><br />But I caution this: While you feel that rage, don’t be consumed by it.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The vast majority of Palestinians are not Hamas. Hamas does not represent the Palestinian people.</div></div></blockquote><div>And Biden, who is so familiar with sorrow, spoke to the Israeli people about the nature of grief:<br /><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">To those who are living in limbo waiting desperately to learn the fate of loved ones, especially to families of the hostages: You’re not alone … </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To those who are grieving a child, a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a friend, I know you feel like there’s that black hole in the middle of your chest. You feel like you’re being sucked into it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The survivor’s remorse, the anger, the questions of faith in your soul.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Starting at—staring at that empty chair, sitting shiva. The first Sabbath without them…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For those who have lost loved ones, this is what I know: They’ll never be truly gone. There’s something that’s never fully lost: your love for them and their love for you…</div></blockquote><p></p><blockquote><a href="https://www.jns.org/full-text-biden-remarks-in-tel-aviv/" target="_blank">Read full text: transcript of U.S. President Joe Biden's remarks in Tel Aviv on Oct. 18, 2023. </a></blockquote><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUmGuYfgd-mbJsks_24DR4ItItjAMRZs1d4QQPtOHe04wfmfADtB19YNDeRYuzTqxDaZ8kKVgSzfB57Y_aopFLayvi_ihOIG8cfc5Le7eWuTV4Q2UZOZLGVvzwEIQlt11I_vOLeGuWcP9PfB9PDUvqNj9GOPfwRqENNQjNCg7-HV2TDz-vbiLdqU24yc/s1300/16%20-Jaffa%20(A%20Palestinian%20City%20before%201948)%20%20%20Juhaina%20Habibi%20Kandalaft.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="1300" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUmGuYfgd-mbJsks_24DR4ItItjAMRZs1d4QQPtOHe04wfmfADtB19YNDeRYuzTqxDaZ8kKVgSzfB57Y_aopFLayvi_ihOIG8cfc5Le7eWuTV4Q2UZOZLGVvzwEIQlt11I_vOLeGuWcP9PfB9PDUvqNj9GOPfwRqENNQjNCg7-HV2TDz-vbiLdqU24yc/w400-h376/16%20-Jaffa%20(A%20Palestinian%20City%20before%201948)%20%20%20Juhaina%20Habibi%20Kandalaft.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jaffa (A Palestinian City before 1948) <br />Juhaina Habibi Kandalaft</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Biden also spoke passionately about the humanitarian issues raised by the siege on Gaza and declared it time to return to negotiating a two–state solution! I wonder how that went over with Netanyahu? I say to my inner Oma, ‘isn’t this also a miracle?’ We have a president who, in our angry, unstable, cruel times, has the courage to speak out for justice and compassion. The shadow is, he gets so little credit for his valor, his moral compass, and most of all for his decency. These virtues are not, it seems, in vogue. The shadow is that, as I write, the people of Gaza are still being bombed. The count of Palestinian dead keeps rising and rising. Many who obeyed the Israeli command to evacuate Gaza City and go south have been struck by bombs in what they were told would be safe areas. Most of Gaza City is debris and death—appalling, unbearable.</div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I began this blog piece thinking I was telling a story about courageous protests by Israelis against their government—which has gone seriously awry. But on October 7th the story shifted into a hell realm—the Jewish-Palestinian trauma vortex. As I come to the end of this piece, with the story still changing every hour, it strikes me that the second story is actually an outcome of the first. The <i>Haaretz</i> editorial I quoted earlier makes the connection. As President Obama knows all too well, the catastrophe in Israel has everything to do with the Netanyahu government’s consistent undermining of a two–state solution. They have thrown gasoline on the fires of Israeli and Palestinian conflict by their support of the settlers in the West Bank, who are encouraged to be violent with their Palestinian neighbors. And they eased the way for terrorists to invade Israel, by their lack of a military presence at the Southern border. Netanyahu, I’m told, dislikes the kibbutzim and small towns in what is called the “periphery”—because they are inhabited by progressive people who don’t vote for him. Some say Hamas was surprised and a bit shocked by how little resistance they met. As the protesters have shouted at their government for many months of marching in the streets: “Busha!” “Busha!” “Shame!” I am moved to quote the words of Nir Avishai Cohen, author of <i>Love Israel, Support Palestine,</i> and an Israeli reservist in his way to join the war (published in the Opinion Section of the NYTimes, Sunday, October 15th, 2023):</div><blockquote style="text-align: justify;">At the end, after all of the dead Israelis and Palestinians are buried, after we have finished washing away the rivers of blood, the people who share a home in this land will have to understand that there is no other choice but to follow the path of peace. That is where true victory lies.</blockquote></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many years ago, during another time of terrorist attacks in Israel, when the ground was burning beneath Israeli feet, I wrote a Psalm to the God of history that is, sadly relevant again:</div></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpt8Qr2ts2HayyMg8_1YQNG4bSS8UXin1v0KX2alPxVj8S7KNP8Z-gP-L4LVqFrch8p1R2X8cZuVISJUMmhC1tasL_MfdV2SxrZ-pKs0FKMhhAI0jkItokl82sQN3dgKPi4lTJOK0Hiva3tpCpoIl1nYGL3AyxhKCfOsaqsWSnNS4NUimvYqIWA8Ughw/s1274/Final%20-%20Unnamed%20%20Ahlam%20Al%20Faqih.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="1274" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpt8Qr2ts2HayyMg8_1YQNG4bSS8UXin1v0KX2alPxVj8S7KNP8Z-gP-L4LVqFrch8p1R2X8cZuVISJUMmhC1tasL_MfdV2SxrZ-pKs0FKMhhAI0jkItokl82sQN3dgKPi4lTJOK0Hiva3tpCpoIl1nYGL3AyxhKCfOsaqsWSnNS4NUimvYqIWA8Ughw/w400-h297/Final%20-%20Unnamed%20%20Ahlam%20Al%20Faqih.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unnamed - Ahlam Al Faqih</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><b>Your Face in the Fire<br /></b></div><div><br />Descend upon me you who are source <br />before source fire in the sky gleam<br />in the back of my skull Come in the wind<br />with wings Come in my breath I cling<br />to the luminous stair Sing me your names <br />spirit void darkening sea world <br />tree When thunder speaks come into my heart <br />where terrible stories are told <br /> The woman <br />whose womb has cast pieces of flesh all over the streets<br />of Jerusalem that son of your prophet whose light<br />splintered into thousands of dangerous <br /> shards <br /><br /> I gather it all for the altar<br /> the blood the rage the weeping <br /> Show me your face<br /> in the fire<br /><br /> (forthcoming in Your Face in the Fire)</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><b>Bibliography</b></div><div><b><br /></b>Alter, R. trans. 2007. <i>The Book of Psalms</i>. W.W. Norton.</div><div>______ 1985. <i>The Art of Biblical Poetry</i>. Basic Books<br /><br /></div><div>Amichai, Y. 2000. <i>Open Closed Open</i>. Trans. Chana Bloch, Chana Kronfeld. Harcourt, Inc.<br /><br /></div><div>Darwish, M. 2003. <i>Unfortunately, It Was Paradise</i>. University of California Press.<br /><br /></div><div>Handal, R. ed. 2001. <i>The Poetry of Arab Women</i>. Interlink Books.<br /><br /></div><div>Keller, T. trans. 2023. <i>A Winding Line: Three Hebrew Poets</i>. Zephyr Press.<br /><br /></div><div>Lowinsky, NR. 2007. <i>Adagio and Lamentation</i>. Fisher King Press.<br />_________, 2021, <i>Death and His Lorca</i>. Blue Light Press.<br />__________, (forthcoming) <i>Your Face in the Fire</i>.<br /> <br /><br /><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-71770831931084219782023-02-02T14:51:00.046-08:002023-02-02T15:21:40.897-08:00The Sister from Below invites you to:<div style="text-align: center;"><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Spectral Presences as Healers of Cultural Complexes</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHavr42zqIBW8vDTz1ccwgYmyZ_HcN_QOz-sk7cuZgkveoFK7ALhOmhgJU4NovzNhFmXe4dNQtIZnmpT2Z1z90vRYTJYYSnbaFkZKlhs2kQ0c_OL7HL1ocgY9m0mAQ3sMp-A1Hr59yVQC6YdlWadPUSSqDAJdhptmXNCUZUdk2LuoW2p94v5g78K6/s1096/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%203.52.40%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="1096" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHavr42zqIBW8vDTz1ccwgYmyZ_HcN_QOz-sk7cuZgkveoFK7ALhOmhgJU4NovzNhFmXe4dNQtIZnmpT2Z1z90vRYTJYYSnbaFkZKlhs2kQ0c_OL7HL1ocgY9m0mAQ3sMp-A1Hr59yVQC6YdlWadPUSSqDAJdhptmXNCUZUdk2LuoW2p94v5g78K6/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%203.52.40%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">THE CITY OF BONES: SPECTRAL PRESENCES AS HEALERS OF CULTURAL COMPLEXES</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX1848no0YNHkEw0nRjQq1hQL-wSRFq7FrwdiHDQH_Kxbrk5Lo1JG4yMAw65MD3J7cJwTWrUve7Pi4XR6iBkPZYG1Teh2_EMM7tKb-YNBDrOfvyADmeLDvHE1p0dktv7_TtcK-y1xL4SZj-57QKMqUMxhHeUzLa09rkCzEj9tF1-Um8pdkV16PoCB/s1498/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%203.54.06%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1498" data-original-width="1160" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX1848no0YNHkEw0nRjQq1hQL-wSRFq7FrwdiHDQH_Kxbrk5Lo1JG4yMAw65MD3J7cJwTWrUve7Pi4XR6iBkPZYG1Teh2_EMM7tKb-YNBDrOfvyADmeLDvHE1p0dktv7_TtcK-y1xL4SZj-57QKMqUMxhHeUzLa09rkCzEj9tF1-Um8pdkV16PoCB/w310-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%203.54.06%20PM.png" width="310" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>SATURDAY & SUNDAY, MARCH 18 AND 19, 2023 <div>10AM – 5PM<br /><b>LIVESTREAM ONLY</b><br /><br />FACULTY: SAM KIMBLES, PhD; NAOMI RUTH LOWINSKY, PhD; FANNY BREWSTER, PhD, MFA; ALAN VAUGHAN, JD, PhD; MEDRIA CONNOLLY, PhD; BRYAN NICHOLS, PhD<br /><br /><i>12 Possible Continuing Education Credits Approved for MD, PhD, PsyD, MFT, LCSW, LPCC, LEP & RN</i><br /><br />TUITION: $300 (INCLUDES CEUS) <br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Can the presence of our ancestors both speak as well as act to help us come to grips with our collective histories of racial, ethnic, gender identities and biases?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Using the healing processes in poetry, literature, visual arts and psychoanalysis, the presenters will consider how phantomatic and ancestral forces act in us through “cultural complexes” and “phantom narratives.” We will contemplate the ways we come to grips with our collective histories of racial, ethnic, gender identities and biases through reparation, implication, forgiveness and clinical work.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> The contemporary written word from African Americans about the spectral presences who act as our guides from our world to in-between worlds, landing on mythical shores where history can be revealed, witnessed, and cleansed in our souls will be used to amplify the need for such presences. Clinical examples of this process will be included.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> SAM KIMBLES, PhD, is an analyst member of the C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco and a clinical professor at UCSF. His published books include: <i>Phantom Narratives: The Unseen Contribution of Culture to Psyche </i>and <i>Transgenerational Complexes in Analytical Psychology.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">NAOMI RUTH LOWINSKY, PhD, is an analyst member of the C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco and a widely published and anthologized poet. She is the winner of The Blue Light Poetry Prize and the Obama Millennial Prize. Her fifth poetry collection <i>Death and His Lorca, </i>was recently published.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">ALAN VAUGHAN, JD, PhD, is a clinical psychologist and an analyst member of the C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco. He is the author of many articles including recently, “Phenomenology of the Trickster Archetype, U.S. Electoral Politics and the Black Lives Matter Movement” in the <i>Journal of Analytical Psychology</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">FANNY BREWSTER, PhD, MFA, is a Jungian analyst and professor at Pacifica Graduate Institute. She is the author of <i>African Americans and Jungian Psychology, Archetypal Grief: Slavery’s Legacy</i> and <i>The Racial Complex.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">MEDRIA CONNOLLY, PhD, is a clinical psychologist in private practice in Santa Monica, CA. Her work is particularly attuned to the challenges faced by people of color. Recently, Dr. Connolly has focused her attention on the psychological case for reparations to descendants of American slavery. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">BRYAN NICHOLS, PhD, is a licensed clinical psychologist with a practice located in West Los Angeles, CA. Nichols is a certified trainer, and trainer of trainers in the Effective Black Parenting Program. He has also conducted numerous groups and trainings in anger management utilizing elements of the “Dealing with Anger” program that was designed for African American teens.</div><br />Date: Mar 18, 2023 and Mar 19, 2023 </div><div>10:00 AM - 05:00 PM<br /><br /><b>Fee</b><br />$300.00<br /><br /><b>CE Hours</b><br />12.00<br /><b>Registration closes on Mar 19, 2023 01:00 AM</b><br /><br /><b>Activity Type</b><br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Extended Education</li></ul><b>Accreditation(s)</b><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-Dip8rOjkRXDSQcGATytO9aW48h12NBUxXeBWpOuAxxtDt5YHN_8FRz_cQAkE2RxkEqcBy2CBtuElYC-VVWWsSWzoTfzJ2nvB2Iguf0CFLJH3lee4tt_xtHUzVLvc4bS6gkfUgAYKXMAd6XylHVJm-SkrWoT0-CSM6Hf2V4MNkkmCOlGcDfrMhZm/s1438/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%204.18.07%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="1438" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-Dip8rOjkRXDSQcGATytO9aW48h12NBUxXeBWpOuAxxtDt5YHN_8FRz_cQAkE2RxkEqcBy2CBtuElYC-VVWWsSWzoTfzJ2nvB2Iguf0CFLJH3lee4tt_xtHUzVLvc4bS6gkfUgAYKXMAd6XylHVJm-SkrWoT0-CSM6Hf2V4MNkkmCOlGcDfrMhZm/w640-h224/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%204.18.07%20PM.png" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><b>Requirements for CE Credit</b><br /><br />Participants will receive credit following the completion of the post-test and evaluation, based on actual attendance.<br /><br /><b> THE CITY OF BONES: SPECTRAL PRESENCES AS HEALERS OF CULTURAL COMPLEXES (Entire Program)</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8_fBBWBnkOi3lDodBpUkybIeLpMA0kZ6nTFtPNZtJTHBhdmpyeJEMSkGQmRWw2MMuSf7lqMF6yMLxA21ET4MNDKfw2j6GQsTDPWnKyURbsiyLRvWEAEaMlB4CgxZ1ncMT54lKR7J3ZSBmn3mGjCgeEFoNugPU-2oI1gB4Thrai5y0it35vTnDGCh/s1366/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-02%20at%204.47.40%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-84314298027348317462022-10-10T20:58:00.004-07:002022-10-10T21:07:45.970-07:00The Sister from Below is Delighted to Invite You<p style="text-align: center;"> <b><span style="font-size: large;">Naomi Ruth Lowinsky and the Deep River Poets</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;">invite you to a reading of</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Soul-Making in the Valley of the Shadow</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;">with </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kent Butzine, Virginia Chen, Sheila deShields, Dossie Easton, Connie Hills, Raluca Ioanid, Daniela Kantorová, Naomi Ruth Lowinsky, Clare Marcus, and Anita Sánchez</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><b>Sat. Oct. 22, 2022 </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><b>3-5PM/PT</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><b>On Zoom</b></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9gzJD8ph_w4X6QGPEBvPWZn_8tVTzX3Cbbjbfbu6chSLlad18hjOoGHtQULxDFBjzvmXf7NKsyBuTXnLSoC-V2skmiehV5SV34esxA30tXY76Xs8C1FMJWdXVenRy7yWlS-Wv8bzlGKSrRhFcz7gk_H43qce1nVA7MREC3CWRwtDKk5L2TdLr9Le/s958/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-09%20at%2012.05.18%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="958" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9gzJD8ph_w4X6QGPEBvPWZn_8tVTzX3Cbbjbfbu6chSLlad18hjOoGHtQULxDFBjzvmXf7NKsyBuTXnLSoC-V2skmiehV5SV34esxA30tXY76Xs8C1FMJWdXVenRy7yWlS-Wv8bzlGKSrRhFcz7gk_H43qce1nVA7MREC3CWRwtDKk5L2TdLr9Le/w400-h390/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-09%20at%2012.05.18%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Cover Image: Kent Butzine</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><b>General Admission: $25</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/soul-making-in-the-valley-of-the-shadow-tickets-421867365647?aff=odeimcmailchimp&mc_cid=f8626c770d&mc_eid=4dc201d749" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="74" data-original-width="206" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdkTfL-llMW1vb3aGtppSww9bO4W0oLldQKte22A2bTTSzmkjjy3mBiJ4yA5_9r3NFMaYJEdQfc3Rt-uh4QggM3hvjF7sGCcEmwX9TUtn9M9xQnc2XvD3jnAW5d3MtFbKl-bzH0T5V19hX0LtKns3HFhZs0Hzyjf0AkW_6mSrmiHHFjMchKLOJcXu/w112-h40/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-09%20at%2012.37.10%20PM.png" width="112" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Esse in anima (Live in the soul)</i>–C. G. Jung</p><p style="text-align: justify;">How does one live in the soul during dangerous times? The ancient mode of mythopoesis is an imaginal practice which can confront shadow and give voice to soul. Since 2006 the Deep River Poetry Circle has provided a temenos for this process. After the trauma of the 2016 election, followed by the pandemic and the climate catastrophes that have followed, we in Deep River have engaged the <i>Spirit of the Times</i> as well as the <i>Spirit of the Depths</i>. It has become a sacred river we wash ourselves in, as the Hindus do in Ganga Ma—Mother Ganges—to cleanse our souls and heal our broken hearts. We gather at the river to follow the flow of our poems; they take us to surprising places, show us the unexpected—the Tree of Life around a bend in the river, its roots deep in the earth.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We gathered to create our anthology, <i>Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow</i>, as a gift to the community. We offer this reading to the C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco, in celebration of its passage from a beloved old home to a transformative new home, in memory of our Jungian ancestors, and as an expression of deep gratitude to the Extended Education Committee, who have given us support, visibility, and a way to gather for so many years, through so many changes. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Please join us. The $25.00 admission fee will get you a copy of <i>Soul Making</i>. All proceeds will go to the Extended Education Program.</p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">- No Continuing Education Credits are available for this event.</span></p><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-18102520428092226132022-08-27T06:56:00.007-07:002022-08-27T19:14:15.751-07:00The Muse of Free Women<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpOdw3A2xOEgYPq_LRQ0yNPEU5DarLjWQz-QRVkxzb_L6fA83yWSZfbXBiN4KtIMubMBUN3aTnbE3D1ueU4qi5Qmx5-IUjeb8Z5UZF9A9O6J5rehTPxlEBNpYg7n5I2nNE86pzw7vFrdDBkmWItxG7hDUcJM27hAnzXrUpHsY0JWHyyMyj7dm5aVd/s640/Image%20%231.%20%20Lady%20Liberty%20by%20Theodore%20Bonev%20St.%20Martin.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="283" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpOdw3A2xOEgYPq_LRQ0yNPEU5DarLjWQz-QRVkxzb_L6fA83yWSZfbXBiN4KtIMubMBUN3aTnbE3D1ueU4qi5Qmx5-IUjeb8Z5UZF9A9O6J5rehTPxlEBNpYg7n5I2nNE86pzw7vFrdDBkmWItxG7hDUcJM27hAnzXrUpHsY0JWHyyMyj7dm5aVd/w178-h400/Image%20%231.%20%20Lady%20Liberty%20by%20Theodore%20Bonev%20St.%20Martin.jpg" width="178" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Lady Liberty” <br />by Theodore Bonev St. Martin</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>We Dissent: There are few greater incursions on a body than forcing a woman to complete a pregnancy and give birth. For every woman, these experiences involve all manner of physical changes, medical treatments (including the possibility of a cesarian section), and medical risk. Just as one example, an American woman is 14 times more likely to die by carrying a pregnancy to term than by having an abortion…</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Today’s decision strips women of agency…It forces her to carry out the State’s will, whatever the circumstances and whatever harm it will wreak on her and her family. In the Fourteenth amendments terms, it takes away her liberty. </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Dobbs v. Jackson Women Health Organization Dissent, by Stephen Breyer, Elena Kagan, and Sonia Sotomajor.</i></p></blockquote><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1kG_VhT6UloQN5TMzV9lcTaBUPdATl_e-vU-9Z73SMFtPUYuhlEsquBVoWKi4OJrKdxbDZAICPsVd2uKobUF7_dOap0VaA8pdn_MW8ZR19tVgBHoXgdRk20jXACKzE2NqxZlZhVDoJdl1cLBbN7lmdc3i4WtO3p9lLZu4-FA8-fHIMtHaPKt0_fQA/s1792/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-26%20at%209.48.04%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="1792" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1kG_VhT6UloQN5TMzV9lcTaBUPdATl_e-vU-9Z73SMFtPUYuhlEsquBVoWKi4OJrKdxbDZAICPsVd2uKobUF7_dOap0VaA8pdn_MW8ZR19tVgBHoXgdRk20jXACKzE2NqxZlZhVDoJdl1cLBbN7lmdc3i4WtO3p9lLZu4-FA8-fHIMtHaPKt0_fQA/w400-h266/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-26%20at%209.48.04%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Musing in the Desert by Jeremy Bishop</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>An Awful Bleakness of Being</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The Muse of Free Women has gone on retreat. No one knows where or why. You say: “It’s Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization—the overturning of Roe v. Wade—that upsets Her.” True. But She left us much earlier, went off, it is said, to the desert, alone. Women have stopped celebrating Her, praying to Her, bringing Her offerings. Maybe She’s learning how to ride a camel over the Abyss. Maybe She’s praying for Our Mother the Earth, whose future looks bleak. Maybe She’s waiting for America’s psychotic episode to be over. Could the recent good news, about the Inflation Reduction Bill which addresses Climate Change, or the surprising vote for Women’s Freedom in Kansas, which rejected an attempt to overturn the existing constitutional right to abortion in Kansas, lure Her back to us? </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Like most women in America, I felt gut punched by the Supreme Court’s Ruling in Dobbs, ending a woman’s constitutional right to an abortion. We knew it was coming but it continues to feel unreal that so many women will have to return to back-alley abortions or, for those who can afford it, trips to faraway places. Maureen Dowd, in her NYTimes Opinion Column, quoted the author Niall O’Dowd: “Now that the world has turned upside down, there will be charter flights from America to Ireland for abortions.” Remember, Ireland was virulently anti-abortion until 2018, when the Irish voted to legalize it, and to free women. Dowd wrote:</p><p></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">Ireland and the United States have traded places. Ireland leapt into modernity, rejecting religious reactionaries’ insistence on controlling women’s bodies. America lurched backward, ruled by religious reactionaries’ insistence on controlling women’s bodies.</p><p>Once, Ireland seemed obsessed with punishing women. Now it’s America. (July 17th, 2022)</p></blockquote><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlzKmVkwe3ampqoWUZH9OO3LlNORJX6jGzVo4nvUIzJj0_h9pVQcUaJ5bI83exIpB4a89aDnpJRvsXd5In-gjjCLVptUzgMIA9-TXQ-YylfdW8O08xQ9zSi0ClM6IPzEdXVnIZ7rkTDH8Gh81nQFTYu8LwLGpdkZVz3jSKCok1HI8VCtrStSzOud9/s1184/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.02.51%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="962" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlzKmVkwe3ampqoWUZH9OO3LlNORJX6jGzVo4nvUIzJj0_h9pVQcUaJ5bI83exIpB4a89aDnpJRvsXd5In-gjjCLVptUzgMIA9-TXQ-YylfdW8O08xQ9zSi0ClM6IPzEdXVnIZ7rkTDH8Gh81nQFTYu8LwLGpdkZVz3jSKCok1HI8VCtrStSzOud9/w325-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.02.51%20AM.png" width="325" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">An Awful Bleakness: “Magdalena” by El Greco</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">An awful bleakness of being descended upon me in the wake of the Supreme Court decision. I have heard that word—bleak—from so many women, on media and in my life. Did you feel it? It’s as though our inner world has turned into a barren, dangerous landscape where women are shamed and punished just for being women—made to cover our hair and faces, not allowed to be part of the world of school, sports, work, politics, the arts. Have we been transported to Afghanistan, where, just a year ago, women’s rights and freedoms were torn away from them as the Americans left and the Taliban took over? Have the Taliban taken over America? </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOH8tzasv_kN1euBEMQ9KeYZyA15sGXdEhnCWTr3n0NrqZXxLYV53gQTdJOq67y1mr5etBVRyMhhvmJxWKSL5Unv_Ba4cRFkmPAmjQi7EK1k8lbMpWR48lH6msjemw2WwOw9cJLWFO_hNwVav9gN4jkWzZgdSKNRBVwPp89NgKcbp_ddYQxAKIqVcY/s1174/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.06.23%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1174" data-original-width="686" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOH8tzasv_kN1euBEMQ9KeYZyA15sGXdEhnCWTr3n0NrqZXxLYV53gQTdJOq67y1mr5etBVRyMhhvmJxWKSL5Unv_Ba4cRFkmPAmjQi7EK1k8lbMpWR48lH6msjemw2WwOw9cJLWFO_hNwVav9gN4jkWzZgdSKNRBVwPp89NgKcbp_ddYQxAKIqVcY/w374-h640/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.06.23%20AM.png" width="374" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The Patriarch: “Zeus” by Jacob Potma</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b>In Thrall to the Patriarchy</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I grew up in a Patriarchy. Always attuned to my mother’s feelings—though she never spoke of them to me—I felt her inner bleakness as she trudged around like a pack animal doing my father’s bidding—typing his manuscripts, tending to us children, doing all the housework and cooking, having no life of her own. Years later, after she left my father, my mother became one of the freest, most self-actualized women I knew in her generation. She made a rich life for herself, doing what she loved—working with young children, playing violin and viola in chamber groups and orchestras, giving music lessons. She traveled to Prague because there was a workshop on performing Bartók she wanted to take. She travelled to Florence, to visit me and Dan when we were there for a conference, and then went off to visit friends in Northern Europe, laughing at us when we worried about her plan to spend the night in the train station, which she did, and was just fine.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LRqinma7oWfhZ-stMSiR4QXpbqxfjYjU0gHF-K5m815rfhOg6TtAKgPkM42OC3BCKzJzQEPTgVxjJnic7chyswcyAUGrJQaGfPLDI2oiyZmlgDnNxvlrReXZM31VPS4p0sDuBXTzMCHkezldew0tJEMZYco-5vOj-nmiXmOnaBaT9OaiFJ6LNZsB/s1328/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.13.03%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="1298" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LRqinma7oWfhZ-stMSiR4QXpbqxfjYjU0gHF-K5m815rfhOg6TtAKgPkM42OC3BCKzJzQEPTgVxjJnic7chyswcyAUGrJQaGfPLDI2oiyZmlgDnNxvlrReXZM31VPS4p0sDuBXTzMCHkezldew0tJEMZYco-5vOj-nmiXmOnaBaT9OaiFJ6LNZsB/w391-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.13.03%20AM.png" width="391" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Mother Doing Her Thing</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">Mother died in 2018. I’m grateful that she did not live to see her granddaughters and great granddaughters lose their rights. The Patriarchy has spoken. It has cut women’s freedom out of the American constitution, handed it over to the states. It has enacted its misogynous cruelty over women’s bodies and souls as it has for thousands of years—stigmatizing and controlling women and girls as though our only function is to be vessels for new life. Our bodily autonomy, our right to make our own decisions about childbearing has been plundered in many states in American—the so called “land of the free.” Our freedom to travel to nearby states that allow abortion is in question. If a basic right we’ve had for close to fifty years can be torn out of the constitution by a virulent minority, if our dignity can be denied, our authority over ourselves ripped up like a contract that has been reneged on, how are we equal citizens? Like Jews forced to wear the Yellow Star, we walk on dangerous ground, unsure what will set the powers that be against us.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The Patriarchy has determined that it owns our wombs. It is up to them and not to us what use we put them to. The Supreme Court has determined that my uterus belongs to the state I live in. I am lucky to live in California, and to be past the age of childbearing. But what of my granddaughters? The Patriarchy has plans to make the abortion ban federal. What if a granddaughter should need an abortion, or have a miscarriage or ectopic pregnancy that requires an abortion-like procedure to save her life? It was up to the state of Ohio to determine whether a ten-year-old girl, raped by a twenty–seven–year old man, could have an abortion in her home state. “Not in Ohio! Not even in cases of rape or incest!” the child and her parents were told. She had to be driven to nearby Indiana, where a gutsy doctor did the procedure. Sadly, that doctor has been harassed and threatened. Sadly, Indiana has changed its mind on abortion. Another child in that situation will need to be driven all the way to Illinois. Would her freedom to travel remain intact? Or would she and her doctor be at risk under the brutal law of the Patriarchy?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Don’t get me wrong, when I say Patriarchy I don’t mean men. The men in my life don’t buy into the hateful ideas promoted by the Supreme Court majority or the people in charge of states like Ohio, Texas and Florida. The men I know consider themselves feminists and value their inner feminine side. In my lifetime I have seen women’s rights and freedoms expanded exponentially. Most Americans, even Republicans, support women’s freedom to choose in childbearing as well as in work and in relationships. What we are seeing, I believe, is an enormous Patriarchal backlash, because some parts of America feel a loss of power and privilege, and because misogyny lives in both men and women’s unconscious. This, accompanied by extreme economic and class inequality, and racism, makes life a living hell for many poor people, especially women with children and women of color, for whom, having to bear an unwanted child can sink them deep into poverty. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjMeJAqZtcQFZ3pnI4kL7UzsckastqPFu5T1rCzqNaS9K8B-XHMoZXgjpmkrs1vFTA7uiiUBmT4wv6b1sy5_IEYT4FoIw1pvA6NtsNyhfC4GCl-ByIhPL__CDUCayZPEtBFdV1ivwA1XlFLhKIKTcH8KPWnnuqQOTmjdk6pCkaJb0Iyv3vmp4ZdkY8/s2032/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.15.26%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="2032" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjMeJAqZtcQFZ3pnI4kL7UzsckastqPFu5T1rCzqNaS9K8B-XHMoZXgjpmkrs1vFTA7uiiUBmT4wv6b1sy5_IEYT4FoIw1pvA6NtsNyhfC4GCl-ByIhPL__CDUCayZPEtBFdV1ivwA1XlFLhKIKTcH8KPWnnuqQOTmjdk6pCkaJb0Iyv3vmp4ZdkY8/w400-h233/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.15.26%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Witches being Burned in Derenburg, 1555”</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>Akin to Slavery and to the Inquisition</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">It is the work of The Muse of Free Women to bring our fierceness and grief out of the woodwork. She comes to me in the form of furious ghosts. The witches of Salem are howling in me. The witches who were burnt at the stake during hundreds of years of the Inquisition, which murdered women of power, women of wisdom, uncanny women who had visions, who knew the medicinal uses of herbs, who were midwives and performed abortions, are moaning and keening in my soul. Women who died too young having back-alley abortions before Roe became law, are weeping in my heart. They cry out:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>We thought this was over, that this hatred of us, of our bodies, which are so powerful that no one can be born without coming through us, had ended. That a woman’s power to bear life would be honored. That her right to refuse a child was part of that honoring and basic common sense. What child wants a mother who wishes it had never been born? What child needs a mother whose own life and future is sacrificed in bearing one she is not ready to mother, or can’t afford to feed, clothe and love?</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">This is not a country that recognizes the essential work of mothering, or that healthy, loved, well–educated children are the backbone of our democracy. We don’t give new parents time off to bond with their babies and make the transition into being parents. We don’t support childcare and make it affordable; we don’t pay childcare workers a living wage; we don’t support early education and pay teachers decently. We don’t support single mothers so they don’t have to work multiple jobs and can be with their children. The unborn child that is so precious to the anti-choice people is on its own and so is its mother. I know there are well intentioned people who are setting up centers to support women who are bearing unwanted children. But from what I’ve heard none of these programs goes very far beyond early infancy. And none can deal with the wound to a woman’s sense of self, when her reality and truth are denied and she is compelled to do something as difficult as bearing a child against her will. Being forced to bear a child is like being forced into a marriage—a violation of the most essential human freedom. Both are akin to slavery. Jamelle Bouie puts it well in an opinion piece in the New York Times of July 17th, 2022:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><blockquote>When a state claims the right to limit your travel on account of your body—when it claims one of the most fundamental aspects of your personal liberty in order to take control of your reproductive health—then that state has rendered you little more than another form of property.</blockquote><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbEEPOKVnt_RYeQfoJYN56oPUA4TiMsvSKT37UtWrX1NWjnDmAQzxzd3YuqUWVrmBPg4bTyn-59KDxrp-dqkPjW-QUVcne7OKEguVPIR0nX-wglgZkhdh8Z-ERw_BMplu_R9x3a4vM5XYbXPI-tfSx1lTsGThRyoCLz02oaveQ1npejVjyEg-sr1y/s1178/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.18.11%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="776" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbEEPOKVnt_RYeQfoJYN56oPUA4TiMsvSKT37UtWrX1NWjnDmAQzxzd3YuqUWVrmBPg4bTyn-59KDxrp-dqkPjW-QUVcne7OKEguVPIR0nX-wglgZkhdh8Z-ERw_BMplu_R9x3a4vM5XYbXPI-tfSx1lTsGThRyoCLz02oaveQ1npejVjyEg-sr1y/w264-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.18.11%20AM.png" width="264" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“A Slave Interrupts General Lee’s Breakfast” <br />during the Civil War</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>The Motherline</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I became a mother very young, age 19, a decade before Roe v Wade freed women to live full lives. I was lucky because I was married, had a mother who loved being a mother, and had family support and resources. But I felt the disrespect for mothers acutely—the Patriarchal attitude that demeans and marginalizes women and mothers. Mothers were a joke in popular culture and blamed for most psychological issues in therapy. For me, having children young was a profound education in life. I learned child development from my children. They taught me the basics of psychology. When I decided to become a psychotherapist, I was infuriated that none of my experience as a mother was valued—none of it could be claimed in a resumé, or help me get into grad school.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://fisherkingpress.com/n/product/the-motherline" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aQi8URVoRO0ptRW9sUnYAOdiFClppo2bSAsPVxkh2NXouGSJq-VN22DY2rB6soog2cOGv6rXalk3fe5NQ6S8SfzF3z5FiTFj0M7TO6eTDBdyrfvvlCn0JCb3xRNZcfcxY3egQW4VcQqHKmc8oMfVNW9JUJB51GaEXHsb24IM4fyTFCXJYNm5GxxQ/w266-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.21.11%20AM.png" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover art by Sara Spaulding-Phillips<br />Cover of Fisher King Press Motherline</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">That fury led to my writing my first book, <i><a href="https://fisherkingpress.com/n/product/the-motherline" target="_blank">The Motherline</a></i>. This year is the 30th anniversary of <i>The Motherline</i>’s publication in 1992. Thanks to my publisher, Fisher King Press, it is still available, and I still hear from women who value it for its alternative view of women’s lives. At the time I wrote it I saw women rejecting their mothers and “wandering like motherless daughters in the too bright light of Patriarchal consciousness.” I wrote that it is “our task to integrate our feminine and feminist selves. We must connect the historical self that was freed by feminism to live in the “real” world, with the feminine self that binds us to our mothers and grandmothers” (p. 32) and to the Deep Feminine. Thirty years later, I still consider this essential. For most women I know, valuing being a mother and wanting to make our own choices about childbearing, are totally interconnected. Here are some quotes from the Motherline that seem pertinent to our times:</span></p><p></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">The Great Mother, in all of her aspects, is especially fearful for women who identify with feminism and the women’s movement. Many of us broke free of the stranglehold that biology has on our destinies. Surpassing our mothers we charged into the world of achievement and mastery. We want to feel we are living conscious lives directed by muscular egos. The Motherline and matriarchal consciousness are at odds with these goals. The heroism of yin, which opens up the boundaries of the female body to take in seed, allowing new life to grow within it and be born out of it, is seen as a frightening swamp of passivity. Female flesh—fat, breasts, hips—become a fearful shadow…</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We are left only with feelings of shame and inferiority for the blood, sweat, desire, and fury of our female experience.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Integrating feminism and the feminine requires bringing to consciousness the Motherline as it is expressed in the very texture of how women talk, the looping that ties together life–cycle experiences…the sacred nature of organic experience. This requires honoring the ebb and flow of a woman’s body…</p><p style="text-align: justify;">A woman who can integrate her hunger for the world with carnal self–knowledge lives in relation to her body, as well as to her generation. She can attend to her life’s unfolding from the inner whispers of her dreams, to the interpersonal dialogue with kith and kin, to the collective currents that sweep her time. She knows who she is, where she comes from, where she is going, and what her place is among the living and the dead. (p. 36)</p><p></p></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO4OYQSqPzRuORdM1cc2jAPq_J6svyS8UQ34mAfbR9EZoYlgkOsrDcc04GHHmREgZKiEovcDF2UlatrcxLmrNH_Tl67JCNN3AGCA-fmyUQ-_0EU0m88j16znZXvBupjIg4ew-CvXmX1h_jLNfwhxTq0Gx10hvPl3OUObfZCGGlZDJN2XKkp0BZslt/s1418/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.24.27%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1194" data-original-width="1418" height="538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO4OYQSqPzRuORdM1cc2jAPq_J6svyS8UQ34mAfbR9EZoYlgkOsrDcc04GHHmREgZKiEovcDF2UlatrcxLmrNH_Tl67JCNN3AGCA-fmyUQ-_0EU0m88j16znZXvBupjIg4ew-CvXmX1h_jLNfwhxTq0Gx10hvPl3OUObfZCGGlZDJN2XKkp0BZslt/w640-h538/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.24.27%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Free Women: “The Witches go to Market, 1876” by Alice Boyd</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b>What Does it Mean to Be Free? </b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">“Free” is a fascinating word. It means the obvious—“not in bondage.” But its root can be traced back to Sanskrit “priyah,” meaning “love,” or “beloved,” German “Friede,” meaning “peace,” and to the Norse Goddess “Freya” alias “Frigg,” whom Robert Graves, in <i>The White Goddess</i>, associates with the Goddess of Love and Death.” </p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">The Goddess is a lovely, slender woman with a hooked nose, deathly pale face, lips as red as rowan–berries, startling blue eyes and long fair hair. She will suddenly transform herself into sow, mare, birch, vixen, she–ass, weasel, serpent owl, she–wolf, tigress, mermaid or loathsome hag… In ghost stories she often figures as “the white lady; and in ancient religions…as the “white goddess”…The test of a true poet’s vision, one might say, is the accuracy of his portrayal of the White Goddess…The reason why her hairs stand on end, the eyes water, the throat is constricted, the skin crawls and a shiver runs down the spine…is that a true poem is necessarily an invocation of the White Goddess, or Muse, the Mother of All Living, the ancient power of fright and lust…whose embrace is death. (p. 21)</p></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5glidQSn8-X09ONSye-OJw3MrX8riWYaixo5bwdSqI2gSZ0q7IxuBftKskyM2WvscJbFuvLR0_z07xMcnX_wWH6b3iYFXXWYkiUl2sdhyUS9mJ8zlb7Y0zcKqTKsg97o9lwNuRKQ0sZVMh6tXt39NGOziAfrVmNEROFIy-cOAvxvfM2LVMAd2akD/s2266/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.27.01%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="2266" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5glidQSn8-X09ONSye-OJw3MrX8riWYaixo5bwdSqI2gSZ0q7IxuBftKskyM2WvscJbFuvLR0_z07xMcnX_wWH6b3iYFXXWYkiUl2sdhyUS9mJ8zlb7Y0zcKqTKsg97o9lwNuRKQ0sZVMh6tXt39NGOziAfrVmNEROFIy-cOAvxvfM2LVMAd2akD/w640-h384/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.27.01%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Freya” by John Bauer</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">Barbara Walker, in <i>The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets</i> has a long entry about Freya:</p><p></p><blockquote><p>Great Goddess of northern Europe, leader of the “primal matriarchs”…”divine grandmothers…Freya was…the ruling ancestress…who ruled before the arrival of Odin…Myths say Odin learned everything he knew about magic and divine power from Freya.</p><p>The pagans said nothing could be lucky without Freya’s presence…</p><p>Freya represented sexual love, which is why her alternate name Frigg became a colloquialism for sexual intercourse.</p></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">Walker speaks of Freya’s “Kali–like function as Destroying Goddess, which she would assume when men and gods displeased her by forgetting her principles of right living, justice, honor and peace.” (p. 325) Is it any wonder that when the Patriarchal gods took over, they feared this powerful Muse of Free and Beloved women? In many of the myths, though Freya was married, she was strong willed, slept around, belonged to herself, knew more magic than any other god, wasn’t controlled by any male. It’s not hard to understand the hatred and fear that underlie the dying throes of a Patriarchal mentality that denies the mysteries, tries to gun down death, has forgotten how to live in the dark, in connection with the ancestors, in the vagaries of the moon, in harmony with the seasons and in service to the earth. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyvZqAhSl2ezcupKRnDauWlhPe_S8ttgl5s2BmEaqHZ41pB1nS7rtRbnwtrGn3iTXt6QFy51XJHmTef8QolalqCv6KWNKAus-oWH3AVti_o_z8JFlYnycWHdEUiF1gxqkNBWnaccsVfmXrTp8K3_Ss-DJum9MlIGWbtz_05U8yyx4-vMe62QQ29Dz/s1554/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.32.46%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1554" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyvZqAhSl2ezcupKRnDauWlhPe_S8ttgl5s2BmEaqHZ41pB1nS7rtRbnwtrGn3iTXt6QFy51XJHmTef8QolalqCv6KWNKAus-oWH3AVti_o_z8JFlYnycWHdEUiF1gxqkNBWnaccsVfmXrTp8K3_Ss-DJum9MlIGWbtz_05U8yyx4-vMe62QQ29Dz/w640-h370/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.32.46%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goddess Ambika Leads Eight Mother Goddesses <br />in Battle Against the Demon</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>Freya the Free, the Beloved, the Terrible</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">What, you wonder, do we do now? How so we get our Muse, our Beloved, out of the desert to free us? She’s scary. She’s uncanny. She makes no sense to the Patriarchal mind, which punishes us for Her powers. And yet She is in us, of us, and we need Her badly.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">She’s been with me since I lived in India, as a young woman with young children. India is full of images of powerful Goddesses fighting demons. The Goddess changed my life by helping me understand the cycles of birth and destruction and the distinction between personal, cultural and archetypal experience. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQd3OshQQcYnXdz5w6vE6SJqbTYWfJyYrHkC73rzM_no-QlvsHXJySSTTA70Fce9lXLjhCdt6b_YUVDftpbRuo-MB2qdnuzn8qgHD59icQAuHgtsW_bHLsI8R0swAxE19IfxccNA_FZt0D2sSaRMs7Wr70tV65z6ADeqnZeeDNc481qmkpUuEQi9jZ/s1190/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.35.14%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1190" data-original-width="886" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQd3OshQQcYnXdz5w6vE6SJqbTYWfJyYrHkC73rzM_no-QlvsHXJySSTTA70Fce9lXLjhCdt6b_YUVDftpbRuo-MB2qdnuzn8qgHD59icQAuHgtsW_bHLsI8R0swAxE19IfxccNA_FZt0D2sSaRMs7Wr70tV65z6ADeqnZeeDNc481qmkpUuEQi9jZ/w477-h640/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.35.14%20AM.png" width="477" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Goddess Kali” Calcutta Art Studio, 1883</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">She came to me as Kali, who gives birth and death in one fell swoop. As I was wrestling with writing <i>The Motherline, </i>I came to understand that Kali is essential to female psychology: </span></p><p></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">Every woman has a Kali side, every mother has a secret devourer, a baby killer in her soul. When contemporary women write honestly out of their lived experience, they wrestle…with their Kali natures; they dare to name…their murderous impulses…(p. 195)</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At a psychological level the abortion issue is about our capacity to confront Kali consciously. Those who would deny women the right to choose abortion seek to control Kali by forcing women to bear children. Kali will then take other forms: ruined lives, neglected and abused children, women maimed or killed in illegal, back–alley abortions. However those who support a woman’s right to choose abortion also need to face the truth that…abortion is not merely a medical procedure. It is the tearing from the womb of our own flesh and blood. It is a sacrifice of life, hopefully for life. (pp. 196-97)</p><p style="text-align: justify;">To bear her children, her mother, her life in the presence of Kali…requires that a woman know her carnal self, bear her mother’s pain and limitations, face the bones of her ancestors and the bloody truth that she has no control over what she is born into, or what she gives birth to…; though we have our human responsibility, we are not in charge of destiny…Our personal mothers are not to blame for what is in the nature of human life. [Kali] links us to the blood and bones of our female knowledge, to our mother’s suffering as well as our own. She tells us that we are flesh and blood; that we give life and take life, nurture and destroy, suckle and poison; that these are in the very nature of existence, not the fault of women. She knows that it is in the very corruptibility of our flesh that our human souls bloom. She knows that we live in the great hands of history, which can tear our small lives to shreds. (pp. 206)</p></blockquote><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk84aGWeVj8SIdHGo78M7hVvSgATaxJnj9sHAAqEKFPmU_IsnZSSJlzKvTeHd8IzjcomE9dp5ef3oSllnf9B3AEP1z3GC08rPfYwfzXq5wvPJAvsfGvrZksWZ5uL6bxnVUxNiDwdUTyTa2KS04hYYiHh0BPvI3eGok7W2GJNZrDuVPDH8Tvu2cuBzU/s1196/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.37.42%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1066" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk84aGWeVj8SIdHGo78M7hVvSgATaxJnj9sHAAqEKFPmU_IsnZSSJlzKvTeHd8IzjcomE9dp5ef3oSllnf9B3AEP1z3GC08rPfYwfzXq5wvPJAvsfGvrZksWZ5uL6bxnVUxNiDwdUTyTa2KS04hYYiHh0BPvI3eGok7W2GJNZrDuVPDH8Tvu2cuBzU/w356-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.37.42%20AM.png" width="356" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Lilith as the Temptress” by Raphael, <br />between 1509 and 1511</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Whether we call Her Kali or Freya, The White Goddess, the Muse of Free Women, or Lilith, we need to claim Her in our own souls in order to find our footing on female ground. I am reminded of a phrase used by the Jungian Analyst, Irene de Claremont Castillejo, in her 1967 book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Knowing-Woman-Psychology-Irene-Castillejo/dp/1570622043/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1UR25M82UG8NK&keywords=knowing+woman&qid=1661607855&sprefix=knowing+woman%2Caps%2C127&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Knowing Woman</a></i>, in which she called a woman’s ability to choose whether or not to bear a child “the Second Apple.” The first apple is the one Eve tempted Adam to eat from the forbidden fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. The Second Apple is the one every woman tastes when we make the choice to use contraception or to have an abortion. That is how Eve becomes Lilith—Adam’s uppity first wife who refused to lie beneath him and was sent into exile by the Red Sea—how she loses her innocence, faces her shadow, takes responsibility for her freedom. In Raphael’s version of the story, Lilith and the Serpent/Satan are the same. Tasting the Second Apple is always dangerous and essential. Women are eating Forbidden Fruit all over the country and handing it out to others. How do we support them?</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>Donate</b>! Did you know there is an abortion clinic in Portland, Oregon called “<a href="https://www.lilithclinic.com" target="_blank">Lilith</a>”? Those women in Oregon are calling her back from her exile. There are brave women and men all over the country opening abortion clinics in states that allow them. Send them money as your way of offering others the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, which grows on female ground. <a href="https://www.wholewomanshealth.com" target="_blank">Whole Woman’s Health</a>, for example, was an abortion provider which, in Whole Woman’s Health v. Jackson, went all the way to the Supreme Court, taking on Texas’ Abortion law, which outlaws abortions after a fetal heart beat is detectable (usually 6 weeks) and authorizes the public to become bounty hunters and sue anyone who performs, aids or abets a post–heartbeat abortion. This law sent shock waves of terror into those who support women’s rights. Women usually don’t know they are pregnant by six weeks and certainly can’t arrange an abortion that quickly. Which means you can’t get an abortion in Texas. Whole Women’s Health is moving to New Mexico. Its Abortion Wayfarer Program helps free women to find the medical help they need. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>Vote</b>! Your vote in the mid-term elections is essential. Vote for those who support Women’s Rights and Freedoms. Help get other women registered to vote by donating to <a href="https://www.registerher.org" target="_blank">Register Her.</a> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUC6E55V8lFWKlFI3F7ouYh0MdOolXjz0zkTHfsq86-8vV0vxEaZSVa7CkQk7cBN8ez1_ZKRaJR64dSoNoB9FOI1_ogCaamCo9PSGeZMOeHwMAzcZdkliVjfiGPLpiRxNsV2gVxPfEEBcBGR0BTIfzTxQLytAhTC_7ufd4TxY6auSkURmxaYD81vzh/s1942/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.39.50%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1942" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUC6E55V8lFWKlFI3F7ouYh0MdOolXjz0zkTHfsq86-8vV0vxEaZSVa7CkQk7cBN8ez1_ZKRaJR64dSoNoB9FOI1_ogCaamCo9PSGeZMOeHwMAzcZdkliVjfiGPLpiRxNsV2gVxPfEEBcBGR0BTIfzTxQLytAhTC_7ufd4TxY6auSkURmxaYD81vzh/w640-h306/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.39.50%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Suffragettes, 1917</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;">Pray</b><span style="text-align: left;">! Call Her into your life! Do whatever you do to invoke the Muse or the Goddess. She shows up in unexpected places. She showed up as I was working on a poem about the storming of the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021. She stands on top of the dome—beautiful, strong, a woman of color. She is known as <a href="http://www.sisterfrombelow.com/search?updated-max=2021-06-12T16:16:00-07:00&max-results=4" target="_blank">Freedom</a>—a manifestation of Lady Liberty. Notice that Freedom wears feathers in her hair, and a beautiful blanket wrapped around her, Indian style. Her story holds some of the shadow truths we like to forget. She was created just before the Civil War, when the Capitol Dome was being rebuilt. Her creation was facilitated by a brilliant slave, Philip Reid, “who came up with the idea of using a pulley to move the statue, was then paid $1.25 a day by the federal government to ‘keep up fires under the moulds,’ according to the architects records.” His owner pocketed the money. But when the final cast of the Statue was raised in 1863, Reid was a free man. It took until 2014 for his contribution to be recognized in a ceremony on the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtB7M2FEVKTzfB6mZ1OAVYmoGEb4FccTepecfcqFNqc9Otkdhhcy9MxkbWFGBegwJVb5eQrWb53TZX4wU6iOKY3ZvZZRKAg6BqBlKSBExD310T46KLAQhrZQp3S8ZGtJHDhzD4SqyvlYflzc82D0P8wwvPj3_OdqG788YT0scfir5NzOPjrALpZBxp/s1226/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.43.24%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1226" data-original-width="606" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtB7M2FEVKTzfB6mZ1OAVYmoGEb4FccTepecfcqFNqc9Otkdhhcy9MxkbWFGBegwJVb5eQrWb53TZX4wU6iOKY3ZvZZRKAg6BqBlKSBExD310T46KLAQhrZQp3S8ZGtJHDhzD4SqyvlYflzc82D0P8wwvPj3_OdqG788YT0scfir5NzOPjrALpZBxp/w198-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.43.24%20AM.png" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Freedom,” by Thomas Crawford, 1863</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Freedom leapt into my imagination and took over the end of my poem, “The Day They Roughed Up Lady Liberty.” I saw her surrounded by angry white men, ready to savage her. But she is an ancient Goddess, armed and fierce, as well as a midwife who knows: “The most dangerous time is transition”—in a woman’s labor, in our personal lives and in our collective lives. She knows that our country and our world are going through an enormous transition, due to climate change, drought, floods, fires, political extremes, economic inequality, racism, the backlash and power hunger of the Patriarchy—Putin’s War is a frightening example. “She Sings a Different Story,” knows different truths. Listen to Her. </div><br /><b>The Day They Roughed Up Lady Liberty</b><div> </div><div><div>is still happening on Instagram You can’t stop watching </div><div>Can’t stop trying to make sense of the senseless</div><div>Maybe you’re Black and haunted</div><div>by your grandmother’s grandmother born a slave</div><div>That whirlwind of Confederate flags agitates her spirit</div><div> </div><div><b><i>This Capitol was Built by Slaves</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe you had a Cherokee grandmother </div><div>grew up on stories of the Trail of Tears</div><div>What’s up with that guy in face paint bison horns</div><div>calls himself Q Shaman</div><div>What kind of shaman is Q?</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Here comes Trouble</i> </b> </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe you’re a Junior in High School the Covid has trapped you at home </div><div>You’d rather watch the Insurrection of Jan 6th 2021 watch members </div><div>of Congress push furniture against the doors as the mob snarls and shoves</div><div>than listen to your teacher drone on about “The Insurrection against King George” </div><div>How will they teach this day in fifty years? Now <i>there’s</i> a question for the quiz</div><div> </div><div><b><i>A Noose Hangs Over the Capitol Dome</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe you’re undocumented slipped across the border years ago</div><div>You work as a gardener Stayed out of sight during the terror years </div><div>of the President of Hate Since the election you breathe more freely </div><div>but this riot on Instagram is what happened to your country </div><div>Why you left Where could you go from here?</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>He weaponized Fear Resentment</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe you’re an aging Jew whose parents may they rest in peace </div><div>were refugees from the slaughter in Europe This is their American Nightmare</div><div>You too have seen it coming But that rioter in a “Camp Auschwitz”</div><div>hoodie or the other one emblazoned with the slogan </div><div>“Six Million Jews Are Not Enough” knock the holy wind out of you</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Tyranny Like Hell is Not Easily Conquered</i></b></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div>Hear that sound of breaking glass?</div><div>That’s <i>Kristallnacht</i>! That’s how it begins</div><div>The Big Lie The Invasion of the Temple</div><div>They’re thundering up the stairs breaking</div><div>and entering chambers sanctuaries offices</div><div>shouting <i>N a n c y W h e r e a r e y o u ? </i></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>No! No! No! No! No! No! No!</i></b></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div>They’re shaking the Capitol Dome They’ve knocked down our Lady </div><div>of Liberty Look! She’s surrounded! They poke her with flag poles</div><div>The man in the “Camp Auschwitz” hoodie shouts <i>That bitch</i></div><div><i>has feathers in her hair Look how she drapes her blanket Who </i></div><div><i>does she think she is? Pocahontas? Who let her rise above us?</i></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Here Comes Trouble</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Where are you from? Who created you? </div><div>These angry white men want to savage her But she rises </div><div>to her larger than life ethnically ambiguous full height </div><div>She’s armed with a sword swings it in figure eights</div><div>with the <i>slash</i> of a warrior with the <i>grace</i> of a dancer</div></div><div><b><br /></b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRzbv-bMhksVm0WLmUDL9Zdo-PEp_T5oXRjlASAclEk8bFcNVD2v5VL9YmpQsCx_YlXTBjdV-U-YSdp-33btL0qv8OHXozqnskJ39xmh9XMb3MoiQaAgo_7kFKHK3YLqiqaG-URIbC88pIBd_ekwyrZYNOWwGzeAo9WmBQ3TPEfp2yfngsfpDPCQQ/s1500/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.49.28%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1194" data-original-width="1500" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRzbv-bMhksVm0WLmUDL9Zdo-PEp_T5oXRjlASAclEk8bFcNVD2v5VL9YmpQsCx_YlXTBjdV-U-YSdp-33btL0qv8OHXozqnskJ39xmh9XMb3MoiQaAgo_7kFKHK3YLqiqaG-URIbC88pIBd_ekwyrZYNOWwGzeAo9WmBQ3TPEfp2yfngsfpDPCQQ/w400-h319/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.49.28%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Armed with a Lyre, by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, 1842</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><i>She Sings a Different Story</i></b><br /><div><br /></div><div>She’s armed with a lyre strums it softly</div><div>as the dazed horde backs away sits down</div><div>like kids at a campfire She’s the storyteller</div><div><i>Once I was a Goddess ran wild in the woods me and my girls</i></div><div><i>knew the ways of the animals the ways of women in labor</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>The Most Dangerous Time is Transition</b> </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>In Ancient Rome I was Libertas I was worshipped given burnt offerings </i></div><div><i>for I’d freed the slaves freed women given the people a choice a voice a sword</i></div><div><i>In Old English Old German the word “free” comes from the same root as “love”</i></div><div><i>Old Man Trouble stole my thunder Forbade me Denied me Burnt me as a witch </i></div><div><i>But I lived on in the hearts of runaway slaves the tribes on the Trail of Tears the women at Seneca Falls</i></div><div> </div><div><b><i>This Capitol was Built by Slaves</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><i>I came to my creator as the spirit of my grandmother’s grandmother </i></div><div><i>born in her own mother’s wigwam She saw what she saw knew what she knew</i></div><div><i>tended the fire had voice had choice in the life of her tribe<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i></div><div><i>I came to my high position at the top of your Capitol Dome</i></div><div><i>thanks to a slave one Philip Reid who fashioned a pulley to lift me up</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>Then came Big Trouble</b></i></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div><i>They called it the Civil War but for Philip Reid it was Freedom </i></div><div><i>Now all of you fight over me The prophesies of Q claim me <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i></div><div><i>Anti-Maskers claim me The Bougaloo Bois claim me The Proud Boys claim me </i></div><div><i>Black Lives Matter claim me Me Too claims me</i></div><div><i>So does United We Dream and the Tribes at Standing Rock</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>She Sings a Different Story</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I tell you warring suitors No one owns me</i></div><div><i>I’ve got my voice</i></div><div><i>I’ve got my choice</i></div><div><i>I’ve got my sword We’ll need it</i></div><div><i>I see what I see Know what I know</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><i><b>The Most Dangerous Time is Transition</b><br /></i><p style="text-align: justify;">May Freedom be your Goddess, your choice, your labor. May Freedom be our rebirth into love for our Mother, the Earth, and for all creatures—flora and fauna—including one other.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCnl-sWpb9NnVIaLbbdLSnA0MphFxsLwEVsYQpz02a-Azi-AS2M9tQ6dTRjDUVfe3uN3OU8Jod51P5yH7z9BJNIlzcXmCkFiGv5PCRuzb9rCUQCKYHetfTzrhnt_lf2-DW2jaga5xNNfms0L_GjRE90QRkrMbZtMh8pjVFQmEIZKVV0fILI8f-Q109/s1720/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.52.02%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1270" data-original-width="1720" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCnl-sWpb9NnVIaLbbdLSnA0MphFxsLwEVsYQpz02a-Azi-AS2M9tQ6dTRjDUVfe3uN3OU8Jod51P5yH7z9BJNIlzcXmCkFiGv5PCRuzb9rCUQCKYHetfTzrhnt_lf2-DW2jaga5xNNfms0L_GjRE90QRkrMbZtMh8pjVFQmEIZKVV0fILI8f-Q109/w640-h472/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-27%20at%2012.52.02%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Joy of Life: The Quintessential Maternity of Nature” <br />by Mrinal Kanty Das” 2016</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b> Special Offer:</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">A limited number of signed copies of the hardcover first edition of the <i>Motherline</i>, originally called <i>Stories from the Motherline</i>, is available for $20.00 each, which includes shipping. You can request a copy at danielsafran@yahoo.com.</p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-82215877216650522352022-04-04T11:39:00.000-07:002022-04-04T11:39:49.167-07:00Naomi Reads her Poetry from "Death and His Lorca"Naomi Ruth Lowinsky will read from her latest book of poems,
<i>"<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021">Death and His Lorca,</a>"</i>
via Zoom, 3:00pm PDT (US and Canada) on Apr 10, 2022.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJcm7-Ts_5wsg8tSsH_ATtxHZ1mmKSnWSAFXmBxZKPugA3m3lPOoTrgFPgvdgZSN0GMb4IXQTFYkVHhDI7UNTiBEvB7SXsVgZVKE2K10FxgtTUlpmAg5LBjgwN8S9VxLt_m-oOVMMvkwkEqvRqx8ADqvE4B5rTyXLRDg8nMGIAGty08A-fJp3NcUtug/s499/Death%20and%20His%20Lorca.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJcm7-Ts_5wsg8tSsH_ATtxHZ1mmKSnWSAFXmBxZKPugA3m3lPOoTrgFPgvdgZSN0GMb4IXQTFYkVHhDI7UNTiBEvB7SXsVgZVKE2K10FxgtTUlpmAg5LBjgwN8S9VxLt_m-oOVMMvkwkEqvRqx8ADqvE4B5rTyXLRDg8nMGIAGty08A-fJp3NcUtug/s400/Death%20and%20His%20Lorca.jpg" /></a>
</div>
Register in advance:<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZclceipqDMrGdC8ukBWvnpkUcpM9_6iDLC0">https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZclceipqDMrGdC8ukBWvnpkUcpM9_6iDLC0</a><div><br /></div><div>After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information
about joining the meeting.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: center;">Spread the word!
</h3></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-47805943697550400722022-02-12T09:13:00.041-08:002022-02-13T08:18:49.799-08:00The Muse of the Psalms<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-PmW7xL6b1XU0FpJXOoUO_KHLXAMfprzea9xD5tKxpE8mEGPbLt7LcJnuvjFl7dKn2HVswD4yJ_x7vu04Kb4v928LbDsF2kG59w4oMV4cRjLLpO_Wk_UkXoDiSUe7rjBmIRG-O0qGSOE4auVzMfeFl4Vq_ir1ePSB6JK0FPWTfkr0WGdsn-vokcHj=w273-h400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mainz Book of Hours<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><div><div><blockquote>Save me O God; <br />For the waters are come in even unto the soul. <br />I am sunk in deep mire, where there is no standing; <br />I am come into deep waters, and the flood overwhelmeth me. <br />(<i>The Holy Scriptures,</i> Jewish Publication Society, 1917)</blockquote></div><div><b>In the Valley of the Shadow</b></div><div> </div><div>you are the last living generation </div><div>of the six that went before you </div><div><br /></div><div>passing that invisible medicine basket </div><div>from one generation to the next… </div><div></div><blockquote><div>Anita Cadena Sánchez </div><div>from her poem “Medicine Basket” </div><div>in <i>Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow</i> p. 6 </div></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjk--iOv2l21o6wiXlqFHvM2vvDoS9nGGn_ThplN3wTDr9vyAp7CqH1eiqRFVzL9NmcP7ItuuIHn7jdvJ75Nxj9hWePrSerb4a83fFZYbhaNqmFjDUlDeRp2inYK8pREX4r3Wow6X5QWfGHO7dWWsOSaovxo4_9HdYSfzzpPg9myP3ehQMOGbAHdcCT=s1536" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1354" data-original-width="1536" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjk--iOv2l21o6wiXlqFHvM2vvDoS9nGGn_ThplN3wTDr9vyAp7CqH1eiqRFVzL9NmcP7ItuuIHn7jdvJ75Nxj9hWePrSerb4a83fFZYbhaNqmFjDUlDeRp2inYK8pREX4r3Wow6X5QWfGHO7dWWsOSaovxo4_9HdYSfzzpPg9myP3ehQMOGbAHdcCT=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Medicine Basket</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On June 12th of last year, the Sister from Below celebrated the publication of <i>Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow</i> with a blog called: <i>The Muse of Deep River.</i> We of Deep River—the poetry circle I lead at the Jung Institute—had begun to feel the shadow of the pandemic lifting and the political scene brightening as the Biden administration vaccinated the willing and passed the American Rescue Plan which stimulated the economy, sent money to families with children and helped out state and local governments. That upbeat mood did not last long. New variants of Covid 19 attacked us, and the political will continue to support families with children, to protect voting rights, to protect our Mother Earth, seems to have ebbed away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQhK8PPtliEd0KnNExT3TDWkj4Hfv8Bg-VLoGGZdhFDSqs2U0WJ3v6pq_bgreI8PiwLt5RSljNoxKoS-pz0E4FiM3WOC_sS4htgU5V3r8no3NtzGFZxYUWNavr8jHfPwuOLHch2gIGrA88iaNRWIzaRfQfm79LVEtvvzBIh2IO30wK6fkBvyn_wtw3=s1192" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="874" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQhK8PPtliEd0KnNExT3TDWkj4Hfv8Bg-VLoGGZdhFDSqs2U0WJ3v6pq_bgreI8PiwLt5RSljNoxKoS-pz0E4FiM3WOC_sS4htgU5V3r8no3NtzGFZxYUWNavr8jHfPwuOLHch2gIGrA88iaNRWIzaRfQfm79LVEtvvzBIh2IO30wK6fkBvyn_wtw3=w294-h400" width="294" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We’ve recently passed the one-year anniversary of the day Lady Liberty was roughed up so badly at the Capitol in Washington, D.C. The question, now hanging in the air is: “Are we losing our democracy?” On the first anniversary of that infamous day, President Biden accused the former president of “holding a dagger to the throat of democracy.” <i>The New York Times</i> Editorial Board warned us that we face “an existential threat from a movement that is openly contemptuous of democracy and has shown that it is willing to use violence to achieve its ends.” Republican lawmakers are passing bills that “would make it easier for lawmakers to reject the votes of their citizens if they don’t like the outcome.” (<i>The New York Times</i> <i>Sunday Review</i> Jan. 2nd, 2022) At this writing, the news is unbelievable: the Republican National Committee has decided that what happened on January 6th 2021 is “legitimate political discourse!” Excuse me? Have you watched the horrifying videos of that coup attempt on YouTube? Where are we? In Germany, 1933? In Mandelstam’s Soviet Union? In Milosz’ Poland? It’s not just the virus that hangs heavy in the air, but a terror that our elections are about to be undermined, and that the hopes for real change kindled by the victory of Biden and Harris, by the Black Lives Matter Movement, by the Green New Deal, by the John Lewis Voting Rights Bill, by the Build Back Better bill, are in deep trouble. “What is poetry which does not save/Nations or people?” asks Czeslaw Milosz in his famous poem “Dedication.” He answers this impossible question in another poem, “In Warsaw:” </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">My pen is lighter </div><div style="text-align: left;">Than a hummingbird’s feather. This burden </div><div style="text-align: left;">Is too much for it to bear. </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">And yet, poems have been written about this unbearable burden since the psalmist took up his lyre and sang: </div><blockquote>Why, O God, has Thou cast us off forever? <br />Why doth Thine anger smoke against the flock of Thy pasture?<br />(Psalm 74:1 <i>The Holy Scriptures</i>, Jewish Publication Society, 1917.) </blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">In troubled times many of us turn to the <i>Psalms</i>, as we did in Deep River when, after the 2016 election and the assaults of climate change and the pandemic, we found ourselves writing poems about a world turned upside down and inside out. Like the psalmist, Deep River poet Daniela Kantorová pleads for help from the divine in her poem “The Ship:” </p><blockquote>Dear God, please turn the ship <br />that floats in the rain above Foothill Blvd. <br />It lands in an apple orchard <br />The back merges with the land <br />(p. 65)</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-style: italic;">Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow </i>became the name we gave our process of reading and writing. Eventually, it became the name of the book of poems we gathered as a bulwark against the looming catastrophes of our times. The origin of the name is in these famous lines from Psalm 23: </div></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">He restoreth my soul; </div><div style="text-align: left;">He guideth me in straight paths for his name’s sake. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death </div><div style="text-align: left;">I will fear no evil, </div><div style="text-align: left;">For thou art with me </div><div style="text-align: left;">Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. </div><div style="text-align: left;">(Psalm 23: 3-6 <i>The Holy Scriptures</i>, Jewish Publication Society, 1917) </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">In his book, <i>Keeping Faith with the Psalms</i>, Daniel F. Polish refers to the profound idea that the “I” in this psalm is the soul on its life journey (p.171). In this way, making a poem is “making soul.” As I wrote in the Introduction to <i>Soul Making</i>: “The Muse is the voice of the soul, speaking in language that blends reason and mystery, She makes meaning of the incomprehensible.” (p. vii) </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Many of the poems in our collection are about this process. Kent Ward Butzine opens his poem “Pandémie Hypnagogique” with a description of soul loss: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Everything is receding darkening </div><div style="text-align: left;">there is sadness as the trees go </div><div style="text-align: left;">the river birds and birdsong the sky </div><div style="text-align: left;">all beloved </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Psalms are both poems and prayers. Many poems meander into prayer. They mix the stuff of everyday life with invocations to the divine. In Sheila de Shields’ poem “Flight of the Mind,” she prays for herself in old age: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">in my last days </div><div style="text-align: left;">may I sit by the black basalt fountain wild blue </div><div style="text-align: left;"> irises </div><div style="text-align: left;">and hooded orioles among my redwood trees </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">let me recall the names of my children… </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">In my poem “Birth Day Poem 2017” I pray: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Carry me back through the laboring dark </div><div style="text-align: left;">into first light first cry first touch </div><div style="text-align: left;">of mother’s hands </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Later in the poem I refer to political events as “those evil spirits” and as “the furies” who “rave/ and mutter,” who “spooked// my cradle” as my parents began to learn of “the trains the chimneys” in the Europe they had recently fled. What spooked me all over again was the anti-Semitic chants we heard from the right wing in Charlottesville, Virginia on Aug. 12, 2017, when a "Unite the Right" rally turned deadly and the hate was palpable. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjP3AuCHCey-Ye-iBD_5ieH5_44eVe5zyzNRzpdZXU858CM-iEe8mbrMZMmRgK_QaqSTyMVyhT_NOObEyg75oavuHWd3ZjHdJaAjpvexv4cVR7E5RxXHPx-IluA9_6tChBztA6IxflUtmMODKejMgHt-qmIc1w9bffufBsMUb4lmt5y-tJV7NW3OZq5=s1148" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="1148" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjP3AuCHCey-Ye-iBD_5ieH5_44eVe5zyzNRzpdZXU858CM-iEe8mbrMZMmRgK_QaqSTyMVyhT_NOObEyg75oavuHWd3ZjHdJaAjpvexv4cVR7E5RxXHPx-IluA9_6tChBztA6IxflUtmMODKejMgHt-qmIc1w9bffufBsMUb4lmt5y-tJV7NW3OZq5=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are those who argue that it’s not kosher to mix poetry with the political—they are different spheres—just as the Jews separate the everyday from the Sabbath, just as Jung made a distinction between the Spirit of the Depths and the Spirit of the Times. But in Deep River we found we needed to mix the political with the profound themes that are poetry’s usual domain for the sake of our very souls. Poetry was our way of walking through the Valley of the Shadow. Despite the title of our book, it hadn’t fully come to me how much our path is influenced by the Psalms. As Robert Alter points out in <i>The Art of Biblical Poetry</i>: </div><blockquote>The God of biblical faith…is not a God of the cosmos alone, but also a God of history. A good many psalms…are responses to the most urgent pressures of the historical moment. <br />(p. 121)</blockquote> </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is moving to realize that this poetic tradition—which speaks to the Divine from the overwhelm and panic we feel when in the grip of history’s violent fist—is as ancient as the Hebrew Bible. There is a lovely Jewish myth about King David, the Psalmist, which tells us that he wrote the psalms with “The Holy Breath” (<i>Tree of Souls</i> p. 279). In Judaism, <i>Ruah</i>, meaning breath or spirit, is one of the levels of the soul. Similarly, the word inspiration, which comes from the Latin word <i>inspirare</i> — meaning to breathe—came to mean divine guidance in Middle English. Thus our very language speaks to the spiritual nature of making poetry. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiym5N7bM_iDnvf5QQ92LeP4n-HeTrAooWvgS-FnBq_5JYA1wT5GXuxOwKHyVzehl6tsKoCol5kWg8-T2rQjMkT-mCUOWUf0pv2W-RKfOzoiUHolCDOVk83ZfIoqCVOUOrj9S_57-iqFGlhvyqj09ZGrpyoG-Q5VUgUa_bvnoxOR_4eceAMT3728vlX=s1430" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1430" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiym5N7bM_iDnvf5QQ92LeP4n-HeTrAooWvgS-FnBq_5JYA1wT5GXuxOwKHyVzehl6tsKoCol5kWg8-T2rQjMkT-mCUOWUf0pv2W-RKfOzoiUHolCDOVk83ZfIoqCVOUOrj9S_57-iqFGlhvyqj09ZGrpyoG-Q5VUgUa_bvnoxOR_4eceAMT3728vlX=w640-h416" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David and his Lyre</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Sister from Below is Delighted to Announce the Publication of “Songs from the Deep River: Selected Poems from <i>Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow</i>” in the Jung Journal </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">The sibyl breathes deeply </div><div style="text-align: left;">The vapors from the fire below </div><div style="text-align: left;">She is no longer herself </div><div style="text-align: left;">She from a respectable family </div><div style="text-align: left;">She who is reliably self–possessed </div><div style="text-align: left;">Is unhinged by the smell of death </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Virginia Lee Chen from “Sibyl” p. 27 </div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRVFYakm2Ndfp6Dfyz6vMZpNZ6uW0dtFpvuP19QjC8qtAcG3reZgR149KrCqJd97uXhKszIscUcCZrAv5qv7QCCHDj0JWwLmfJ4IG_zCHdxncRfO3VF3T2XHz4VsPRgXVyNTWZ0cyAkEw0EK_GB9aZXt12_8BqXGDLq_Pt_fcaOdaLzqMLNVT823BP=s396" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRVFYakm2Ndfp6Dfyz6vMZpNZ6uW0dtFpvuP19QjC8qtAcG3reZgR149KrCqJd97uXhKszIscUcCZrAv5qv7QCCHDj0JWwLmfJ4IG_zCHdxncRfO3VF3T2XHz4VsPRgXVyNTWZ0cyAkEw0EK_GB9aZXt12_8BqXGDLq_Pt_fcaOdaLzqMLNVT823BP=s320" width="226" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Deep River is honored that a selection of poems from <i>Soul Making</i> has been published in the latest issue of <i>The Jung Journal</i> (Volume 15, Number 4). Jeffrey Moulton Benevedes, the editor of <i>The Jung Journal</i>, doesn’t seem to worry about mixing the Spirit of the Times with the Spirit of the Depths. He writes eloquently of our crazed times in his introductory essay to this issue: “To the Reader:” </div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">These days the dizzying pace and sheer ferocity of changes in our world leave us little to no time to recover from one catastrophe before the next hits. A pernicious pandemic and intensifying climate change events surge like tsunamis over the globe, leaving us roiling in existential crisis and economic, political and social instability… </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">How much can we take? </div><div style="text-align: left;">What do we do? Where do we go to find refuge, solace, healing, a way forward? </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Doesn’t this sound like the psalmist’s cry? “My soul is sore afflicted;/And Thou, O Lord, how long?” (Psalm 6:4) Or like Dossie Easton’s lament in her poem “With my Pink Pussy Hat On”? </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">How will we open our hearts </div><div style="text-align: left;"> to each other </div><div style="text-align: left;">in a country where half the voters are in love </div><div style="text-align: left;">with their hating </div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">of people like me: like for instance: </div><div style="text-align: left;"> women they can’t own, or men who can </div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">love other men, </div><div style="text-align: left;"> or those who belong to other cultures </div><div style="text-align: left;"> part of Humanity’s far flung treasure… (p. 17) </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Benevedes continues: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Depth psychologists, spiritual leaders and healers of all kinds strive to help heal the World Soul, one psyche at a time. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And artists make art. Out of the spirit of the depths, they engage with the spirit of the times in a way that anchors us, expressing our suffering and our light. (p. 1) </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I agree with Benevedes that it is the very mingling of the Spirit of the Depths with the Spirit of the Times which helps us locate ourselves and cast light on our emotions. It describes a number of poems in the <i>Soul Making </i>collection, among them Raluca Ioanid’s “Bucharest Sestina” about her “vanished grandparents”: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">In our pact never to forget </div><div style="text-align: left;">the momentum of loss </div><div style="text-align: left;">is greater. Have our night–vanishing grandparents </div><div style="text-align: left;">opened the door for dreams </div><div style="text-align: left;">and days and meals and adventures sweetened by our </div><div style="text-align: left;">kinship to this family of ghosts? (p. 47) </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">or Clare Cooper Marcus’ poem “Ann Frank’s Tree” </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">In spring, chestnut flowers </div><div style="text-align: left;">like ghostly candelabra </div><div style="text-align: left;">lit her days, as they did mine </div><div style="text-align: left;">not much distance west, across </div><div style="text-align: left;">the channel… </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For her, the tree beyond her grasp </div><div style="text-align: left;">stood achingly alive, dear daily reminder </div><div style="text-align: left;">of leaf–birth, </div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"> leaf fall… (p. 52) </div></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQRAFrktxOT5Jy0pap697y2VpxpMgTbwjgQt2rgMw0BRuXBYt3bpWNJn335BVCD-sBk86Uzp89JZV7QsfBR0-BxNQhRH8y1gAjDPuHsxliLWSGriTjTxvgQFql54bO7KwFatuUgKOHPTzxYX40CSqYtZDfPHZzPh6dfCLOl0iDx9KwnonU_kqgLhlE=s1764" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="1764" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQRAFrktxOT5Jy0pap697y2VpxpMgTbwjgQt2rgMw0BRuXBYt3bpWNJn335BVCD-sBk86Uzp89JZV7QsfBR0-BxNQhRH8y1gAjDPuHsxliLWSGriTjTxvgQFql54bO7KwFatuUgKOHPTzxYX40CSqYtZDfPHZzPh6dfCLOl0iDx9KwnonU_kqgLhlE=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowering Chestnut tree</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">or Connie Hills’ poem “Time to Come” </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">If you visit Van Gogh’s grave </div><div style="text-align: left;">go after the gust of summer… </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The quaintness of the place </div><div style="text-align: left;">so placid you can imagine </div><div style="text-align: left;">standing at Vincent’s burial </div><div style="text-align: left;">that July midi </div><div style="text-align: left;">surrounded by lemon sunflowers </div><div style="text-align: left;">battered dahlias </div><div style="text-align: left;">Hallelujahs oozing </div><div style="text-align: left;">from their thousands of </div><div style="text-align: left;">amber throats… </div><div style="text-align: left;"> (pp. 41-2) </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Benevedes goes on to write of Deep River and quotes the beautiful telling of our story by Poetry Editor Frances Hatfield: </div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">For the past fifteen years, here at the San Francisco C.G. Jung Institute, something extraordinary has been quietly unfolding. Poetry editor Frances Hatfield provides the origin story of the poems you will read: “At the instigation of Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s “Sister from Below,” poets, nascent poets, and poetry lovers have gathered in the library of the Gough Street building…each month, immersed in the ghosts and spirits and deep soul of that holy place, and cooking together in the power of mythopoesis to express grief, beauty and love. Out of that profound <i>communitas</i>, a group of poets emerged who call themselves, aptly, the ‘Deep River Poets.’ This issue’s poetry section features a selection from a new book they have published as an offering to the institute and to the Extended Education program under which they have met. One can sense how these nine poets nourished each other as their voices of witness, grief, praise, awe and exuberance emerged in the presence of great poets, considered in the light of our extraordinary times. (p.3) </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">We are deeply grateful to Jeffrey Moulton Benevedes and Frances Hatfield for their generous response to <i>Soul Making</i> and to Managing Editor LeeAnn Pickrell for the beautiful layout of the poems. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKOd_iKZkv-cIeloKrX4H8g7a2adPjOQ5Uu1uO38FOOuAkVjHJBCJ2ou9pZxc8ceqzVnwqR579thrpNCio2FZxKs0SNKzOPSKTKaMLokuFHy4ibPUcVR-Z6mK9PsA918-StSSAFXz-7tBR86MLz4iONbLDbzdp-KA5tESFA4SoODOFb6uYBp56YYyz=s1584" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1584" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKOd_iKZkv-cIeloKrX4H8g7a2adPjOQ5Uu1uO38FOOuAkVjHJBCJ2ou9pZxc8ceqzVnwqR579thrpNCio2FZxKs0SNKzOPSKTKaMLokuFHy4ibPUcVR-Z6mK9PsA918-StSSAFXz-7tBR86MLz4iONbLDbzdp-KA5tESFA4SoODOFb6uYBp56YYyz=w400-h286" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> Slave Ship: Wood Engraving by Smyth</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;">“A Light So Terrible”</b><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the Psalms, as in many of the poems we turn to in terrible times, we seek access to a higher power, a deeper wisdom, a more expansive way of understanding, when the world as we know it cracks open, spilling out our firm beliefs and our grasp of what we think of as truth. When things we never thought could happen in America, or things we ignore or deny, are flung at us in a light as terrible as nightmare, what is our responsibility as poets? When we learn that the former president had draft executive orders drawn up involving the Department of Justice, Homeland Security and Defense—in a plot to seize voting machines after the 2020 election—what can we do or say? (My father, a refugee from the Nazis and a passionate believer in American democracy, is turning in his grave.) What scares me more than anything is how little outrage and furor I hear in the collective. Psalm 94: 3-6 comes to mind: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Lord, how long shall the wicked, </div><div style="text-align: left;">How long shall the wicked exult? </div><div style="text-align: left;">They gush out, they speak arrogancy; </div><div style="text-align: left;">All the workers of iniquity bear themselves loftily. </div><div style="text-align: left;">They crush Thy people, O Lord, </div><div style="text-align: left;">And afflict Thy heritage. </div><div style="text-align: left;">They slay the widow and the stranger, </div><div style="text-align: left;">And murder the fatherless… </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">We who have put our faith in the wisdom of our Founding Fathers, feel fatherless. We who have fought for Women’s Liberation, Racial Justice, Equality and the well-being of our Mother Earth find ourselves still in the thrall of the Patriarchy—bereft of Mother Power. Orphaned. Terribly afraid. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFVRG662nlPEFgmCJvdkRnk-GOJ4e4eTNKpqTsq5Fa0I_hckZo3eB-JXfip5PWUCIh5Mb4mif5W8p4k84LEglAopqV2VIVeO3eoXnKmy9_vMyF931kpZAOU5l5wuPPaTxZtKYvX1jExXaH5nyCvwU10zDWjenCMZFTtviFXXvVlZzNns5JYK8vi3B8=s1212" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="1212" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFVRG662nlPEFgmCJvdkRnk-GOJ4e4eTNKpqTsq5Fa0I_hckZo3eB-JXfip5PWUCIh5Mb4mif5W8p4k84LEglAopqV2VIVeO3eoXnKmy9_vMyF931kpZAOU5l5wuPPaTxZtKYvX1jExXaH5nyCvwU10zDWjenCMZFTtviFXXvVlZzNns5JYK8vi3B8=w400-h243" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Amanda Gorman at Inauguration</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there is help and wisdom among the young and among poets. Amanda Gorman, who gave us her beautiful Inaugural Poem, “The Hill We Climb,” continues to inspire us. In an opinion piece in the <i>New York Times Sunday</i> Review, (January 20, 2022)—“If You’re Alive, You’re Afraid”—she reframes the meaning of fear. She had almost decided against being the Inaugural poet because of her fear—amplified by friends and family— that she might lose her life on that very visible platform. She suffered with insomnia and nightmares as she wrestled with her decision. “Was this poem worth it?” She writes: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote style="text-align: justify;">And then it struck me: Maybe being brave enough doesn’t mean lessening my fear but listening to it. I closed my eyes in bed and let myself utter all the leviathans that scared me, both monstrous and miniscule. What stood out most of all was the worry that I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what this poem might have achieved. There was only one way to find out. </blockquote></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If Gorman was praying to a higher power in her dark night of the soul, it strikes me she includes the power to strike fear as an aspect of the deity. This resonates with the Jewish view of the Divine who is not only about goodness and kindness, but about wrath and trouble. Her breakthrough came when she could listen to what her fear taught her. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibtJjFLEuJCnPEbeNadOnApCVHZIK2BKOjufkL_a3EgPV_0Z3CskHLmgDmVYOfhlGLQ7kkXO8Y7qaFo5NGbAEq3cVcGGCU510P0dpKlYJ_lvnfV4AD9byZRl8B98bHZGvZA9ck7zcda-FZF-5cfyac8d5Ev9NO8FRqIGxi3hJJetYw6JBrt_fA13uT=s512" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibtJjFLEuJCnPEbeNadOnApCVHZIK2BKOjufkL_a3EgPV_0Z3CskHLmgDmVYOfhlGLQ7kkXO8Y7qaFo5NGbAEq3cVcGGCU510P0dpKlYJ_lvnfV4AD9byZRl8B98bHZGvZA9ck7zcda-FZF-5cfyac8d5Ev9NO8FRqIGxi3hJJetYw6JBrt_fA13uT=s320" width="206" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the year since the Inauguration, Gorman has written a new book of poems, <i>Call Us What We Carry.</i> I want to quote from sections of the opening poem in that collection—“Ship’s Manifest”—in which she speaks to the role of the poet in our awful times. Like the Psalmist who urges his people to “Depart from evil and do good” (Psalm 34:15), Gorman clearly sees the poet’s function as ethical as well as spiritual. It is worth noting that a ship’s manifest lists the cargo, passengers and crew of a ship. It is an accounting of what the ship carries. Ship’s manifests for slave ships are one of the few places historians of slavery can find the names and some details about the people who were stolen from Africa and brought to the New World against their will. The poem never mentions the Middle Passage, but its dark waters, its ghosts and demons flow deep below the surface. Notice she holds poets accountable, as though our work requires the tools of an accountant making lists. In fact, much of her poem is a list. Her passion is contagious. Her word play is brilliant—for example, “An ark articulated?” or “Our greatest test will be/Our testimony.” Her use of the word “testimony”—which in Black Churches means telling how the Divine has interceded in our lives—brings us deep into the realm of the psalms, as does the line “A light so terrible” which makes clear how difficult, soul wrenching and essential is the work of the poet. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here is a section of Gorman’s poem: </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">The poet’s diagnosis is that what we have lived </div><div style="text-align: left;">Has already warped itself into a fever dream, </div><div style="text-align: left;">The contours of its shape stripped from the murky mind. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To be accountable we must render an account: </div><div style="text-align: left;">Not what was said, but what was meant. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Not the fact, but what was felt. </div><div style="text-align: left;">What was known, even while unnamed. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Our greatest test will be </div><div style="text-align: left;">Our testimony. </div><div style="text-align: left;">This book is a message in a bottle. </div><div style="text-align: left;">This book is a letter. </div><div style="text-align: left;">This book does not let up. </div><div style="text-align: left;">This book is awake. </div><div style="text-align: left;">This book is a wake. </div><div style="text-align: left;">For what is a record but a reckoning? </div><div style="text-align: left;">The capsule captured? </div><div style="text-align: left;">A repository. </div><div style="text-align: left;">An ark articulated? </div><div style="text-align: left;">& the poet, the preserver </div><div style="text-align: left;">Of ghosts & gains, </div><div style="text-align: left;">Our demons & dreams, </div><div style="text-align: left;">Our haunts & hopes. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Here’s to the preservation </div><div style="text-align: left;">Of a light so terrible. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> from <i>Call Us What We Carry,</i> “Ship’s Manifest.”</div></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBUS3whVrzL6Ltzq7Z6eYR7u4kDBdwj17J-clMnLd7ZpLwQ-m8ymLMcxubrxbY64J1zEgwZ6bI-B8_0Dbr_ObEDteLE5Oq6qj7KXzFaO07pahHQHR2iO7hTY4799i9-FHrZqN_1m92g5FcHJ7Zl8NB-7FUh5CB2NP8YVyLHJpV1tVh7hYe8bvid22y=s740" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="584" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBUS3whVrzL6Ltzq7Z6eYR7u4kDBdwj17J-clMnLd7ZpLwQ-m8ymLMcxubrxbY64J1zEgwZ6bI-B8_0Dbr_ObEDteLE5Oq6qj7KXzFaO07pahHQHR2iO7hTY4799i9-FHrZqN_1m92g5FcHJ7Zl8NB-7FUh5CB2NP8YVyLHJpV1tVh7hYe8bvid22y=w316-h400" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miniature from Hafiz-i Abru’s Majma al-tawarikh</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-49009041235909309362021-08-13T16:38:00.185-07:002021-08-16T16:17:20.053-07:00The Muse of Duende<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span>The Sister from Below is delighted to announce the publication of</span> </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Death and His Lorca </span></i></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=9781421837024&qid=1628905043&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0siTpvAY-kilbVF78Mdr-7nwiBiHSh4Xcl6W_k9o8hiH-l_voOri1aNXbAvYe7sT6gkOWw58fnNBoqExxQEw2kLPep-p1g3KykIHABGjgUGNZ3lnBs7uKVMB0xg4d4GScjNHZyMSbR1R/w266-h400/Death+and+His+Lorca+cover.jpeg" width="266" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The Muse of Duende</b> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m wandering in a shadowy part of town. It is dusk in my dream. I am lost. Can’t find my purse. I think I’m headed for a staircase when I hit a wall. I am told I’m in the <i>Duende</i>—which is the name of a trickster spirit or elf in the mythos of Southern Spain. The Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca insisted that <i>duende</i> was essential for the arts. For Lorca <i>duende</i> includes “irrationality, earthiness, a heightened awareness of death, and a dash of the diabolical” writes Christopher Maurer in the Preface to a lovely little book called <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Search-Duende-Second-Directions-Pearls/dp/0811218554/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=in+search+of+the+duende&qid=1628903581&sr=8-1" target="_blank">In Search of Duende.</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTRb4eImfrEtWlrnv3kfD7kAW3NJlUoKvV4TIpq6pzenDnGvGwBss11Zbif_r9rQL02mi6F-bKvhuzaiNs6ykZMwFfOJOpf_u03njAB7KLgKgDb_JloGMCXq0ACFaj_UDgSRE_RnOwcBeU/w320-h400/dancers+-+flamenco+woman+twirling+in+red+wonderful.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Flamenco Dancer</p></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lorca has been with me since college, when I was awe–struck by his <i><a href="https://www.ndbooks.com/book/in-search-of-duende/" target="_blank">Poet in New York.</a></i> I was strangely at home in his nightmarish visions of that city ninety years ago—during the Great Depression. I shared his outrage about American materialism and industrialization and was spellbound by the prophetic tone of his poems, their musicality, and long Whitmanesque lines. As the firstborn in America child of a family that fled the Shoah I never felt at home in the death–denying, “positive–thinking” America of the fifties and early sixties. Eliot’s “Waste Land,” Ginsberg’s “Howl” and Lorca’s <i>duende</i> opened my path into poetry. I recognized this spirit in myself—in my own intense relationship with the dead, and my tender feelings of kinship with Lorca, who died tragically in 1936, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. He was assassinated by Franco’s goons because of his leftist politics and because he was gay. He was 38. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglvnxo4OYnxzDpgVc5aqnLxRHOQzF8RSXG1A-l5lN64spqYlQP4gEAT5_WU0CbLCyb4ap7zhCbi05D9pqBVh_Nn4pwwRzNPoJUPUqhYNoM0jtqVdijlZ99amkmRnImOMEfYgov9gMReGs/s864/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+6.22.19+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglvnxo4OYnxzDpgVc5aqnLxRHOQzF8RSXG1A-l5lN64spqYlQP4gEAT5_WU0CbLCyb4ap7zhCbi05D9pqBVh_Nn4pwwRzNPoJUPUqhYNoM0jtqVdijlZ99amkmRnImOMEfYgov9gMReGs/w227-h320/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+6.22.19+PM.png" width="227" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Federico Garcia Lorca</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Lorca is a poetic ancestor, a Virgil who guides me in and out of underworlds, a major influence whose work derives from music—the Deep Song of the Gypsy <i>siguiriya</i>. <i>In Search of Duende</i> includes Lorca’s essay, <i>Deep Song</i>, in which he writes that the <i>siguiriya</i> “begins with a terrible scream…It is the scream of dead generations, a poignant elegy for lost centuries, the pathetic evocation of love under other moons and other winds.” These gypsy songs have <i>duende</i>, Lorca writes—[they] “are the mystery, the roots fastened in the mire that we all know and all ignore, the mire that gives us the very substance of art.” Jung would recognize that mire as the <i>prima materia </i>of the alchemists. But for Lorca it is more embodied. He quotes “an old maestro of the guitar” who said: “The <i>duende</i> is not in the throat; the <i>duende</i> climbs up inside you, from the soles of your feet.”</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4OSEnZqiudt2_8OL6mPUMcJUt-wxgQup3sVUU4Q6LwRsjc03VrhzhnPvFA62DcmWfNLEUQp0R7YXTBoKZfXv6eV-l5EBi9IjSTfYw5DKUSjLjk7xteJSImhmSW39E82aDCbZEFzQQTc/s1586/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+6.28.06+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="976" data-original-width="1586" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4OSEnZqiudt2_8OL6mPUMcJUt-wxgQup3sVUU4Q6LwRsjc03VrhzhnPvFA62DcmWfNLEUQp0R7YXTBoKZfXv6eV-l5EBi9IjSTfYw5DKUSjLjk7xteJSImhmSW39E82aDCbZEFzQQTc/w400-h246/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+6.28.06+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Alhambra Dome</p></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Twelve years ago, when Dan suggested we travel to Southern Spain, I felt the <i>duende</i> climb up inside me, from the soles of my feet, insisting that we visit Granada—Lorca’s home. Granada is also the home of Manuel de Falla—one of Dan’s favorite Spanish composers. Dan and I had always wanted to see the fabled Alhambra— situated in Granada. The Alhambra, Lorca’s home, de Falla’s home, flamenco music and dance are etched in my memory and in a series of poems which poured through me during that pilgrimage. They are saturated in Lorca’s <i>duende</i> and later, as we travelled to Córdoba with its tragic history of the Jews, by the <i>duende</i> of our ancestors. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lorca makes a distinction between the Muse and <i>duende</i>. I don’t. My Muse comes to life when the <i>duende</i> appears, when the flamenco dancer raises her skirts and stamps her feet, when the gypsy singer screams, when death makes an unexpected appearance. She and the <i>duende</i> dance, sing, and poetry begins. As fate would have it, when we returned from that trip, the <i>duende</i> came home with us. We suffered a series of significant deaths among friends and family. And both Dan and I had serious health issues. The <i>duende</i> had escaped from its Spanish container and leaked into our whole lives and into my fifth collection of poems. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">According to Lorca, “the true fight is with the <i>duende</i>.” The <i>duende</i>, unlike the Muse, is a combatant, who “does not come at all unless he sees that death is possible. The <i>duende</i> must know beforehand that he can serenade death’s house.” Why is this so important? Because, Lorca explains: “The magical property of a poem is to remain possessed by <i>duende</i> that can baptize in dark water all who look at it, for with <i>duende</i> it is easier to love and understand.” It is the <i>duende</i> who insists I face my own mortality, that I let in the dead who knock on the windows of my heart, wanting to be remembered. it is <i>duende</i> which became the magnet for the poems in <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=9781421837024&qid=1628905043&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Death and His Lorca</a></i> —a collection in which death takes many forms and the dead show up as spirit guides and companions. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These poems were written before Trump was elected, before the pandemic hit, before mass death invaded our safe American world. I hope <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=9781421837024&qid=1628905043&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Death and His Lorca</a> </i>will bring you who read it to the confluence of the “dark waters” of <i>duende</i>—where life and death flow together—aspects of the same mystery. Here is the opening poem: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Flamenco Dancer</b> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When her arms rise up like Gaudi’s spires </div><div style="text-align: left;">and her hands unfurl like forest violets </div><div style="text-align: left;">When the lamentation of the Moors<span> </span>the Gypsies<span> </span>the Jews </div><div style="text-align: left;">makes an agony about her eyes<span> </span>and her spine </div><div style="text-align: left;">is a wild and supple snake When she hitches up her skirts</div><div style="text-align: left;">and the stamping begins in red shoes She is riding </div><div style="text-align: left;">the exiled horse of her hips over the yellow land </div><div style="text-align: left;">over dust that remembers ashes of the burnt </div><div style="text-align: left;">bones of the broken The soles of her feet </div><div style="text-align: left;">beat a drum arousing the spirits of her great </div><div style="text-align: left;">great great great grand parents </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>She rides and she rides </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>that exiled horse </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>over Lorca’s unmarked grave </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaWoVt2HJJLLYTvRqrVh3O3mvOnqyHGwHrlh6Lixfa_sYsm7KLn5qVWPCLQki4F9ArBBhLOwbbSEL8yRhXMTwIX28Gu4NnengDBK__7y2P4zG2dxCixbEwCFl1TiYnglXWijRzOi7xEjg/s1272/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+6.32.23+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1272" data-original-width="1012" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaWoVt2HJJLLYTvRqrVh3O3mvOnqyHGwHrlh6Lixfa_sYsm7KLn5qVWPCLQki4F9ArBBhLOwbbSEL8yRhXMTwIX28Gu4NnengDBK__7y2P4zG2dxCixbEwCFl1TiYnglXWijRzOi7xEjg/w319-h400/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+6.32.23+PM.png" width="319" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * * *</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=death+and+his+lorca&qid=1629042059&sr=8-2" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBHwdqaThC-h4RU8fAuVT1yDGnoLXZnx5-43k6QH4_80_JTXV2ZFlSbe5SvPvUB3YXS4fp5PqZvPmQn3bl5yznkljncNJp7DfPmtvaF4wECqibURvdffu4i4lc6GGeWHVgTSObe4b1hk/w216-h320/Screen+Shot+2021-08-13+at+8.35.13+PM.png" title="Book Back Cover" width="216" /></a><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>August 24th Event Invitation:</b></span></h3></div><div>Please join me on Zoom on August 24th from 7-8. I’ll be reading from <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=death+and+his+lorca&qid=1629042059&sr=8-2" target="_blank">Death and His Lorca</a></i> as the featured reader in the Poetic License Fourth Tuesday Series. Check out the website at <a href="http://www.poeticlicensesonoma.com" target="_blank">www.poeticlicensesonoma.com</a> for more information.</div><div><br /></div><div>Order <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=death+and+his+lorca&qid=1629042059&sr=8-2" target="_blank">Death and His Lorca</a></i> from Amazon <b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-His-Lorca-Lowinsky-Naomi/dp/1421837021/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=death+and+his+lorca&qid=1629042059&sr=8-2" target="_blank">here</a></b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>To order from your favorite bookstore: ISBN: 9781421837024 (Distributed by Ingram)</div><div><br /></div><div>To order a signed copy from me, send an email and I’ll send you the information.</div> <br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-24687801922512987772021-06-12T16:16:00.007-07:002021-06-16T17:10:24.397-07:00The Muse of Deep River<div style="text-align: center;">The Sister from Below is delighted to announce the publication of</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://riversanctuarypublishing.com/shop/soul-making/" target="_blank">Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow</a></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>by the Deep River Poets</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Esse in anima (Live in the soul)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">—C.G. Jung</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://riversanctuarypublishing.com/shop/soul-making/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXI10PjNtK5TFXyAUWrc3ylE8CLZ7GG1TN6ituvrAXEjyLpO_WEgnd36nkEuFMSzi6kp0a8dNtPAJHvXKK3lmvoQjRQjm3ww7VKK3mxS93oGn2G4h_PQ5ZPub6DZGCJTHYOofQsTy8Jl59/w331-h494/SoulMaking_cover.jpeg" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://riversanctuarypublishing.com/shop/soul-making/" target="_blank">Cover Art by Kent Butzine</a></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>The Muse of Deep River</b><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote>Our way is the way of the poet, who knows that poems have lives of their own. Poems need us, their poets, to listen to them, see them, feel them, wrestle with them until their hidden natures emerge. In return they reflect us, revise us, refine us, play us like musical instruments; they shape shift our stories and light up dim corners of our souls. The craft of making a poem becomes a craft—a vessel—for knowing ourselves and our world.</blockquote></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: right;">from the Introduction</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Those of us who are called to write poems often wrestle, especially in terrible times, with the question: What can poetry do? Poetry is a lightweight feather dipped in ink; it cannot put out a wildfire, stop a pandemic, stop police brutality or voter suppression, prevent an authoritarian coup or heal a furious fragmentation of the social contract. But it can, sometimes, shift consciousness, open doors and windows to a wider vision, a deeper wisdom expressed in compelling images which leap out of imagination or come as dream figures to initiate us into the realm of The Mysteries. The question of what poetry can do became a catalyst for change in the Deep River Poetry Circle—a workshop that meets monthly at the Jung Institute of San Francisco—when the 2016 election shocked us out of our comfortable faith in American democracy.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeIaIhakswcFZEm2vnI7NngAaNVU5G8P_BFNMrlfHlTT6T6tUSb3NobH1iFXsAk5rSjIvmwWRqyJgHQ7tppXjgP_xJIu-rNC-bA_NfwA-osZMNIE7paoVnfrpo1yX9sGe07BN00DuWKR-/w400-h356/Red_fishes.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Red Fishes" by Marianna Ochyra</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Deep River has been meeting for over fifteen years. It emerged out of a mountain spring in my soul, when my Muse, better known as The Sister from Below, informed me that writing poetry was my spiritual practice. We write under the influence of great poets and have explored poetries from many cultures all over the world and all over America. But when the Spirit of Our Times took such a frightening turn in 2016 we realized we needed each other and poetry for support and it was essential that we ‘get political.’ We could no longer indulge the luxury of exploring for the sake of broadening cultural horizons. Poetry doesn’t boast a big bully pulpit in America. It speaks from the margins, from the depths of the river, from night terrors, about the state of our world. Making a poem is wrestling with the angel: it is shaping a vessel to hold what we fear. We understood that we need our poetry to address the attacks on our democracy by callous, greedy politicians, out for their own aggrandizement and immune to the suffering of ordinary people in a terrible pandemic. We needed language to tell the dreadful truth revealed by the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and so many other Black and brown people at the hands of police, and by the growing consciousness of systemic and structural racism. We needed images to express the suffering caused by extreme weather events and wildfires in our own landscapes, the destruction of habitat and the decimation of species all over our earth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So we studied the poetry of witness and of engagement, wrote under the influence of poets whose work flows between the political and the spiritual—James Baldwin, Carolyn Forché, Yusuf Komunyakaa, Judy Grahn, W.S. Merwin, Ada Limón. Our circle became a ritual space, in which great poets guided us into our own poetic expression. They showed us the ways of their soul and gave us permission to try new modes of writing. They helped create that space in which the conscious and the unconscious meet—Winnicott calls it “potential space;” Jung calls it “the transcendent function.” Deep River became a sacred river we wash ourselves in, as the Hindus do in Ganga Ma—Mother Ganges—to cleanse our souls and heal our broken hearts.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh848uLW9D6DKbWbh30x_fUp4qBdBTg3MiMe96SwfuEtg3JHybVnWDyjiM5d_sisyF0IMquYT8HKkEV0TsXpk4U8yEPEZ4pUbOHA07ufXVG3HBT8SxXhr29Ts8U7qMduqhm_i2QCUKcYbUa/w400-h285/Lionel_Walden_-_Women_bathing%252C_Hawaii.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Women Bathing” by Lionel Walden</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">When Covid hit we retreated to our individual homes, like cloistered contemplatives in the Dark Ages. Deep River met on Zoom. Surprisingly, the ritual of our meetings seemed to deepen, despite its virtual nature. We found ourselves writing “pandemic poems.” Someone suggested we make a collection of them. Someone else said, let’s make it broader, more inclusive of our writings. We wanted to speak to our Jungian community about what we were learning—that in bad times, the inner work of poetry is a way to tend the soul, to bring together the realms of spirit and the world. It is healing for the poet, healing for the reader; a practice which reminds us that there is a greater reality in which soul and polis, soul and nature, soul and word, mingle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so it was that we began gathering this harvest of our recent years together, <a href="https://riversanctuarypublishing.com/shop/soul-making/" target="_blank"><i>Soul Making in the Valley of the Shadow</i></a>. We give it as a gift to the Jung Institute of San Francisco in celebration of its passage from a beloved old home to a transformative new home, and as an expression of deep gratitude to Extended Education, which has given Deep River support, visibility and a place to gather for so many years. We offer it as a manifestation of the Jungian belief in the creative arts as a way of healing psyche and culture. We offer it as a gift to you, dear reader. May it help you remember ‘what happened.’ May it help you find your way through The Valley of the Shadow and The Realm of the Dead, to The Tree of Life, The Living Symbol and The Way of the Soul.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A dream showed me a deeper meaning for this gift of Soul Making: In the dark, by the sea, there is a “Jungian Grave—” a white, glowing monument commemorating our dead. It is the only bright spot in this moonless, starless scene, providing a bit of light by which we see a gathering of living Jungians, sitting on logs on the beach. There is feeling of excitement and of awe. We are doing a ritual to honor our ancestors.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheG4KCp2ike66Jg8P9pPbDEnUhrSR9zKvHrep-6_Q8JBppUMWl3fxUaiyQMU5YNyxOewk1S5FGpazjOvbcYCMrlmJBv8p8DEjfuXz5D8IT-c5PbRrRO7Z5eLgqbOu500lmxB6coMRaLO8p/w400-h279/Oberon%252C_Titania_and_Puck_with_Fairies_Dancing._William_Blake._c.1786.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Mid-Summer Night’s Dream” by William Blake</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Soul Making</i> follows the mythopoetic path of the soul’s progress from the realms of shadow and death to rebirth into embodied life through the magic of the symbolic process and the awakening of the Self. When I was editing this book I followed an intuitive structure, dividing the anthology into five sections separated by quotes from Jung’s <i>Red Book</i>. These epigraphs set the themes of the sections. But until the dream, I was in the dark about the collective ritual significance of the book’s arrangement as our community moves from our beautiful old home in the Presidio to a very different beautiful new home in the Mission. We are in the dark about how it will be. For many of us this move signifies an interest in engaging with our new neighborhood, as part of a growing feeling that our psychology needs to be more attuned to the outer world, though we are in the dark about how this might manifest. However, we carry a structure within us that I associate with the work of Joe Henderson—one of our founding analysts—an understanding of the initiatory path in which “to cross a threshold is to unite oneself with a new world” (<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Wisdom-Serpent-Joseph-Lewis-Henderson/dp/0691020647" target="_blank"><i>The Wisdom of the Serpent</i></a> p. 48)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What follows is a sketch of <i>Soul Making</i>, illuminated by quotes from some of the poems. Forgive me, dear reader and dear contributing poets, if I offer slight fragments from the work. Truth be told, we’re hoping you’ll buy the book, enjoy the poems, and the collection, whole.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwyBC8wZkxW9uXBeItYlAuRLcWnBBmmnbXTUa66gco-xylotvFBfNtWVxsGuRw6xKmSO5LTpqUPYwsHQJ8D6KW6rFbLOlr6GsVTL9z9cYMbARj4tRtG5jM63CK95rElVTeeTWaSyyH5ks/w640-h453/Godville.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Godville Game</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>The Valley of the Shadow</b><br /><br />Section I<br /><blockquote><i>And so we had to taste hell… </i><div>– C.G. Jung</div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anita Cadena Sánchez opens our anthology with a short essay, “Why Poetry?” (p. 5) in which she writes that the 2016 election “revealed this country’s steady descent into the valley of its historically unrecognized shadow” and hopes her poems will “weave a medicine basket” (p. 5). Now there’s something poetry can do. Her first poem, “Will This Ever End,” (pp. 6–7) does it elegantly, naming our trauma, which is the beginning of healing. Here are the opening and ending lines. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br />Without notice the White House grows whiter still<br />invisible swastikas slide off the frozen walls…<br /><br />The president conflates<br />Black Lives Matter with hate<br /><br />So I draw in breath to settle and center<br />Yes, I can breathe but I witness who can’t<br /><br />Another black man dies<br />again<span> </span> <span> <span> </span></span> <span> </span> and again<span> </span> <span> <span> </span></span> <span> </span> and again<br /><br /><br /> Kent Butzine’s poem, “In the Soup” (p. 8), places us in the messy, befuddled, ‘fine kettle of fish’ we know all too well from our recent past:<br /><br />I am walking through soup<br />a thick heavy soup that slows<br />me down makes it hard to see…<br /><br />Don’t know if the soup is hot<br />or my soul is burning…<br /><br />In a few short lines the poem takes us to the possibility of new life:<br /><br />Don’t know if I’m ready to die<br />Or to live at last in aliveness<br /><br />He brings together the opposites of death and life as they so often appear at the crossroads of our journeys.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3J53VISKt2c1XYvnS6M_y6KbrShNBrc7UdiCovUtChHj-iKkz43zP4xMHnjlQPNM5HZU6gayuw8lHrOHy-SdsSRWuAm2mX1xH4_sMo6PRQvouf68I8dmobeP4lSNQL74eyOsn80F6Sih/w640-h640/2cf62-dante2band2bvirgil2bin2bhell252c2bby2bcrescenzio2bonofri2b2b252825e225802593171425292band2blivio2bmehus2b2b2528163025e22580259316912529252c2b255bpublic2bdomain255d.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Dante and Virgil in Hell by Crescenzio Onofri</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>The Realm of the Dead</b><br /><br />Section II<br /></div><blockquote><div><i>Take pains to waken the dead…</i> </div><div>–C.G. Jung</div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: justify;">In my short essay, opening this section, I argue that “we owe the dead our poems, and our awe.” This follows Jung’s idea that the dead need our attention so we can help them heal. Raluca Ioanid takes on this task for the living as well as the dead in her “Bucharest 1958 Sestina (p 46).” She gives us a powerful image of intergenerational trauma:</div><br /><br /></div><div>History churns inside the family of ghosts<br />we cannot forget,<br />unmoored by our<br />ancestral loss<br />unravelling backwards from a nightmare–dream<br />we search eternally for Anita and Paul, our disappeared parents…<br /><br /><br /> In “Funeral Cot” Daniela Kantorová invites us into a surreal and frightening scene:</div><div><br /><br />I’m rocking a funeral cot<br />The fire is burning…<br />I’m singing a lullaby<br />to the rhythm of bones<br />cracking in the fire<br />There is a baby in the funeral cot</div><div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What a grim image for our times, for the next generation, for the fate of humans, species and the earth. And yet, Kantorová, through the magic of her poem, finds a way out. The poem’s speaker invites the reader, or perhaps it is the Divine, to “Breath me/Breathe my dust” which would seem to breathe life and hope back into her and the poem.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj202CE-DSEhNAd8jC1PQ4MWTZR6WGSCZb0ZQY15juRI9R1ZqAD40i2gCysT0kfhnXupj-QA79i0mdz-_vob19ICglK4m9txR2vtyoE5497-TVff4yqM5VTtA2u9ZMqabTcWmF7A_wMHAbG/w400-h320/Tree_Of_Zhiva.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Tree of Zhiva" by Marianna Ochyra</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>The Tree of Life</b><br /><br />Section III<br /></div><blockquote><div><i>I became a greening tree… </i></div><div>–C.G. Jung</div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: justify;">In her opening essay to this section Clare Marcus compares two Saturdays, one at an academic, highly rational workshop, the other, Deep River, where “the psyche was allowed its freedom to soar, explore, pour out its fantasies into the warm receptive ears of fellow poets (p. 59).”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the drought ridden Sierra foothills Sheila deShields’ poem paints the miracle of an unexpected storm and how it transforms the lives of the “Nine crows in my backyard (pp. 66-67)” who “sway high on the row of towering trees” until the skies clear and they descend to enjoy:</div><br /><br />The bounty<br />worms rise<br />above the soaked sable soil<br />while the crows<br />eat<br />and eat.<br /><br /><br />Earth is alive again, wet, full of worms, and the creatures feast on the pleasure of plenty.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggoGqUCpVQhHpfXY1k2Vzdlg5q2sKDU-hgpF6xlJ-SwXHE56fWcT60fbha4KG3QAL1ZrrCE9V2hyphenhyphenTmlQe5cCNToFclPYCfyh_5yRLl_Xw1vQtiToe1w7j0rqlt6UyDHVHhshYH4llzTQEP/w348-h400/World_creation._Music.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“World Creation Music” by Marianna Ochyra</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>The Living Symbol</b><br /><br />Section IV<br /></div><blockquote><div><i>The Symbol is the word…that rises out of the depths of the self… </i></div><div>– C.G. Jung</div></blockquote><div> In her essay, “A Way to Love” (p. 77), which opens this section, Connie Hills remarks that it is often an encounter which moves her deeply that sparks a poem’s beginning. She writes: “Poetry is a way back to love.” In her poem, “God of Garbage, (pp. 78-9)” a “tall muscular Jamaican” garbage man fills the poem with life and joy. His magic:<br /><br /><br />Remover of filth, ferment<br />Everything that is dying…<br /><br />His smile, like heliotrope<br />in warm bloom…<br />I could have loved him.<br /><br /><br /> Through this beautifully drawn character, we experience again, how death is transfigured by the living symbol of the man’s smile.<br /><br /> In my poem, “Ghazal of the Boy in My Dream,” the encounter is with a dream figure, a black boy, symbolic of the magic of poetry and dream:</div><div><br /><br />After gumbo and jazz after rain on my head you befell me in a dream<br />Strange boy your spiraling hands your eyes ablaze cast a spell in my dream…<br /><br />How long have you lived in my heart child alphabet balm for sorrow and ache?<br />You open the door to The Mysteries compel me to enter by way of the dream<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The boy shows up in the context of New Orleans, a decade after Katrina. He turns out to be a psychopomp, who initiates the speaker into the mysteries—the magic of language. There are many dream poems in this collection, appropriate to our Jungian context. In “Healing the Wound” (pp. 89-90), Clare Marcus remembers a dream in which a black bird with white beak comes to heal the wound “brought by the surgeon’s knife”:</div><br /><br />It is a coot<br />exploring the unconscious<br />to retrieve sustenance for life<br />diving the waters<br />of the Nile<br />algae and mollusks morphing<br />to messages of resurrection<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What a succinct description of how dreams feed and nurture the damaged psyche and body with the riches of the collective unconscious.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8dxjIt50HVkobMnG-yLYPyDh9maW86fftKmcgLVHgv6aSEsm8jVJzV4dGD3wonEXG9hYBWoYRKnCeOoKWAwUtDt4cxY_I2ORnO267yjx2CKq5Io5NXVbB3zrA5r_HIuXTIugdNC821e-t/w502-h640/Pilgrimage_to_Shiva.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Pilgrimage to Shiva" by Janaka Stagnaro</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>The Way of the Soul</b><br /><br />Section 5<br /></div><blockquote><div><i>I am weary my soul, my wandering has lasted too long… </i></div><div> –C.G. Jung</div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: justify;">In his essay introducing this section, “How Poems Come and What They Bring” (pp. 97-99), Kent Butzine writes of the Muse, that she is “both a part of oneself and a part of the natural world, a part that is ‘wild’ and cannot be controlled.” He gives us a wonderful quote from Galway Kinnell: “There is no work on the poem that is not work on the poet.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Virginia Chen’s poem, “Old Song” (p. 102), is a lyrical evocation of the experience of Self. The poem’s first line and refrain—borrowed from a poem by W.S. Merwin—shows the power of poetic influence on our work.</div><br /><br /><i>When I was me I remembered</i><br />The songs of the stars<br />Before I was born…<br /><br />When I was me I remembered<br />I once was me<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It is the work of poetry, as well as the work of Jungian analysis, to find our way back to the one we’ve forgotten we are. And as my dream shows—in the dark by the sea in a gathering of Jungians doing a ritual for our ancestors—we are not just individuals, we are a group with a lineage, finding our way back to our ancestral roots. And though the work of writing poetry is mostly solitary, a writing circle in which we read poets who help shape our work and become our common poetic lineage, a circle in which we share our poems and get feedback on them, can become a vessel for collective creativity even, or maybe especially, in dark times. Can an anthology created by such a group, become a crucible which can carry the spirit and soul of Deep River’s years in the Gough Street Institute library, to our new home in the Mission?</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9fACUJhx-D8eMpn2Yxeh3y4ss2-U3sURWO5T4o1gT0bq1KTO8AXxsbQWDCF3rzOhqN-7XzpkYuS0DcQK_wGbK4pgJ0ZjVUljR-dDuGnOtnSXvA7CgquAL6sh1xakB0uS-IwxW7ssTES_/w640-h496/3dc93b2219a0a23bb9d903e0feb9e3f4.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Ancestors" by Marietjie Henning</p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-5694088632289082072021-02-28T15:47:00.022-08:002021-03-08T16:34:12.982-08:00The Muse of Lady Liberty Part II<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CfynKYO5xrRF_ILh13jfYIljOQ6fUeBDoQ15T84h-YrVrLko1T73jSyf75uf5cjkYJsyiBtpE4xjIfyJcC1uNjzZWH3ZtVGwp2BDuHFd3DePnlYRVNst4nv4sDIlL3M6-M6qd4GOLu8/s548/800px-statue-of-freedom-united-states-capitol*1200xx548-548-126-0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="548" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CfynKYO5xrRF_ILh13jfYIljOQ6fUeBDoQ15T84h-YrVrLko1T73jSyf75uf5cjkYJsyiBtpE4xjIfyJcC1uNjzZWH3ZtVGwp2BDuHFd3DePnlYRVNst4nv4sDIlL3M6-M6qd4GOLu8/s320/800px-statue-of-freedom-united-states-capitol*1200xx548-548-126-0.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of Freedom at the top of the Capitol Dome</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><blockquote><div><i>In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.</i></div><div>—Aeschylus</div></blockquote><div>[Quoted by Bobby Kennedy speaking about the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.]</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Part I of this <b>News from the Muse</b> began with the joy and terror of January 6, 2021— a day which gave us news of the election of Raphael Warnock and Jon Ossoff both from Georgia, turning that state a glorious blue, a day which shocked us with horrendous scenes of the violent insurrection against the Capitol, incited by a berserker outgoing president.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Muse then led us back into American history, remembering the assassinations of so many of our leaders, JFK, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, and finally Bobby Kennedy, in the 1960s. I turned to my husband, Dan Safran, who was a ‘60’s activist, to help me understand what happened to Lady Liberty in that fraught decade. What will we need to remember in order to revive Her?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Education of a ‘60s Activist</b></div><div></div><blockquote><div><i>But history will judge you, and as the years pass, you will ultimately judge yourself, in the extent to which you have used your gifts and talents to lighten and enrich the lives of your fellow men. In your hands lies the future of your world and the fulfillment of the best qualities of your own spirit.</i></div><div>—Bobby Kennedy</div></blockquote><div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AYsduVLeGvORnMXqg46MErFbMZRdeYHjE42OLqOpJ9nvJjy16_NVSJFHmE7luhhrnj2WWodYV2fkl4bUKn3x-_jyeFYim2OrVqIiU7sCtrX1v1k89flHaXSmHIYEr4IbDShJIc7irAY/s278/+2+Mom+and+Danny+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AYsduVLeGvORnMXqg46MErFbMZRdeYHjE42OLqOpJ9nvJjy16_NVSJFHmE7luhhrnj2WWodYV2fkl4bUKn3x-_jyeFYim2OrVqIiU7sCtrX1v1k89flHaXSmHIYEr4IbDShJIc7irAY/s0/+2+Mom+and+Danny+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Hannah and baby Dan</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Though I’ve been married to Dan for over four decades and heard many of his stories about being an activist in the ’60s, I couldn’t articulate what had led him to this path. So, I asked him. He credits his mother’s activism with sparking his own. When he was a child his mother, Hannah, taught elementary school in Harlem. She knew what Black people were suffering and supported their issues. His father, Saul, was an immigrant from Poland who had come to America to escape anti-Semitism. His stories attuned Dan to the immigrant experience.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5sEGENgdEz5uLKIY2Eho21Mpc01vZWdV2cC5n8KNJzHv9Ip4u7Qz7yckXB-0qFYBqYYP_9ueB986OZVkRWrDI5L7Sig-ZrDi-ieaG15SfUbOt2A1zqYVxvMwF8X7JnF54YEYTTrvizg/s1524/+3+1931+Mom+%2526+Dad%252C+outside+of+Florence%252C+Italy+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="1524" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5sEGENgdEz5uLKIY2Eho21Mpc01vZWdV2cC5n8KNJzHv9Ip4u7Qz7yckXB-0qFYBqYYP_9ueB986OZVkRWrDI5L7Sig-ZrDi-ieaG15SfUbOt2A1zqYVxvMwF8X7JnF54YEYTTrvizg/w400-h240/+3+1931+Mom+%2526+Dad%252C+outside+of+Florence%252C+Italy+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Saul and Hannah, Florence, Italy 1931</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what really raised his consciousness was the racially integrated progressive camp his parents sent him to when he was 13. Before then he had had little exposure to people from other cultures. He loved that camp, attended it for three summers. It was a work camp—they built a recreation hall. He says he learned about social consciousness from the kids at camp.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIk5IOeaVdvqCnNvPDn3-caU2Fp_jaNdqfWapJO8CzWJ3vcZ44P2xQhwd3hZO8iUZ87nwAWT8YQPZMiGIFNFoGxZsnSbQ30AtLW4w4QIsQyytBj1vtbdY8f2DiTjgp4ck6PjiqN6Qd6c/s839/4+1952+Camp+Wyandot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="833" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIk5IOeaVdvqCnNvPDn3-caU2Fp_jaNdqfWapJO8CzWJ3vcZ44P2xQhwd3hZO8iUZ87nwAWT8YQPZMiGIFNFoGxZsnSbQ30AtLW4w4QIsQyytBj1vtbdY8f2DiTjgp4ck6PjiqN6Qd6c/w318-h320/4+1952+Camp+Wyandot.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Dan (the tall one) at Camp Wyandot</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I listened to Dan speak of how he became an activist, I realized what a fateful collision of energies—the Spirit of the Times, Dan’s personality, and Lady Luck created the stepping-stones of his path, leading him into the major issues of that time. Anyone who knows Dan knows how good he is at making connections with people, at networking, and at being open to learning from any situation he is in. He said: “In 1960, when the sit-ins began, it raised my consciousness, crystallized my energy. The protests were being done by college students. I was one—at Queens College in New York. I participated in boycotting Woolworth’s.”</div><div> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkiEMovt6727fvpMMH_ycqqz560sPqB5e2eD__k8rLVWLxvgVFjQLrEp00hjiWOmOpXQd9FDbv1me7W5uO5FhoZPNf2Z8kd5qF4jyHOzGIWJ9g-BuMtjZwQe_OSAbdFxSDejPRtcc8RM/s951/5+1960+06+QC+Grad+Proof+3jpg+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="951" data-original-width="658" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkiEMovt6727fvpMMH_ycqqz560sPqB5e2eD__k8rLVWLxvgVFjQLrEp00hjiWOmOpXQd9FDbv1me7W5uO5FhoZPNf2Z8kd5qF4jyHOzGIWJ9g-BuMtjZwQe_OSAbdFxSDejPRtcc8RM/s320/5+1960+06+QC+Grad+Proof+3jpg+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Dan at 21</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the University of Pennsylvania Dan became active in the NAACP and continued boycotting Woolworth’s. He said: “In the meantime the War in Vietnam was beginning to cook. I became aware of Gandhi and Martin Luther King’s commitment to non-violence and how their convictions and courage inspired thousands to resist oppression. As I read more about non-violence, it became a powerful belief system for me. As a Jew with a cousin who fought and was wounded in World War II, I was conflicted about the war and the obligation to fight, albeit violently to save oppressed people. However, because of my growing belief in non–violence, I decided I wouldn’t join the military. I was called to a pre–induction physical and refused to step forward when I was asked to.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That turned out to be smart. An ACLU staff attorney told Dan that not stepping forward meant he was still a civilian and the military couldn’t force him to do anything. However, as a result of his resistance, Dan was “invited” to speak to Army Intelligence. He went three times, was asked all the usual questions: No, he didn’t belong to the Fair Play for Cuba Committee. No, he wasn’t against the United States; he just didn’t agree with all its policies. Yes, he had refused to sign a loyalty oath; he considered it a violation of his Civil Rights. Dan made a connection with a Sergeant who, while fingerprinting him, said that if asked, he too would refuse to sign a loyalty oath.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dan learned he was simultaneously being investigated by the FBI. They said they had reason to believe he was a communist. (Remember, this is just a few years after the House Un-American Activities Committee had ruined the lives and careers of many progressive Americans by accusing them of being communists.) But Dan was consulting with the ACLU, which told him that the FBI had no business investigating him just because they had a suspicion.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">During this time, it became clear to Dan that he wanted to work in the field of Race Relations. How could one earn a living by doing this sort of thing? He arranged to meet with leaders of the organizations he knew were doing this kind of work: the NAACP, the Anti-Defamation League, the Urban League, the National Conference of Christians and Jews and asked them what they looked for in the people they hired. He learned that a Master’s Degree in Social Work with a focus on community organizing was a good ticket. When he and his first wife, Barbara, went to Bryn Mawr Social Work School, Barbara chose the clinical track and Dan chose community organization. His informational interviews turned out to be spot on. His first job out of Social Work school was with the American Friends Service Committee in Washington DC, organizing fair housing groups.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtRQ7fFn0maLVqeJTT7esRbbGi93ycMFIVIR8XU-sF2zyGk3SyfI0xEAweLkpAwQQkATjFD_mngJD4AilLWVrjlSJ7MCF2GoBCPgGEHX3P5Wy2pRrPoX8uuoJXvqGwQH_cIfN4myWnT0/s774/8+Daddy+and+Lisa%252C+June+1966+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="643" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtRQ7fFn0maLVqeJTT7esRbbGi93ycMFIVIR8XU-sF2zyGk3SyfI0xEAweLkpAwQQkATjFD_mngJD4AilLWVrjlSJ7MCF2GoBCPgGEHX3P5Wy2pRrPoX8uuoJXvqGwQH_cIfN4myWnT0/s320/8+Daddy+and+Lisa%252C+June+1966+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dan and Lisa, age 2</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dan told me: “That was the best job I ever had. I worked with Jim Harvey, an African American Baptist and a military veteran. We appreciated each other as we worked to prevent discrimination. We were dealing with a vast system: if a Black family purchased a home in a previously white neighborhood, Real Estate companies would frighten the current homeowners, saying that they had better sell quickly because their home values would plummet. Our job was to work with communities to adopt a more welcoming attitude in order to prevent this kind of block busting from going on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Our approach was to go to social action committees of churches and synagogues and find out who was interested in holding neighborhood meetings. Our operating strategy was to ‘Change the Climate of Opinion.’ It was fear and hostility—what we now call ‘othering’ —that caused the problems. Jim and I basically facilitated and listened. We were good organizers because we didn’t preach. People would say a few things about their fears. There was always this moment when someone in the group would say: ‘I’m not moving. If someone sells their house to a Negro family that’s fine. If they can afford to live here, they’ll be good neighbors.’ That changed the climate. Every so often someone would spit out a bunch of racist stuff. That also changed the climate of opinion in our favor, because no one wanted to be identified with that kind of bullshit, particularly because the meeting was sponsored by a faith–based institution with good human values.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dan and Jim created a safe container for people to express their fears. They facilitated and listened respectfully and in so doing changed the climate of opinion because of their accepting attitude. A Jungian might call that an alchemical transformation.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When the Anti–Poverty Program began Dan got a position as a community organizer for the Southeast Neighborhood House. Lady Luck was smiling on him, because the trainer for the program was Amy Horton, wife of Miles Horton of the Highlander Folk School, famous for teaching activists non-violence and community development. What Dan learned from her about role playing and empowering people by respecting their skills is alive in him to this day. The policy of the Anti–Poverty Program was that their grantees be run by the people who were affected—“Maximum feasible participation of the people to be served.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love a story Dan tells about a training he did to support citizen participation for people on Neighborhood Advisory Committees. Dan said, “I was learning a lot on the fly. I provided information. They raised questions. I used the experiences they actually had in their Advisory Committee meetings in the workshop. It was very practical. I used role playing. I asked them to come up with a problem. The group said there weren’t enough neighborhood workers. Possible solution—get more. Course of Action—go to the of Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO) national headquarters and demand more. They decided to do it. I didn’t think this was a good idea because our funding came from a local community action agency via the regional OEO headquarters where allocation decisions were made. But their logic was to go to the top. They wanted me to lead them. I said I wouldn’t lead them. I would attend.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“We went into high gear role playing. I played Sargent Shriver (then the head of OEO) for three nights. They learned a lot about power. I would divide them against each other. Or I would talk and talk and fill the time— thank them for coming and escort them out of the room. They learned they needed to have a spokesperson—they could always caucus. A 25 year–old single mom with four kids—ages 3 to 9—was chosen by the group. I role played with her, frustrated her by doing the bureaucratic dance. Finally, she banged her hands on the table and said, ‘My kids are hungry!’ This stopped me in my tracks. I said, ‘Winner! That’s it!’</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“The group followed up on their decision to go to the national OEO headquarters. They brought some of their kids. They went up to the 8th floor of the OEO building on L St., got out of the elevator, stood in the lobby. The staff, who had become part of the bureaucracy, were thrilled to see real people. They told us Sargent Shriver was in Europe. Members of the group asked:</div><div></div><blockquote><div>‘Who’s in charge?</div><div>‘The Deputy Director.’</div><div> ‘We’ll see him.’</div><div>‘He’s busy now.’</div><div>‘We’ll wait.’</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">The staff brought the group into a conference room, offered pizza and Cokes, were very solicitous. I never forgot that. It made a tremendous impression on me to realize bureaucracies are not made up of people who see everything the same way. This led me to a whole different organizational tactic I learned to use to help oppressed groups see that the ‘wall’ of power was made of bricks, which they could take apart.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2T7_rL6TMaXpd3N2C7t5ip0ebpci0QJr1hyphenhyphenyqoDNlL-TKJeudW544FrmcBMT5jiZUGGuN_jyhY0S8v0FXaCnF46FjyhWub4vtw-Fq5mIW70byCWHSn6AN6ObSFx0iEKN3ueOr_qRbmBY/s522/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+8.10.43+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="522" height="573" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2T7_rL6TMaXpd3N2C7t5ip0ebpci0QJr1hyphenhyphenyqoDNlL-TKJeudW544FrmcBMT5jiZUGGuN_jyhY0S8v0FXaCnF46FjyhWub4vtw-Fq5mIW70byCWHSn6AN6ObSFx0iEKN3ueOr_qRbmBY/w640-h573/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+8.10.43+PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“So, the Deputy Director comes in. He opens a huge ledger book and when he starts explaining the allocation system, the group’s spokesperson listens and then says,</div><div></div><blockquote><div>‘My kids are hungry! We don’t have time for this. We need action now.’ </div><div>‘Well, what do you want?’</div><div>‘We need 300 neighborhood workers.’</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">“Meanwhile the press came and observed. The group decided they weren’t leaving until they got what they came for. That wasn’t part of the training. The result was that OEO gave them a commitment for 25 additional neighborhood workers for the whole city. Southeast Neighborhood House would get an additional 5. This was very successful, got lots of media attention. And I got into a lot of trouble with the Southeast Neighborhood House Director, who was upset because I hadn’t alerted him. He was blindsided, though he supported the action. The people were very empowered. The training worked.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dan recalled something he read years later in Paulo Freire’s The Pedagogy of the Oppressed —you’re not really teaching if you’re not learning. It has to be dialogical. Dan and the group had presumed that the staff of OEO would be hostile. They weren’t. Quite the opposite: “Don’t treat power as monolithic. It’s not. Your job is to find the loose brick. Find ways of extracting it and the thing will collapse.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In 1965, Dan began working as a consultant to Head Start. This took him to the South, where he had many complex and interesting experiences. One, in Alberta, Alabama particularly stands out for him. He told me: “An African American Church had written to OEO, saying: ‘We’re not getting help from the local politicians, they are not involving us.’ The Church wanted early childhood education that would serve their kids. I met with a community group at the church and spent two days helping them do their proposal for Head Start. It was the kind of South that I had always heard about. Abject discrimination. Refusal to cooperate by a white power structure that was accustomed to ruling over Black community members, completely discounting Black people and their needs. It was exciting to me to realize we had the Federal Government responding to an appeal from a community group. That’s the way it should be. I loved telling my mother: ‘Guess who’s paying me to do this work? The Federal Government!’ The people in Alberta, Alabama got their Head Start program.</div><div> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvbIXDGlchS1JzQFZ3EqSQTuu_N0h2FVopphJy2ZHKF2_JpLph-pK7yAc1xAybKI-Np04b26zVuJb_q1U6jJF6CftKiRf8VSjXgRAxvJEiEydCMQCr_drF6rT2KGBt0Le8bD7ZZotkDo/s274/Unknown.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="274" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvbIXDGlchS1JzQFZ3EqSQTuu_N0h2FVopphJy2ZHKF2_JpLph-pK7yAc1xAybKI-Np04b26zVuJb_q1U6jJF6CftKiRf8VSjXgRAxvJEiEydCMQCr_drF6rT2KGBt0Le8bD7ZZotkDo/w400-h269/Unknown.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Head Start Flag</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I really enjoyed doing consulting work. I developed an expertise in Parent Involvement, one of Head Start’s key components. I loved helping parents become more astute and engaged. And of course, I was identified with them because I had a toddler at home. Often, I’d be there to hear a parenting talk and realized I knew nothing about all of this—for instance, developmental stages. I was being empowered.”</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3MS5edQHajs6L16gIDKMtDMxleLnrxjPYenCcwhUiJaMrmXokKhgTvqEOfGHhTuY2rsv2H24w1Zfn1x_3qwy0Y5CEuQlYIkAKV2sidb4kI8_QebsMSGFYqDsLOudC8GSJ7vOW_Dl_Ae4/s1000/AP_649684293447-1000x674.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="1000" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3MS5edQHajs6L16gIDKMtDMxleLnrxjPYenCcwhUiJaMrmXokKhgTvqEOfGHhTuY2rsv2H24w1Zfn1x_3qwy0Y5CEuQlYIkAKV2sidb4kI8_QebsMSGFYqDsLOudC8GSJ7vOW_Dl_Ae4/w400-h270/AP_649684293447-1000x674.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Bobby Kennedy with Black leaders</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Bobby Kennedy for President</b></div><div></div><blockquote><div><i>Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppressions and resistance.</i></div><div>—Bobby Kennedy</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">In March 1968 President Johnson announced he would not run for President for a second time. This was a complicated moment. Johnson was reviled by many on the left, including Dan and me, for continuing the horrendous slaughter that was the Vietnam War. But it was Johnson who was making real change happen in domestic politics. It was he who won passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the legislation that created Medicare and Medicaid. We all owe him such a debt of gratitude. It was also Johnson who pushed through the many aspects of The War on Poverty. This did so much to open the doors for Lady Liberty’s arrival among poor, Black and brown people, giving them a voice in the institutions set up to help them and hired Dan and many others to do their remarkable community organizing work. Johnson was a tragic figure. To this day, he doesn’t get the credit he deserves for some of the most progressive legislation in Dan and my lifetimes. In 1966 Bobbie Kennedy had warned him against continuing the bombing campaign, declaring that we were "on a road from which there is no turning back, a road that leads to catastrophe…” It certainly led to a catastrophe for Johnson and the Great Society he envisioned.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Images of the Viet Nam War</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNO-jTQKDBgT75ocM8hQc0prik4W4wwri-bTYhBmFxaO_kzJXkXlASM_viTvltPZRZ808kYrIotASEzf1wAhpSxUn59CnbDr_xeSny4dBrLFqZ-ersB01Zf4o5c5YVjjl4xWH0cc36y7A/s1024/S3678-1024x677.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNO-jTQKDBgT75ocM8hQc0prik4W4wwri-bTYhBmFxaO_kzJXkXlASM_viTvltPZRZ808kYrIotASEzf1wAhpSxUn59CnbDr_xeSny4dBrLFqZ-ersB01Zf4o5c5YVjjl4xWH0cc36y7A/s320/S3678-1024x677.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IREV6iZwlFpoE_RJJ5VTH5dNAhZeJL67fvwSLbtlbWeDtZ1zHf25p6x8J2a8W2k8TCV28GvJNgQoRD4LM5KOB-qJBzCvBkmAAJQmP1aHUTCUajCsH9-XszFHKqaQnwiGoJn1aZqFzPs/s900/1140-marines-vietnam-war-changed-everything.imgcache.rev.web.900.518.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IREV6iZwlFpoE_RJJ5VTH5dNAhZeJL67fvwSLbtlbWeDtZ1zHf25p6x8J2a8W2k8TCV28GvJNgQoRD4LM5KOB-qJBzCvBkmAAJQmP1aHUTCUajCsH9-XszFHKqaQnwiGoJn1aZqFzPs/s320/1140-marines-vietnam-war-changed-everything.imgcache.rev.web.900.518.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkaQ5sDxODz-7g6kdYz8Su8wc1A4n84LzUsoi_ETrnrTFxiEGc4JAl8CkWQOuwA7Uh4mmD7TLbCNTYLYgdJW7su5lekHRzbfHX8_zEHEyw3dv38sK3wxPJe0Ub4A6Rf7Aqsb7IJYKqnI/s1024/merlin_8865849_cc6f120d-9720-4d03-ba4b-1b65a55e79c4-jumbo.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkaQ5sDxODz-7g6kdYz8Su8wc1A4n84LzUsoi_ETrnrTFxiEGc4JAl8CkWQOuwA7Uh4mmD7TLbCNTYLYgdJW7su5lekHRzbfHX8_zEHEyw3dv38sK3wxPJe0Ub4A6Rf7Aqsb7IJYKqnI/s320/merlin_8865849_cc6f120d-9720-4d03-ba4b-1b65a55e79c4-jumbo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By 1968 Dan had become well known as an activist and community organizer in Washington D.C. He was recruited to run on the slate of delegates to the Democratic Convention by a group which opposed Vice President Hubert Humphries’ nomination to become President. Humphrey, also a tragic figure, was rumored to oppose continuing the Viet Nam war but, as Vice President, he continued to support Lyndon Johnson’s policies. The delegation supporting Bobby Kennedy won in the primary and Dan was elected as an alternate delegate. He was part of a diverse delegation, ethnically and by age and gender. It was exciting. And then on June 4th everything fell apart when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated right after winning the California primary. Dan told me: “The Washington DC delegation wasn’t sure what to do. Gene McCarthy, who was also running, asked to meet with us. It was a very disappointing meeting. One young man, in his 20s, had expressed his concern that there were insufficient recreational activities in his part of Washington and kids couldn’t play at night—no lights. He got a very unempathic response from McCarthy: ‘Well that’s a local issue.’ It was such a shut–down that everybody—even those who had supported McCarthy initially—came away knowing they were not going to support him. We ended up supporting one of the members of our delegation—an African American Minister named Channing Phillips—knowing that he didn’t have a chance. This was July. The convention was in late August.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“On the night before the convention began, I was in Chicago, taking a walk with one of the other delegates, an African American psychologist, named Roy, who did training for the police. As we were walking through the streets, we came upon police lined up near buildings, beating their batons. Roy turned to me and said ‘Dan, I’m scared.’ I said ‘Roy, what do you mean?’ He said ‘They’re very high strung. They’re almost looking for trouble.’ That, of course is exactly what happened. The police rioted.</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZOuQPvKYE8C_UhGNW5ebmuActLTYLQU1blAbH79kjgFuzNz1gQIlVGMFZ1R5Q_1be2OShtDCfkdYzYQ8tA8NnypnNEmLP2HtOUGNtjvBwoPUsVRakyF9UYDMVp6c-RWoauDAv3NZiWg/s920/68convention_03.0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZOuQPvKYE8C_UhGNW5ebmuActLTYLQU1blAbH79kjgFuzNz1gQIlVGMFZ1R5Q_1be2OShtDCfkdYzYQ8tA8NnypnNEmLP2HtOUGNtjvBwoPUsVRakyF9UYDMVp6c-RWoauDAv3NZiWg/s320/68convention_03.0.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwrBPevJmsyw-5uZSkQw6T2lpxl2GwVewFPFzkKZrD2f0hSM9l5jCmL-DZC3yjQtFBg5BHQz18o_aCxDDE_HkcmzFVmudKO6Zf9Kk9nk1ex-U2D12XGSN8PKLnPgaLVj_VCg8obY9bmBw/s2560/Denby-Mailer1968.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1725" data-original-width="2560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwrBPevJmsyw-5uZSkQw6T2lpxl2GwVewFPFzkKZrD2f0hSM9l5jCmL-DZC3yjQtFBg5BHQz18o_aCxDDE_HkcmzFVmudKO6Zf9Kk9nk1ex-U2D12XGSN8PKLnPgaLVj_VCg8obY9bmBw/s320/Denby-Mailer1968.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Images of the 1968 Democratic Convention</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I attended the convention. There was one defeat after another. The anti-war platform was defeated. On the night Humphrey was to be nominated I and many others walked out of the convention. We decided to join the protestors outside. We were very aware of what was happening in the streets. Dick Gregory invited all of us to come to his house for chitlins. Hundreds of people. A whole bunch of us wearing our suits and our convention badges started walking to Dick Gregory’s house and were blocked by the police. We decided this was the time for civil disobedience. We thought, OK they can arrest us. But they refused to arrest us. Clearly, they were blocking us from the Black neighborhoods of Chicago. They didn’t want to have other people join us. We went back to the main street and joined the marchers. Because we were delegates we were at the front, thinking this would be some kind of protection for people. The whole street was filled from curb to curb with marchers. Up ahead were a whole line of police cars and trucks, some with barbed wire grills, blocking the way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“This was a very peaceful march. We were all committed to non-violence. The word went out: ‘Let’s just sit.’ So, everybody sat. I was in the front row with maybe 80 other people. The vehicles started approaching us. It was nighttime. We could see them because the TV camera lights were behind them. I remember thinking, ‘they won’t run over us.’ All of a sudden, the police were shooting tear gas at us. A young man, sitting a bit to the right of me was hit by a tear gas canister. Earlier, some young people—I think they were medical volunteers—had been giving out information about what to do in case of tear gas. I thought, ‘That’s nice of them, but it’s not going to happen.’ When I saw that young man hit, I was so angry, I almost lost it. We started running. I tried to pick up cobblestones from the streets but fortunately I couldn’t dislodge them. One of the medical volunteer kids came by with a washcloth and it worked—the tear gas was terrible. None of our delegation badges had any value when the police rioted. I had to get myself together internally. I hadn’t felt that kind of violent anger in a long time, not since I first began to study conscientious objection.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“We were near the Hilton. I walked into the bar. It was like a scene in a movie. People on the inside had no idea of the action on the outside. I felt somewhat safe because I had a suit on and a badge. In a movie the outside would have crashed in through a window. But that didn’t happen, not until the police began storming into the hotel, right past the bar. I learned later that they had gone up to the McCarthy headquarters where they said people were throwing things out the window at them. They came down with people they’d arrested.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I asked him how that experience had shaped him. Dan said, “It rededicated me to non-violence. I had taken a vow to be non-violent. That’s not natural for people. Violence comes naturally. One has to be aware of that and contradict it. It reaffirmed the corruption of Mayor Daly. He was not going to allow demonstrations to happen in his city. They were suppressed. I saw no violence on the part of demonstrators. We were very disciplined, almost jovial though we got very serious when we saw the police cars. So that also affirmed my belief in non-violence because I don’t think violence is going to work against a lot of guns.”</div><div> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwIKaylGRVEdKg_F2mmJsrF1FdN0NzAeYZt2IxWxudG54_3xIEfbbHAxaaaAoeuCIQ4YS0LJUTyJ6MEaZtUNVmBPcwpzaEJpnQUSeKHfUlR-6XN9SzEwpe1XM8AHxW0p66Ek01XgpV-o/s364/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.29.13+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="364" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwIKaylGRVEdKg_F2mmJsrF1FdN0NzAeYZt2IxWxudG54_3xIEfbbHAxaaaAoeuCIQ4YS0LJUTyJ6MEaZtUNVmBPcwpzaEJpnQUSeKHfUlR-6XN9SzEwpe1XM8AHxW0p66Ek01XgpV-o/w400-h229/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.29.13+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">National Guard and protesters</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><b>The Funeral Train</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i>There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why? I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre;">—</span>Bobby Kennedy</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAGA2Cepu8Kc7j_vcfP6zD3f9ktgOkRnOj8YKkqalbcSF_w73E62lNlIE1Jgl89H-qN2gH5UYz7KtKMt9dn-viP09NRHljhq4OdWIE68IxGKYiw9XBzxecttR6K3fWUgOlioN-4zJn60/s1071/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.47.19+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="231" data-original-width="1071" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAGA2Cepu8Kc7j_vcfP6zD3f9ktgOkRnOj8YKkqalbcSF_w73E62lNlIE1Jgl89H-qN2gH5UYz7KtKMt9dn-viP09NRHljhq4OdWIE68IxGKYiw9XBzxecttR6K3fWUgOlioN-4zJn60/w640-h138/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.47.19+PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Response to RFK’s funeral train</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am haunted by the images of the train that carried Bobby Kennedy’s dead body through America, from California to Washington D.C., haunted by all the people who gathered by the tracks, poor white people, poor Black people, people who looked middle class, waving, waving, in a kind of trance of disbelief. I hold in mind a particularly eloquent wave from a Black woman wearing a headscarf. The wave said not only goodbye to Bobby, goodbye to all he understood about what my people suffer, it said goodbye to the Civil Rights movement, goodbye to the Anti–Poverty Program, goodbye to the Federal Government’s taking an interest in the lives and needs of its ordinary citizens. What I saw on those thousands of faces that lined the tracks was mourning for the loss of hope in America. There is something soulful and substantial about mourning. You confront the reality of what you have lost. You know what it meant to you. And you weep, as John Lewis wept as he spoke of his friend Bobby’s death in the documentary film, Bobby Kennedy for President, as he told us that he had dedicated himself to Bobby’s unfinished work.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHBvCVX454twGQJPYZuGzy7viB05UD09qzVm9CScFa2FMsxUhbuWZwD2KXrzi3Nw30N0IasDiRdlGOhaN8ckaz4N3IQMPcAuQIZXqEMhVdDmYvFUXhpktFiDV0YwHtwUOho9JSYem5Xlg/s689/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.45.03+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="689" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHBvCVX454twGQJPYZuGzy7viB05UD09qzVm9CScFa2FMsxUhbuWZwD2KXrzi3Nw30N0IasDiRdlGOhaN8ckaz4N3IQMPcAuQIZXqEMhVdDmYvFUXhpktFiDV0YwHtwUOho9JSYem5Xlg/w640-h254/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.45.03+PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Images of John Lewis</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Toward the end of his life, Bobby Kennedy became a man of such deep feeling, such courageous understanding, that the people lining the tracks knew they had lost someone of great value, not to mention all the other losses of that decade. Maybe they could feel the crush of history that would blockade and undermine so much of the progress we had begun to make. Richard Nixon was about to be elected President.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In our own time, we seem to have forgotten how to mourn, and as a result we find it difficult to hope. We get stuck in anger, in outrage, in denial, in doomscrolling. Maddening and destructive as the Berserker King of Bedlam has been, his years in power have revealed the ugly underbelly of America. I hope the Biden Harris administration will bring a moral compass back to America and empower the Federal Government to work for the good of its citizens. But there is something even harder that needs to happen. We need to engage in a process of reckoning with our history and the evil that has been committed in our name. Only then will we get our train back on its tracks.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vtpNsTgLmeoyBnpGGE5JkUJ5lDWx0CgO_gqD88_tjkZftwAOFixCRrPb9R5jfh5dJt7RT9whirRIBGN56DckEAYtXL6U3sfbiFzotlcs06Y9nAt1gun4N8sDx7HNZDtK1FQUnxfTxFc/s645/bidenjoe_harriskamala_121318.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="645" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vtpNsTgLmeoyBnpGGE5JkUJ5lDWx0CgO_gqD88_tjkZftwAOFixCRrPb9R5jfh5dJt7RT9whirRIBGN56DckEAYtXL6U3sfbiFzotlcs06Y9nAt1gun4N8sDx7HNZDtK1FQUnxfTxFc/w400-h225/bidenjoe_harriskamala_121318.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Joe Biden and Kamala Harris</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><b>Inauguration Day January 20, 2021</b></div><div></div><blockquote><div><i>What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer in our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.</i></div><div>—Bobby Kennedy</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">None of the outcomes we feared, happened. None of our terrors came true. No one was assassinated. No horde of insurrectionists overran the ceremonies, the gathered former presidents and their wives, the Senators and Congress people from both sides of the aisle, the big empty space left by the outgoing #45 who refused to participate in the peaceful transfer of power. The National Guard was out in force, with weapons. The ritual was elegantly planned and beautifully performed. Michelle and Kamala and Jill looked splendid in their richly colored coats—burgundy, purple, turquoise. It was a feast for the eyes —a solace for our aching hearts and bruised souls.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbo77GyPLb3cv31rahwp3c3JnAnUTLccB2FsD39ISUdu43l24TTxXV5twthg3JTPvaiPmXOMJXzWtHbjIM_NKJZwEFmaFgKpdmQAy-I2tvSCW3LlaUqaoOPKWYOdUqMEnYDLsenqJpKc/s917/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.52.16+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="917" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbo77GyPLb3cv31rahwp3c3JnAnUTLccB2FsD39ISUdu43l24TTxXV5twthg3JTPvaiPmXOMJXzWtHbjIM_NKJZwEFmaFgKpdmQAy-I2tvSCW3LlaUqaoOPKWYOdUqMEnYDLsenqJpKc/w400-h225/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.52.16+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Kamala, Jill and Michelle at Inauguration</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dan and I watched in joy as, on a cold winter day in Washington D.C., Kamala removed her mask, revealing her glorious bronze skin, straightened herself up to her full height, and took the Oath of Office administered by Sonia Sotomayor, our only Latinx Supreme Court Justice. We watched as Kamala was embraced by her Jewish husband, about to become the nation’s first second gentleman. We saw Joe Biden looking healthy and strong at seventy-eight years of age, with his beautiful wife, Dr. Jill Biden. She looked as though she was carrying the worry and overwhelm of the last two weeks. She held the giant family bible as Chief Justice John Roberts administered the oath of Office to Joe. It was not yet noon in D.C., the magic hour when power would pass from the Orange Fury who had shadowed our world and made us fear for our futures for so many years, to the light filled face of the kind and determined man before us, giving his inaugural address. The soul of Bobby Kennedy was gladdened by Joe Biden’s words:</div><div></div><blockquote><div>A cry for racial justice some 400 years in the making moves us. The dream of justice for all will be deferred no longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>A cry for survival comes from the planet itself. A cry that can’t be any more desperate or any more clear.</div><div>And now, a rise in political extremism, white supremacy, domestic terrorism that we must confront and we will defeat….</div><div><br /></div><div>In another January in Washington, on New Year’s Day 1863, Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation.</div><div><br /></div><div>When he put pen to paper, the President Lincoln said, “If my name ever goes down into history it will be for this act and my whole soul is in it.”</div><div><br /></div><div>My whole soul is in it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, on this January day, my whole soul is in this….</div></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnbhpaKClTAPI45X9qawTlvv165IE8MNMyuziUL-G7TpVX3Qod6VeQOQWTT31lM4dyqh06lrV0WwmHGjJUCRK8IDO069AnV8LZPmKE0k8xF4a8qKLxYRHoyICLtDHifwwncStXklJWrw/s524/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.55.46+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="412" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnbhpaKClTAPI45X9qawTlvv165IE8MNMyuziUL-G7TpVX3Qod6VeQOQWTT31lM4dyqh06lrV0WwmHGjJUCRK8IDO069AnV8LZPmKE0k8xF4a8qKLxYRHoyICLtDHifwwncStXklJWrw/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.55.46+PM.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> Abraham Lincoln</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Fifty-two and a half years after our hopes for America were dashed by assassins, by the kind of people Bobby described when he said:</div><div><blockquote>There are people in every time and every land who want to stop history in its tracks. They fear the future, mistrust the present, and invoke the security of the comfortable past, which never existed.</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For a moment I could see the souls of Bobby Kennedy and Joe Biden taking the arc of history in hand and curving it toward justice. Sadly, that moment is long gone. The Impeachment Hearings impressed me deeply because of the valiant truth telling work done by the Democratic Managers. But the narrative shown of the events of Jan 6th staggers my imagination. I found myself in a daze of disbelief about what happened, similar to what Dan felt in the Chicago Police Riot at the 1968 Democratic Convention. Though I do take heart that seven Republican Senators voted to impeach, the curtain has been raised on the crazed power of the far right, of the believers in hateful conspiracies, and their enablers in our government. How do we climb out of this morass?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My hope is that activists like Dan was in his generation—like Stacy Abrams and the many young people who worked with her in Georgia, and all those who worked for Truth, Justice and Lady Liberty in Arizona, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Nevada, and Wisconsin, will continue to do the slow good work of community organizing, of empowering and raising consciousness, all over this land. That is how we earn the future described by our beautiful young Inaugural poet, may she revive our hope in Lady Liberty, may she be an inspiration to us all:</div><div></div><blockquote><div>We will rebuild, reconcile and recover</div><div>and every known nook of our nation and</div><div>every corner called our country,</div><div>our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,</div><div>battered and beautiful</div><div>When day comes we step out of the shade,</div><div>aflame and unafraid</div><div>The new dawn blooms as we free it</div><div>For there is always light,</div><div>if only we’re brave enough to see it</div><div>If only we’re brave enough to be it.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;">—</span>Amanda Gorman</div></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPofR8A8SOstuUM45BYvnC17_hV2neMoMCdFtTHu1C54vWFbGz8Et-txLUBj-qAfomXrog2qukGVffeOkRPyIbMBoJTxBhLrMHlD4J1hnyKdVc7W0YIMrb_X3M72_udxta3zHwTEYRSTo/s653/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.58.41+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="653" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPofR8A8SOstuUM45BYvnC17_hV2neMoMCdFtTHu1C54vWFbGz8Et-txLUBj-qAfomXrog2qukGVffeOkRPyIbMBoJTxBhLrMHlD4J1hnyKdVc7W0YIMrb_X3M72_udxta3zHwTEYRSTo/w400-h263/Screen+Shot+2021-02-28+at+3.58.41+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Amanda Gorman</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-49777544521650115812021-01-22T17:50:00.221-08:002021-02-15T12:13:59.603-08:00The Muse of Lady Liberty: Part I<blockquote>Plato noted a particular risk for tyrants: that they would be surrounded in the end by yes-men and enablers. Aristotle worried that, in a democracy, a wealthy and talented demagogue could all too easily master the minds of the populace. Aware of these risks and others, the framers of the Constitution instituted a system of checks and balances. The point was not simply to ensure that no one branch of government dominated the others but also to anchor in institutions different points of view.<div><span> <span><span>—</span></span></span>Timothy Snyder “The American Abyss”</div><div><span> <span> </span></span><i>New York Times Magazine</i> Jan 17, 2021</div></blockquote><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4QQpHrp2NItMjKtlBOyb5ga6cHJ_MaGTIR_kLkV5FmyH7LBV99GG4E0egV4UkCEj5wH_C2slO6ddbNTBCd0LtuaPYwGEBCZDcqT5Z3lMkOEHdjVA5vP7wcsVT27aq4q1eha4rlw7CLP7/w200-h400/Freedom_1.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of Freedom at the top<br />of the Capitol Dome</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Seize the Moment</b><br /><blockquote><i>But the spirits of those who die before their time will live, for the sake of our present incompleteness, in dark hordes in the rafters of our houses and besiege our ears with urgent laments, until we grant them redemption…</i><br /><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>—C.G. Jung <i>The Red Book</i> p. 297</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">We are in a major moment in American History. We have seen an Insurrection Breach the Capitol and had to realize how fragile our democracy is. Lady Liberty lay bleeding in the halls of Congress. But then, just two weeks later, She picked Herself up, got Herself all decked out in as a Native American Warrior Woman, and presided over a peaceful—if armed to the teeth—Inauguration Day at the very place—the scene of the crime—where she had been rampaged.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We who have survived the last four Years of Outrage, the Year of the Pandemic, of Economic Collapse, and the final insult—the Insurrectionary Breach of our Capitol—have been taken on a terrifying but illuminating tour of the Great American Shadow. In this underworld, where all that has been denied, not taught in our schools, forgotten, lied about in our history—the genocide of our indigenous population, slavery, Jim Crow, voter suppression, the theft of wealth from those who built our country, our Capitol, our White House, shows up in the cultural unconscious as furious, grieving shades, who haunt us, possess us, take on demonic forms.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">Statue of Armed Freedom</a>, a manifestation of Lady Liberty, which graces the top of the Capitol Dome, holds some of the shadow truths we like to forget. She was created just before the Civil War, when the Capitol Dome was being rebuilt. Her creation was facilitated by a brilliant slave, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">Philip Reid</a>, “who came with the idea of using a pulley to move the statue, was then paid $1.25 a day by the federal government to ‘keep up fires under the moulds,’ according to the architects records.” His owner pocketed the money. But when the final cast of the Statue was raised in 1863, Reid was a free man. It took until 2014 for his contribution to be recognized in a ceremony on the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you look at this statue, you’ll notice that Freedom wears feathers in her hair, and a beautiful blanket wrapped around her, Indian style. Wikipedia comments that many who see her assume she is a Native American. Was the designer, Thomas Crawford, haunted by the spirits of the indigenous dead, who died before their time?</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lG1haJ6yGh7eVbXozurWMvXx9zEkBhxJMnLj-2YGBxcjIne2En_jaEcmxFYItBoFzcwOnkZ44RzAtDZiTtlgeXCqrFY2MsbhM4XtgERzraEdzFspbqeGRA7zbcVFwpYtptyJBN-EMB_u/w159-h320/image.png" width="159" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of Freedom</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">With Lady Liberty, we find ourselves blinking in the light of a cold winter Inauguration Day—peaceful—though filled with armed soldiers. We are disoriented, relieved, joyous but still afraid. Will we return to our denial, our lies to ourselves, our unwillingness to do the hard work of Truth and Reconciliation? Will the demons return to do more damage? Or will we seize the moment, as our new President urges, to make America live up to her promise and bring Lady Liberty’s gifts to all our people?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In this blog, which I’ve been fussing with for months, I’m seeking the roots of the Great American Trouble with Truth, as experienced in my life and in that of my husband, Dan Safran. I’m covering a lot of ground, so this will come in several installments.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK5D_SSDVLxe_JZaBRLB8hiFh9LjXjne6GwEQ4kV4PD_ApJ3JS8rPnknrFNlefcl14EuisjOqSGFenwLiZ_qb1dUWQK5VjUA1Bz-pxlugC3uE7IZ9qx1t_VtGH0Mv7PjOqM6EHac8g3q3y/w178-h400/3.+Lady+Liberty+by+Theodore+Bonev+St.+Martin.jpg" /></a></div><br /><b>Attempted Insurrection Breaches the Capitol: January 6th 2021</b><br /><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i>All Lost Causes find their lifeblood in lies, big and small, lies born of beliefs in search of a history that can be forged into a story and mobilize masses of people to act politically, violently and in the name of ideology.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>—David W. Blight “Will the Myth of Trumpism Endure?”</div><span><div style="text-align: left;"> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span> <i>New York Times Sunday Review</i> 1/10/21</div></span></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Recent American history has been a runaway train, driven faster and faster by a Berserker Conductor until it flew off the rails and threw us passengers into violently splintered versions of reality. We who sit in the progressive cars of the train were flung out of our familiar compartments into an unknown landscape, one in which we seesawed from euphoria to outrage and terror, from Georgia giving us two democratic senators—the first black man—Raphael Warnock— and the first Jewish man—Jon Ossoff—elected from that state—to the carnage at the Capitol. Now the Democrats control the Senate by the slimmest of margins—requiring the vote of our first African American, first Asian American, first female Vice President—to break a tie. This gives us a bit of leverage and hope that the Biden–Harris administration will be able to deal with the overwhelming issues that the outgoing administration has neglected or abused—the pandemic, economic inequality, millions of citizens out of work, the Racial Justice Movement and Climate Change. We weren’t given long to take pleasure in that hard won victory, to praise the activism of Stacy Abrams and her dedicated volunteers who brought out the vote, or to relish the realization that Mitch McConnell will no longer be able to block us at every pass.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wCdGQG6vl8WtgBQxlAOjMealvy8sJzZNricwSaXpT_tJiTbxfS3rGe4bAp6aW2rGwcfoy-ZutBL8zZpayrT3IMLEGIF5zB6nel3h194PqAkkchHbP5X-i3R0fe33pCVmfWeTK02GvPOc/w284-h400/image.png" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Georgia’s Lady Liberty<br />Photo by Jim Bowen<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Notice, this Lady Liberty is wearing a “Liberty Cap,” following the Roman tradition of wearing such a cap to indicate being a freed slave.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our Berserker Conductor—He Who Would “Repeal Reality”—to borrow Nancy Pelosi’s phrase—purveyor of the Big Lie that it was he who won the election—invited and incited his followers to join the insurrection that took over the Capitol. This horde of militias and Trumpists came straight out of America’s worst nightmares—they bore arms, waved Confederate flags, dressed as eagles, clowns, wore face paint and horns, wore “Camp Auschwitz” hoodies and tee shirts that read “Six Million Jews Were Not Enough.” They chanted “Stop the Steal!” and “1776!”</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUXaKyvLK1HmawiTaApMobSQEe3TjsZFag1YHAWQ6XP_OLyHGbgK0jhvnLl8JThItAeuzcMdX-mbUyWloSpdb3w1pjZPi0TdPhdUJmrsvOtX2Y2WfzobYEfpRqWyuqegSWpDT1vMRGF2_/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUXaKyvLK1HmawiTaApMobSQEe3TjsZFag1YHAWQ6XP_OLyHGbgK0jhvnLl8JThItAeuzcMdX-mbUyWloSpdb3w1pjZPi0TdPhdUJmrsvOtX2Y2WfzobYEfpRqWyuqegSWpDT1vMRGF2_/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Capitol Riot</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wait. What? Let’s step out of the chaos for a moment to reflect. What possessed the Trumpist insurrectionists to chant the year of the American Revolution? Our country’s mythic heroes are the rebels who stood up to that Tyrant, King George of Britain, and, in 1776, penned a litany of accusations we call the Declaration of Independence against the King’s “repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States” which is read religiously every July 4th on NPR. Our American rebels created a democracy in a world full of monarchies. How did this horde of wannabe revolutionaries get the story turned inside out—rebelling against democracy to support a would-be Tyrant? Were they fueled by the misinformation perpetrated by a lying leader and by social media set up to cultivate echo chambers of opinion without regard to the Truth? Or were they put into trance by a Cult Leader, following him into a conspiracy laced splinter faction of lost souls in which his enemies are the Devil’s Spawn, the rapists of Lady Liberty, and he is the only one who can save them?</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZeJnfPb1218roUuL2lRt4CKBbAK0hgcsksHj0aQlx2Z7N_hBsOM-T1ndI9XTWpq41oXSEGPfXIo2ev9rfNlLXMyBclf0Ar3IjxR_WbKUxHw6SNsoshVc6PEl_qgFURU8VlhkZuzuGvlFA/w400-h146/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Back at the Capitol, the would be King had promised he’d lead his followers in person, but true to form, could only be found on Twitter until Twitter cancelled him. His mob of Proud Boys and other White Supremacists, folks who buy into his Big Lies, had set up a noose to make their point very clear. They breached the barricades, climbed over walls, used bicycle racks to break glass and bust through doors, attacked Capitol Police with American flagpoles, fire extinguishers and bear mace, threatened news reporters, Senators, Congress People and their staff members. They planted a sign reading “Pelosi is Satan” in a conspicuous spot. The Senate had to make an archetypal descent into the underworld of the building, where they were held in a secure area.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxjrEDCizx5fVrwiBDh1pdI9YOJ1SJMRMyJL2DDkyIx0Mi3elGg3wGEcunlqt_Nz7Z2UMk6uwoqNeHl2b9seBZZvccMSeY5jhF7caQdEbi2A0ZMKtwwnHf_rs0njTMRRhU4qFfhLT2uR7/w400-h266/image.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mob</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Members of the House sheltered in place, cowering under their seats as the mob tried to break into their chamber. They pushed heavy chests against the doors to keep the horde from storming in. They put on gas masks to protect themselves from tear gas the police had deployed in the Rotunda. They were finally evacuated just before the mob entered the chamber and they too made their descent into a secure underworld where 200 members were piled into a small room. This outrage was not only the result of our Berserker King rousing his followers to an insurrection against the country he was supposedly leading and defending, but of a large group of Republican Senators and Congress People poised to throw out the legal and valid election results of millions of voters, simply because they didn’t like the outcome. Their accusations of voter fraud had been adjudicated in the courts and been thrown out over and over again as having no merit.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjCPqk9SeE4Gnwtk75MVGN-EKxW30NcKygvFf3njMRSeBi_PRuDr9mWZV6HqG6cNj_8IFfaXfDr9FJmyPRQ2-zJTE5OXe9xFR3Dbx8IBqRGUcwp9Vx0GzwXmci0YEaOQj1TI23wwSG-dC/" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">You wonder why I keep using the word Berserker? Berserkers were ancient Viking warriors, who wore bear skins, or nothing at all, drove themselves into a rages to prepare for battle. It seems the most appropriate words for what we’ve experienced with our 45th President and his followers.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuOAsXQBJMm1BYbnNabZrUd97foO-sAZQfcMqxaEJHY_DVTyOX-vw2KwAY4jXoz2wu_JzzrrA8s72lZKdVofcbHJUQrxICdv5H0rcnRAO3BCn5PKYNPnFMgPoOTDJ0nsjjo-BZDhNxACI/w400-h293/image.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Berserker</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">On that wild train ride some of the outgoing President’s most loyal supporters were suddenly thrown to the other side. Vice President Pence refused to join those who were objecting to the certification. He insisted that his role was to do the bidding of the American people. And Senator McConnell said that hijacking the voting process would “send Democracy into a death spiral.” It was too little too late. On the Day of the Attempted Insurrection American Democracy was a train wreck—lying in pieces all over the land. Since then I’ve been working on this blog to try to get my bearings. The news keeps shifting, changing. Where are we? Where are we headed? That day looks worse and worse as more details are gathered. For example, it seems that some Republicans gave insurrectionists a reconnaissance tour of the building the night before the coup attempt, and that other Republicans refused to wear masks in the tight quarters where members of the House had to huddle and to share the air. Several who were there have since tested positive for Covid.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In hindsight it seems a miracle that no one from the press or from Congress was seriously hurt. However, many were badly traumatized. As the call to impeach the Inciter–in–Chief, again, was addressed in the House a week after the Coup attempt, the word was that many Republican members of Congress were afraid to take a stand against the would–be Tyrant, not only for political reasons—they were afraid for their physical safety and that of their families. Lady Liberty lies bleeding in the Temple of Democracy.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzt6Q4hUBvx-eGXRQjIhovJjwC6Kau0s-2evVj8uOvQwsQdJtvcM0QFkQak0Oo1lsUeZsw6mgDAP1Y_Xdft_CTJBQx-VQ-rcutpD3OzqxuNXTmMPGp6A-Z1lEU4u6yZqIxVdltVS8bGwi/w400-h266/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noose</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">How in the world was this violent breach allowed to happen? Nobody has been allowed into the Capitol since the beginning of the pandemic. These confederate flag waving terrorists were not wearing masks. Yet doors were opened for them. Some Capitol policemen took selfies with them. The murderous mob, shouting “Hang Pence!” and “Where’s Nancy?” was actively hunting down our Vice President and the Speaker of our House. They rifled through Nancy Pelosi’s papers, put their feet on her desk. They defecated in the hallways. Their purpose was to desecrate the People’s House. Quick thinking by the Secret Service and Capitol police saved our elected representatives from being slaughtered. Most of the line of presidential succession was in that building—they got Pence, Harris, Pelosi and Hoyer to safety, protected the Senate and the House. There was hand–to–hand combat with vengeful invaders. One brave Capitol policeman, Eugene Goodman, a Black man and a Veteran, led the mob away from its prey by risking being its prey. They chased him upstairs, downstairs and through hallways as he craftily steered them away from the Senate Chamber, where members were still being evacuated, and showed them the exit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We all saw this train wreck coming. The Inciter–in–Chief had been tweeting for weeks that Jan. 6th would be “wild” in Washington. Why wasn’t there more protection and defense for our lawmakers and journalists? Any peaceful Black Lives Matter demonstration would not gotten anywhere near the Capitol. I shudder to think what would have happened to them. And those Proud Boys, tough guys, who desecrated the Senate chambers and sat in Nancy Pelosi’s office chair, were sent off with a kiss and a declaration of love from our White Supremacist–in–Chief, who told them it was “time to go home.”</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvWfL8JZNU3_p0eeEDcdz39q2sAVbC9lSrk7zD91aS-jjTn5OMWYDUAKXKHMPJulUqydc81Zlq66uuNR3gEcM0ySx4gXuqShvPgyCWVoJrNhzICQxw6JyqVAakNlKYZRcIcxdDxwVMxOxK/w400-h267/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The contrast!</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thankfully, no groups from the left came out to counter the insurrectionaries. But all of America was glued to phones and computers, watching in horror and dismay, as the Great American train crashed into our Democratic ideals, and is lying in pieces all over our land. How did we get here? Who allowed a Berserker King of Bedlam to drive our train?</div><br /><b>Bobby Kennedy for President</b><br /><blockquote><i>This is America. This has always been America. If this were not America, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s time we face this ugly truth; let it sink into the marrow of our bones, let it move us to action.</i><br /><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>—Roxane Gay <i>New York Times Sunday Review</i> Jan. 10, 2021</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Who allowed a Berserker King of Bedlam to drive our train? I have been pondering that question since the 2016 election. It was brought into focus after the 2020 election, when my husband, Dan Safran, and I watched a remarkable documentary, made in 2018— <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><i>Bobby Kennedy for President</i></a>—which took us both back to our youth. Dan and I are both war babies—he was born in 1939; I was born in 1943. Radio newscasts about the war are the background noise of our earliest memories and terrors. We were Jewish babies, breathing in our parents’ anxiety and horror as the realities of what was happening to European Jewry began to be understood. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now our grandchildren are young adults. Many of them have had their lives stalled by the pandemic, by the train wreck of American leadership which has failed to provide a coherent plan to protect all of us from the virus. Our grandchildren’s college years or career development have been rudely interrupted. Our hearts break for them. As we watched footage from 1962—Jack Kennedy and his brother Bobby stood facing each other as the horrifying reality of the Cuban Missile Crisis sank in— it was as though a portal had opened for both of us, into our young adult selves.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2_iwhxwTF18k7okHgqOCSOP2bNPwGivUZmiFsXPfdBS51mK5peIDeINZb5CBOfYmUlonMvqEZu-rOWn8bbuEyOhLX9t7MEXIDmHC5NOrH0LyoC5rMGEXkZYKyLYsCxk4aSk8Ell1pSrj/w400-h256/image.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RFK and JFK facing each other<br />during Cuban Missile Crisis</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At that moment in time, we were both early in our first marriages. I was pregnant, and terrified that the world would end before my child could be born. Dan and his new wife Barbara, were at Bryn Mawr College, studying Social Work. Dan was President of the Student Body of the Graduate School of Social Work and Social Research. Earlier, in college, he had helped organize Students for a Sane Nuclear Policy. He had protested nuclear testing. He remembers a gathering of his fellow Bryn Mawr students, including Barbara, all in a state of terror, as they contemplated the unthinkable possibility of nuclear war. For thirteen days the world held its breath as Soviet nuclear missiles intruded into our hemisphere. Cuba had suffered an attempted invasion by the United States—the Bay of Pigs debacle. They asked the Soviets to protect them with missiles. Two nuclear nations faced each other. How could this issue be resolved without risking the end of the world? Bobby, who was good at diplomacy, came up with the trade off—the Russians remove the missiles, in exchange, we won’t invade Cuba. Dan and I realized that our souls had been badly bruised during those thirteen days, when we were so young, so frightened that we would never get to live out our destinies as the fate of humanity hung by a thread.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a helpful synchronicity, we heard Lawrence O’Donnell of MSNBC, commenting on the Day of the Attempted Coup. It was fourteen days before the Inauguration of Biden and Harris. O’Donnell noted that Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer are old enough to remember those 13 days in 1962. They don’t want to relive that terror, and that is why they were pushing for an early departure for the outgoing Berserker. This helped me realize the obvious— our whole generation was shaped by the events of the 1960s, which were both an inspiration and a train wreck for America.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One year later President Kennedy was assassinated—a terrible crime that has never been solved. Two years after that Malcolm X was assassinated. Fifty-five years after his murder his case has been reopened by the Manhattan District Attorney’s office—there are ongoing questions about who murdered him. Three years after Malcolm’s murder Martin Luther King was assassinated. The F.B.I. fingered James Earl Ray, a career criminal and supporter of segregationist George Wallace. Ray has said he was not guilty. The family of Martin Luther King believes to this day that Ray was framed. There is evidence, they say of a conspiracy including the Mafia and the government. Two months after that it was Bobby Kennedy’s turn to be assassinated. Again, the accused gunman, Sirhan Sirhan, a slight Palestinian with no history of criminal behavior, has always claimed his innocence; there are many theories of who might really be responsible.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nKbhGzIgZKpMCnUtMwUNf0v59aGqsFMjlyY6cKQRtXGAyPgBEM0jeFqar3FhP1_sIUh5rzCkWjOVjIQ1pblzYAMq1oqrXloiheHTE26Vmb6FF-gn-zKDXcPx1muHXTlAhLAlmCIvn0wZ/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John F. Kennedy</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL-9JXNyEMK7qNpchjXxLI46Z7RqB1Qtm-AThIkh-g09xpk8YDgg670sLYlNRRjF0B-2VK0DfdLJpsq_7Yo1M5WhCHd-RHcGPQSX-mcQkHXR5P7gdZFksxL8B6PAhWySWvGLRs0DzNOkAW/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Malcolm X</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1l4uWPpW-hIhbJKKPeyBvAuDKDKUVhJQLGm6KMp4jW7EBUIiv6ok6DmJ46_EX-nYCgFv1681vDWFm4emfv1UD3ePL_0Sj0nlA-GOeWu9-lc3FFAPUZ0YcYpRp9_-QDWoaJ2kqhjCs-n2/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Luther King, Jr.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwBEotoUk3sEbPhaDlVjdx3_aYMSO7Cjqa-4klkyQIoVBEmltyx9VP_im7i1CbAo0uZtckNqqEtYoNovGWo3X31UIeFrRMzX53Xmmxgz824J88_EEwLppZFTcuApEIRFKEcJExlMRcu50/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert F. Kennedy</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We on the progressive side of the political world are suspicious of contemporary conspiracy theories. They are mostly Big Lies, devoid of any factual truth. But what if there were actual conspiracies in the ‘60s to assassinate all the potent leaders of those days? What if we have lived with Big Lies all our adult lives, most of us in denial of the terrible truth—we have never come to grips with how those murders happened, we have never had a Truth and Reconciliation process to make sense of our history.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Watching <i>Bobby Kennedy for President</i>, I was suddenly overcome with a wave of grief for our generation—how traumatized we’d all been by the assassinations of our leaders—those who carried our hopes and dreams that we could work through America’s great and terrible evil—the crimes of four hundred years of slavery, and the genocide perpetrated against our indigenous population. America’s efforts at Reconstruction in the late nineteenth century were derailed by White Supremacists who took away the voting rights of African American men, stole their promised forty acres and a mule, stole their rights and their power in their personal and political lives. The civil war had been fought to right the wrongs of slavery. But new forms of slavery emerged—Jim Crow, segregation, voter suppression, redlining, block busting, mass incarceration—all manipulated by white supremacist policies pretending to be normal politics. In 1962, Jack Kennedy and his brother Bobby sent federal marshals and U.S. Army troops to protect James Meredith, an African American who had enrolled in the University of Mississippi.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYKCN3-lboYq8rJorephuyE1W4f10gUSJD4792R6VbLQKxcAZrekOSR14CgsV2P26Iui6YFTkN7NPcfCzW20ugTEtGx162pjZDO8nkE2UWhfbkK_aAoJDjlvvKCZ-I4_9QYKpD32E7Nki/w227-h320/image.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James Meredith at Old Miss</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">There was enormous resistance to desegregation, though the Supreme Court had made school desegregation the law of the land in 1954. Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy all challenged the web of lies and racist ideas which were running the country; they dared to shine a light into what kept us in the dark about our own shadow. No wonder all those issues they spoke of so eloquently, the issues that Bobby came to understand so profoundly as he ran for president in 1968—starving children in Kentucky and Mississippi, inequality, segregation, poll taxes, lynchings—the entitlement claimed by rich white men over men of color and men who were poor—fell into an abyss of history.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0n6bvhkmkqjuGwGF8_mEmpNQuY1FRLi8upp3-L6evrmpEimnggWRW6GfdZQzBd_xf8L2lPrwYkwNMqg6JzObwDrIJ1kZUCStJVleDTbJrjaEHd_nU56iCFvBVsIblMp_Us_6z_I8KWiL/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">RFK during his 1968 presidential run</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Bobby allowed himself to change, to become a different man, as the terrible unfolding of his life ground him down he opened his heart to grief and to the terrible truths about America. His friend John Lewis was with him in Indianapolis on the day Martin Luther King was assassinated. Bobby was slated to speak to a mostly black crowd. Lewis told him he had to tell the people what happened. Here is a small part of what Bobby said, just two months before his own assassination</div><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">I have bad news for you, for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world, and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and killed tonight. </span><br /><br /><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: justify;"><i>Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice for his fellow human beings, and he died because of that effort.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In this difficult day, in this difficult time for the United States, it is perhaps well to ask what kind of a nation we are and what direction we want to move in.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For those of you who are black--considering the evidence there evidently is that there were white people who were responsible--you can be filled with bitterness, with hatred, and a desire for revenge. We can move in that direction as a country, in great polarization--black people amongst black, white people amongst white, filled with hatred toward one another.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Or we can make an effort, as Martin Luther King did, to understand and to comprehend, and to replace that violence, that stain of bloodshed that has spread across our land, with an effort to understand with compassion and love. For those of you who are black and are tempted to be filled with hatred and distrust at the injustice of such an act, against all white people, I can only say that I feel in my own heart the same kind of feeling. I had a member of my family killed, but he was killed by a white man. But we have to make an effort in the United States, we have to make an effort to understand, to go beyond these rather difficult times…</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My favorite poet was Aeschylus. He wrote: "In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."</div></span></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJ2Ghfc_Vw-F8elqs958H6uRB3yjAhb7qrs7DYsnKi41CIvJtGN5L69iBdfw69D1fVyPGPG41QsUW4qE1Dyf4DwlJOR_hNi7gKs4ibvaOTaMtmekuFXPfaHvrhsKKchhqJtZRw8C1tZyk/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RFK speaking to the crowd<br />in Indianapolis</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We in the field of psychology understand that if you can’t confront your past, what has shaped you, what has traumatized you, if you allow family secrets to fester in the dark, if you live in denial and complacency, the demons will out. They’ll get you in the end. You’ll find yourself reenacting the horrors that were done to you. At the level of the culture those nasty shadows will grab the steering wheel and drive the country’s train like a Berserker Conductor and send us all off our rails.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How do we take up the truth again, deal with the history we’ve denied and revised? The light we can see now comes from Georgia, where Stacy Abrams and her group of activists and organizers just won us three important elections—one, in November 2020, for President Biden, the others, in January 2021 for Senator Warnock and Senator Ossoff? How do we keep that flame burning? That is when it occurred to me that I should talk to my favorite ‘60s activist, sitting on the couch beside me, Dan Safran, about the history he experienced.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj026wsvSTdMOFJM0V2H-vzTlUDbIvw4bm_VSfNwfye0fzERT0kPBH3VkqDKkHlvHsnZgWIjJ0xHnot7GO52I4ZwFsED9B95ev4wS3WPnf-SGJMha5y9LlFX1CoI7KlQAFmeb2mLNQ612UX/" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RFK shot (June 4, 1968)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />To Be Continued.<div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-69701488765841017292020-09-15T09:41:00.007-07:002020-09-17T18:27:30.177-07:00The Muse of Fire<div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Sister from Below is Pleased to Announce</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>A Political Poetry Reading</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Naomi Ruth Lowinsky and Dale Jensen</div><div style="text-align: center;">will read from their chapbooks</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.riversanctuarypublishing.com/shop/rspbooks/poetry/dreaming-night-terrors/" target="_blank"><i>Dreaming Night Terrors</i></a> and <a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/Trump_Tics.html?id=E--9zQEACAAJ" target="_blank"><i>Trump Tics</i></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Oct. 1, 2020 7-8:30 pm</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">To attend please register at:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83021344181?pwd=cDBoaG5ObHc4T1h2OTdSM3NybVh1QT09" target="_blank">https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83021344181?pwd=cDBoaG5ObHc4T1h2OTdSM3NybVh1QT09</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The reading will be available on YouTube after Oct. 1: <a href="https://tinyurl.com/newsfrommuse" target="_blank">https://tinyurl.com/newsfrommuse</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * * * * </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Muse of Fire</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And so we had to taste hell</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">C.G. Jung <i>The Red Book</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN29LckYEPzHcCxkHSop4K_05ifIYjp0hnsNipcmNto-e-7dckrgTwxsOLL4VV7iUpTD2MVxW2Uon9-I-g74VAM9OqtmPyEJPHPbv5MmL4hmta4a-ZKE3LFtxvWXZjZm4XPauM7JVBMDev/w500-h333/1%2529+gallery_xlarge.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Jessica Christian, The San Francisco Chronicle</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Rage</b><br /><br /><i>the haters will crawl out from under their rocks<br />the “white only” nation come out of the woodwork<br />You won’t know whose country you’re in</i><br /> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>“Wishing in the Woods<span> </span> with Hillary"<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We wake to the taste of ash in our mouths. The sky has an ominous sepia glow. Day never breaks. Our devices tell us its morning, but it is dark as night. The air quality index is dangerously high. We are filled with a primal fear our ancestors would recognize—what if the sun doesn’t rise?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What world are we in? Some call it Apocalypse. Some call The End Times. Some say it’s the fever dream of our Mother Earth—grievously ill. Some call it Wednesday, September 9, 2020 in California’s worst fire season yet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOcRibBIaiQY3epzI4jRKWUovbXaGR0v1cR43xBSOLttq2K-vwk6lOP_97m2Baa1MJkjWrDN7zpG0QzGPEOE3SqXg66W2qmATcBPm-3V-2VweqBn5N1zmVzZcfrlesCdk_JQFCpNupJj8/w400-h266/2%2529+gallery_xlarge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Jessica Christian, The San Francisco Chronicle</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Dan and I have been sheltering in place since the Ides of March. We’ve developed the rituals the lucky ones can afford in these times. I work from home. We have weekly family gatherings on Zoom. We get our groceries delivered and our kids help us out with farmer’s market produce and runs to Costco. We’ve learned to live in an introverted seclusion that has its pleasures. But crises keep erupting like new heads on the monster. Count them:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s the climate change crisis. That’s been a worry for at least forty years, though it has only recently been taken seriously, at least by some of us. In California decades of drought caused by rising temperatures have left the forests and the wild lands urban interface desiccated—ripe for wildfire.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LPN0km1AbOm00G73NCI9Wek8yTtqb4eoHtpNTlVmQsQK0vHV5MVk1ijjgvhYGBAq6pedhppnbq6n62WcLAnZCOj8RbT9v31o0wyciF-8jTctzENfrmelIn9tnku0upy5AhNEq1PIMsej/s320/3%2529+gallery_xlarge.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Gabrielle Lurie, The San Francisco Chronicle</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s the political crisis we’ve been in since the 2016 elections, which many of us think were stolen with help from the Russians or by voter suppression—or both—giving us a berserker President who yanked our country out of the Paris Climate Accords because, he claims, climate change is a hoax.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since March we’ve been in the grip of an invisible killer—intent on inflaming our lungs— who has driven us into our caves. This too, says our leader, is a hoax, and the fault of the Chinese. According to Bob Woodward’s new book <i>Rage</i>, the President told him—on tape in February—that he lied to America about how deadly the virus is.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Rage is the right word for this time. It’s a fire that burns hot in me and everyone I know, outraged and beside ourselves with the corruption, cruelty, mendacity and greed of this administration. Rage is the fire that engulfed the country when we were witness to George Floyd’s terrible death, which ripped the veils of denial about systemic racism off many people’s eyes. We had a moment of hope. There were people of all ages and ethnicities in the streets, protesting the ongoing crisis of black and brown people murdered by police.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapJEgMALpNjFQPb1A7FZQtd3W0EsyM4nQ8t7UbtLkdxH8hyphenhyphen1PFuL-e4HHEqf5IdTFNYKX1G_F02KxppRIrNGR46fhbGgDfYdxGQJBIPIPuIpG1As4e2CROWoU1KPEc6Uex1KXehYzxErd/w320-h179/BLM+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We began acknowledging inequities, how many more black and brown people were dying of the coronavirus, how much more they suffered the financial fiasco caused by a pandemic run amuck, with no leadership or responsibility taken by the Federal Government.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the perverse way new heads keep growing on that monster, we watched in horror as peaceful protests were broken up by brown shirted officials without identification who arrested demonstrators for no reason, or by right wing thugs, whose fury was ignited by the racist–in–chief. He blames racial tensions on the left, especially on anti-fascists, known as Antifa, which makes no sense, since Antifa is not an organization, has no mission statement, no meetings, is essentially a right wing fantasy. He calls systemic racism—you guessed it—a hoax, and in his inimitable way, steals the media thunder and turns the protests into riots. The man is a walking crisis. Whatever he touches explodes in Rage.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-T3oLC-gQHyHZ83VHt4iIuHyfXbUE_iGxW58LusmbGxvoEJhJuAtkZH_144iIPTC3x_5f5LcnlRfoGU3cDjq8G9aiVRUiOXbp2IDHsLDPe8Sbs-ZNiNDOqLwzJfPId2wsC5KblQsCC3Nf/w320-h300/IMG_0113++Brad%2527s+image.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Symphony Fantastique by </span><a href="https://www.bradleytepaske.com/" style="text-align: start;" target="_blank">Brad Tepaske</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">And then, as though the weather were enacting the dangerous fires of our politics, California was struck by lightening—1100 strikes—causing hundreds of wildfires in lands that hadn’t burned in years. Many had to evacuate. Many lost their homes. This in the midst of a frightening heat wave that kept us indoors. Not to mention the heavy smoke in the air—full of toxins, the remains of people’s houses, the remains of beloved forest lands. What has happened to temperate golden California? Our habitat is turning against us. We bought more air filters and turned up the air conditioning.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxyOhuXvqXTDC67roNyde7u2DQiI38fOwDGNg1M4raSiDb3Bfc4s2DIEehL7-CEOGEqBavPRMiZ7_SHaw_q3ZVyeMwti3OQa4m_fZUIAfi91dhfqHe837aoWy19vKfShN9lZq3_eYJNtWL/w320-h213/Walking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6_CJ1DLWtGKuVmjbBX8xwZ3QsWJjkUci_BzsoT2aeAb-liI3HIKZFTRy4Kj5Qpmr1nEqQRZo2xE0pWwRBN7VBlMddnDGliMLYx-d86JkW8-Jwqxj-gh1oSqblm2rqD5ZQO2Jh_QwJVYf/w320-h213/6%2529+gallery_xlarge.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photos by Scott Strazzante, San Francisco <i>Chronicle</i><br /> </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Crises collided with crises, as though the monster’s many heads were attacking each other. We watched our grandchildren struggle to find their way as colleges sent them home to study in isolation on screens, and their paths were obscured by ash. We worried about those less fortunate than we are. There is an ongoing housing crisis in California. As people lost their unemployment insurance and the extra money the government had been providing, how would they pay their rent? The Republicans in Congress are dead set against helping the economy by helping the poor. We have an ongoing crisis of homelessness. How can the jobless pay their rent? Where are they supposed to go? Live with relatives and give each other the virus? The words of the psalmist come to mind:</div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>Lord… How long shall the wicked exult?</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>They gush out, they speak arrogantly;</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>All the workers of iniquity bear themselves loftily.</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>They crush thy people, O Lord,</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>And afflict Thy heritage.</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>Psalm 44: 3–7</div></blockquote></blockquote><p><br /></p><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBxpNms22AZeELfIA2XGwbdnDWaeXCfjcZhG-ljp6QJa0vlytpWesrxSzbbL6KNZCorjLVsglCljsohm19NlFf8rZGdDq2n7vcmHbUG-k2XC-6Kxv4SMpCprrTJsXCuCftw7bUzDSnjdi/s320/IMG_0853.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.guggenheim.org/artwork/681" style="text-align: start;" target="_blank">The Surrealist by Victor Brauner (1947)</a><span style="text-align: start;"> </span> </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Cultivating Fire<br /></b><br /><i> You never want a serious crisis to go to waste. It provides the opportunity to do things that were not possible to do before.</i> Rahm Emanuel<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">In another life—post election 2008—in another crisis—the Great Recession—Obama’s Chief of Staff made this wise remark. But he said “crisis” in the singular. By my count I’ve just named 10 crises, as though it’s the Passover Seder and we are naming the plagues:</div><br />1. Climate Change<br />2. The Pandemic<br />3. Systemic Racism<br />4. Economic Inequality<br />5. Right Wing Extremism<br />6. Drought<br />7. Wildfires<br />8. Homelessness<br />9. Unhealthy Air<br />10. The Hoax in the White House<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">How do we confront all of these raging interlocking crises at one time? When I feel overwhelmed and unsure of how to proceed, I often look up the word I’m pondering in the etymological dictionary. It’s my way of calling up the magic of the ancestors, the wisdom embedded in the roots of language, to help me. “Crisis” is related to words that mean to separate, to discriminate, to judge. It’s also related to the word “riddle.” This calms me. I recognize that we need to use our fire strategically, that we need to separate careful judgment from our terror, we need to acknowledge the puzzling nature of the riddle of our times. Our ancestors have been through many crises. They knew fire as a deity, as a trickster, as a healer; they knew fire as trouble and fire as passion, fire as destroyer and fire as what cooks your food. “It is through fire, “wrote Eliade,” that Nature is changed, making it the “basis of the most ancient magics” (<i>The Book of Symbols</i>).</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9zhjbEpeOHj-I91S5k3Qj66SPsTooc1-IWg6iX_EOxRVu8QDSJRJGUAkJ2D3bs-oVHEmEpMESXaUCQ66oo4gJfpBv35aYxiiB6TcUIO6dPxNjIX14Yfjzt7g1xVdvnEACEhRVg2AmLoS/s320/8%2529+Fire+as+Diety.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Fire, we are told by indigenous people, can be cultivated to tend the land so there won’t be wildfires. What has happened in our politics is a wildfire, because we haven’t done controlled burns—we haven’t faced our history, taken responsibility for genocide, slavery, racism and the catastrophic destruction of habitat and species. Many among us are engaged in that work, but not yet the powers that be—the ones with the money, the media, and the wherewithal to change things. As we approach the 2020 election I’m counting on the fire in all of our bellies, and the clear judgment and discrimination to sort right from wrong, corruption from policy, greedy self interest from the common good, our own habits and appetites from the needs of the planet, which must be obeyed if we are to survive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We heard the fire and the judgment in both Michelle and Barack Obama’s speeches at the democratic convention. We heard Kamala Harris’ blazing tongue taking on the outrages of the current administration. And we heard Joe Biden’s righteous rage about the hoaxes perpetrated by the current president, his refusal to fight the virus in a strategic way, using the judgments of science, his refusal to confront the horror of so many people dead and gone, who had to die alone, because of the virulence of the crowned virus. Those that survive them, couldn’t say goodbye. Where are the rituals of mourning? Where is the wailing and the moaning? Where are the lowered flags? Where is the reading of names? How long would it take to read 200,000 names? It’s Joe Biden who speaks for the lost and the grieving.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Grief and empathy are qualities of maturity, of the capacity to hold complexity. The Hoax in Chief beats an angry drum that rouses the fire in people to say “No!” Like a tantruming two-year old or a rebellious teenager you can’t make them wear masks, you can’t make them stay home to protect themselves and others. They insist on their guns and their freedom to spread germs. But they are not the majority. If we can use our cultivated fire to listen to those who are lost, angry, isolated, alienated, who feel that their vote won’t make a difference, to acknowledge their hurt and their losses, perhaps we can light their fire to vote for a better world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4rZaoAfSbcYWxpJm8QEK3PGp85rF_C7Og3d2WvyDfSWAIYf3Bb0nVAhcXx06nBlk2t44iQ6UfdF_knfp1_gWbVkG6-zx5_QS5oZdDujnqidr7hez7n5Mz6gXpKPASoj-Oha5yBI2dm5NT/w283-h320/Healing-Circle-graphic-colorful.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>Uprising Time in America</b><br /><br /><i>We’ll make a fire talk story remember our mothers’<br />invisible powers</i><br /><span> <span> <span> </span></span> </span>“Wishing in the Woods with Hillary”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember that night, long ago, in the Before Times—election night, November 2016. I drove home from work. Dan opened the door to the garage as I drove in. His eye-roll said it all. I gasped. I hadn’t wanted to believe what I’d begun to hear on the car radio. We weren’t about to drink that bottle of champagne. We were about to descend into a national hell realm with a misogynist rabble–rouser in chief who was about to destroy most of what we held sacred in our democracy. None of his atrocities seemed to leave a mark on him. His base was his base no matter how corrupt, cruel, shameless and crass he was. The refrain among my circle was: “How can 40% of Americans support these outrages?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Four years later, having experienced horror upon horror, we need to remember the seats we won in 2018, because of our strategic use of political fire. We can’t allow our discouragement, our horror, our exhaustion to stomp out our fire. We need to do whatever is in us to do to win this election and begin to cut off the many heads of that monster. Whether its donating money, being a poll worker, sending postcards to voters in swing states, or telling everyone in your life to get out and vote, vote early! your involvement is essential. We are at a crossroads in the history of our country and our world. I think of James Baldwin’s remark about middle class white America:</div><blockquote>…we must realize this,<br />that no other country in the world has been<br />so fat and so sleek and so safe and so happy,<br />and so irresponsible and so dead.<br /><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><i>I Am Not Your Negro</i></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">This time of crisis is an opportunity for us to wake up to reality and begin protecting the earth, facing the truth of our history, taking seriously our responsibility to one another and to the common good. That is what I believe Hillary was working toward. That is what Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are working toward. They need our help.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My fire is poetry. I hope you’ll join us on October 1 to hear fiery political poems. One of them, “Wishing in the Woods With Hillary” is a women’s healing circle for her and for all of us, to reconnect to our Mother the Earth, to our values, to our backbones, to our sacred fires. I offer it to you:</div><br /><b>Wishing in the Woods With Hillary<br /></b><br />I wish you’d surprise me in the woods Hillary as you did<br />that young mother baby daughter on her back the day after we lost you<br />for president She took a selfie My daughter sent me the link<br />Who will we be without you in your moon bright pantsuit?<br />Who will stand up to the strongman when Michelle and Barack<br />walk out of the White House and speak to us only in dreams?<br /><br />My wish is to see you among trees their leaves gone gold<br />and crimson or dry and dead on the earth Your little dog<br />will sniff me And you who’ve been pilloried<br />your goodness debunked as though working<br />for women and children lacks gravitas As though gravitas<br />is a loaded scrotum whose natural enemy is a woman with powers<br /><br />Mother trudged from father’s study to kitchen to bathroom<br />and back when he whistled I kid you not He whistled She typed<br />his manuscripts cooked bathed children darned socks Hillary<br />She was the air we breathed the water we swam in<br />the earth we walked on our hearth our heart beat<br />Her powers invisible to the kingdom of men But O<br /><br />she was fierce about voting for you in ‘08<br />Now she’s lost her way in the woods<br />lost my name your fame lost the whole world<br />of visible powers lost to the outcry<br /><br />the pandemonium the kids walking out<br />of their schools shouting “Not Our President”<br /><br />The trees raise their boughs and prophesy<br /><i>When the moon comes closer to earth<br />than it’s been since the year you were born<br />the haters will crawl out from under their rocks<br />the “white only” nation come out of the woodwork<br />You won’t know whose country you’re in</i><br /><br />Maybe our time is over Hillary All that e-mail evil<br />because you’re attached to your old familiar that Blackberry<br />you refuse to waste time learning new smartphones I’m with you<br />But my dear the world is passing us by That young mother<br />in the woods after we lost you for president posted you<br />and her baby daughter on Facebook It went viral My daughter sent me the link<br /><br />Hillary my wish is to surround you with sisters<br />of the secret grove We’ll sit in a circle kiss the earth<br />with our holiest lips We’ll lift up our hands and pray<br /><br />for your healing our healing the healing of the dis–<br />respected disaffected molested undocumented Jim Crowed<br />And let’s not forget the trees the bees the buffalo<br /><br />We’ll breathe into our bellies Our backbones grow<br />into strong tree trunks our roots descend While I’m wishing<br />let’s throw in a chorus of frogs and the smell<br />of the earth after rain For it’s downgoing time in America<br />underworld time time to hide out in a cave<br />How I wish for your company in the dark Hillary<br /><br />We’ll make a fire talk story remember our mothers’<br />invisible powers Maybe we’ll sink into dreamtime Maybe Michelle<br />will visit She’ll wear a wonderful dress remind us of grace of joy<br />She’ll speak from her heart <i>Though the weather’s becoming<br />a banshee goddess Though the “white only” nation<br />is trolling the web Though the emperor elect</i><br /><br /><i>is tweeting our downfall My wish is Remember<br />The way of women is our way The moon swells<br />the moon goes dark pulling the tides in and out<br />The way of the trees is our way So raise up<br />your branches sisters for we are one gathering<br />Soon sap will rise apple trees flower<br /><br />We’ll weave us a canopy all over this land<br />It will be uprising time once again<br /><span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span>in America</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxVGXPcFoYlE3x_tc1mHXPdYEGu5Qme8QwTCWpf1rg2QTVMqvlCcXhGKetttXb6crF1-FiLYVXXaWz5qaFe6ffp8bHJiqrdShlO86ODvpkO88sw8AdII3uvA5f4s9MxpXCi4p9Rc0xhRi/w320-h238/SongCircle-copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-62361106586369626992020-07-05T15:12:00.000-07:002020-07-20T13:12:34.225-07:00The Muse of Breath<div style="text-align: center;">
The Sister from Below is pleased to announce the publication of</div>
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<i>Dreaming Night Terrors</i></div>
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Political Poems</div>
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on the eve of the 2020 Election</div>
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<i>Who will speak truth to the Master of Mendacity?</i></div>
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“The Spirit of Elijah Cummings Speaks”</div>
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Stuck in the cloistered terror of a pandemic, it’s hard to remember the brawling days before and after the 2016 election, the furies released by the Kavanaugh hearings, our stunned grief at the death of Elijah Cummings in October 2019. That seems lifetimes ago. Yet the 2020 election, perhaps the most consequential of our lives, is looming.</div>
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<a href="https://www.riversanctuarypublishing.com/shop/rspbooks/poetry/dreaming-night-terrors/" target="_blank"><i>Dreaming Night Terrors,</i></a> is a chapbook of political poems from the time before Covid 19, before the murder of George Floyd and the protests about police brutality and American racism. Written in outrage and sorrow, these poems are Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s offering to the spirit of Elijah Cummings. He advised us to “speak truth to abuse.” He reminded us that our resilience comes from our constitution, which is based on the separation of powers. Were he alive today he would urge us to organize, raise money, write rants, vote, do everything it’s in us to do to remove the current administration, its chaos and corruption, its mendacity, cruelty and cult of personality. This is our moment, even as we shelter in place and gather on Zoom, to defend our democracy, honor Elijah, and reclaim our responsibilities to each other and to the earth.</div>
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<b>The Muse of Breath</b></div>
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Like Emmet Till in the casket, the Floyd</div>
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image made clear no black person could be safe.</div>
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Carol Anderson</div>
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author of <i>White Rage</i></div>
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<i>NY Times Review,</i> June 28th 2020</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtklhvNiUHTjJ7J8ksdltJuH-yCRJIFHd3nT66-xy8tZ99rFAyMmV72BuQNYQt0563ebNjxk2sVSvJypJIHXOvk4QZ2_Oh_NAyX-MQQfwkggGurZp_uLgmEkaCoErY-EQyIZ6rYPkVCKAp/s1600/C.+Emmett_Till.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtklhvNiUHTjJ7J8ksdltJuH-yCRJIFHd3nT66-xy8tZ99rFAyMmV72BuQNYQt0563ebNjxk2sVSvJypJIHXOvk4QZ2_Oh_NAyX-MQQfwkggGurZp_uLgmEkaCoErY-EQyIZ6rYPkVCKAp/s320/C.+Emmett_Till.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emmet Till painting by Lisa Whittington</td></tr>
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(<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dreaming-Night-Terrors-Naomi-Lowinsky/dp/1952194032">Dreaming Night Terrors</a> </i>is dedicated to the spirit of my father, Edward Elias Lowinsky, whose politics were the hard-won truths of a refugee from the European slaughter of his people.)</div>
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<b>Breath is Spirit</b><br />
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Father, your spirit takes over my reverie with ravenous cravings for news—of the pandemic, of the protests, of the tsunami of change that is sweeping away the world as we know it. You insist that I track the terrible stories, make something of them—poems, blogs, a chapbook. You keep disturbing my introverted sheltering in place, stirring my outrage. It’s been a half life since we talked. Come to think of it, have we ever really talked, ever really had a dialogue? You lectured. I listened. My responses were always carefully crafted not to incite your rage. My spirit hid out in your presence. Your spirit wandered off into the Beyond. I always think of Jung’s mother telling him that his father died in time for him to become himself. You did that for me, and I’m grateful. You haven’t been around me much in all those years. Why are you making such a ruckus now?</div>
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<i>Why do you assume it’s my call? You’re the one who pulls me out of the Beyond by breathing my spirit, obsessing about words and their roots, working for musicality in your language, seeking the humanism and creativity to which I gave my last breath—finding it even in the realm of politics. You speak of spirit, yours and mine. The word spirit comes from the latin “spirere,” to breath. You have come to a place in your life where you can breathe, fully, in the presence of my spirit. Perhaps my spirit has evolved to allow you the space to breathe.</i></div>
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<i>I come to remind you it’s not enough to hide out from the virus. You need to speak out about the truths the virus reveals. How is it possible that America is still such a racist nation, that unarmed black people get killed for no good reason, that black and brown people die of Covid 19 so much more frequently than do white people? Didn’t we fight for racial justice in my lifetime? What happened to Martin Luther King’s long arc of the moral universe bending toward justice? Has it been twisted backwards?</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60yaA-F47Cs_P38OPm0TutiFE8b5flvXeHKDN9EgYU_yO8Z9o02PPGNEeYpuvhnM5J-LPLw65aR2BanhxVWMnJ9GGU79ritKc6mqCrvKcKHlyzbWvkRVyOJ5_nTT2WOxEV9li0gjt5Sxi/s1600/D.+George+Floyd+mural.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60yaA-F47Cs_P38OPm0TutiFE8b5flvXeHKDN9EgYU_yO8Z9o02PPGNEeYpuvhnM5J-LPLw65aR2BanhxVWMnJ9GGU79ritKc6mqCrvKcKHlyzbWvkRVyOJ5_nTT2WOxEV9li0gjt5Sxi/s320/D.+George+Floyd+mural.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of George Floyd by Eme Freethinker</td></tr>
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<b>Breath is Life</b><br />
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Father, your great grandchildren are out in the streets protesting. They’re wearing masks and chanting George’s Floyd’s last words: “I can’t breathe” as his life was crushed out of him by a policeman’s knee. Why? Because a cashier in a store thought he was passing a forged twenty dollar bill. His image is all over the world, including in Germany. He joins the list of names, tragic names that fill me with grief and shame: Eric Garner who died in a police chokehold, saying “I can’t breathe.” Why did the police stop him? On suspicion of selling individual cigarettes illegally. Breonna Taylor, a young Emergency Medical Technician, was shot eight times in her bed in the middle of the night. The police had bad information and no warrant. Ahmoud Arbery, a young man who liked to jog to clear his mind, was gunned down by two white men. His crime? Running while black. Walter Scott, stopped on some traffic technicality, was shot in the back running away. He was unarmed. Tamir Rice, a twelve year old boy, was playing with a toy gun. Shot by police. I could go on and on. All of these people would be alive today if they were not black. A sign seen at a recent protest: “Legalize Being Black!” How can this still be happening, in the America that saved you and our family?</div>
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<i>Have you noticed all this commotion is about breath? Covid 19 is a respiratory disease. It attacks a person’s lungs. If you’re sick with Covid you can’t breathe. Racism is a disease of the collective breath. Air is something we all share. But racism stops the oppressed from breathing freely, from living their lives with joy and purpose. If you’re black or brown you’re constantly feeling under assault. George Floyd can’t breathe. Eric Garner can’t breathe. Black and brown people can’t breathe because they are always at risk. Their spirits are crushed by the burden of such hatred, such constant danger. What did I always tell you? Eternal Vigilance is the price of liberty. What happened to your vigilance?</i></div>
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When I saw you last, father, you were curled up like a fetus in that hospital bed. Reagan was on TV, well into his dog whistle assault on the multicultural America you fought for. You were too sick to rant against him. It’s been 35 years since the cancer devoured you, since the cancer of white supremacy devoured the civil rights and liberties we had so recently achieved. I kept thinking the backlash would be over soon, the Age of Aquarius would finally begin. Our liberal America would triumph. I wasn’t vigilant enough to get it—things kept getting worse. In the ‘90s, during the democratic presidency of Bill Clinton, welfare was undermined, and mass incarceration stole black men out of their families, destroying young lives and ripping up communities. So many young fathers were in jail for meaningless, made up offenses. You can imagine what this did to their women, their children, their breath, their spirit. I didn’t understand that racism in America is systemic, and that I, even with the best of intentions, am complicit with a system which privileges me over black and brown people. I didn’t comprehend the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Phantom-Narratives-Unseen-Contributions-Culture/dp/1442231890/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjw9IX4BRCcARIsAOD2OB1vzXu6RG-occZNVhiQD9p4U4W9kCeIYYTDiqtyonZV9xbCiFCFSakaApySEALw_wcB&hvadid=282779858544&hvdev=c&hvlocphy=9031997&hvnetw=g&hvqmt=e&hvrand=17845843529356785985&hvtargid=kwd-377678782553&hydadcr=22097_9614873&keywords=phantom+narratives&qid=1593986551&sr=8-1&tag=googhydr-20" target="_blank">P<i>hantom Narratives</i></a>, to borrow my friend Sam Kimbles’ phrase, that had America and me, in their grip—the ghosts of the American civil war and the ghosts of the Shoah telling competing stories. I didn’t begin to see that we were witnessing a resurrection of the chain gang, of the plantation system with slaves, until recently. I’m ashamed that it took me so long.</div>
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<i>It takes spirit to confront unwelcome truths.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQvK875rORDROOtMZfV6Jy4jjstzpKu3qXFQdo_f6Qu7YgsB2BhFL2RaehAQQ8jSxp4cDqOAslcCC3FzzCgR5i9XuAWGoE58tU0Ccfx5nSc1aURsgm3KWYMvXJ8sol2UoL5FvRiydhsdt/s1600/E.+sabrina_jones_1_edited.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQvK875rORDROOtMZfV6Jy4jjstzpKu3qXFQdo_f6Qu7YgsB2BhFL2RaehAQQ8jSxp4cDqOAslcCC3FzzCgR5i9XuAWGoE58tU0Ccfx5nSc1aURsgm3KWYMvXJ8sol2UoL5FvRiydhsdt/s400/E.+sabrina_jones_1_edited.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.northcountrypublicradio.org/news/story/22279/20140731/a-graphic-account-of-america-s-love-affair-with-prisons" target="_blank">A graphic account of America's love affair with prisons</a></td></tr>
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<b>Breath is a Song</b><br />
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Father, you were in my dream the other night. You were so young and tender, the age you were, 33, when you got your first job in America, teaching Musicology at Black Mountain College; the age you were when I was born. We are on a fast moving train, sitting at a table in the dining car. You are headed forwards, me backwards. I’m the age I was when I visited your deathbed. There is sweetness and ease between us. We are headed South, to North Carolina. I wake to remember my favorite story of you.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRb_HGHgcolIAga5FyH9KmR9GG2nlM1lVn2y59UjzBaplA_dDLX7Trtge8QFgM4qPuKCcjj2bLhchTXfPZvamWvnf3xinWxj2VEUscV825zqwddnxA_L-XQ5WPjiSH1zLDsOqjQaOv5SC4/s1600/F.+Mother%252C+Dad%252C+me+and+Si+1946+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRb_HGHgcolIAga5FyH9KmR9GG2nlM1lVn2y59UjzBaplA_dDLX7Trtge8QFgM4qPuKCcjj2bLhchTXfPZvamWvnf3xinWxj2VEUscV825zqwddnxA_L-XQ5WPjiSH1zLDsOqjQaOv5SC4/s400/F.+Mother%252C+Dad%252C+me+and+Si+1946+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of Father, Mother, my baby brother, Si, and me (1946)</td></tr>
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I was a toddler. You were recently off the boat, finding sanctuary at a small liberal arts school in the South. Like most of your colleagues, you were a refugee Jew, escaped from the Shoah. I have fleeting memories of all those European musicians, painters, weavers, Bauhaus builders in world changing times speaking many languages in the cafeteria. We were a community spat out of the mouth of Europe’s monstrous hatred of the Jews, lucky to land here on the shores of Lake Eden. But this was the South. Jim Crow reigned, which outraged you. Looked to you like how Hitler treated the Jews. You invited Roland Hayes, an African American tenor, to sing at a desegregated concert. Hayes sang the European repertoire as well as spirituals. He had been received by the crowned heads of Europe, but given little attention in America. Mother told me that you and she were afraid the Ku Klux Klan would burn Black Mountain College down. That didn’t happen. Hayes gave his breath, his great spirit, to Schubert’s “Du Bist die Rüh” and to “Go Down Moses.” That was 1945. The war was still on. Your parents had died in the year of my birth. That must have been such an assault on your breath. How did you have the chutzpah to take on segregation?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYCymR4bAdM1GXk8ZTAWYK6UT5W5FpQK9NpndyQtNrgfCilS39j3_tTZH8nFttP8HPYM2DRFXGZ4OZiV_7gGmzMp742TcWU2iQjyjPjxCd7vqR-iYqLb9BPUoRTTOkF9iyy-u2-zCTQG5/s1600/G.+Roland+Hayes.jpeg"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYCymR4bAdM1GXk8ZTAWYK6UT5W5FpQK9NpndyQtNrgfCilS39j3_tTZH8nFttP8HPYM2DRFXGZ4OZiV_7gGmzMp742TcWU2iQjyjPjxCd7vqR-iYqLb9BPUoRTTOkF9iyy-u2-zCTQG5/s200/G.+Roland+Hayes.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<i>I knew I just had to keep on breathing, keep on living my life. My mother died in a concentration camp in Holland. I didn’t know what had happened to my father, though later it appeared he was in a cattle car on the way to Auschwitz when the allies bombed the train. What a terrible irony, to think my father was killed by America. My spirit rose up in fury and told me to <b>do something</b>! So I desegregated Black Mountain College—the first school in the South to open its doors to black people of color. I did it with the Roland Hayes concert, and with a campaign to invite black students. It was my intention to help America honor its promise. I had so much faith in America. What happened? </i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWlXFM-ZLbhcIwmXoGP1MtkU66j3XW0jXhO8Hch9WcdJ-EN2TsD8d20CaxtdsSKLrjcDvAUHVNoW7Xrs1vJ-lytGWGMbeniZv8NvzFR4faiGvlxGDipdy4eaVHkcGA3Ow-s1aTAhiJeEiu/s1600/H.+1946-BMC-Summer-Faculty.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWlXFM-ZLbhcIwmXoGP1MtkU66j3XW0jXhO8Hch9WcdJ-EN2TsD8d20CaxtdsSKLrjcDvAUHVNoW7Xrs1vJ-lytGWGMbeniZv8NvzFR4faiGvlxGDipdy4eaVHkcGA3Ow-s1aTAhiJeEiu/s400/H.+1946-BMC-Summer-Faculty.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black Mountain College faculty</td></tr>
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<b>Breath is Inspiration</b><br />
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We elected a black president in 2008, with a musical name—Barack Obama. He is brilliant, eloquent, elegant—a man with a strong moral compass. He has a beautiful, high spirited wife and two lovely daughters. It was inspiring to have such a loving, admirable black family in the White House for eight years. But racism was alive and well in America and Obama had a terrible time trying to govern. The Republicans blocked him at every turn. Obama is still deeply beloved. But the backlash was the election of the anti-Obama— a blatant racist, a master of mendacity, of chaos and corruption, a demagogue, a narcissist, the crazed center of a cult of personality. He follows the playbook for dictators. His self-serving and incompetent administration has made us the laughing stock of the world, and revealed the underbelly of American racism and inequality. He has not even attempted to lead the country out of the dreadful pandemic we’re stuck in. The body counts keep growing. The numbers of the sick keep growing. Other countries refuse to let Americans in. Not that we want to travel these days.</div>
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<i><i>And what are you doing, my daughter, to confront all this horror?</i></i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I am putting my poems to work for the election of a good man, a man who has a moral compass, a man who understands suffering and grief, Joe Biden. I hope the poems will inspire people to do whatever is in them to do—especially to vote to oust the worst president we’ve ever had.</div>
<br />
<i>Worse than Nixon? Worse than Reagan?</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Much worse. I wrote a poem during the spring of 2016 which expresses how dangerous I understood him to be even before he was elected. At the time mother was far gone into her dementia. She had no idea what was happening in the world. But the child in me yearned for her protection.</div>
<br />
<b>What I Want To Tell My Mama</b><br />
<br />
Only she’s gone a slight rustle of reeds<br />
at the edge of the pond a paw print in the mud<br />
<br />
Sometimes she takes my hand like a curious<br />
two year old tracing my veins touching my rings<br />
<br />
Mutti you’ve dived down below your German<br />
gutterals found your own Ur tongue<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Crim crutz<br />Olam Bolam</i></blockquote>
If you were who you used to be Mama<br />
I’d tell you about that Scary Man <br />
<br />
that Chaos Man with Caterwauling Hair who beats<br />
his chest and threatens <br />
<br />
to drive us back<br />
into the Tohu Bohu<br />
<br />
He’d build a Golden Wall high as the Great Wall<br />
of China Impenetrable as Negative Space<br />
<br />
A Magnificent Wall to keep the likes of us<br />
Refugees and our Rabble children out<br />
<br />
of America Mama he’s a Huckster <br />
a Big Hunk of Catastrophe <br />
<br />
Flasher Man Slash Her Man <br />
Hair sprayed into Caesar’s Brass Helmet<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Olam Bolam<br />Crimini Crutz</i></blockquote>
All the ghosts we keep in the closet<br />
rush in shrieking</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“It’s the Nazis<br />
It’s the Fascists<br />
It’s the Cossacks<br />
It’s the Huns<br />
It’s Joseph McCarthy as Hair Spray Man<br />
come to eat our young Run!”</blockquote>
He is the King of the Hoax the Prince of Evasion <br />
Makes sausage<br />
<br />
of our worst fears <br />
We eat it<br />
<br />
What he eats<br />
is cotton candy<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Rim Ram<br />Crimini hachts</i></blockquote>
There’s a gargantuan Wall of Broken<br />
Glass between his lovers and his haters<br />
<br />
yet we are spell bound Mama <br />
How can I explain<br />
<br />
He has hula dancer fingers <br />
He curls them <br />
<br />
unfurls them<br />
We watch mesmerized</div>
<div>
“On Day One Hour One <br />
You’ll all be gone Every last one of you</div>
<div>
Enemy Aliens!”</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Crimini crumini<br />Olam Bolam</i></blockquote>
Mama make him<br />
be gone… <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>That’s quite a language your mother developed in her dotage. Makes me think of another word that comes from the Latin, “spirare”— inspiration. Sounds like your mother was casting powerful spells.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, I’ve had the same intuition about it. Speaking of inspiration, your passion for the political in its deepest, widest, most humanistic form, has inspired me to publish this little book. I want you to know, father, that I’ve dedicated my chapbook to your spirit. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><i>Have you ever dedicated anything to me before?</i></i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
No. But this train is moving swiftly. I’m nearing the age you were when you died. I want you to know that I am your daughter, that I feel your spirit moving in me. Your passion for life, for justice, and for song inspire me in these terrible times. I’m grateful.</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rvXO6WPUjp9xF2dM10LqhOz4AOYlXQxuWc7bOSZYL_6Xkc9V_SbeSxqvG7bmB2vDvvQchI-J8hQ4ETjvpVF162JtgIr4yZHTfhpxpVrAatogIDV0YwUiV4rl4q_zJLrF5H_kuwHwruvw/s1600/I.+Final+image.jpeg"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rvXO6WPUjp9xF2dM10LqhOz4AOYlXQxuWc7bOSZYL_6Xkc9V_SbeSxqvG7bmB2vDvvQchI-J8hQ4ETjvpVF162JtgIr4yZHTfhpxpVrAatogIDV0YwUiV4rl4q_zJLrF5H_kuwHwruvw/s400/I.+Final+image.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-42139926976694836972020-02-18T17:36:00.001-08:002020-02-23T14:23:19.065-08:00The Muse of St. Francis and the Turtles<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVt6L5b6XUbbTYJC89HVabJY4IpwrqmtgMLib1bxUymvdlcZen7ZFsIzTQtoGPtLVrlzLGR6NazQPBcukf54zjWqiXHZIHCKNDZk4gCPbFmDzz67tkZLziyKe3GpcLH_R3fJbXXy88IYjg/s320/St.+Francis+mural.jpg" /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Saint Francis of Assisi reminds us that our common home is like a sister with whom we share our life and a beautiful mother who opens her arms to embrace us… </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This sister now cries out to us because of the harm we have inflicted on her by our irresponsible use and abuse of the goods with which God has endowed her… We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth (cf. Gen 2:7); our very bodies are made up of her elements, we breathe her air and we receive life and refreshment from her waters.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pope Francis Encyclical Letter Laudate Si</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On Care for Our Common Home</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcKD5SpfRdig5X0pT28OCmgg3-p9-KcxlJ_naDuw92t0Z8uchhXLFlELKiCPWEHfpRq4TZhZqTubNB9E-qIDkjH8teZDJZ8bEPyPeRTPFt4bUpCuP6FD9gf-vlpJjzQXBOsXjOqjd6ZV3/s1600/Town+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcKD5SpfRdig5X0pT28OCmgg3-p9-KcxlJ_naDuw92t0Z8uchhXLFlELKiCPWEHfpRq4TZhZqTubNB9E-qIDkjH8teZDJZ8bEPyPeRTPFt4bUpCuP6FD9gf-vlpJjzQXBOsXjOqjd6ZV3/s320/Town+2.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizntWKnQKyWZI7Kb4bdvzP29r3geqC7DTRSFhp8FL5PScTioBanbco8LRwnu9UN4jbWwLG5Dwkle6HubsylEYv6LMDwsVxvdXAKeOQhgwLWpRFF2fuGXvLw-6NV44XA6VB4tXLVxyMc2DM/s1600/IMG_1420.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizntWKnQKyWZI7Kb4bdvzP29r3geqC7DTRSFhp8FL5PScTioBanbco8LRwnu9UN4jbWwLG5Dwkle6HubsylEYv6LMDwsVxvdXAKeOQhgwLWpRFF2fuGXvLw-6NV44XA6VB4tXLVxyMc2DM/s320/IMG_1420.jpeg" /></a></div>
San Pancho, a charming coastal town north of Puerto Vallarta in Mexico, has been a haven for Dan and me for fifteen years. We come for a couple of weeks in the winter, to get warm, to slow down our frenzied American minds, to open our beings to the color, music, and sensuality of a place where the tapestry of life is woven slowly, by different gods so it seems, than our own. This year especially, we were glad to get out of the US during the so–called impeachment trial, when the separation of powers was sacrificed to the growing tyranny, greed and corruption of the executive. Mexico is no example of fairness and democracy but in this little town we have found a rare blend of influences which create unusual harmony.<br />
<br />
San Pancho is a nickname for San Francisco—the town’s official name. Its patron saint, of course, is St. Francis. Its small Catholic Church is a bastion of tradition. But the Huichol beadwork jaguars for sale in the square speak to other traditions, as does St. Francis himself; on murals all over town he is in harmony with the birds, the fish, the turtles who lay their eggs on the beach, and are protected by an environmental group— <a href="http://www.project-tortuga.org/">Grupo Ecológico de la Costa Verde</a> —I call them the Turtle People, who harbor [protect the turtle] eggs until they are self sufficient hatchlings, and then in a sacred ritual, release them to the sea.<br />
<br />
It is as though St. Francis had a vision of a place without poverty, where earth, sky, sea and their creatures live in harmony. San Pancho works at being such a place. The local people who own the stores and the restaurants go back to the four families—some say as many as ten families—who peopled the original fishing village. Many people from Mexico City and Guadalajara as well as from the US and Canada own houses here and are engaged in the community. They support the Turtle People, <a href="http://www.sanpanchoanimales.org/">San Pancho Animales</a>, which rescues animals and runs a spay and neuter clinic and <a href="https://entreamigos.org.mx/">Entre Amigos</a>, which runs the recycling program, a program to help local families pay their children’s school fees and send them to college, and much more. Dan and I sponsor a youngster. Her animated drawing of land, sea, sun and birds brightens our refrigerator at home. It has been for us a blessed place, one of those magical spots that draws positive energies. But in recent years St. Francis’ vision has been threatened.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyw9Ug5jhFMj_kA6zlfRBXQz6z6YgXW_0ywg0EpsQV7mdIrkW95iC1E0UkAYMd_I39J8JwlKf44u2rOql3zaVcGMJrlqUe2yh0KmN5Lz6e4jTTPpX84SyxSI4jA7Z0mFDkjlQqkBvvNz_/s1600/Monster.jpg"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyw9Ug5jhFMj_kA6zlfRBXQz6z6YgXW_0ywg0EpsQV7mdIrkW95iC1E0UkAYMd_I39J8JwlKf44u2rOql3zaVcGMJrlqUe2yh0KmN5Lz6e4jTTPpX84SyxSI4jA7Z0mFDkjlQqkBvvNz_/s320/Monster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The visible manifestation of that threat is an ugly block of condominiums plopped down on the beach by some developer from another country, against the will of the townspeople and against the law of Mexico, which claims the beach for the people. This monster is in total disharmony with its environment—the palapa covered restaurants, the ocean, the surfers, the frigates high in the sky and a skedaddle of pelicans (sometimes 13 at a time) skimming the waves with their wings, who make Dan and me gasp with pleasure. We are, as is our ritual, on the beach to watch the sunset. But even more, we are here to participate in a demonstration against the monster, Punta Paraìso (Point Paradise), held in synchrony with a release of turtle hatchlings. What a scene this is:<br />
<br />
A band of drummers, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batala_(music)">Batalá Mundo</a>, associated with the international samba reggae group begun in Brazil, wearing red, white and black clothing, beat their red, white and black drums ferociously, joyously, fiercely, shaking their drumsticks in the air like fists, clearly enjoying the threatening sound they make.<br />
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A tall, gaunt St. Francis, towers above it all, looking as though he’s been painted by El Greco, casting his sorrow like a shadow on the people, mystifying the children who approach him warily.<br />
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<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_oKwyyPaKsl6iCkPEZEnJESK3gdQumUGPxPuAfjaNze6iOWiKKYvq9UF7jUyr6bSyfLKoHHN2HwRkroJJ73cP3CtpXn3pBsMnzVWc3GBe_ntZKJS53iBR-xfNb3fyNt_jdHI1J-Dr7py/s320/Drummers+3.jpg" width="240" /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPoGWnfRrfoOBH_nNwNa-9fa0A9vGJTHr4flbJSBvXwje3NYn0-sG-nnJrVxkdmhKGqoMZdEQhCRjmY3DbgLeNl1wEIfDT_FmCxNu3ZZg9lDqGtlKzNF5IMenVdVRm14PTdbYIxjZ_Daw/s1600/St.+Francis+2.jpg"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPoGWnfRrfoOBH_nNwNa-9fa0A9vGJTHr4flbJSBvXwje3NYn0-sG-nnJrVxkdmhKGqoMZdEQhCRjmY3DbgLeNl1wEIfDT_FmCxNu3ZZg9lDqGtlKzNF5IMenVdVRm14PTdbYIxjZ_Daw/s320/St.+Francis+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5Vs7iDQ-3qAPnenXfCAZ54gHNbGUNAuCXvNcT6FE5o1AIyzU5b3yJLm50IXb9oj73teTvJJXG75OVd2kLwk_1rDdcipbuMb9R1cJbiqYnf_RpfgFqxL_0o1qgro1sQNEbcQw8WzyFrVN/s1600/El_Greco_-_Saint_Francis_Receiving_the_Stigmata_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5Vs7iDQ-3qAPnenXfCAZ54gHNbGUNAuCXvNcT6FE5o1AIyzU5b3yJLm50IXb9oj73teTvJJXG75OVd2kLwk_1rDdcipbuMb9R1cJbiqYnf_RpfgFqxL_0o1qgro1sQNEbcQw8WzyFrVN/s320/El_Greco_-_Saint_Francis_Receiving_the_Stigmata_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saint Francis by El Greco</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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St. Francis is mourning our beautiful beach, the beach that belongs to the dogs who leap and run, to the laughing babies in their daddy’s arms, to the mother who pulls out her breast to nurse her newborn, to the vendors selling sweets, snacks, beaded earrings in vibrant colors, to the turtle hatchlings crawling over each other in two plastic pails, in a rush to get back to the sea, to the children with awed faces reaching into the pails—“can we hold them?”— to the people on their knees in the sand shaping large turtles —offerings to that great animal spirit of peace, patience, endurance and harmony among all forms of life—sacred to San Pancho, sacred to St. Francis.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNoI3FOp09CUIvTnHX_jj21u7OwLvZmmX4sg-c-z5pxFkrYeXGnu2s_2kK05W5c_bz5Ae1hyphenhyphen2ZlZWf3cNRiag8_KO76GcubFbsaY-ff3whkOePMwA5OPI2M_BIEJT9ajQASST9rJkL4qk/s1600/Sand+turtles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNoI3FOp09CUIvTnHX_jj21u7OwLvZmmX4sg-c-z5pxFkrYeXGnu2s_2kK05W5c_bz5Ae1hyphenhyphen2ZlZWf3cNRiag8_KO76GcubFbsaY-ff3whkOePMwA5OPI2M_BIEJT9ajQASST9rJkL4qk/s200/Sand+turtles.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7ZZ5XWDxHCH2371nbAwPsUfFPUu7Crss8VMC3yQ4nDvFBsXxaR4eFn4Zo_It_98husm8zLsXQaegv5u-5jBxQ78ToEsXh2Isq0bShXfqxq2gGQ7q73VBdFuKmAG7aGHss6ULDhMZETix/s1600/Meeting+over+turtle+babies+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7ZZ5XWDxHCH2371nbAwPsUfFPUu7Crss8VMC3yQ4nDvFBsXxaR4eFn4Zo_It_98husm8zLsXQaegv5u-5jBxQ78ToEsXh2Isq0bShXfqxq2gGQ7q73VBdFuKmAG7aGHss6ULDhMZETix/s200/Meeting+over+turtle+babies+2.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KFRSx_jzWyeHx87y5Xbgq0PtcKbolNuiEk0a_nRV8igCyCWVIaz1zJqF93BeTQJbD-JgKnmw7FocGa7hPds4Ca-1-ED0mEFxSOtbErVPW0fC6eEtZZR_x55UNIcYMi7kLiTJeoWQ3AnS/s1600/Turtle+in+hand.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KFRSx_jzWyeHx87y5Xbgq0PtcKbolNuiEk0a_nRV8igCyCWVIaz1zJqF93BeTQJbD-JgKnmw7FocGa7hPds4Ca-1-ED0mEFxSOtbErVPW0fC6eEtZZR_x55UNIcYMi7kLiTJeoWQ3AnS/s200/Turtle+in+hand.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuExgMl30U1-Lyutv-8CkCgZMeZjWPZtbjnlS7uy_X6swgniJdmJiCF3UVmn4_KLgky8bellMQB-6zq-_uu05A2RhFLhX-8Y-BHm27RolfNLCo1M_dMgZAKF8OsKheCN0ePC6vlRh31iX/s1600/St.+Francis+y+los+ninos.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuExgMl30U1-Lyutv-8CkCgZMeZjWPZtbjnlS7uy_X6swgniJdmJiCF3UVmn4_KLgky8bellMQB-6zq-_uu05A2RhFLhX-8Y-BHm27RolfNLCo1M_dMgZAKF8OsKheCN0ePC6vlRh31iX/s200/St.+Francis+y+los+ninos.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjP_9LpihChUyFAgm7SdpZbQtS2qpwDlsjf4tfrRjtAy90Tb7trNlMRZaXBSERC6bo_Pk0aaSfQjvHHioxOrWDtM4fbtrscKjn2cff9DSQ9wz5KI0WbRis-MHws0HhC0LfrA9l_dlfayDI/s1600/Beating+the+pinata+1.jpg"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjP_9LpihChUyFAgm7SdpZbQtS2qpwDlsjf4tfrRjtAy90Tb7trNlMRZaXBSERC6bo_Pk0aaSfQjvHHioxOrWDtM4fbtrscKjn2cff9DSQ9wz5KI0WbRis-MHws0HhC0LfrA9l_dlfayDI/s200/Beating+the+pinata+1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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The surf roars, the sun gets lost behind a cloud, is reflected in the sea. St. Francis dances with the children in front of the big monster building and its effigy—a piñata—which the children will soon destroy with fierce sticks.<br />
<br />
The newcomers who bought condos stand on their decks, taking photos of the angry crowd. Did they know what they were getting into? St. Francis speaks for peace but knows that fierceness is required to stand up to the forces of greed, corruption and the desecration of our earth, our sea, our sky.<br />
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The drums beat. The crowd shouts “Playas Libra! No a Punta Paraìso!” (Free the Beaches. No to Point Paradise!) TV cameras are the eyes of the world as St. Francis hugs Turtle. A drone hovers over the monster looking like a huge mosquito. Our friend Bill, who lives here, who works hard for the people and the animals of San Pancho, tells us that somewhere, in a courtroom, the monster is on trial. Bill is hopeful.<br />
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Seems it takes the endurance of Turtle to defeat a monster. The children keep banging on the piñata. The drums keep on drumming. The hatchlings keep crawling over one another. The Turtle People keep admiring them, enchanted by their fragile beauty. St. Francis keeps shaking his mournful head as the sun slips out of the cloud and spreads rays of glory down to the horizon, creating a pyramid that becomes a circle of light at the horizon. Soon the sun will go down, the children will break up the monster piñata; releasing candy for all. When will the hatchlings be released?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXEFiJrEnv96VxqkKhVwNvAoswFbSaO8d_qI8dHCEn0-tbMU71F85HI6Y9XUWOTOXstI_hzE_4YX3tnaGt9yAFzLpc0l-sYG-vWH1YVHtMGlwSuGiBTMH8Lw3RFaPvgm-586h21w1B1U3/s1600/Sunset+on+beach.jpg"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXEFiJrEnv96VxqkKhVwNvAoswFbSaO8d_qI8dHCEn0-tbMU71F85HI6Y9XUWOTOXstI_hzE_4YX3tnaGt9yAFzLpc0l-sYG-vWH1YVHtMGlwSuGiBTMH8Lw3RFaPvgm-586h21w1B1U3/s320/Sunset+on+beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Seems it takes the patience of Turtle to wait for the right time. The keeper of the hatchlings explains: “We need to wait for the end of twilight, when there is almost no light, to let them go, or the fish swimming below them will see their silhouettes and eat them up.” None of us want that to happen. Soon, the keeper of the hatchlings will mark out a space in the wet sand. No one may cross this line—this belongs to the babies. Soon we will watch him, who brings the love of St. Francis to these creatures, release them out of the plastic pails in the near dark. We strain to see them, such tiny beings, heading into the surf. We Turtle People gasp, cry out with joy when a wave comes to carry these babies home. Our babies, our brother turtles, as our sister the sickle moon drifts across the sky, carrying the vision of St Francis—all creatures are kin, pelicans and turtles, dogs and the buyers of condominiums, drummers of Batalia Mundo, mothers and fathers of baby humans, we are all brothers and sisters, all hatchlings of the universe.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-26940540311505390222020-02-12T20:51:00.000-08:002020-02-20T11:44:43.039-08:00The Muse of St. Francis and the Turtles<br />
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<i>Saint Francis of Assisi reminds us that our common home is like a sister with whom we share our life and a beautiful mother who opens her arms to embrace us… </i></div>
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<i>This sister now cries out to us because of the harm we have inflicted on her by our irresponsible use and abuse of the goods with which God has endowed her… We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth (cf. Gen 2:7); our very bodies are made up of her elements, we breathe her air and we receive life and refreshment from her waters.</i></div>
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Pope Francis Encyclical Letter Laudate Si</div>
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On Care for Our Common Home</div>
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San Pancho, a charming coastal town north of Puerto Vallarta in Mexico, has been a haven for Dan and me for fifteen years. We come for a couple of weeks in the winter, to get warm, to slow down our frenzied American minds, to open our beings to the color, music, and sensuality of a place where the tapestry of life is woven slowly, by different gods so it seems, than our own. This year especially, we were glad to get out of the US during the so–called impeachment trial, when the separation of powers was sacrificed to the growing tyranny, greed and corruption of the executive. Mexico is no example of fairness and democracy but in this little town we have found a rare blend of influences which create unusual harmony.<br />
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San Pancho is a nickname for San Francisco—the town’s official name. Its patron saint, of course, is St. Francis. Its small Catholic Church is a bastion of tradition. But the Huichol beadwork jaguars for sale in the square speak to other traditions, as does St. Francis himself; on murals all over town he is in harmony with the birds, the fish, the turtles who lay their eggs on the beach, and are protected by an environmental group— <a href="http://www.project-tortuga.org/">Grupo Ecológico de la Costa Verde</a> —I call them the Turtle People, who harbor [protect the turtle] eggs until they are self sufficient hatchlings, and then in a sacred ritual, release them to the sea.<br />
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It is as though St. Francis had a vision of a place without poverty, where earth, sky, sea and their creatures live in harmony. San Pancho works at being such a place. The local people who own the stores and the restaurants go back to the four families—some say as many as ten families—who peopled the original fishing village. Many people from Mexico City and Guadalajara as well as from the US and Canada own houses here and are engaged in the community. They support the Turtle People, <a href="http://www.sanpanchoanimales.org/">San Pancho Animales</a>, which rescues animals and runs a spay and neuter clinic and <a href="https://entreamigos.org.mx/">Entre Amigos</a>, which runs the recycling program, a program to help local families pay their children’s school fees and send them to college, and much more. Dan and I sponsor a youngster. Her animated drawing of land, sea, sun and birds brightens our refrigerator at home. It has been for us a blessed place, one of those magical spots that draws positive energies. But in recent years St. Francis’ vision has been threatened.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyw9Ug5jhFMj_kA6zlfRBXQz6z6YgXW_0ywg0EpsQV7mdIrkW95iC1E0UkAYMd_I39J8JwlKf44u2rOql3zaVcGMJrlqUe2yh0KmN5Lz6e4jTTPpX84SyxSI4jA7Z0mFDkjlQqkBvvNz_/s1600/Monster.jpg"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyw9Ug5jhFMj_kA6zlfRBXQz6z6YgXW_0ywg0EpsQV7mdIrkW95iC1E0UkAYMd_I39J8JwlKf44u2rOql3zaVcGMJrlqUe2yh0KmN5Lz6e4jTTPpX84SyxSI4jA7Z0mFDkjlQqkBvvNz_/s320/Monster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The visible manifestation of that threat is an ugly block of condominiums plopped down on the beach by some developer from another country, against the will of the townspeople and against the law of Mexico, which claims the beach for the people. This monster is in total disharmony with its environment—the palapa covered restaurants, the ocean, the surfers, the frigates high in the sky and a skedaddle of pelicans (sometimes 13 at a time) skimming the waves with their wings, who make Dan and me gasp with pleasure. We are, as is our ritual, on the beach to watch the sunset. But even more, we are here to participate in a demonstration against the monster, Punta Paraìso (Point Paradise), held in synchrony with a release of turtle hatchlings. What a scene this is:<br />
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A band of drummers, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batala_(music)">Batalá Mundo</a>, associated with the international samba reggae group begun in Brazil, wearing red, white and black clothing, beat their red, white and black drums ferociously, joyously, fiercely, shaking their drumsticks in the air like fists, clearly enjoying the threatening sound they make.<br />
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A tall, gaunt St. Francis, towers above it all, looking as though he’s been painted by El Greco, casting his sorrow like a shadow on the people, mystifying the children who approach him warily.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPoGWnfRrfoOBH_nNwNa-9fa0A9vGJTHr4flbJSBvXwje3NYn0-sG-nnJrVxkdmhKGqoMZdEQhCRjmY3DbgLeNl1wEIfDT_FmCxNu3ZZg9lDqGtlKzNF5IMenVdVRm14PTdbYIxjZ_Daw/s1600/St.+Francis+2.jpg"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPoGWnfRrfoOBH_nNwNa-9fa0A9vGJTHr4flbJSBvXwje3NYn0-sG-nnJrVxkdmhKGqoMZdEQhCRjmY3DbgLeNl1wEIfDT_FmCxNu3ZZg9lDqGtlKzNF5IMenVdVRm14PTdbYIxjZ_Daw/s320/St.+Francis+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5Vs7iDQ-3qAPnenXfCAZ54gHNbGUNAuCXvNcT6FE5o1AIyzU5b3yJLm50IXb9oj73teTvJJXG75OVd2kLwk_1rDdcipbuMb9R1cJbiqYnf_RpfgFqxL_0o1qgro1sQNEbcQw8WzyFrVN/s1600/El_Greco_-_Saint_Francis_Receiving_the_Stigmata_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5Vs7iDQ-3qAPnenXfCAZ54gHNbGUNAuCXvNcT6FE5o1AIyzU5b3yJLm50IXb9oj73teTvJJXG75OVd2kLwk_1rDdcipbuMb9R1cJbiqYnf_RpfgFqxL_0o1qgro1sQNEbcQw8WzyFrVN/s320/El_Greco_-_Saint_Francis_Receiving_the_Stigmata_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saint Francis by El Greco</td></tr>
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St. Francis is mourning our beautiful beach, the beach that belongs to the dogs who leap and run, to the laughing babies in their daddy’s arms, to the mother who pulls out her breast to nurse her newborn, to the vendors selling sweets, snacks, beaded earrings in vibrant colors, to the turtle hatchlings crawling over each other in two plastic pails, in a rush to get back to the sea, to the children with awed faces reaching into the pails—“can we hold them?”— to the people on their knees in the sand shaping large turtles —offerings to that great animal spirit of peace, patience, endurance and harmony among all forms of life—sacred to San Pancho, sacred to St. Francis.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNoI3FOp09CUIvTnHX_jj21u7OwLvZmmX4sg-c-z5pxFkrYeXGnu2s_2kK05W5c_bz5Ae1hyphenhyphen2ZlZWf3cNRiag8_KO76GcubFbsaY-ff3whkOePMwA5OPI2M_BIEJT9ajQASST9rJkL4qk/s1600/Sand+turtles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNoI3FOp09CUIvTnHX_jj21u7OwLvZmmX4sg-c-z5pxFkrYeXGnu2s_2kK05W5c_bz5Ae1hyphenhyphen2ZlZWf3cNRiag8_KO76GcubFbsaY-ff3whkOePMwA5OPI2M_BIEJT9ajQASST9rJkL4qk/s200/Sand+turtles.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7ZZ5XWDxHCH2371nbAwPsUfFPUu7Crss8VMC3yQ4nDvFBsXxaR4eFn4Zo_It_98husm8zLsXQaegv5u-5jBxQ78ToEsXh2Isq0bShXfqxq2gGQ7q73VBdFuKmAG7aGHss6ULDhMZETix/s1600/Meeting+over+turtle+babies+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7ZZ5XWDxHCH2371nbAwPsUfFPUu7Crss8VMC3yQ4nDvFBsXxaR4eFn4Zo_It_98husm8zLsXQaegv5u-5jBxQ78ToEsXh2Isq0bShXfqxq2gGQ7q73VBdFuKmAG7aGHss6ULDhMZETix/s200/Meeting+over+turtle+babies+2.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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The surf roars, the sun gets lost behind a cloud, is reflected in the sea. St. Francis dances with the children in front of the big monster building and its effigy—a piñata—which the children will soon destroy with fierce sticks.<br />
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The newcomers who bought condos stand on their decks, taking photos of the angry crowd. Did they know what they were getting into? St. Francis speaks for peace but knows that fierceness is required to stand up to the forces of greed, corruption and the desecration of our earth, our sea, our sky.<br />
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The drums beat. The crowd shouts “Playas Libra! No a Punta Paraìso!” (Free the Beaches. No to Point Paradise!) TV cameras are the eyes of the world as St. Francis hugs Turtle. A drone hovers over the monster looking like a huge mosquito. Our friend Bill, who lives here, who works hard for the people and the animals of San Pancho, tells us that somewhere, in a courtroom, the monster is on trial. Bill is hopeful.<br />
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Seems it takes the endurance of Turtle to defeat a monster. The children keep banging on the piñata. The drums keep on drumming. The hatchlings keep crawling over one another. The Turtle People keep admiring them, enchanted by their fragile beauty. St. Francis keeps shaking his mournful head as the sun slips out of the cloud and spreads rays of glory down to the horizon, creating a pyramid that becomes a circle of light at the horizon. Soon the sun will go down, the children will break up the monster piñata; releasing candy for all. When will the hatchlings be released?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXEFiJrEnv96VxqkKhVwNvAoswFbSaO8d_qI8dHCEn0-tbMU71F85HI6Y9XUWOTOXstI_hzE_4YX3tnaGt9yAFzLpc0l-sYG-vWH1YVHtMGlwSuGiBTMH8Lw3RFaPvgm-586h21w1B1U3/s1600/Sunset+on+beach.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXEFiJrEnv96VxqkKhVwNvAoswFbSaO8d_qI8dHCEn0-tbMU71F85HI6Y9XUWOTOXstI_hzE_4YX3tnaGt9yAFzLpc0l-sYG-vWH1YVHtMGlwSuGiBTMH8Lw3RFaPvgm-586h21w1B1U3/s400/Sunset+on+beach.jpg" /></a></div>
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Seems it takes the patience of Turtle to wait for the right time. The keeper of the hatchlings explains: “We need to wait for the end of twilight, when there is almost no light, to let them go, or the fish swimming below them will see their silhouettes and eat them up.” None of us want that to happen. Soon, the keeper of the hatchlings will mark out a space in the wet sand. No one may cross this line—this belongs to the babies. Soon we will watch him, who brings the love of St. Francis to these creatures, release them out of the plastic pails in the near dark. We strain to see them, such tiny beings, heading into the surf. We Turtle People gasp, cry out with joy when a wave comes to carry these babies home. Our babies, our brother turtles, as our sister the sickle moon drifts across the sky, carrying the vision of St Francis—all creatures are kin, pelicans and turtles, dogs and the buyers of condominiums, drummers of Batalia Mundo, mothers and fathers of baby humans, we are all brothers and sisters, all hatchlings of the universe.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-48293953958889362782019-11-17T20:12:00.002-08:002019-11-19T18:12:12.266-08:00The Muse of Elijah<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Our children are the living messengers we send into a future we will never see.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
—Elijah Cummings</div>
</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHuMhIPZQ84kNFaslHMWhvb2T8SC4RCX-nYPf9virTw0stavxCs-ASXoKyPyH012PzL5GWLVXgzTcelqNQlrm2OSl5cjSXaOhz3J2mS0qh-atQXhXGseoFyDL-Nycc04SLqjr-rmn3cDdZ/s1600/1.+Elijah+Cummings+Smiling.jpg"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHuMhIPZQ84kNFaslHMWhvb2T8SC4RCX-nYPf9virTw0stavxCs-ASXoKyPyH012PzL5GWLVXgzTcelqNQlrm2OSl5cjSXaOhz3J2mS0qh-atQXhXGseoFyDL-Nycc04SLqjr-rmn3cDdZ/s400/1.+Elijah+Cummings+Smiling.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>What Did You Do in 2019?</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I will fight to the death to make sure everyone gets their right to vote, because it is the essence of our democracy.</i><br />
—Elijah Cummings</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
On October 17th 2019, I woke to the news that Elijah Cummings had died. <i>No! That can’t be true</i>. My heart was filled with panic. I hadn’t realized how important this congressman—this chair of the Oversight Committee investigating our President—was to me until that moment. I hadn’t realized that Elijah Cummings was, for me, the point of the America’s moral compass. Nor had I realized that my hope that my children and grandchildren would continue to live and vote in a democracy rested on Elijah Cummings’ integrity and courage. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I can see Elijah Cummings’ smiling face; I can hear his <span style="text-align: justify;">booming voice taking on the Acting Homeland Security Secretary about the conditions in which children are being kept at the border. The Acting Secretary, one Kevin McAleenan, looks uncomfortable. He says: “We’re doing our level best.” Elijah’s voice rises: “What does that mean, when a child is sitting in its own feces? Come on, man! This is the United States of America!” I hear his moral clarity when, it seems a lifetime ago, in Feb. 2019, he turns into a spiritual counselor for Michael Cohen during Cohen’s testimony against his former boss, the President. Here’s Cummings speaking to Cohen: “Hopefully, this portion of your destiny will lead to a better Michael Cohen, a better Donald Trump, a better United States of America, a better world.” I see his tired face, after hours of testimony, telling reporters, “This is a fight for the soul of our democracy.” I hear his prophetic remarks spanning the realms: “When we’re dancing with the angels the question will be asked, ‘What did you do in 2019 to keep our democracy safe?’” I hadn’t realized that Elijah Cummings was the one I’d been trusting with America’s soul, until he died, and left the work to all of us.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Those who were close to him, Nancy Pelosi, Bill and Hillary Clinton, Kweisi Mfome, Barack Obama, knew he’d been ill for a long time. His wife, Maya, said he was diagnosed with a rare deadly cancer—given six months to live—twenty–five years ago. Those who were close to him knew he came from poverty, that his parents had been sharecroppers, that as a child he’d been put in a special education class, told he’d never be able to read or write. The man was a miracle. Some say an angel.</div>
<br />
<b>I Am Freddie Gray</b></div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Does Anyone Hear Us Pray<br />4 Michael Brown or Freddie Gray?</i><br />—Prince, “Baltimore”</blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNqhyceBDS43f945xUBre28voL2X06qBctrN8koDiLcwmjsVWKvcOa5dh9FrKsMOUt2cF9vPrTXg3eZ5vtwteCXk43UMr5PnLGvY6x95FOSKG3x2U9KZUHJje_pZXKaQ-lwR5H6InRTrN/s1600/2.+Freddie+Gray.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNqhyceBDS43f945xUBre28voL2X06qBctrN8koDiLcwmjsVWKvcOa5dh9FrKsMOUt2cF9vPrTXg3eZ5vtwteCXk43UMr5PnLGvY6x95FOSKG3x2U9KZUHJje_pZXKaQ-lwR5H6InRTrN/s320/2.+Freddie+Gray.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freddie Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
In March of 2016, over half a year before the election, Elijah gave a talk to the Taubman Center for American Politics and Policy called “The Fierce Urgency of Now.” He spoke of Freddie Gray, a 25 year old who died after having been given such a “rough ride” in police custody, that his spine was severed and he died. The Grand Jury indicted three police officers on manslaughter charges, and added a second degree count of “depraved-heart murder” for the driver. “Depraved-heart murder.” That says it all. And yet all the officers were acquitted. The people of Baltimore expressed their rage on the day of Gray’s funeral, April 28, 2015. Elijah spoke at the funeral. He saw press from all over the country and the world, and he asked: “You see him now, but did you see him when he lived? Did you see the little boy who sat in the first grade trying to learn to read, but he couldn’t because his body was filled with lead? Did you see him in the fourth grade when he still couldn’t read, and was beginning to get in trouble?” That night Elijah went to Howard University, to give a lecture with Elizabeth Warren, on a Middle Class Prosperity Project. He received a text: “Your city is on fire!” He rushed back to do his best to calm Baltimore. “People were hollering and screaming, throwing rocks, very upset over Freddie Gray.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At the Taubman Center Elijah told a story of the moment he understood who Freddie Gray was to him. During an interview on CNN he was asked, “How do you deal with these people?” Elijah responded “What people?” The interviewer said, “You know, like Freddie Gray.” Elijah turns to his audience, says: “I’ll never forget it. I had tears running down my cheeks on National TV. And I said ‘I am Freddie Gray. I am the little boy who sat in the classroom probably filled with lead. I am him, who was put in a school system—in the black community we had nine classrooms and one bathroom and about 300 feet away the white school had sixty classrooms and a whole lot of bathrooms… I think of Freddie Gray every day… We have to look at this moment with the fierce urgency of now… When people get to a point where they lose hope there’s a problem. When people are trying to cut off votes, to cut off people’s voices…there’s something wrong with that picture. We all have to speak out… We have a duty to provide our children with a democracy… They’ll take the vote away from African–Americans today. They’ll take it away from Hispanics tomorrow. They’ll take it away from somebody else and the next thing you know you won’t have a democracy.”</div>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prophet Elijah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<b>The Cup of Elijah</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Nothing great has ever been accomplished without passion and patience. Rooted in the same Latin word, “pati,” (to suffer, to endure) passion and patience touch the two poles of the key element in a life that matters: commitment.</i><br />
—Edward Elias Lowinsky</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In the Jewish tradition Elijah is a prophet who stands up to demagogues. He is an angel of the covenant between God and the Jewish people. His work is to protect the needy and the oppressed, to ward off evil. He sees through illusions. At Passover we pour him a cup of wine, and open the door so that he may come to us, bringing his courage and wisdom.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My father, Edward E. Lowinsky, was named Elias (the Latinate form of Elijah) at his birth. The family story is that his mother was concerned about his safety, bearing such a Jewish name in Germany. So he became Edward E. My father had a prophetic temperament, which he passed down to me. He came from a refugee Jewish family—they were illegal aliens. Born in Stuttgart, in 1908, his parents had fled the pogroms in Odessa. My father fled Germany in 1932 for Holland, and then fled Holland in 1938, with his bride, her sisters and parents, headed for America. But the United States was not welcoming Jewish refugees. The family had to stay in Cuba for 20 months until, with false passports—illegal aliens— they arrived in America.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My father never told me about his false passport, or how he became a legal immigrant. The news of his statelessness came long after his death and explained much to me about why my father watched the political scene so intensely, as do I. He called out the dangers he foresaw. His concerns were much like those of Elijah Cummings: racism, anti-Semitism, dangers to the constitution. He wrote thunderous letters to the <i>New York Times</i> when events alarmed him. Often, they were published. He told us children: “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” He has been rolling over in his grave, causing earthquakes in my soul, since the election of 2016. He would have loved Elijah Cummings. In the light of Elijah Cumming’s death my father’s spirit—with whom I have had a tumultuous relationship—he was an old school patriarch—has come to me in his most luminous form.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIitT94d3gkQ0uVbkMjfnuqDQYvemS2KbMCRs_aBHP-vJhcXX-PmbeE95g9Slrums-hZCRVfZhgXFZXXtetqs7vAjurfPuAt30E4EDp4gToRBzelMW-cYLbS3vKVf5qlg32R3PBlf8dGb/s1600/4.+Edward+Elias+Lowinsky+photo+by+Nikki+Arai.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIitT94d3gkQ0uVbkMjfnuqDQYvemS2KbMCRs_aBHP-vJhcXX-PmbeE95g9Slrums-hZCRVfZhgXFZXXtetqs7vAjurfPuAt30E4EDp4gToRBzelMW-cYLbS3vKVf5qlg32R3PBlf8dGb/s320/4.+Edward+Elias+Lowinsky+photo+by+Nikki+Arai.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edward Elias Lowinsky [photo by Nikki Arai]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<b>Our Still Small Voice</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We should hear our Elijah in the quiet times, in the morning, when we get discouraged—our Elijah should be our still small voice.</i><br />
—Bill Clinton</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My daughter told me I had to watch Elijah Cummings’ funeral. She said it was deeply moving, and strangely healing in our difficult times. And so it was that Dan and I sat down one evening and began to watch the funeral on YouTube. My daughter was right, as she usually is. It is a long funeral—took three evenings to watch—but engaging and powerful. It filled us with the dramatis personae of the political dramas that have shaped our land for over a generation, and with the spirit of “our Elijah” in the voices and stories of those who knew him well. I can’t do justice to all of the speakers. I’ve chosen a few that illuminate “our Elijah” for me.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyh_RM_5DVjstFo3FvaHAGGjB3tNXUOAvZYuThY_60UABIPiBRzJtuk7M9EzT43LdhyghEBvtfbfdxydTPrJtU9IaaWPWI8lWIhxt27Tqh4YEWVXb74JC_kVuICgmZmWZmkAZ5kHqeRlZ8/s1600/5.+Hillary.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyh_RM_5DVjstFo3FvaHAGGjB3tNXUOAvZYuThY_60UABIPiBRzJtuk7M9EzT43LdhyghEBvtfbfdxydTPrJtU9IaaWPWI8lWIhxt27Tqh4YEWVXb74JC_kVuICgmZmWZmkAZ5kHqeRlZ8/s320/5.+Hillary.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hillary Clinton</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I have often marveled at the power of a good memorial—at how much I learn that I never knew about the deceased. Watching this event I marveled also at how much I learned about the speakers—public people I thought I knew well. But I didn’t know that Hillary Clinton could turn into an eloquent Baptist preacher, telling gospel stories about a man who had so deeply influenced her, and supported her in difficult times. She said: “It’s no coincidence that our Elijah shared a name with an Old Testament prophet, whose name meant, in Hebrew, ‘The Lord is My God,’ who used the wisdom and power God gave him to uphold the moral law. Like the prophet our Elijah could call down fire from heaven. Like that Old Testament prophet he stood up against the corrupt leadership of King Ahab and Queen Jezebel.”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxd6wVwBNnUjYkdbzmdEtN7G5JUN9oZxbPGZyUJf9Lc8tX74HYGzjlU_XO5tdbZ0nwwMeQJWWNvOk4p3A3-PCEb6VFS88qrjR4OK2q6naDiDT0_4f_42-o-zw4oCHPvi37cUJPoVKKs9K/s1600/6.+Bill+with+Elijah.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxd6wVwBNnUjYkdbzmdEtN7G5JUN9oZxbPGZyUJf9Lc8tX74HYGzjlU_XO5tdbZ0nwwMeQJWWNvOk4p3A3-PCEb6VFS88qrjR4OK2q6naDiDT0_4f_42-o-zw4oCHPvi37cUJPoVKKs9K/s320/6.+Bill+with+Elijah.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill Clinton and Elijah Cummings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
I didn’t know, or had forgotten, how funny and wise Bill Clinton could be. He told a story about being part of a “get out the vote” effort in Elijah’s church, the very church—New Psalmist—which hosted the funeral, shortly before his election to the presidency. He said: “Talk about a lousy deal. I had to follow Elijah Cummings. At least I’m getting up ahead of you, President Obama, today. In my old age I’m the warm up act.” Bill, another gospel speaking preacher, told us that “our Elijah mirrored the life of Isaiah, to whom the Lord said: ‘Who should I send, and who will go for me?’ And Isaiah said: ‘Here Am I, Lord. Send me.’ Elijah Cummings spent a whole life saying ‘Send me.’”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XipTBoUbkDn60ogaaTFzLSWZvLAzkWKAwcGmWzOv-rno-dQ5K58iY4f6SXOjvylUzWYbhZZwFfD-9lEYoBGkG5kW2T2Yr2vGJlBb4U6vSykJlsMzQEWsfFpONVk6wYaPCdZjPzonweCn/s1600/7.Prophet+Elijah+Elias+at+the+Cave++Icon+.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XipTBoUbkDn60ogaaTFzLSWZvLAzkWKAwcGmWzOv-rno-dQ5K58iY4f6SXOjvylUzWYbhZZwFfD-9lEYoBGkG5kW2T2Yr2vGJlBb4U6vSykJlsMzQEWsfFpONVk6wYaPCdZjPzonweCn/s320/7.Prophet+Elijah+Elias+at+the+Cave++Icon+.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elijah at the Cave</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Bill told the story of the prophet Elijah in a cave, in a lost and troubled time in his life, when he felt his work had been fruitless. “And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and a strong wind rent the mountains…but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a small still voice.” The Lord was in that small still voice. Bill ended his talk advising “We should hear our Elijah in the quiet times, in the morning, when we get discouraged—our Elijah should be our still small voice.”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pAkoymm8PjjkOfMd0CNRJWBeHjEGAK_o5iUXrH7g3vKtcnAzhaE4R92Xnarngtsgi0gTpf4kk05-9ihWzcg9D3grlPeiGBqeqFP5dbsgRf0uLsd6TjmJ9lv7HPqhamPwWbB9atxgAB9w/s1600/8.+Nancy+with+Barack.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pAkoymm8PjjkOfMd0CNRJWBeHjEGAK_o5iUXrH7g3vKtcnAzhaE4R92Xnarngtsgi0gTpf4kk05-9ihWzcg9D3grlPeiGBqeqFP5dbsgRf0uLsd6TjmJ9lv7HPqhamPwWbB9atxgAB9w/s320/8.+Nancy+with+Barack.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nancy Pelosi and Barack Obama</td></tr>
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<br />
Though I know a lot about Nancy Pelosi, our congresswoman from San Francisco and our current Speaker of the House, I didn’t know about her close friendship with “our darling Elijah.” They go way back in their kinship and love of Baltimore. She was raised there in a political family—her brother and father had both been mayors of the city. “Elijah was my Baltimore brother in Congress.” She spoke of the high standard he set for himself. “That’s why I called him the North Star of Congress, our guiding light.” She spoke of his fight against gun violence, and for a bill that would limit the amount people can be charged for prescription drugs—HR3, The Elijah Cummings Low Cost Drug Act.” Write your Congress People!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5k1wOnn1f7wgZ-ywK8jS92S8mCBh01LSV4P1Rg8AJm7U9Iv2TXi-N6O1u-kNnz6aAYvVx7pGrUBMC5tzR8XhsdacDwAwc8xFMKAVQeViZYgIqYDFlkpNpKHJuqfjbS5u8u47Wqw_6qAPa/s1600/9.+Kweisi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5k1wOnn1f7wgZ-ywK8jS92S8mCBh01LSV4P1Rg8AJm7U9Iv2TXi-N6O1u-kNnz6aAYvVx7pGrUBMC5tzR8XhsdacDwAwc8xFMKAVQeViZYgIqYDFlkpNpKHJuqfjbS5u8u47Wqw_6qAPa/s320/9.+Kweisi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kweisi Mfume</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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I didn’t know much about Kweisi Mfume except that he had been a congressman from Maryland and the head of the NAACP. Turns out he and Elijah had been political buddies since the ‘70s. They had a teasing relationship about who would die first. Kweisi, being three years older, claimed that status. Elijah won the bet. Kweisi said “Elijah Cummings was the twentieth century manifestation of a people who had suffered, endured and survived through centuries of slavery, oppression, depravation, degradation, denial and disprivilege.”</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was moved by his prayerful words: “Let us use this passage to recommit ourselves to sharing Elijah’s dream, also the dream of Martin Luther King and Fanny Lou Hamer, the dream of Dubois, Tubman and Douglas. Also the dream of all of those nameless and faceless sharecroppers of his father’s generation who laid their bodies down on plantations all over this country so that young Elijahs could run across them and get to the Promised Land.”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-4tOgpW_shvd4DoWz39JFkP_P90RmFWNoQwm1FpB7KQGSZT4PYkuhVLEBd51809GUS48gl-kVlEirwKiyZnqFQaJU6X0rTD5mygyJQduy0vsjxua_RZXMfpSqw14TWbJhp8rIvLt6uS-/s1600/10.+Obama+with+Elijah.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-4tOgpW_shvd4DoWz39JFkP_P90RmFWNoQwm1FpB7KQGSZT4PYkuhVLEBd51809GUS48gl-kVlEirwKiyZnqFQaJU6X0rTD5mygyJQduy0vsjxua_RZXMfpSqw14TWbJhp8rIvLt6uS-/s400/10.+Obama+with+Elijah.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barack Obama and Elijah Cummings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I know a lot about Barack Obama. I have missed his calm grace, his thoughtful interiority, his elegant use of language in our nasty rancorous vulgar talk times. What a pleasure to hear and see him speak, using his own eloquent voice to invoke the spirit of Elijah Cummings. Here is some of what he said: “The seed on good soil. Elijah Cummings came from good soil. In this sturdy frame goodness took root. His parents were sharecroppers from the South. Picked tobacco and strawberries, and then sought something better in the city of South Baltimore. Robert worked shifts at a plant and Ruth cleaned other people’s homes. They became parents of seven, preachers to a small flock. I remember I had the pleasure of meeting his mother, Ruth, and she told me she prayed for me everyday, and I knew it was true and I felt better for it. Sometimes people say they’re praying for you and you don’t know…They might be praying about you.” (This was greeted with laughter and applause.) </div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Obama went on to speak truth, in his subtle, no drama way, to the bullying and lying spirit of our times. He said: “Being a strong man includes being kind. There’s nothing weak about kindness and compassion…You’re not a sucker to have integrity and to treat others with respect. And Obama reminded us of Elijah’s frequent admonition that our time is too short not to fight for what is true and what is best for America…Elijah has harvested all that he could. And the Lord has now called him home. It now falls on each of us to continue his work.”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0eqV4dzlA2baJdep0ZHJWs6fTj3PUM-YVmlf76_Wlp4kFcYBrm4gDCa4q4BUH9XWo7clBsoA8AF9rloT-XjMnWKjzoe2S_FddK49OCOb6kyVG1CK4zS9aOHmokuB7YSXXql4hdz9uF2R/s1600/11.+Elijah+Ascending.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0eqV4dzlA2baJdep0ZHJWs6fTj3PUM-YVmlf76_Wlp4kFcYBrm4gDCa4q4BUH9XWo7clBsoA8AF9rloT-XjMnWKjzoe2S_FddK49OCOb6kyVG1CK4zS9aOHmokuB7YSXXql4hdz9uF2R/s400/11.+Elijah+Ascending.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elijah Ascending</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<b>A Poem for Our Elijah</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Fierce Urgency of Now<br />
—Elijah Cummings</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The Muse came to me in the night like a wrestling angel in the form of Elijah Cummings, in the form of Elias Lowinsky, and insisted I find words for the passion I felt that morning, hearing of Elijah Cummings’ death, for the passion expressed by all the speakers at his funeral, for the passion of his people and my people, words for the “fierce urgency of Now.” She gave me this poem and insisted I send it out into the world. I hope that you who are moved by it will send it on. That is one small thing we can do in 2019.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The Muse came to me in the night like a wrestling angel in the form of Elijah Cummings, in the form of Elias Lowinsky, and insisted I find words for the passion I felt that morning, hearing of Elijah Cummings’ death, for the passion expressed by all the speakers at his funeral, for the passion of his people and my people, words for the “fierce urgency of Now.” She gave me this poem and insisted I send it out into the world. I hope that you who are moved by it will send it on. That is one small thing we can do in 2019.</div>
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<b>The Spirit of Elijah Speaks</b><br />
October 17th, 2019<br />
<br />
Open the door I’m here to haunt the House<br />
I didn’t mean to leave you all in the lurch<br />
Covenants broken The Constitution under siege<br />
My time has expired I beg you guard this moment<br />
<br />
I didn’t mean to leave you all in the lurch<br />
Been signing subpoenas to the end of my breath<br />
My time has expired I beg you guard this moment<br />
What will you do to protect our democracy?<br />
<br />
Been signing subpoenas to the end of my breath<br />
Was called to earth to speak truth to abuse<br />
What will you do to protect our democracy?<br />
I come from sharecroppers from the land on which our ancestors were slaves<br />
<br />
Was called to earth to speak truth to abuse<br />
Became Master of the House and Chair of Oversight<br />
I come from sharecroppers from the land on which our ancestors were slaves<br />
Was shown the glory of the separation of powers<br />
<br />
Became Master of the House and Chair of Oversight<br />
Thou shalt not separate children from parents seeking asylum<br />
Behold the glory of the separation of powers<br />
Thou shalt not arouse the crowd’s bad blood high dudgeon</div>
<div>
Thou shalt not separate children in cages leave them sitting in feces<br />
We’re better than that<br />
Thou shalt not arouse the crowd’s bad blood high dudgeon<br />
Who will speak truth to the Master of Mendacity?<br />
<br />
We’re better than that<br />
He has slandered the people of my home city Baltimore <br />
Who will speak truth to the Master of Mendacity?<br />
You’ve got only one life and within you a small still voice<br />
<br />
He has slandered the people of my home city Baltimore <br />
The Forefathers warned us Beware of demagogues <br />
Does he ever listen to that small still voice?<br />
Look in the mirror poet that haunt in your eyes is the spirit of your father</div>
<div>
<i>This demagogue this walking catastrophe has roused me from the dead<br />Look in the mirror America that haunt in your eyes is me your ancestral refugee <br />Never break your covenant with Lady Liberty I beg you Guard The Constitution <br />My name is Elijah Open the door</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyO0W1PiOUcfd80XRvgrGerL7Z5U_TtfHjuzBdKB5R0fekJEuT8gPBWf3McKrweGXyyAGkWt7vuKHhU_iZQ7bxlqFuCGzBDUZp7UCj6DFQLF973Dy8RjkBfpscTXBmA-sLNqYJmAlvgDA/s1600/12.+Elijah+as+fire.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyO0W1PiOUcfd80XRvgrGerL7Z5U_TtfHjuzBdKB5R0fekJEuT8gPBWf3McKrweGXyyAGkWt7vuKHhU_iZQ7bxlqFuCGzBDUZp7UCj6DFQLF973Dy8RjkBfpscTXBmA-sLNqYJmAlvgDA/s400/12.+Elijah+as+fire.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elijah as Fire</td></tr>
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</div>
<div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-7942041202275108672019-06-15T09:44:00.000-07:002019-06-16T12:48:06.404-07:00The Muse of Red America<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You cannot grasp these things unless you stumble over them.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
—(Daniel C. Matt, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Essential-Kabbalah-Heart-Jewish-Mysticism-ebook/dp/B003YUCEAM"><i>The Essential Kabbalah</i></a>, p. 163)</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcu-rm5Xo03WF7Bg0fsj2PfLBAwlJmWSN2TlBFSGRJYQ-9Csz8ZVW9wx_GTu-eDJcZa6rQ46KmPtczI2KxN2tI9vX-HL9gIZJ1iV3tHU8WwPdqMIx3vcy2RtfhgYGgqEN50fFQYhsiots/s1600/1.+Spiritual+Exile.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcu-rm5Xo03WF7Bg0fsj2PfLBAwlJmWSN2TlBFSGRJYQ-9Csz8ZVW9wx_GTu-eDJcZa6rQ46KmPtczI2KxN2tI9vX-HL9gIZJ1iV3tHU8WwPdqMIx3vcy2RtfhgYGgqEN50fFQYhsiots/s400/1.+Spiritual+Exile.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spiritual Exile</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Spiritual Exile</b><br />
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<br />
<i>One who descends from the root of roots to the form of forms must walk in<br /> multiplicity</i>. —(Daniel C. Matt, <i>The Essential Kabbalah</i>, p.117)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohprbbjNlZRvbnUlqIkaruB4usoGt-Fbw-srDYJghlpOg9DWZk_nd1L8UkVCOzbWdHmNZ2_38PKK_tKYdCkTw_WFX1p5pu8nQaWzOoDRqWY8z55x-7dAMcHAC_b2v-G-qFU2VfpDkVCDc/s1600/2.+Tucson+with+cactus.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohprbbjNlZRvbnUlqIkaruB4usoGt-Fbw-srDYJghlpOg9DWZk_nd1L8UkVCOzbWdHmNZ2_38PKK_tKYdCkTw_WFX1p5pu8nQaWzOoDRqWY8z55x-7dAMcHAC_b2v-G-qFU2VfpDkVCDc/s400/2.+Tucson+with+cactus.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tucson, AZ</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
An invitation to speak to the Jung Society of Tucson was the inspiration for a trip to the Southwest. Neither Dan nor I had ever been to Tucson, a desert town, whose terrain makes a sudden leap of mountains at the horizon that takes one’s breath away. Everywhere the giant Saguaro cacti loom, like silent elders of some mystery tribe. The ordinary life of streets and houses is carried on in the presence of the extraordinary—the wild overwhelm of the sacred. It seemed an appropriate landscape for my talk on spiritual wandering, taken from my book <a href="https://fisherkingpress.com/n/product/the-rabbi-the-goddess-and-jung" target="_blank"><i>The Rabbi, the Goddess and Jung</i>.</a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://fisherkingpress.com/n/product/the-rabbi-the-goddess-and-jung" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuVyijeaYO4lMFQS-uC2iA2ZkNoyZrJNVIuQExjyW4e2M5UVhyQxglTxNeq-sqcAhjCY-eDBm_Z7L7vfXbM7b-X-xOGDeCqNxs2dt6vD24GO33zdkQUK373r6y3YzvN0oADz9gbGSc2Xo/s320/3.+The+Rabbi.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
I had imagined that being a Jungian in a red state like Arizona must feel like being in spiritual exile. It didn’t seem that way among the people we met. On our first evening we had dinner with Sylvia Simpson, a Jungian analyst and psychiatrist, originally from Canada, and her colleague, Charles Gillispie, author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Way-We-Go-Charles-Gillispie/dp/1935218190" target="_blank"><i>The Way We Go On</i></a>, who turned out to be a poet whose work I have chosen for publication in <a href="https://junginla.org/words-images/psychological-perspectives/" target="_blank"><i>Psychological Perspectives</i>.</a> He uses poetry in therapy with addicts and others. He told me that the poetry in <i>Psychological Perspectives</i>’ is a rich resource; he can always find a poem “to read to a suffering person.” This unexpected feedback made my spirits sing. Sylvia and Charles turned out to be spiritual and political kin for whom Tucson is a sanctuary, close to the natural world, away from the fear and loathing dominating so much of America these days.<br />
<br />
On the next day I gave my talk; the audience response was moving and soulful. I was among people who were at home in the realms of the symbolic and the sacred. I told them about a Jewish legend which says that before we are born, an angel, whose name is Lailah, tells us all the secrets of the cosmos, all the mysteries of being and non–being. Then she places her forefinger on our upper lip and says “Shhhh.” She wants us to forget all she has told us, but she leaves her mark—a sign that we have been touched by divinity. Over our lifetimes, if we are open to spirit, to dreams, to the living symbol, we may regain some small portion of what we knew before we were born. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycZEnr6FCWDInhRkgtJyqjOYVt7pRoovNRUkx221flYemfpWbDLjudl98cYv5GfQFWJoK2FIDxpJmxJtgrWeD-f3bIwiy3JTYqwurF4mqVxV0sARVpMHneUIkxgyva-knV4eYVteJ6qPW/s1600/4.+Lailah.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycZEnr6FCWDInhRkgtJyqjOYVt7pRoovNRUkx221flYemfpWbDLjudl98cYv5GfQFWJoK2FIDxpJmxJtgrWeD-f3bIwiy3JTYqwurF4mqVxV0sARVpMHneUIkxgyva-knV4eYVteJ6qPW/s400/4.+Lailah.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lailah</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
I read them my poem in her voice:<br />
<br />
<b>Lailah Wants a Word</b><br />
<br />
<i> Lailah, the Angel of Conception…watches<br /> over the unborn child</i><br />
Jewish Legend<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
You were not born for traffic<br />
Not released into day for hustle <br />
<br />
and drive. I did not send you past moonstone <br />
past glow worm, to ignore the light. I did not touch <br />
<br />
the soft spot on your crown, nor seal <br />
my blessing on your upper lip, to be a slave<br />
<br />
to acquisition. I sent you into the company<br />
of frogs. I sent you to commune with willows<br />
<br />
with oaks. Pay attention—<br />
the frogs have stopped wooing<br />
<br />
the oaks been sold down river<br />
Grandmother Spider Brother Rabbit <br />
<br />
are losing their worlds. You have ears —<br />
Hear them. You have a heart—feel them<br />
<br />
You have two lungs—breathe <br />
I give you the wind <br />
<br />
in the grasses. I give you the sight <br />
of Coyote. She’s meandering up <br />
<br />
the mountain. Follow her. Perhaps she will throw <br />
your shoe at the moon. Perhaps the moon <br />
<br />
will fill your shoe with shimmer—<br />
Sail it back down to you—Then <br />
<br />
will you remember<br />
Me?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOU_SA8MiDDvec_ESLnpX2PWYj9kQAjuCuJmDUD6KA24NcFPeVNC7d6cL1UHYTHur42ORgxqGHKYWbLPIYIODVHXB4AJ4uCyBvjAaxDye-CoWNY2CnA0HiA4-gPqOftFoLhIHPD87sOxT/s1600/5.+Sophia.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOU_SA8MiDDvec_ESLnpX2PWYj9kQAjuCuJmDUD6KA24NcFPeVNC7d6cL1UHYTHur42ORgxqGHKYWbLPIYIODVHXB4AJ4uCyBvjAaxDye-CoWNY2CnA0HiA4-gPqOftFoLhIHPD87sOxT/s400/5.+Sophia.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophia</td></tr>
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</div>
<div>
<br />
We spent a lot of time talking about Sophia who showed up in my dreams years ago and has become my spirit guide. She is beautiful, dark, wise. She creates a glowing bridge between the Goddess realms and Judaism. She is Wisdom in Proverbs. She is the Shekinah. According to Philo, God creates the world by means of Sophia. (Caitlin Matthews, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sophia-Goddess-Wisdom-Bride-God/dp/0835608018" target="_blank"><i>Sophia</i>,</a> p. 97.) According to Jung, she is an “independent being who exists side by side with God.” (C.G. Jung, “Answer to Job,” <i>CW 11</i>, ¶ 619.) According to Jeffrey Raff, she is the Tree of Life, also the light of the divine. (Raff, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Wedding-Sophia-Feminine-Psychoidal-Alchemy/dp/0892540664" target="_blank"><i>The Wedding of Sophia</i></a>, pp. 54-5.) Perhaps she is the dark Shulamite, that “Priestess of Ishtar,” (C.G. Jung, “Adam and Eve,” CW 14 ¶ 646.) of whom Jung writes in <i>Mysterium Coniunctionis,</i> that she longs to “become like Noah’s dove, which, with the olive leaf in its beak, announced the end of the flood…and God’s reconciliation with the children of men.” (C.G. Jung, <i>CW 14</i>, ¶ 625.) In Tucson we marveled at the fiery serpent around her neck, the glowing egg in her hand, the inward and outward intensity of her gaze. Someone said: “She’s telling us we have to deal with things as they are; we have to deal with unbearable realities.” <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwEy1fTjzrOwWo5rt_WZX1_NBNqwBwoqdGK7qV4C8Yp7YyKRz1alR4Oeo_A21xuP-aPGU4BZxqbv-MahIbqRH54Cn8ky_J_ICsXwA3nXfQ5ynO0uD2MOqjJeySh0h2szQIbMf2BulWyKqs/s1600/6.+Goddess+as+Tree+of+Life.jpg"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwEy1fTjzrOwWo5rt_WZX1_NBNqwBwoqdGK7qV4C8Yp7YyKRz1alR4Oeo_A21xuP-aPGU4BZxqbv-MahIbqRH54Cn8ky_J_ICsXwA3nXfQ5ynO0uD2MOqjJeySh0h2szQIbMf2BulWyKqs/s400/6.+Goddess+as+Tree+of+Life.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It turns out that the Jung Society is not the only oasis of the symbolic life in Tucson. The University of Arizona in Tucson has a well–endowed poetry center, and well known poets come to read there often. We had stumbled into a treasure of a town. On our last morning, on our way out of town, we had breakfast at the Blue Willow, a charming restaurant, where I overheard: “After I’d lived here a year I’d bought 13 guns.” I guess that’s the other side.<br />
<br />
<b>Road Trip</b><br />
<br />
<i> There is a secular world and a holy world…In our limited perception we cannot<br /> reconcile the sacred and the secular, we cannot harmonize their contradictions.</i><br />
—(Daniel C. Matt, <i>The Essential Kabbalah</i>, p. 153.)<br />
<br />
Driving out of Tucson we found ourselves in high desert, peopled only by those silent Saguaro elders. The mountains leapt up—exclamation marks, or were they earth giving the finger to the gods? The road hash knifed through a runaway herd of galloping hills as we ascended to Flagstaff, where we spent the night. The Little America Hotel surprised us with its calm beauty, its meditative garden with water flowing over rocks as we ate a fine dinner.<br />
<br />
There was snow on the mountains, and hail beating our heads as Dan brought our suitcases out the next morning. Hail rattled the rented Sentra as we drove North. The landscape was as changeable as was the weather. We descended from 7,000 feet to high desert. Snow and hail were gone. The sky was huge, full of white clouds that seemed to brood over the land like an enormous chicken. As we ascended into the belly of the clouds Dan pointed out the Vermillion Cliffs, part of The Grand Staircase, where earth reveals her changes and transmutations in a stair–like formation. We were in an ancestral sandstone dream driving into another cloud burst of hail beating the windshield of our sturdy Nissan Sentra. The dashboard flashed a warning: “Cold Temperature outside.” The temperature had plummeted from 60º to 36º in ten minutes. Vermillion? A fancy word for bright red, but I saw purple orange pink fantasies of mesas rising to the sky as the hail stopped. Dan remembered the road trip he took with his parents when he was twelve, in 1951—no air–conditioning, no freeways, no passing lanes. No big sign on the side of the road as there is now, inviting us to “Shoot a Machine Gun.” We drove through a valley, which Dan guessed was once a riverbed, into Utah. Otherworldly formations greeted us as we turned off into the Lake Powell Resort and Marina, hoping to find lunch. The Driftwood Lounge was a welcoming oasis with good food and wonderful views of sandstone erosion creating wild shapes and colors that dazzle us.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JPtLpIeZX8nxy7S7kCxX6E2OCLBhci9JT7EOX8caqVlBgxOdWPVZRgbYbylm8A5ghPXHx9D4AMtDS3LMGiJ7MW7Sko-ptlEqGbOAYXRX2DqDLOtzWYmsKduXadP9uxlMwglUoBN9waJi/s1600/Formations.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JPtLpIeZX8nxy7S7kCxX6E2OCLBhci9JT7EOX8caqVlBgxOdWPVZRgbYbylm8A5ghPXHx9D4AMtDS3LMGiJ7MW7Sko-ptlEqGbOAYXRX2DqDLOtzWYmsKduXadP9uxlMwglUoBN9waJi/s400/Formations.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Formations seen though the window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div>
We saw the Hopi and Navajo presence in the faces of many who greeted us with warm smiles, brought us menus and meals, in the signs on the road announcing handmade Indian jewelry up ahead, or the occasional Hogan we passed. Dan told stories of his 12 year old self and his father, who loved to stop and look at Indian handiwork. His father, a refugee from Poland, had a word for sudden rainfalls—a “plughh”—with a guttural growl at the end—an onomatopoetic word he had made up to express the sound of sudden rain, which had just “plughhed” on us. We were in a ghostly scene—shades of gray ringed with spectral mountains—and up ahead an opening to bright sky. Then suddenly we were in the clear and the heavens were full of drifting white clouds, like the boats we saw moored at Lake Powell.<br />
<br />
This part of Utah is literally a red state—full of red cliffs, coral and pink sand dunes, peekaboo trailheads, rock formations like ancient castles in some fairy land, long stretches of road between small towns and National Parks, vast valleys inhabited by forests and ancestral rock mounds. We were headed to Zion.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuO82QI0f2z0ad3Kl4tzQr27uJ8xuVkjCqDe3nqShXXVRfxT1L76HSUiTS0r13KqnMdD4-ZgqUAAh6kj481_GUO6SHVyOtwKTLg5ZlNsvBCJDGb5wQdJcyGAUHgUISUh6mxntun4GXJB37/s1600/8.+On+Our+Way+to+Zion+.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuO82QI0f2z0ad3Kl4tzQr27uJ8xuVkjCqDe3nqShXXVRfxT1L76HSUiTS0r13KqnMdD4-ZgqUAAh6kj481_GUO6SHVyOtwKTLg5ZlNsvBCJDGb5wQdJcyGAUHgUISUh6mxntun4GXJB37/s400/8.+On+Our+Way+to+Zion+.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>The Promised Land</b><br />
<br />
<i> Nothing is devoid of its divinity. Everything is within it; it is within everything<br /> and outside of everything. There is nothing but it.</i><br />
—(Daniel C. Matt, <i>The Essential Kabbalah</i>, p. 24.)<br />
<br />
I have longed to go to Zion. Dan had been there, once, many years ago. The very name of the park tugged at me. Wikipedia explains:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Jewish longing for Zion, starting with the deportation and enslavement of Jews during the Babylonian captivity, was adopted as a metaphor by Christian black slaves in the US, and after the Civil War by blacks who were still oppressed. Thus Zion symbolizes a longing by wandering peoples for a safe homeland.</blockquote>
I had told my audience in Tucson of my longing “for myth, for mystery, for those moments when the veils thin, and something uncanny, wild, awesome enters.” I told them that I had “glimpsed it in Hindu temples, in Catholic churches, in Pagan rituals, in poetry, everywhere but in the Jewish world I knew as a child.”<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
How does a Jew to whom God never spoke in a synagogue, who has wandered the world and the paths of other religions seeking direct experience of the sacred, stumble upon it in her own tradition? How does a spiritual exile, whose life was transformed by the Goddess, get past her issues with the patriarchal God of the Jews?</blockquote>
I told them I had found my way back to Judaism, to my inner Zion, with Jung’s help, because Jung steered me to mystical Judaism, where the uncanny and the awesome are alive and thriving. Now here we were in a difficult time in American history, two children of refugee Jews, seeking an external Zion in the red state of Utah. We learned that to get there we had to pass through dark tunnels, past towering piles of red rock bedecked with pine shrubs, cascades of shale, clusters of cars gathered at trailheads. A queue of cars awaited the first tunnel, which is short and straight–forward once you start moving.<br />
<br />
There was a second tunnel—a longer, darker, swervier one. The queue seemed to take forever. We had thought we were making good time. Now our afternoon was being eaten up by long lines of cars. We didn’t come all the way out here for a traffic jam. That mood lifted when we finally made it through the dark passages into a glowing realm of tall stone gods whose ancient bulk, curves and pillars, made us crane our necks, exclaim in wonder. Or perhaps they were ancient temples, where the gods have withdrawn in silence, as they count the species that are disappearing from our earth, allowing us mortals only glimpses of their stony walls. There we were, in our metal Odysseys, our Voyagers, Vagabonds, Land Rovers, Rogues, Mustangs, Wranglers and Quests meandering the slow spirals of this other world until we were released into big sky, tall outcroppings touched by late afternoon’s last light, the town of Springdale and the Desert Pearl Inn.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib-LdluDdz-TSPAkxFAMI3TnWY-tthINEwZ48Uttw5afcKeiNAZPY04_FcMR1YHVQo1K8EJB-WGVn7puWM6kHx6J5-VwnSXcqdtOsxvZAtVLJj214vKsxq1cqYthwkGI7xxoA34Q3ZxRPR/s1600/9.+Desert+Pearl+Inn.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib-LdluDdz-TSPAkxFAMI3TnWY-tthINEwZ48Uttw5afcKeiNAZPY04_FcMR1YHVQo1K8EJB-WGVn7puWM6kHx6J5-VwnSXcqdtOsxvZAtVLJj214vKsxq1cqYthwkGI7xxoA34Q3ZxRPR/s400/9.+Desert+Pearl+Inn.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert Pearl Inn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
The next day a shuttle bus took us into the park. Another shuttle bus carried us through the park. We were in a crowd of people from myriad cultures speaking myriad tongues with myriad complexions. They had all come to red America—despite our xenophobic president— to see its marvels—to see the Tower of the Virgin, to hear the Piute elder tell us that Zion was called “straight up land” in their language. He said: “Our creator placed us here to care for this land…We are taught that everything has a purpose—rocks, plants, animals, people.” He sounded much like Lailah, the Angel of my Conception. Here were all the graces, in the form of red rocks, rounded female forms, hefty masculine forms, angular, tumbled, pointing at the sky forms that look like temples, like cathedrals. There were hanging gardens, nurturing baby trees as the Virgin River rushed below. “Listen to the rocks, perhaps they’ll tell the story of our people” said the Piute elder. Soft red slopes harbored cottonwoods and box elders, fierce gray rocks hash knifed the sky. This is the land of flash floods. Beware the sudden rain. Beware the long winding path—people have fallen to their deaths.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPzzQEiNfjyNsjmNj1brrCBzbCPjsIWLqhBzpZfjSqojbZ91DOXlYiVwphyphenhyphenMuCLOpv3lNeQEK4-l8uSTipXo-c6OWGXdkQtmofZ4tq-rLIcyeRihSsaiKwvIY6T7LRn55dYgnAqwkrzoj/s1600/10.+Beware+the+Long+Winding+Path.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPzzQEiNfjyNsjmNj1brrCBzbCPjsIWLqhBzpZfjSqojbZ91DOXlYiVwphyphenhyphenMuCLOpv3lNeQEK4-l8uSTipXo-c6OWGXdkQtmofZ4tq-rLIcyeRihSsaiKwvIY6T7LRn55dYgnAqwkrzoj/s400/10.+Beware+the+Long+Winding+Path.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beware the Long Winding Path</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
We were on the bus among so many people in their Patagonias with their phallic camera lenses, their backpacks, their fold up walking sticks, their young. Some got off to see the Court of the Patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. I’d had enough of patriarchs. We stayed on the bus until the end of the line—The Temple of Sinawava—Piute for Coyote—a vertical amphitheater nearly 3,000 feet deep, used by the Indians as a meeting place and a sanctuary. We were among the hordes of the awe struck, throwing back our heads to see the high red cliffs open their thighs to reveal a long, lovely strand of waterfall. The return of the condors was nurtured in these high rocks. They are sanctuary for the peregrine falcon.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFAuC7Ov-YXcuKObngE_gzdmM7KlJVaiN_QwxHOfeBrTpxG095P5guzMM4fUV8_b3zdIIIS0TFkC0K5OHcUI9VcBq1jNuTIF9ELmxm20ImV3lgMLh9GJD0GIFpEIp5HcNMqTLZDMuirkR/s1600/11.+Naomi+%2526+Dan+at+the+Temple+of+Sinawava.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFAuC7Ov-YXcuKObngE_gzdmM7KlJVaiN_QwxHOfeBrTpxG095P5guzMM4fUV8_b3zdIIIS0TFkC0K5OHcUI9VcBq1jNuTIF9ELmxm20ImV3lgMLh9GJD0GIFpEIp5HcNMqTLZDMuirkR/s400/11.+Naomi+%2526+Dan+at+the+Temple+of+Sinawava.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Temple of Sinawava</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
The river spoke of rain and so it rained. The river spoke of rock and we saw the rock weep—rain had seeped into the sandstone. This is how hanging gardens are watered. <br />
<br />
Our heads were turned by the “Great White Throne.” Whose throne could that be? The gods spoke in the faces of the red rock, in tongues of falling water, in cacti and cottonwoods, in slot canyons and layers of Old Navajo Sandstone, and in the softer Kayenta formations below. “History is written vertically” said Dan.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-10Qw15m7saFY3aQlwle_uIqrdz9oKwxnFD8xTpBdlx6R5M2lEEF1qmOpS9x0niYBFL9UOP5At4zkB9PzTw-qOYe9Q_aOjxQQ2hAOmhnuQ4WQlMmwuEUV_FteA7IVpFny70JXYdHp2vi/s1600/12.+Weeping+Rock.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-10Qw15m7saFY3aQlwle_uIqrdz9oKwxnFD8xTpBdlx6R5M2lEEF1qmOpS9x0niYBFL9UOP5At4zkB9PzTw-qOYe9Q_aOjxQQ2hAOmhnuQ4WQlMmwuEUV_FteA7IVpFny70JXYdHp2vi/s320/12.+Weeping+Rock.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weeping Rock</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
On line for the shuttle bus back to our Inn, I overheard a mustachioed old timer in a cowboy hat tell an urbane forty something couple from California that he’s from Alaska, where fires are taking the forest. “When I was a kid the forests were so dense, so beautiful. Now they’re cut up by swatches of burnt orange.” The couple from California had their own stories of fire. The well-kempt man said “What happens next?” “I hope I’m not around to find out,” said the Alaskan. “I can’t take much more of this.”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVMg10Ax-BiJT1PC8JxNUxHkMrseFOqkQcWOo0BFg_Ey9tjFgldirJj2rrhrKrMlA6T3-q6kBHipq-25lsv1c_zd79KmWKwY-Mf_yntvO9ZpIhufQlC1NspFwYUup8qnXUZPlC97fzR7e/s1600/13.+The+Virgin+from+Our+Balcony.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVMg10Ax-BiJT1PC8JxNUxHkMrseFOqkQcWOo0BFg_Ey9tjFgldirJj2rrhrKrMlA6T3-q6kBHipq-25lsv1c_zd79KmWKwY-Mf_yntvO9ZpIhufQlC1NspFwYUup8qnXUZPlC97fzR7e/s400/13.+The+Virgin+from+Our+Balcony.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Virgin River from our Balcony</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virgin River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="text-align: center;">I sat on the balcony of our hotel room listening to the river carry on as clouds gathered and the cotton woods leaves rustled in the breeze. It had been sunny and warm and now it was cloudy and cold——forever changing weather in the company of the high red cliffs and the Virgin who has created all this glory. Is there anything better for the soul than a river running through it?</span><br />
<br />
I sat with my fears and my pain about America. I imagined the homeless, the hungry, the terrified fleeing their dangerous home countries looking for sanctuary, looking for Zion. I imagined the children separated from their parents, the people whose roots go back to primordial times in this land who have lost their cultural roots, been cut off from their ancestors. I thought of the people whose politics may be different from ours, who have been so kind to us travelers, and who take such good care of this sacred place. I remembered the humor in Porter’s Smokehouse and Grill, a place we loved to have breakfast, where there were signs that read:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“No dancing on the tables with your spurs on!”<br />
“Unaccompanied children will be sold to the circus.”</blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRh1n9dbQLEYEQzihHHaX7jAIJs5Ld1G3tJPSQ-OwLrXs0QV-cWfq9p43mBlDUSbFsGGTKSgeH_GVWRE9jMgZZOz5ZcwHbRn3LPpxs8oFfL4RBql_DIRABNyevF5aRXGnc4uYQkHNrSlt/s1600/15.+Holy+Zion.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRh1n9dbQLEYEQzihHHaX7jAIJs5Ld1G3tJPSQ-OwLrXs0QV-cWfq9p43mBlDUSbFsGGTKSgeH_GVWRE9jMgZZOz5ZcwHbRn3LPpxs8oFfL4RBql_DIRABNyevF5aRXGnc4uYQkHNrSlt/s400/15.+Holy+Zion.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy Zion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
I called on Lailah, the Angel of my Conception, and on Sophia, my spirit guide, to advise me. They told me: You’ve come to the right place. Red America has returned you to the Goddess in a place called Zion. What casts your head back is the holy—makes no difference where it happens or in what cultural context. What towers over you, millions of years in the making, tells you how small your place is in the presence of the eons. What is it about the rush of water falling over rock that makes human faces glow, lifts spirits, soothes fears? It is the flow of eternity, the rock of ages.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlngq0pkEXeloF__HAZfRSqLELHkwquxZIuscYwt9vKcmwhOoOd6lTrSN0XwdpU_2X80J51ck6bwFnpcMzTiWAzi0ezGeefnLIhZIiFhny-uGWBkqe2Bgf203I-ELjr4FyRZy_3gY77Dw/s1600/16.+Rock+of+Ages.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlngq0pkEXeloF__HAZfRSqLELHkwquxZIuscYwt9vKcmwhOoOd6lTrSN0XwdpU_2X80J51ck6bwFnpcMzTiWAzi0ezGeefnLIhZIiFhny-uGWBkqe2Bgf203I-ELjr4FyRZy_3gY77Dw/s400/16.+Rock+of+Ages.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock of Ages</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
What is it about the busy hubbub of babies in snugglies, toddlers proudly pushing their own strollers, the vibrant mix of many tongues: you heard German, Dutch, French, Spanish, Italian, Hindi and many more you could not name, that gives you hope for your land? It is the living experience of diversity, among peoples and species, states of mind and places of sanctuary; it is the hope for continuity, for courage in the face of catastrophic times, and for the glowing egg of rebirth.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDh3danRRQUp8o4MIXCZdW7YyHfwESGqskrmcO5j6WtS2eL6N4jpoDg1t5vnCY2IIyBCUYLTEZ7fPbgy0INhUeRmx4oNeSXk-MST6xt2GcYSYPSDttwOhgrweGru1YqXbqSBpWsRybH1h/s1600/17.+A+Family+of+Geese.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDh3danRRQUp8o4MIXCZdW7YyHfwESGqskrmcO5j6WtS2eL6N4jpoDg1t5vnCY2IIyBCUYLTEZ7fPbgy0INhUeRmx4oNeSXk-MST6xt2GcYSYPSDttwOhgrweGru1YqXbqSBpWsRybH1h/s400/17.+A+Family+of+Geese.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family of Geese</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
On our last morning I sat on our balcony by the river, sad to leave all this enchantment. I watched pollen floating in the air. I’d seen girls chasing after the white fluff in the meadows, laughing. The family of geese who have charmed us for days arose from their resting place. The five goslings meandered down to the river; their parents kept a close watch. All this was so delicate, so strong, so eternal. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Constant Flux</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But the news began to seep into my consciousness. The latest mad kerfuffle: the President walked out of a meeting with the Speaker of the House. They had agreed to work together on mending our torn up infrastructure. He was angry that the democrats are talking about impeachment. She said she was praying for him. He said “She’s losing it.” Doctored fake news videos showed up on line, which made her look drunk. The news, like the weather, is in constant flux. Driving out of Zion we heard that women associated with the unions have taken over the legislature in Nevada. We cheered.<br />
<br />
At the Moapa Paiute Traveller Plaza I felt compelled to buy a dream catcher. The young woman with bright orange hair at the register pointed out that a feather had fallen off. She suggested I get another. I thanked her and said: “I don’t want to lose my dreams.” “Right,” she says, “No broken dreams.”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1RxGwrzvd3hEY4qsS4AWmtjSXEe4bOBL3gj3SlTa9gMiTjZ-RnukIXodkE3ES5kgS8R8EYWKouPZ1p2HHfLdrjm1EQmkMH9Ykrv-o9RXbBiePwwXxJki9TiUMfGfPLkTaegRTImhyphenhyphenM5W/s1600/19.+Goddess+of+Our+Dreams.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1RxGwrzvd3hEY4qsS4AWmtjSXEe4bOBL3gj3SlTa9gMiTjZ-RnukIXodkE3ES5kgS8R8EYWKouPZ1p2HHfLdrjm1EQmkMH9Ykrv-o9RXbBiePwwXxJki9TiUMfGfPLkTaegRTImhyphenhyphenM5W/s640/19.+Goddess+of+Our+Dreams.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goddess of Our Dreams</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-79511639615053420552019-01-04T20:02:00.000-08:002019-01-06T19:51:51.391-08:00The Muse of Origins<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
I will be your mouth now, to do your singing</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
breath belongs to those who do the breathing.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">—Judy Grahn, </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/love-belongs-those-who-feeling/dp/1597091219" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank"><i>Love Belongs to Those Who Do the Feeling</i></a><span style="text-align: center;">, p. 90</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigrq2G7awPExm4FFA4HBmwMwkNEoyyxkyPFv8NG7uqfH_MoQHmsKA2yl8PPoVlhTfngp1CFlAr9uNpqxhG-7G9A2x3ILVaYgzfLW_MilBlcegMOKrcdFa6wtPTlgjj2vOeD8uO5jtimWBy/s1600/Gretel%252C+Naomi+%2526+Si+1946.pdf000+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigrq2G7awPExm4FFA4HBmwMwkNEoyyxkyPFv8NG7uqfH_MoQHmsKA2yl8PPoVlhTfngp1CFlAr9uNpqxhG-7G9A2x3ILVaYgzfLW_MilBlcegMOKrcdFa6wtPTlgjj2vOeD8uO5jtimWBy/s400/Gretel%252C+Naomi+%2526+Si+1946.pdf000+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother, me and my brother Si</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<b>Word Roots</b><br />
<br />
…the bond between women is a circle<br />
we are together in it.<br />
—Judy Grahn, <i>Love Belongs</i>, p. 90<br />
<br />
As I approach the first anniversary—Jahrzeit in Judaism—of Mother’s death there are so many things I wish I could tell her. I want her to know three poems of mine were just published in the on-line journal <i>Origins</i>. It’s rare, at least for me, to have a journal take so many poems at once. I wish I could share my delight with Mother, tell her what it means to me when work I have wrestled with, often for months, work that emerges from strong feeling, heated inward arguments, strange dreams, far flung travels, wild associations, increasingly frightening news, work culled from hours spent with the etymological dictionary, the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Book-Symbols-Reflections-Archetypal-Images/dp/3836514486" target="_blank"><i>Book of Symbols</i></a>, a library full of Jungiana, poetry and Goddess literature, is finally brought into a shape that pleases me, and then, by some fluke of Dame Fortuna, transformed by the interest of strangers into words on a printed or on-line page. It feels magical—a long labor and then a birth. My poem has entered another realm. Who knows who will read it and what it will mean to them.<br />
<br />
I want Mother to know that these three poems, in different ways, are about origins; they seem to have found the right place in the world wide web. <a href="http://www.originsjournal.com/2018/2018/11/20/naomi-ruth-lowinsky" target="_blank"><i>Origins</i>’</a> mission statement says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
We're interested in…writing that tells us something about a character's roots or what makes her unique… We want to read provocative poems, and have gripping conversations with writers about everything from craft to creativity. Literature offers us the opportunity to endlessly interpret who we are as human beings. This journal is a celebration and investigation of our diverse origins and the art that inevitably springs forth.</blockquote>
<div>
The roots of the word “origin” are fascinating. But even when Mother was alive and of sound mind, she would probably not have welcomed a long discussion about etymological roots. She’d want to know how the children and grand children are doing. She’d want to tell me about the Beethoven quartets she and her friends have been playing. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmiwoxwa4zHf3RFwUJOQzICTLsX7ckKlT5kyAtIptkTYi98BfOltkhpUgUVU2equrg87WGMRXC7YKduYuZ8HYbPfZi6PO6fGLpqnO-5XXSOBDlK3dnhpzw9RALAzydSBfMLJIys4S2eCC/s1600/2new.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmiwoxwa4zHf3RFwUJOQzICTLsX7ckKlT5kyAtIptkTYi98BfOltkhpUgUVU2equrg87WGMRXC7YKduYuZ8HYbPfZi6PO6fGLpqnO-5XXSOBDlK3dnhpzw9RALAzydSBfMLJIys4S2eCC/s320/2new.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother as a young woman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<i>I’m dead now, in a place where there is no time, where there are no endings and beginnings, where there are no roots and origins. Sometimes it’s fun to take a break from all this formlessness, to remember the old attachments of my life. Tell me about your word roots.</i><br />
<br />
Mother, thank you for showing up. Word roots are ancestors, the origins of language and culture. You won’t believe what happened when I looked up the roots of the word “origin.” I found a family of words that come from Germanic and Old English words meaning “to move, to set in motion.” These words are related to the verb “to be,” to exist, to arise, be born; they are also related to Germanic roots which transmute into the name, “Emma,” your mother’s name, which means whole, universal. This is my grandmother, my Oma, my ancestor whose self–portrait sits in my study, watching me wisely, knowingly, as I write these words to you. She is my origin, as you are my origin.<br />
<br />
<i>I didn’t know her name meant that. That’s what you like to call a synchronicity. Yes?</i><br />
<br />
Yes, and it’s even more of a synchronicity because the first of the three poems you can read in <i>Origins</i> is about the ancestors.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4pCR3o3JQ-p3rIr7FDXBt0rBle-Un4c5qfTiugHGHn0KCMEG3NDGE0039n2sAv-_PbECAikXTsPNrIfiSV2Gm7nUK_jMjANKPAp4yIRN-fZr6e6Okv8Gw0spxTBMz2VGpqKVQ-EbmKtB/s1600/3.+Emma+Hoffman+Self+Portrait+1957.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4pCR3o3JQ-p3rIr7FDXBt0rBle-Un4c5qfTiugHGHn0KCMEG3NDGE0039n2sAv-_PbECAikXTsPNrIfiSV2Gm7nUK_jMjANKPAp4yIRN-fZr6e6Okv8Gw0spxTBMz2VGpqKVQ-EbmKtB/s320/3.+Emma+Hoffman+Self+Portrait+1957.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emma Hoffman self portrait</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<b>“The Ancestors Visit the Department of Homeland Security”</b><br />
<br />
When the ancestors come time holds its breath space drifts borders shift <br />
They slip through cracks between earth and sky between bare winter branch<br />
and blossom between dream and first light<br />
— “<a href="http://www.originsjournal.com/2018/2018/11/20/naomi-ruth-lowinsky" target="_blank">The Ancestors Visit the Department of Homeland Security</a>”</div>
<div>
(first published in <i>Origins</i>)<br />
<br />
<i>The Book of Symbols</i> tells us that the ancestors are:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
sagacious, uncanny, oracular, they are the legendary elders and immortals who belong to the past, to dreamtime, to the primordial “time outside time,” and nevertheless impinge eternally upon present and future, affecting…their descendants and participating in everyday affairs. (p. 790)</blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQ-zRjo0l4KqVAFJf-qmSUM5xH3F20UBgYPP2aOOwSaHk7ZfGawLJdenbESopQewmgTPH59kevixcuZ3mHLHl8c_4hKt8U_xJQY8IpaXFrrAEoXoEO_RGAu_cQKPbOwKlZ250c0Ujzi3K/s1600/4.+Ancestors+rock+art.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQ-zRjo0l4KqVAFJf-qmSUM5xH3F20UBgYPP2aOOwSaHk7ZfGawLJdenbESopQewmgTPH59kevixcuZ3mHLHl8c_4hKt8U_xJQY8IpaXFrrAEoXoEO_RGAu_cQKPbOwKlZ250c0Ujzi3K/s320/4.+Ancestors+rock+art.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancestors Rock Art</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
That was the feeling I was after in my poem—weird ancestral voices impinging on my experience of current events mixed in with the bureaucratese of the current administration. </div>
<div>
<i>Including my voice?</i></div>
<div>
No, you weren’t dead yet when I wrote this poem.</div>
<div>
<i>Do I impinge on you now that I’m dead?</i><br />
Not as much as I’d like you to. When you do show up it’s always helpful. You tell me to get over myself, get over your death and get out there in the sunshine and live!<br />
<i>Just like I used to when you were a girl. You spent too much time holed up in your room with your books.</i><br />
I still do. It’s who I am. But I miss your voice, your attention, your concern.<br />
<i>OK, now you have my attention. What were the ancestors telling you?</i><br />
I hope you’ll read the poem Mother. Just click on the link and scroll down; you’ll find all three poems. Can a ghost click on a link?<br />
<i>I’m not sure. I couldn’t deal with computers when I was alive. Why should I do so now?</i><br />
If you can show up and talk to me I imagine you can do all sorts of things.<br />
<i>Here goes. Virtual space is strange. Reading is strange. Those ancestors sound like they’re on your father’s side of the family. In your poem they say:</i><br />
<i><br /> Wound of our wounds Haunt of our haunts We carried your mothers’ </i><br />
<i> grandmothers dread at our backs blisters on our feet from Moravia <br /> to the Pale of Settlement Borders closed behind us </i></div>
<div>
<br />
True. I was thinking of my father’s people from what is now called Ukraine. You and your mother were born in Germany, your father in Austria. But your mother’s maiden name, Osterman, means person from the East. I wonder whether you didn’t have ancestors from the Pale of Settlement as well.<br />
<br />
<i>Maybe. They never spoke to me as they do to you. I do like how you go from their oracular voices to the Customs and Border Patrol:</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Customs and Border Patrol…using materials original in the United States to the <br />
maximum extent permitted by law shall immediately begin planning, design, construction and maintenance of a wall along the land border with Mexico.”</blockquote>
It’s still going on, the fight about building a wall, the terrible anti–immigration rhetoric.<br />
<br />
<i> That sounds awful. We wouldn’t have been able to become Americans in that kind of a political climate. As it is we had to wait in Cuba because there was a quota on the Jews. That was in the middle of the war, and of the concentration camp slaughter of Jews.</i><br />
<br />
I know Mother. That’s why the ancestors have haunted me into this poem. That’s why they say, at the end of the poem:<br />
<br />
<i>You owe us <br /> eternal vigilance</i><br />
<i><br />so your children’s children <br /> can carry us on</i><br />
<i><br />You owe us <br /> your lives</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VEgAqsstoivTWIOFd2tzTnw0QWCyyYBzdRwNqCBpX1ckw4s6kE-Wtpz7ccwvvvztTNypeGIlLsojeog4Kdmtc98EJlOS-MqadJ2uZMOhybAMdf09utr93KHqkVDtqiSETD5DnLhB2J_y/s1600/5.+ancestors.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VEgAqsstoivTWIOFd2tzTnw0QWCyyYBzdRwNqCBpX1ckw4s6kE-Wtpz7ccwvvvztTNypeGIlLsojeog4Kdmtc98EJlOS-MqadJ2uZMOhybAMdf09utr93KHqkVDtqiSETD5DnLhB2J_y/s320/5.+ancestors.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancestors</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Medicine Wheel</b><br />
<br />
Have you ever been round such a wheel of changes? <br />
This time last year you were gripped <br />
by that agonized hip Pain <br />
was your shepherd your cane your walker <br />
—“Medicine Wheel” (first published in <i>Origins</i>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04BzJ7OXD7YXMOlFycGBlSTdbdq3GBwjtEkokm-x4l5iLPgpWmL9rJMOYIfa0xxLPGc_VMGEaMscuIj4ekinSZ-_dgfsUias-1Zu-08-DnSmkPnk76xMUxoPTtXmSzUJ13CwN1A0mwoOr/s1600/6.+medicine-wheel-southwest-native-american-450w-796634656.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04BzJ7OXD7YXMOlFycGBlSTdbdq3GBwjtEkokm-x4l5iLPgpWmL9rJMOYIfa0xxLPGc_VMGEaMscuIj4ekinSZ-_dgfsUias-1Zu-08-DnSmkPnk76xMUxoPTtXmSzUJ13CwN1A0mwoOr/s320/6.+medicine-wheel-southwest-native-american-450w-796634656.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>What’s a medicine wheel? </i>Mother wonders.<br />
<br />
Native Americans understand the medicine wheel as a symbol of time, of the seasons, of the directions. They create medicine wheels using stones or painting, or making round dream catchers. These are all modes of healing. I was also thinking of the Wheel of Fortune, and the mandala—a circle standing for wholeness. Jung painted mandalas in a time of psychological breakdown in his own life; he found the process healing. Tibetan monks create intricate gorgeously colorful sand paintings, and then scatter them, as a way to embody the transience of life. <br />
<br />
My poem, in four sections, each of which has four stanzas and a final line in a voice of prayer or evocation, is a mandala in poetic form. The medicine is in the turning of the wheel, in the finding of words and images to express agony and a new way of being. It is in the litany of personal changes, political disasters, prayers and blessing. Just finding a form for it all, writing it all down, is healing for me.<br />
<br />
<i> What’s that about you using a cane and a walker? You’re too young for all that.</i><br />
<br />
I had a bad hip for years. Used a cane. I needed hip replacement. Recovering from that involved using a walker. Now, miraculously, no more hip pain.<br />
<br />
<i>Why didn’t I know about this? </i><br />
<br />
In the last years of your life, Mother, you couldn’t think straight. You couldn’t understand what was going on in my life, or in yours. I missed you even though you were still alive.<br />
<br />
<i>So my dying was a kind of healing. No wonder you want me around, talking to you.</i><br />
<br />
That’s true. It’s been so hard not having you to connect with, not being able to complain to you about our disastrous political situation. <br />
<br />
<i> I gather things are pretty bad. In your poem you keep referring to “the Man made of Greed,” who seems to be a demon in your world. You’re praying to goddesses and quoting scripture, invoking Lady Fortuna and ending on this difficult image:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Destiny is a frayed rope<br />
holding onto the boat<br />
as seas rise…<br />
<br />
<i>Mother of Changes hold on to us</i><br />
<br />
<i>But the truth is</i>, Mother adds, always practical, <i>I can’t hold on to you. I’m dead.</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKqYL9ArCHkiRvEcU_-ifmGKDyytbAxx5oI3tTtY7Py1-WH8FFavJqcX-D72YuvY5yxKddk6dqKbjGFi7eT0C6uTADLWW8N-YlhFhRXzg000wlqbKejM2CkodU2mTjMja1aeI9urf5HIf/s1600/7.+Tibetan+Buddhist+mandala+sand+painting.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKqYL9ArCHkiRvEcU_-ifmGKDyytbAxx5oI3tTtY7Py1-WH8FFavJqcX-D72YuvY5yxKddk6dqKbjGFi7eT0C6uTADLWW8N-YlhFhRXzg000wlqbKejM2CkodU2mTjMja1aeI9urf5HIf/s320/7.+Tibetan+Buddhist+mandala+sand+painting.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tibetan Buddhist Mandala</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Glacial Blue</b><br />
<br />
<i> Maybe it’s time<br /> to visit the gods who live here among the people<br /> of the tides and the earthquakes among the ravens<br /> and the eagles the bears and the whales They speak little<br /> wear a bemused expression on their animal faces<br /> their rock faces They will not answer your questions<br /> about fast glacial flow or the Black Hole</i></div>
<div>
—“Glacial Blue” (first published in <i>Origins</i>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhietrC5CpTnyb2KJc7yOH85bewrP_t9DsqKnA7tl5nA_Hxy_SdqyCNejZnzOv8wjN-pbaEYt8MZ-9JHCq1qB48ROi5YBq0CxexDjiFfSyQ9Th9rYzXnsXVEiEzCh_mRV7V8Nfaok6MCavT/s1600/8a+Totem+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhietrC5CpTnyb2KJc7yOH85bewrP_t9DsqKnA7tl5nA_Hxy_SdqyCNejZnzOv8wjN-pbaEYt8MZ-9JHCq1qB48ROi5YBq0CxexDjiFfSyQ9Th9rYzXnsXVEiEzCh_mRV7V8Nfaok6MCavT/s320/8a+Totem+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tlinget Totem Pole</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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Mother, do you remember when you went to Alaska, how you loved it? You were on an Elder Hostel trip, saw glaciers and whales, saw reindeer and bear in Denali. When Dan and I went, recently, I kept remembering your joy as I discovered my own enchantment with this land. I wrote this poem about it.<br />
<br />
<i>So how is this a poem about origins?</i><br />
<br />
It’s about the origins of Alaska, the people that populated the north before white people came. In that way it is about the origins of America, its first peoples, its creatures, its glorious wilderness and habitat, the gods who inhabited its soul. It’s also about the origins of creativity, at least mine, which emerges from my great capacity to get lost. Come to think of it, that is part of the origin story of America—Columbus thought he was heading to India. When you let yourself get lost the unknown, the unconscious, can enter.<br />
<br />
<i>I like the story of that lost sea captain in your poem: </i><br />
<br />
Our ship sits in the mouth of Disenchantment Bay <br />
named by a lost sea captain looking for <br />
the North West Passage<br />
<br />
<i>But your tone gets so dire when you write about the world you’re losing</i>:<br />
<br />
But as we lose the world we know As the news cycle <br />
spins continuous sagas of skullduggery thuggery<br />
every day a new catastrophe while Google<br />
plots Augmented Reality and the Internet of Things <br />
hands us over to the ‘bots I hear a voice say <i>Maybe it’s time <br /> to get lost due North where you’ve never been before time<br /> for the Inside Passage to mist your soul with glacial blue</i><br />
—“Glacial Blue” (first published in <i>Origins</i>)</div>
<div>
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<i>Whoever’s voice that is, speaking in you, is advising you well. It is time for wilderness, for hump backed whales and eagles, for what the native gods know that you’ve long ago forgotten. I’m glad you’ve got wise inner companions, because I’m dead, and it’s time for me to go now, and do what dead folks do.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>What do dead folks do Mother? What do you do when you’re not talking to me? Are you still a sun worshipper?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother in the sun</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
She’s gone, leaving me to honor her in my way. There will be more poems for you Mother, more getting lost in reveries of origin. There will be a Jahrzeit candle, and me meditating on the mountain we both love—Denali, the Great One—remembering that line in Judy Grahn’s funeral poem:<br />
<br />
“When you were dead I said you had gone to the mountain.” (<i>Love Belongs,</i> p. 91)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilONW4zUqvlqRt2L_fr1UGN9i_UG4xwqH7f7O4LgkUOd9Yz5VeuHujuYjvx7chvKPe5KaKny152KoPw03-UAfkkvfRROY6Gb5h2yj4Kw2v5BTSr0gKBOkY_DkKfbsU-Mzfo8fUb1Ak2bxy/s1600/10.+Denali_2015_02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilONW4zUqvlqRt2L_fr1UGN9i_UG4xwqH7f7O4LgkUOd9Yz5VeuHujuYjvx7chvKPe5KaKny152KoPw03-UAfkkvfRROY6Gb5h2yj4Kw2v5BTSr0gKBOkY_DkKfbsU-Mzfo8fUb1Ak2bxy/s640/10.+Denali_2015_02.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denali</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-76295546603342597532018-10-19T14:46:00.001-07:002018-10-22T18:18:13.830-07:00The Muse of Women’s Rage<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Furies embody the dark side of the binding power of eros, the madness of blood betrayed, the primal affective cry when one’s substance and identity are denied.<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Book-Symbols-Reflections-Archetypal-Images/dp/3836514486">The Book of Symbols</a></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In the fury of women lies the power to change the world. —Rebecca Traister<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Good-Mad-Revolutionary-Power-Womens/dp/1501181793">Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger</a></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJNBpqwtcqrv1rbgTo5MM_drB1sLI1A12-ITasUPAqS6ZKrvFmEgCs2MVm2t9gDw_zMas4QMJSiVi6eByExpHdQXln6AZjc0P18pqL71mtzm806EU6UI9m8QMlCCT_j4WE3Kxgg9WxTdm/s1600/The-Ghost-Of-Clytemnestra-Awakening-The-Furies.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJNBpqwtcqrv1rbgTo5MM_drB1sLI1A12-ITasUPAqS6ZKrvFmEgCs2MVm2t9gDw_zMas4QMJSiVi6eByExpHdQXln6AZjc0P18pqL71mtzm806EU6UI9m8QMlCCT_j4WE3Kxgg9WxTdm/s400/The-Ghost-Of-Clytemnestra-Awakening-The-Furies.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ghost of Clytemnesta Awakening the Furies. <br />
Painting by John Dowman (1750-1824)</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><br /></b>
<b>Whose Fury?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I am still reeling from the Kavanaugh hearings a few weeks ago. I watched them soon after Dan and I had returned from a magical time in Venice. Unplugged from the news, we had been absorbed in a luminous watery world of incandescent canals, boats, cobblestone streets, arched bridges and the heady freedom of no cars. We wandered the mazes of the ancient city, held in place by masses of great tree trunks fastened to the mud deep below. We meandered, got lost, got found, got lost again, found ourselves in a mass of human bodies packed on a vaporetto full of fellow tourists joining our delight in this glorious world. You could tell the native Venetians. They were the ones with the bored looks on their faces. The rest of us were in an enchantment.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpzyvWBy1Tx6mYrtYlLba-VFaoBCOvMM7UvDhEnadm5TB8WN8JbeQ3owJ9tMT0E8FdrMlcqwkT0s78fuzB6kdnKNJEdpvSB8Qq5XEcAB8ir7ZC5bjrAhcopfilwawS7Wj4jMfGCCj4dh0/s1600/IMG_0720.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpzyvWBy1Tx6mYrtYlLba-VFaoBCOvMM7UvDhEnadm5TB8WN8JbeQ3owJ9tMT0E8FdrMlcqwkT0s78fuzB6kdnKNJEdpvSB8Qq5XEcAB8ir7ZC5bjrAhcopfilwawS7Wj4jMfGCCj4dh0/s400/IMG_0720.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Our time in Venice had been a retreat, a purification, a cleansing of the soul. By luck we had happened on an exhibition—</span><i style="text-align: justify;">Idoli: The Power of Images</i><span style="text-align: justify;">—of ancient clay figures, including many I’ve marveled at in books. I was heartened, strengthened, in this time of patriarchal strongmen taking over our world, to find myself overcome, again, by the luminous power of the goddess, so recently returned to us through archeological excavations. I was reminded of the work of </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Language-Goddess-Marija-Gimbutas/dp/0500282498" style="text-align: justify;" target="_blank">Marija Gimbutas</a><span style="text-align: justify;"> in particular, who has awakened so many of us to our deep roots in the feminine. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilDgKe8uEmWCwoux1CF3O9JZshkOFhXjbnMLlKSrMbJP62WLOqXj997bHLZXqpX_lotUmrOyQZDDOaai-4ZzDFw9eH5d5zmQYwOp748w-1KW0gA5qEEKeufyfKJnzEdyQTOUBS3RuWPBPs/s1600/idoli.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilDgKe8uEmWCwoux1CF3O9JZshkOFhXjbnMLlKSrMbJP62WLOqXj997bHLZXqpX_lotUmrOyQZDDOaai-4ZzDFw9eH5d5zmQYwOp748w-1KW0gA5qEEKeufyfKJnzEdyQTOUBS3RuWPBPs/s400/idoli.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Idoli Exhibition</td></tr>
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I was reminded of my first intimations of the Goddess, as a young woman in India, and later as a young woman returned to America in the late 1960s, when news of our ancient divinity began to illuminate our lives and experiences. The patriarchy was coming to its end, we told each other. The power of women would prevail. It didn’t go the way we’d expected.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Something happened to me watching those hearings. It was as though a plug of mucous shot out of my throat and made way for a muse I have denied most of my life—the Muse of Women’s Rage. I grew up under the archetypal shadow of a patriarchal father’s rage. My father was a refugee Jew from Germany. In my child consciousness father and Hitler were merged. His fury ruled our home, made it a terrifying place, made my mother’s shoulders slump, her eyes fill with tears, dragged my brothers by the ears, sent my own anger deep into hiding in the basement of my soul. My father hated angry women. He said they had “hair on their teeth.” I convinced myself that anger did not become me. </div>
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<br />
<b>Incandescent with Rage</b><br />
<br />
Watching the morning session of the Kavanaugh hearings, feeling the power of Blasey Ford’s painful testimony, and how it was blown to smithereens by an afternoon full of hectoring, furious white men, made me, to borrow a phrase from Rebecca Traister’s opinion piece in the NYTimes Sunday Review “incandescent with rage and sorrow and horror.” (“Fury is a Political Weapon” Sept. 30, 2018) I’m not used to managing this kind of feeling. I find Traister’s opinion piece, and her new book <i>Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger</i>, very helpful. She argues that rage can be fuel for political and creative engagement. Like fire, rage can be used to illuminate, to cook, to create a clay goddess, and it can be used to destroy. I found her advice strengthening, encouraging. In her opinion piece she wrote:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you’ve been feeling a new rage at the flaws of this country and you want to change your life in order to change the world, then I have something incredibly important to say: Don’t forget how this feels. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Tell a friend, write it down, explain it to your children now, so they will remember.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clearly I have to change my life by owning my rage. Clearly I have to use my words; they are my tools. I offer you this poem—my expression of the rage of women. I say to you who read this: If this poem speaks to you, please send it on to your friends and your kin. Urge them to vote, to get others to vote in our upcoming midterm elections, perhaps the most consequential elections of our lifetime. I urge you and your friends to support <a href="https://www.emilyslist.org/" target="_blank"><i>Emily’s List</i></a>, which supports women candidates all over the country. Whatever is your mode of political expression, use it to voice your feelings about our frightening times.</div>
<br />
<b>Me Too</b><br />
September 27th 2018<br />
<br />
All of us are you Christine in this moment<br />
All of us in tears because that’s what we do when we’re mad <br />
All of us took off the day to watch you tell <br />
what few of us have ever dared to tell <br />
All of our eyes dart from senator to prosecutor <br />
Prosecutor? Whose nightmare is this? <br />
<br />
Some of us watched Anita Hill face those same white men<br />
those same dead fish eyes a generation ago Anita was so<br />
self possessed Not one hair went astray in her careful do <br />
while your scared hair Christine blows around tangles <br />
in your eye glass frames tries to hide <br />
the terrified fifteen year old in you we all are<br />
For who of us has not felt that heavy hand over our mouth <br />
Who of us has not feared death by suffocation? <br />
Who of us has not heard that nasty laughter?<br />
<br />
Shirley Chisholm locked herself in chambers Wept her rage <br />
at those old boys who dismissed diminished betrayed her<br />
They could not tolerate a black woman running for president <br />
Who of us did not feel primordial fear when Hillary spoke up <br />
while the guy with that schlong of a tie stalked her mocked her <br />
Who of us did not feel the hot tongs of the Inquisitor <br />
when in the Quicken Loans Arena in Cleveland in 2016 <br />
a guy with a tie incited the crowd to “Lock Her Up!” “Lock Her Up!” <br />
<br />
All of us know what happens to those who refuse to do <br />
the patriarchal dance of diffidence <br />
We’re stalked pilloried diagnosed as disturbed <br />
in the womb We bleed from our eyes <br />
Well you’re showing them Christine not one iota <br />
of rage not a drop of disturbance You make sweet and pliant<br />
eye contact name your terror though sometimes we glimpse<br />
the owl in your soul how your roots reach down to your own hard truth<br />
<br />
You’re a flower in a fierce wind pulling petals in close until <br />
storm over goddess willing you rise <br />
to your full stature dismiss the security detail return <br />
to your everyday home with its two front doors teach psychology <br />
make dinner walk the dog help the boys with their homework<br />
<br />
But this is not the end of it Your dance of diffidence <br />
settles nothing He’s back the one we all remember from forever <br />
beating his chest roaring No one stops <br />
his predatory attack his entitled engorgement for which we are <br />
a handy piece of flesh to be grabbed groped banged nailed <br />
to a broken<br />
branch<br />
of the tree<br />
<br />
All of us know what he’s not saying <br />
that we’re witches bitches we are let’s say it aloud <br />
CUNTS And what is a cunt but a portal into a new world <br />
we all come through unless Caesar gets his way <br />
and what is a witch but a woman of power <br />
who knows her own nature is a part of all nature<br />
<div>
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<div>
<i>In my dream a brilliant black girl paints the world in every living color<br />She’s Changing Woman Woman of the Craft Woman becoming us all<br />She runs strong as a wild horse dodges rocks and fissures Maybe<br />it’s your dream Christine and we’re all with you on the wings of the owl <br />in the deepest part of the woods where the oak grove remembers<br />the ones we were before <br /> we were grabbed groped banged nailed </i><br />
<br />
Naomi Ruth Lowinsky<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Changing Woman</td></tr>
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</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-45010983376185956522018-08-16T10:41:00.002-07:002018-08-17T13:12:52.318-07:00The Muse of Good News<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<b>In Bad Times</b><br />
Good news is essential medicine, especially in bad times. We live in outraged, heartbroken, burnt out times as we pass through the first anniversary of the Charlottesville white supremacist rally that turned deadly. Susan Bro, mother of Heather Heyer, the young woman who was killed by a neo-Nazi backing driving into a peaceful counter demonstration, was on the radio. She has created a foundation, with the help of many who mourn her daughter, which will provide scholarships to young people with Heather’s activist values. Heather understood about inequality and racism. Her mother wants her legacy to grow and thrive. <a href="https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/2018/08/09/charlottesville-unite-right-rally-susan-bro-misses-heather-heyer/933809002/" target="_blank">Bro said</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Unfortunately, we’re still at such a racial divide that it took a white girl dying for white people to wakeup and pay attention," she said. People of color, she said, "have been fighting this fight for many years – this is not news to them.</blockquote>
In the way that good can sometimes emerge out of horror, the white supremacist rally that was organized on the anniversary of Charlottesville at Lafayette Square in Washington D.C., not far from the White House, was a bust for the alt–right. Only some two-dozen people showed up. It was a triumph for the counter demonstrators who were thousands strong, and who shifted the conversation to the real issues of mass incarceration, inequality, and systemic racism.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Holy Smoke!</b><br />
Meanwhile, back on the west coast, California is on fire, again. At last count twenty fires were burning all over our state. They intrude on our state of mind, trigger memories of last October’s fires, of dear friends who lost their home. Smoke fills the air, makes it hard to breath, smothers our sacred Mount Diablo, drapes the sky in veils of ash. What have we done to our earth? Who came up with the name “holy” for that fire in Orange County? Holy smoke! Holy terror! Holy moly! Holy cow! Holy crap on a cracker! <br />
<br />
The word holy comes from word roots than mean whole, heal, health, and sacred. Fire is a dangerous god, demanding sacrifice, an essential god who warms the hearth, an out of control god who reminds us how little control we have, a healing god who opens seed pods in the forest, growing new life. How to keep faith with such a god when our world is in flames and the Holy Fire threatens our way of life. The governor says: “this is the new normal.” He knows, what our president refuses to acknowledge, that fires in the west and floods in the east are, at least partially, a function of climate change.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I find myself responding gratefully to small stories of good news. The word “good” comes from roots meaning to unite, to gather, to bring together, as Susan Bro is working to do in her daughter’s name, as the firefighters are doing as they work to contain gigantic flames. The word “news,” of course, speaks to what Jung called “The Spirit of the Times,” the New, the Now. There are many oases of goodness in our lives. The <a href="https://www.heatherheyerfoundation.com/">Heather Heyer Foundation</a> is good news. The counter demonstrators at Lafayette Square are good news. The firefighters who fight for our wildlands and homes are good news. We need to remember the values of unity, of gathering together in this fractured moment in our history. Here are a few of my recent “good news” experiences.<br />
<br />
<b>Holy Vegetables</b><br />
In Broad Ripple, a magical section of Indianapolis along the <a href="https://historicindianapolis.com/in-the-park-the-monon-rail-trail/">Monon Rail Trail</a>, where there is no longer a train, but where people run, bike, walk, push their strollers past beautiful vegetable gardens, where chard, kale, basil, and beets reach luminous leaves to the sun amidst marigolds and other flowering plants which attract the honeybees whose hive is tucked in among all the vegetative glory. Butterflies dance in the warm air; young mothers push their baby carriages into the <a href="http://publicgreensurbankitchen.com/">Public Greens</a>, the restaurant side of this idyllic farm–to– table tableaux.<br />
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It’s Saturday. Brunch is being served. The young mothers and fathers have brought their babies into the restaurant. They will have eggs cooked with fresh greens, herbs and tomatoes from the garden—a treat for them after sleepless nights and too much to do.<br />
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It’s our first time back to this restaurant since Mother died. We’ve come to visit family, and we feel the big hole in our midst. But here, watching a toddler pull his little book out of his mother’s bag with intense focus, I feel my mother’s pleasure in young children. I’m moved by the values expressed in this place, which in conjunction with the <a href="https://thepatachoufoundation.org/">Patachou Foundation</a> is feeding the children who suffer food inequality in this town.<br />
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Mother, if I could visit you as you used to be, I’d take so much pleasure in telling you about this program of the Public Greens, the tote bags for sale that say: “Real Food Belongs in All Zip Codes.” I can see your eyes brighten, a smile crease your face. If you were here with me, you’d turn yourself toward the little ones, sit quietly, and the children would be drawn to you like bees to a flower. They’d show you their favorite book, their teddy, their binky. You’d emit that sweet observant calm I miss so much. You’d murmur something and they would respond with all the language they have. On the way out you would exclaim about the glowing health of the chard, the tomatoes, the flowers. You’d watch the beekeeper put on her white veil to open the hive and gather honey. “It is so beautiful here” you would say. I would agree, and we would wander together through Broad Ripple, along the Monon trail, and that great empty hole in me would be filled with your presence.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlJvisgZlGGBb0xxclYkY456R22aKMefohykukXu5tqrerfS7cjZMTPzCGbuR3cBqzPCivOSU-GiSP9BwO5j0zkNTwn4j5IEBjcI83l1g_kuD-EuKjTSWQZIlcgpbYP6mo9KwnSRORWO0/s1600/7.Mother+and+Grandson+Daniel.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlJvisgZlGGBb0xxclYkY456R22aKMefohykukXu5tqrerfS7cjZMTPzCGbuR3cBqzPCivOSU-GiSP9BwO5j0zkNTwn4j5IEBjcI83l1g_kuD-EuKjTSWQZIlcgpbYP6mo9KwnSRORWO0/s320/7.Mother+and+Grandson+Daniel.jpg" /></a><b>One Nation, Indivisible</b></div>
I don’t usually love the Fourth of July. I hate firecrackers. They seem crazy dangerous to me in our parched land. I don’t like jingoism and patriotic flag waving. But Dan prevailed upon me to join him at the Fourth of July parade in our small suburban town of Pleasant Hill. Dan is the activist in the family. He knows everyone in the political life of this town, shows up often at City Council meetings and was instrumental in the City Council's creating a "welcoming" policy toward immigrants, meaning that the police won’t co-operate with ICE in deporting or holding immigrants unless the immigrant has committed a serious crime. He goes to meetings and tells our refugee family stories of illegal immigration, how his father went AWOL from the anti–Semitic Polish army as a young man, and stole his way to America with false papers, how my parents and grandparents stole their way out of Nazi Europe, with false papers, had to live in Cuba for 18 months because the US was not letting Jews in, and eventually made their way to America.<br />
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Dan enticed me to come with him to the parade by saying we‘d be walking with the “Indivisible” float. <a href="https://www.indivisible.org/">Indivisible</a> is a grassroots progressive political movement to engage people in the political process at a local level and stir up resistance to current administration policies. Its name connotes the goodness of gathering together to save our democracy, and to work for “liberty and justice for all.” Those are words we’ve often said automatically. How consequential they seem to us now. I’ve heard many stories from Dan about Indivisible and its brilliant women leaders. They are good news.<br />
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That’s how I found myself walking with members of our family, waving flags, and handing out red white and blue plastic leis to a diverse and good humored crowd full of families with young children and oldsters sitting on fold up chairs. The Indivisible float was not supposed to be overtly political, so the theme of the “Blue Wave” was translated into a glittering, glowing beach scene draped over someone’s truck. Turns out those brilliant women are also creative.<br />
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The best news for me, however, was the sight of a patrol car rolling slowly along, filled with brown skinned children laughing and waving, looking entirely at ease with their policeman host. The best news for Indivisible was: they won the prize for best float!<br />
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<b>Holy Moly!</b><br />
Who could have predicted this? Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a 28-year-old first generation Puerto Rican, ran against a well-established congressman, Joe Crowley from Queens, NY, and won. She calls herself a democratic socialist, worked for Bernie Sanders in the 2016 election, stands for Health Care for All, College for All. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/video/2018/jun/28/this-is-the-beginning-alexandria-ocasio-cortezs-victory-speech-video">She speaks truth to power</a>, hope to fearful ruts of consciousness; she says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
It’s not OK to put donors before your community.<br />
This nation is never too broken to fix.<br />
We have to do this together.</blockquote>
The 16 year old socialist in my soul, the one whose heart throb was the early twentieth century socialist candidate for president Eugene Debs, is cheering wildly. She has, over the years, been drowned out by the sadder but wiser voice of my mature self. Now she’s holding forth like the Parkland kids:<br />
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<i>Why can’t we stop gun violence? Why can’t we have health care and college for all? Why shouldn’t we have a big shift to the left in this crucial moment in our democracy? Your democratic party has been shifting right for decades. Ocasio-Cortez is a new kind of socialist, not ideological. She speaks from the heart. She’s down to earth: she’s pragmatic. And anyway both you and Dan come from her district, you both lived in Queens as children. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1100136.Eugene_V_Debs">Eugene Debs</a> ran on the socialist ticket five times. He said things that are so true today, a hundred years later:</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I am opposing a social order in which it is possible for one man who does absolutely nothing that is useful to amass a fortune of hundreds of millions of dollars, while millions of men and women who work all the days of their lives secure barely enough for a wretched existence. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
To stir the masses, to appeal to their higher, better selves, to set them thinking for themselves, and to hold ever before them the ideal of mutual kindness and good will, based upon mutual interests, is to render real service to the cause of humanity.</blockquote>
<i>Do something for me, the young socialist in your soul, who hasn’t had a voice for decades: Give Ocasio-Cortez the last word in this blog, for she is truly good news!</i><br />
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“You have given this <a href="https://www.bustle.com/p/alexandria-ocasio-cortezs-victory-speech-honored-her-voters-with-one-simple-quote-9600292" target="_blank">country</a> hope, you have given this country proof that when you knock on your neighbor's door, when you come to them with love, when you let them know that no matter your stance, you are there for them — that we can make change.”<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-48440268443468573992018-04-01T15:34:00.000-07:002018-04-02T11:25:51.712-07:00The Muse of Losing Mother<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother in the surf with two of her sisters. She is in the middle</td></tr>
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I lost my mother, Gretel Lowinsky, on January 11th 2018. She was 97 years old. Actually, I’ve been losing her for many years, to Alzheimer’s Disease, in an agonizing decline, which I have rendered into a series of poems. I visited her in her Chicago retirement home, and later in my brother and sister–in–law’s home in Indianapolis. They, bless them, provided her with sanctuary in her last years. Mother would sit in the living room, watching the parade of life around her, visited by the family dogs, by her grandchildren and their friends, tended by loving caregivers and by her son and daughter–in–law when they came back from their long days at work. She would forget where the bathroom was. She would tell me, often, that she didn’t know who she was, or where. The spacious home in Indianapolis would morph into her childhood home.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNyL7QXeGdHRxlF4V3eAjAt0sf64SWTjGIGxQh-3nB3FUEKYZ6LT3CBR2sRvpoLUQiNI9TYTEvqKiiXCSUNp4M7JBC6C_eevSiAVOgqQRZwZ06M5UAVflpMw6E6bCjXphdoeJPvuXWXWc/s1600/The+Crew+in+Indianapolis+Sept+2012.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNyL7QXeGdHRxlF4V3eAjAt0sf64SWTjGIGxQh-3nB3FUEKYZ6LT3CBR2sRvpoLUQiNI9TYTEvqKiiXCSUNp4M7JBC6C_eevSiAVOgqQRZwZ06M5UAVflpMw6E6bCjXphdoeJPvuXWXWc/s400/The+Crew+in+Indianapolis+Sept+2012.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother in Indianapolis in 2012 with me, <br />
her grandchildren Ari and Shoshana, and the dogs</td></tr>
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My mother was a German Jew who fled Europe as a young woman with her family and found sanctuary in America. She was sturdy, hard working, good hearted, emotionally intelligent, and much beloved by those who knew her. She lived in Chicago for much of her life. She loved young children. For almost twenty years she worked for the Chicago Childcare Society, supporting bonding between preschoolers and their young, mostly African American mothers, teaching them about child development. She did home visits and, because she was so unassuming, humorous and kind, I imagine her visits were a welcome break for the families. She was also a fine violinist and violist. She took great pride in bringing “The Messiah” to black churches all over Chicago.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother with her grandson Daniel</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Mother playing the viola</td></tr>
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Elegy is a powerful muse, and one that helped me work with the excruciating experiences of losing mother, bit by bit. In the end, there was nothing left of her radiant spirit, her contagious laughter, her love of life. She was a huddled mass in a wheelchair. Where was my mother? Her mind was long gone, but her body plodded on. I prayed she would let go, and finally, she did.</div>
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Mother woke me in the wee hours of Jan. 11th, ripping her roots out of my heart. I can still feel the pain of that rip. And then she transformed herself into a cascade of memories, as though her spirit, freed of the tangled knots in her brain, took flight over her long, complex life and poured the riches of her being into my soul.</div>
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One memory is pivotal. Twenty years ago, Dan and I were in Florence, at an International Jungian conference. Dan had found a charming apartment for us to rent, overlooking the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio. Mother came to stay with us there. In those years she travelled the world with enthusiasm and energy.</div>
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Our family had lived in Florence when I was a child of five. My father had a Guggenheim fellowship to do musicological research in the Bibliotheca. It was 1948, just after the war. Italy, like much of Europe, was devastated and impoverished. I remember that our apartment was always cold. I would sit on my hands to keep them warm. I remember eating dried bananas, because there was no fresh fruit. Mother had not been back in Florence for fifty years. This was a very different Florence, full of fresh fruits and vegetables, radiant with artwork and sacred spaces. Mother was delighted, full of stories. She showed us where the family had lived on the outskirts of the city. She spoke of Lydia, a friend or a nanny, who had grown attached to me and I to her. Lydia took me to church and had me baptized, because she didn’t want me to go to hell. When I proudly told my father about this, he hit the ceiling. But I have always felt deeply at home in Italian churches, especially in the Duomo of Florence.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxm3K64jrTzRhXy98WbcnZpnJhc0GQ2ozn9C-LJp5EtjKpMbDxntzcJNtBj4idbPMU3XTXwZHxCERCXRo_C-m-57YnpVOyQ1l4gQSowgyj6-VqfUrVusodEtGDFje2fclbHxNgMiJgcnK/s1600/Si+Ben+Naomi.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxm3K64jrTzRhXy98WbcnZpnJhc0GQ2ozn9C-LJp5EtjKpMbDxntzcJNtBj4idbPMU3XTXwZHxCERCXRo_C-m-57YnpVOyQ1l4gQSowgyj6-VqfUrVusodEtGDFje2fclbHxNgMiJgcnK/s400/Si+Ben+Naomi.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simon, Benjamin and Naomi in Florence, 1948</td></tr>
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We traced the long walk she took to the hospital, alone, in labor with her third child. My father was too busy with his Medici Codex to accompany her. My brother Ben was born there. Mother told us she had slept on straw with the Romany women. She told us she feared for her newborn’s life. He had a hernia that needed repair. I wrote a poem about this:</div>
<br />
<b>Reverie in View of the Ponte Vecchio</b></div>
<div>
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Lavender chiffon lifts off my shoulders<br />
light wind from the Arno cools <br />
hot flashes<br />
<br />
Mother in the front room<br />
came in yesterday by train from Switzerland <br />
summer rain<br />
<br />
Such comfort in familiar voices<br />
Mother and Dan discussing pregnancies<br />
Cousins soon to be born <br />
How beautiful the Jungfrau<br />
<br />
Mother’s voice meanders down <br />
a labyrinth—fifty years <br />
since she was last here—<br />
I was a child She pregnant <br />
with her third<br />
<br />
It was just after the war<br />
the Germans had bombed all <br />
the bridges except <br />
the Ponte Vecchio Hitler was <br />
fond of it<br />
<br />
Mother walked on stones in labor<br />
long way to the Ospedale <br />
Santa Maria di Nuova–Careggi<br />
slept in the straw with the Romany women<br />
separated from her baby <br />
by a sudden flock of white coats<br />
his emergency surgery She remembers<br />
<i>They kept him in a room with sick twins<br />First they turned green then gray then died<br />I thought my baby was next</i><br />
<br />
What is the kernel of this moment?<br />
I want to crack it open eat it<br />
make it a part of my body forever<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My brother in his brick row house<br />
in Toronto surrounded<br />
by history books The old bridge<br />
dreaming of itself<br />
in green waters</blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSjd9R7SFWVzxEeYlVdiDf3RKsTMIvHoV1RyGfdRvVP6zrX8N1bHlZhHss_ysptrrXGc9G93eSHAwpmhzlQx0LRZzghniP6lmEytmBxl_4h1-EYSCQgcpuf1hNE67L7DZeSq4ffOEtJi_/s1600/ponte_vecchio_florence_italy_city_buildings_skyline_architecture_bridge-1339205+%25281%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSjd9R7SFWVzxEeYlVdiDf3RKsTMIvHoV1RyGfdRvVP6zrX8N1bHlZhHss_ysptrrXGc9G93eSHAwpmhzlQx0LRZzghniP6lmEytmBxl_4h1-EYSCQgcpuf1hNE67L7DZeSq4ffOEtJi_/s640/ponte_vecchio_florence_italy_city_buildings_skyline_architecture_bridge-1339205+%25281%2529.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ponte Vecchio, Florence, Italy</td></tr>
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<br />
I have another memory of my mother in Florence. We were in a jewelry store. Everything was aglow. She bought me an amethyst necklace. I bought her amethyst earrings. My mother seldom indulged in such “girlie” pleasures. Finery was not her thing. “Too fancy” she would say. I treasure that necklace still. Earlier in the day we stood before the Lippi Madonna in Santo Spirito. Mother kept gazing at the beautiful young mother with the inward eyes, her haloed son leaning out of her lap to play with his cousin. She kept putting more money into the light machine.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvb-VfRBa1NInR5DLz6BZYjRiPg3qXrZKeBjpuC9ru0kyB0NyH6Pj4XBOr1nqoeMlNvufzmCknV7MneZQIrw3Q8B6Qd0q3TPW8VX59JAF5rOHixso6d6MzY1icAOS5Suf0dN7pjQrDSz1/s1600/Lippi.jpeg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvb-VfRBa1NInR5DLz6BZYjRiPg3qXrZKeBjpuC9ru0kyB0NyH6Pj4XBOr1nqoeMlNvufzmCknV7MneZQIrw3Q8B6Qd0q3TPW8VX59JAF5rOHixso6d6MzY1icAOS5Suf0dN7pjQrDSz1/s320/Lippi.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At dinner in a rare confessional moment, she spoke of approaching her eightieth year. “I am mostly in harmony with myself,” she told us. “Not always. That would be boring.” I remember how beautiful she looked in her many colored Indonesian shawl, her amethysts glowing in the candlelight. Later we went to hear a concert of Gregorian chant. Our shadows loomed large on the wall of what had once been a church, was now a military recruiting center. I hold onto that jewel of a memory. She would have a few more good years, and then the terrible decline. Here are three poems inspired by the muse of losing mother.</div>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyE2JeqcqslP5GylH-YIL-ZWO-nbYyrLU8n2mEm4j-9BA8xSGWPK6I4xyHZ3PevDRawGA9qRmt7zc3mJD0qPjk_oTUId1JaXo2_hqwcpDKUQcJd7ZggyFjriClGpIbHngSadygN0B68v4v/s1600/JFK.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyE2JeqcqslP5GylH-YIL-ZWO-nbYyrLU8n2mEm4j-9BA8xSGWPK6I4xyHZ3PevDRawGA9qRmt7zc3mJD0qPjk_oTUId1JaXo2_hqwcpDKUQcJd7ZggyFjriClGpIbHngSadygN0B68v4v/s320/JFK.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posthumous portrait of JFK</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Root Canal</b><br />
<br />
<b>1. Security Line</b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
We are pilgrims on our way to see Mother among travelers <br />
in flip flops with bluetooths carrying babies We walk <br />
in our radiant bodies One of us is about to crack<br />
<br />
a tooth Only the babies can see old light <br />
from past lives Only the babies can hear <br />
the song lines We are pilgrims passing through<br />
<br />
the metal detector We remove our shoes remove<br />
our coats and shawls Some of us will be hand wanded<br />
silver bracelets seven quarters three dimes provoke <br />
<br />
the security gods The Kennedy who just died <br />
is speaking thirty years ago on TV His assassinated<br />
brothers still bleed into our lives<br />
<br />
<b>2. Retirement Living</b><br />
<br />
In Mother’s eighty-eighth year she got scammed Sweet talkers <br />
from the islands poured delirium into her ears drained her purse<br />
A Great Lake swimmer lost face A late Beethoven violin <br />
<br />
bowed to the gods of security We’ve come<br />
to see her new place among the formerly eminent<br />
Hyde Park intellectuals We walk the round of her days She <br />
<br />
gets lost forgets her song lines wants to sort through <br />
scores of Mozart Bartok Bach. What goes where? The Kennedy who died <br />
is talking on TV It’s his funeral His widow pushes back her dark <br />
<br />
hair She’s known him on her belly in her thighs She knows<br />
his secret smell When is it my tooth cracks? <br />
When does that big bully nerve take over? <br />
<br />
<b>3. Roots</b></div>
<div>
<br />
Oma’s paintings dominate this place She painted <br />
herself painting all her ages painted herself losing <br />
her grip She looked straight into her own mirrored eyes<br />
<br />
and painted the edge of her nerve We make a pilgrimage <br />
to see her painting of German snow on roofs in 1931 <br />
The naked larches scrape the sky Her sons are dead <br />
<br />
Her sons are dead Her sons are dead Trees <br />
save her Trees leave Trees bud Trees flower<br />
Trees know her secret smell They cleanse her dreams <br />
<br />
Trees grow by rivers by canals by lakes They reflect <br />
on themselves in oils in watercolors They burn orange<br />
in the deep wood They burn gold under water Mother loses track <br />
<br />
of the song lines of her Mother Her brothers bleed <br />
into brothers not yet born Mother says we live <br />
too far away that we’ve been swallowed by the State of California<br />
<br />
<b>4. Going Home</b><br />
<br />
I am losing my own grip My finger prints fade I forget <br />
your name All I know is the scream of a nerve I’ve no idea <br />
how the widow got into Mother’s TV no idea <br />
<br />
how an endodontist removes a dying nerve no idea <br />
how a plane leaves this earth no idea <br />
how I’ll live in the State of California <br />
while Mother loses track of herself<br />
</div>
<div>
(first published in <i>Sierra Nevada Review</i>)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVjMA3hkETisY1gworVOFGm13jpFnXBGC3NC7YbGrFjj3ITWV1Uz31v0mbSp4DV2Z_l-oHWWyJQ9tC9SfueNsnXSrgjMjpO23niaKVW51x5QFmDgVtCXkxk6HYl6bevGI6P1F6S7YM5bU/s1600/When+Trees+Go+Wild++1938+%2528NRL%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVjMA3hkETisY1gworVOFGm13jpFnXBGC3NC7YbGrFjj3ITWV1Uz31v0mbSp4DV2Z_l-oHWWyJQ9tC9SfueNsnXSrgjMjpO23niaKVW51x5QFmDgVtCXkxk6HYl6bevGI6P1F6S7YM5bU/s400/When+Trees+Go+Wild++1938+%2528NRL%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When Trees Go Wild -painting by Emma Hoffman</td></tr>
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</div>
<br />
<b>Mother Approaches the Border</b><br />
<br />
Mother is leaving us<br />
slow step by slow<br />
lingering step<br />
<br />
She’s ascending the winter trees <br />
without bud<br />
without leaf<br />
<br />
She looks back <br />
a runaway child<br />
without overcoat<br />
<br />
Time is a broken necklace<br />
She’s given up gathering <br />
spilt beads<br />
<br />
Yesterday <br />
is a clanging<br />
in the basement pipes<br />
<br />
Tomorrow chugs down the track<br />
blowing its horn Where <br />
are her sisters?<br />
<br />
Who has the passports? <br />
Must she cross<br />
the border alone?<br />
<br />
The lake’s in a bad <br />
weather mood<br />
Snowflakes lick her cheeks<br />
<br />
Mother laughs at the ducks <br />
how they dive into what<br />
we can’t see<br />
<br />
She has nowhere to go<br />
but up<br />
tending the business of sky<br />
<br />
She has nowhere to go<br />
but down<br />
having settled <br />
the questions<br />
of dust<br />
of ashes<br />
<br />
She doesn’t belong to us anymore<br />
She belongs to the naked trees<br />
to the lake and its bad weather mood<br />
<br />
to the ducks diving into what<br />
we can’t see<br />
<br />
(first published in <i>Blue Lake Review</i>)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9mTeBtTNPvBLtQ6XoQVFVYpjfhpYROXdk7wrziv4lSsxP1jX2U_8HEvCOA7En_VLun9tFd1s15AtZB-ZPAEm-ivq64MhHAwqKSYwHIbaJxhKadMIK7G9Cqd3C4x30eIFIOYN2rLHa17C7/s1600/Brown+on+Brown+View+from+Home+Schreveningen%252C+Holland+%2528Version+2%2529++1934+%2528NRL%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9mTeBtTNPvBLtQ6XoQVFVYpjfhpYROXdk7wrziv4lSsxP1jX2U_8HEvCOA7En_VLun9tFd1s15AtZB-ZPAEm-ivq64MhHAwqKSYwHIbaJxhKadMIK7G9Cqd3C4x30eIFIOYN2rLHa17C7/s400/Brown+on+Brown+View+from+Home+Schreveningen%252C+Holland+%2528Version+2%2529++1934+%2528NRL%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brown on Brown, painting by Emma Hoffman</td></tr>
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</div>
<br />
<b>Mother Between Now and the Dark</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Those Sisters with Scissors poke holes in you<br />
Cut out tomorrow Dismember yesterday <br />
Entangle your yarn ‘til you don’t know who<br />
you are or where<br />
<br />
You lose the bathroom or it loses you<br />
as if you hadn’t just been there <br />
I show you down my brother’s <br />
long corridor<br />
<br />
past your mother’s final <br />
self portrait You wheel <br />
your walker back to me your daughter <br />
from California<br />
<br />
<i> I see me on the potty chair <br /> you perched on the bathtub chanting <br /> “sass sass sass spss”</i><br />
<br />
You sit at table Refuse your juice Refuse <br />
your tuna salad I hear your voice in my childhood <br />
“Eat a little drink a little” “My voice?” you marvel <br />
A sudden shift of light<br />
<br />
Your gaze meets mine <br />
“I wonder what you’ll write about me now?” <br />
For this moment you know me even here in Indiana<br />
<br />
till the Shadow Sisters steal <br />
your face from me O I regret <br />
the half a continent between us I regret<br />
<br />
I must leave you again You point <br />
out the window into late autumn<br />
Red leaves flame on the backyard maple <br />
“Look how beautiful” <br />
<br />
As if you hadn’t said that minutes ago <br />
A sudden shift of light and I too<br />
can see the tree As if <br />
<br />
the Mother Daughter circle still spins <br />
As if those Scissor Sisters aren’t forever <br />
lurking<br />
<br />
(first published in <i>Stickman Review</i>) <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7d08SkdDElWjE97rYvSu1wD-_OwoEwThiKv-s_fewg0fJr7i9Z8Oy-XtoX6kTChpHns5yNT33ERRzkZQq81HAHndCGj_GBmerIrHMLe0VdPrftI5QIrOGUHAHguEIE7BhS82CYIUo5o8/s1600/Aeneid%252C_Book_I%253B_%25281886%2529_%252814597060117%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7d08SkdDElWjE97rYvSu1wD-_OwoEwThiKv-s_fewg0fJr7i9Z8Oy-XtoX6kTChpHns5yNT33ERRzkZQq81HAHndCGj_GBmerIrHMLe0VdPrftI5QIrOGUHAHguEIE7BhS82CYIUo5o8/s640/Aeneid%252C_Book_I%253B_%25281886%2529_%252814597060117%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Moirrae, from the Aeneid, Part I by Virgil</td></tr>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-41369917098683717162018-01-09T20:39:00.000-08:002018-01-10T22:13:42.282-08:00The Muse of Endurance<h2 style="text-align: center;">
The Poetry of Resistance V</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Conduct your blooming in the noise and whip of the</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>whirlwind</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
—Gwendolyn Brooks</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
“The Second Sermon on the Warpland”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgBNNH0CZEDk6Rt_iyD4FvLMDiF5L9WyXASjYC-M-1ChTVhm9GEkM2Zl6rw_ZPtmucnRAZhVGhEOpE-kVoRYRC7JzttGDdpGgKa_GAP4P7CGm4FevxYHnx-8mIgn1oSpWKgEMZ095Bj13/s1600/Image+1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgBNNH0CZEDk6Rt_iyD4FvLMDiF5L9WyXASjYC-M-1ChTVhm9GEkM2Zl6rw_ZPtmucnRAZhVGhEOpE-kVoRYRC7JzttGDdpGgKa_GAP4P7CGm4FevxYHnx-8mIgn1oSpWKgEMZ095Bj13/s640/Image+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bear's Ears</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Living in the Warpland</b><br />
<i>all about are the pushmen and jeapardy, theft—<br />all about are the stormers and scramblers but<br />what must our Season be, which starts from Fear?</i><br />
—Gwendolyn Brooks<br />
“The Second Sermon on the Warpland”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv54RqESNkcr4bWgnOp7fGXvaC8NjMd5fO5cZLYPdsmXQTx4if5_ozyXkspKoWlDkuyfIz3ShqFd4w0AD_l79M1o-22tKzAm2tbvkcozRVdIOb24HTr9iUM_UHZphoSfL_94I0VTnZEic/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-01-10+at+6.38.19+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv54RqESNkcr4bWgnOp7fGXvaC8NjMd5fO5cZLYPdsmXQTx4if5_ozyXkspKoWlDkuyfIz3ShqFd4w0AD_l79M1o-22tKzAm2tbvkcozRVdIOb24HTr9iUM_UHZphoSfL_94I0VTnZEic/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-01-10+at+6.38.19+PM.png" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mayor Carmen Yulin Cruz</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
We live in a strange dissociated time, in a warped land. We’ve spent a year in fear—demonstrating, raging at the TV, looking for saviors. I see none on the horizon. We’ve had some victories, in Virginia and in Alabama. The Russia Investigation grinds on. But we’ve had to watch so much we value slashed, decimated—Bear’s Ears, The Arctic National Refuge, Obamacare, DACA, Civil Rights, abortion rights, the Paris Climate agreement. We’ve seen extreme weather events. Texas has never seen as much rain as Harvey dumped on it. California has never seen a wildfire as huge and unstoppable as the Thomas fire in Ventura. The coast of Louisiana is washing away. Puerto Rico suffered two hurricanes in a row—Irma and Maria—which knocked out the power grid for months. Hospitals couldn’t function, water and food was scarce. Pleas for help from Puerto Rican officials like Carmen Yulín Cruz—the feisty mayor of San Juan—were met with disdain and insults by our berserker president, throwing paper towels and blaming the people of the island for their troubles. Cruz responded: “You can’t handle the truth.”</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The truth is—the intensity of these catastrophes is symptomatic of climate change; we can expect more. The truth is—he whom we prefer not to name is a master of hocus-pocus and deceit. He manipulates the news with incessant provocative tweeting, causing political storms and wildfires as he shamelessly exults in public about how rich the Wall Street tax cut will make his cronies, and of course, himself. We are at risk for burning ourselves out with outrage. The greed that stalks the land is mind boggling. What has become of caring for the poor, the homeless, the sick, the stranger? What has become of Dr. King’s arc toward justice? What about our souls?</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhIJk3I6UMFKYyCayZCP0_cmf1DceNYN6C8NLe5m2tg7qYptV708MPnqOATGH-UerMBLGdoxP9KLUZoMccwiF7e0_PC91mNWVJp-WEMhIsgzF8y3ENJIcrKDnQgHy5RqMScUhIQ-TcXB6/s1600/Image+3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhIJk3I6UMFKYyCayZCP0_cmf1DceNYN6C8NLe5m2tg7qYptV708MPnqOATGH-UerMBLGdoxP9KLUZoMccwiF7e0_PC91mNWVJp-WEMhIsgzF8y3ENJIcrKDnQgHy5RqMScUhIQ-TcXB6/s320/Image+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
In this dark time of the year I see a sea change in myself and in those I know. We are withdrawing into ourselves, connecting with our deep roots, our souls—not in defeat—but in order to endure. We are remembering how essential it is to tend our intimate lives, our families, our friends and our dreams. Dan and I take walks, watch “Stranger Things,” see children and grandchildren, make soup with root vegetables. Dan spends time texting “Rapid Resist” messages to organize the resistance. I spend time reading, writing and teaching “poems of resistance.” But I can feel how the center of our lives has dropped down to the vital and the eternal, far below the “noise and whip of the whirlwind.”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrw97SomyxXofNZxyiAEZ_t4pVrinKys_6r9lYUYHYvZrZFITTWdnspEvBftLp4LPUe5uKiCVHVNPr0kUaBpUmis21UW06yj11o7kUvBO77nX3WhAsFw7tJ7fgggpV32xR2xnp9zEWRH4/s1600/Image+4.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrw97SomyxXofNZxyiAEZ_t4pVrinKys_6r9lYUYHYvZrZFITTWdnspEvBftLp4LPUe5uKiCVHVNPr0kUaBpUmis21UW06yj11o7kUvBO77nX3WhAsFw7tJ7fgggpV32xR2xnp9zEWRH4/s400/Image+4.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Gwendolyn Brooks</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Gwendolyn Brooks is good medicine right about now. Her “Sermons on the Warpland” feed my soul and remind me of the importance of tending one’s “blooming.” She wrote these poems 50 years ago, in times which brought civil rights to national attention and in which we suffered the assassinations of Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. She reminds us that we’ve been through terrible times before. She asks a question that is painfully relevant today: “what must our Season be, which starts from Fear?” Not much.</div>
<br />
<b>Night Blooming</b><br />
<i>The time</i><br />
<i>cracks into furious flower. Lifts its face</i><br />
<i>all unashamed.</i><br />
—Gwendolyn Brooks<br />
“The Second Sermon on the Warpland”<br />
<br />
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Brooks’ “Sermons on the Warpland” are blunt and truth telling. She is preaching to her own people, to “Big Bessie” whose “feet hurt like nobody’s business,” but who “stands/in the wild weed…a citizen.” In the first “Sermon” Brooks urges her brothers and sisters to “build your church…With love like lion–eyes./ With love like morningrise.” It is a love poem to a people who have not been treated with much love in a land still warped by slavery and Jim Crow. These “Sermons” are poems of direct address, of exhortation; they speak to the power of endurance and seem to me to be especially pertinent in our times.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8T9l8Qh1ci9hBNLhepw3Pk7dGuLFKzrTNhXjUHa9hev57SUQwfnFpVyAZkQsDOWkCfV_0-pOfnHgbnrDsTZcemRGMnSqj5atLx3znHDeww6RSsb41MsO8REgC9VW33qVF4Fn5wL7m6PBu/s1600/Image+5.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8T9l8Qh1ci9hBNLhepw3Pk7dGuLFKzrTNhXjUHa9hev57SUQwfnFpVyAZkQsDOWkCfV_0-pOfnHgbnrDsTZcemRGMnSqj5atLx3znHDeww6RSsb41MsO8REgC9VW33qVF4Fn5wL7m6PBu/s640/Image+5.jpg" /></a><br />
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Endurance takes many forms. My friend and poetry buddy <a href="https://fisherkingpress.com/n/product-category/richard-messer" target="_blank">Rich Messer </a>sent me a poem recently that takes a more subtle, slant approach to resistance and to endurance. The word “endure” is related to Old English and Old German word roots for “true, “trust,” “tree” and “Druid.” This linguistic kinship web connects us to our pagan, oak seer roots, to the spirit of the earth, to our animal familiars, and to our ghosts. Messer’s poem is an example of what Jane Hirshfield, borrowing from Emily Dickinson, means with the phrase: “Tell All the Truth but Tell It Slant” in the <a href="http://aprweb.org/issue-index/2017-september-october" target="_blank">American PoetryReview, Sept/Oct. 2017</a>. Hirshfield writes:</div>
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Good poems travel in ways that are strongly or subtly, meandering, askew, counter, extravagant, peculiar, free, and freeing. Their pelts are freckled. They loosen the map lines of the literal, underslip narrowness, and let us see more than would be possible by looking at things directly. They are raids on reality that allow raids on the heart. They are lies whose intention is truth exposed more fully.</div>
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That glorious freckled pelt is camouflage. “So it is with poems,” says Hirshfield, arguing that “any good poem has lurking somewhere about it the Houdini–esque energies of the Trickster…”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8QqbGrN3GwMXzkv-SnnNNP4lo0CVm1_6mvM9-YtI2YBAUyVMuV3AEPxNb3Tag9Yx90qJ9W5_HnZCVKk-vX_XoPN1GdnUGcbUmnp2X5PZFy5TrxNupI2FUxe7kuELImwf8QPINEjhniHl/s1600/Image+6.jpg"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8QqbGrN3GwMXzkv-SnnNNP4lo0CVm1_6mvM9-YtI2YBAUyVMuV3AEPxNb3Tag9Yx90qJ9W5_HnZCVKk-vX_XoPN1GdnUGcbUmnp2X5PZFy5TrxNupI2FUxe7kuELImwf8QPINEjhniHl/s400/Image+6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Here is Messer’s poem:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<b>Night Blooming</b><br />
<br />
The anniversaries fade, waves coast<br />
<br />
up the beach and memories retreat<br />
<br />
unrecognized. It happened. We went on,<br />
<br />
Knowing, uneasy, we opened<br />
<br />
the back door, to whistle home the dogs.<br />
<br />
<br />
There are people who do not begin<br />
<br />
and end each day, glued to the screen.<br />
<br />
There are people who sit quietly<br />
<br />
in their living rooms, doing nothing<br />
<br />
before bed. These people did not<br />
<br />
follow our leader down to the dark waters.<br />
<br />
They speak to each other and know<br />
<br />
wisdom and joy. I swear this to you.<br />
<br />
<br />
We endure and go on like boulders<br />
<br />
swallowed by a glacier, nudged farther<br />
<br />
south every year, etched with dark furrows.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I sit late at night<br />
<br />
with all my animal familiars and ghosts,<br />
<br />
the news whispered around the circle<br />
<br />
avoids his name. The things<br />
<br />
<br />
we love we lose.<br />
<br />
Who will take care of the garden?<br />
<br />
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"Night Blooming" is achingly sad, lyrical, tender, deep. The first stanza casts a calm, meditative spell on us, transports us gently into a realm of fading anniversaries, waves on the beach and memories. Things happened. “We went on.” We are in the world of the aging, watching the cycles of life. What makes us “uneasy” is not named, but it casts a shadow. What feels most vital is “to whistle home the dogs,” our loyal animal familiars.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnMVwsbDUmV0fYbOBEFAZIfvAoQ1rMBQPdQQ_nvd6FGBCVtHz7juvED733gVgSsmtghsIPndGKrSg00YBZ5WH49LbckiqonimzgrK9YT2fdMEr2HbsD5sU2az0-tgg3jO2_5uQe11bXa4/s1600/Image+7.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnMVwsbDUmV0fYbOBEFAZIfvAoQ1rMBQPdQQ_nvd6FGBCVtHz7juvED733gVgSsmtghsIPndGKrSg00YBZ5WH49LbckiqonimzgrK9YT2fdMEr2HbsD5sU2az0-tgg3jO2_5uQe11bXa4/s320/Image+7.jpg" /></a>Messer moves on to a subject more complex than growing old. We are in a political poem about endurance in dreadful times which avoids all political language and reference. The poem’s speaker describes a people who have not lost their way in the “Season…of Fear," a people “who do not begin/and end each day, glued to the screen…/These people did not/follow our leader down to the dark waters." They are not complicit. There is a hint of biblical language in "the dark waters,” a sense of mystery. We are told of a people who continue to live soulful lives with "wisdom and joy." By the end of the second stanza the calm tone of the poem has risen to a passionate oath—"I swear this to you." We, the readers, receive the speaker’s intensity with relief. We are no longer in a warped land. We haven’t blindly “followed the leader” into danger and deception. We want to join this wise and joyful tribe, or rather—through the poem’s magic—we have become part of the tribe.</div>
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Here is where Messer’s trickster comes in, and, to borrow from Hirshfield’s language, “punctuate[s] pomposity and shake[s] things up.” </div>
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Our peaceful moment among trustworthy folk is, lest we take ourselves too seriously, unhinged. The wily speaker casts another spell, turning us into "boulders/swallowed by a glacier, nudged farther/south every year." We haven’t been able to escape the fate of our times after all. We are pushed around by climate change like everything and everyone else. We do have to face our terrors, even if—like boulders— we endure. As Hirshfield says: “Trickster stories…make spells to break the spells that…grip us.”</div>
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In the fourth stanza we return to the eternal realm, the realm of what Jung calls the “Spirit of the Depths.” The poem’s speaker has shifted from the first person plural to the first person singular. Does he want to be alone with his late night blooming? Is he casting us out? We are uneasy again, as we were in the first stanza. The real news, it seems, comes from “animal familiars and ghosts,” who avoid “his name.” Of course, in true trickster sleight of hand fashion, to announce that his name is being avoided is to bring the unnamable one into the poem and the circle, while, at the same time, diminishing him, casting him out of the great cycles of life and death, and the terrible truth that “the things//we love we lose.”</div>
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Remember, he can’t face the truth. The trickster voice of the poem has put a spell on us, and out tricked our ephemeral trickster president. The poem resists the times, resists the screens, hangs out with dogs and with ghosts, and faces the ultimate loss, our lives, with that marvelous last line—"Who will take care of the garden?"</div>
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<b>She Who Dances with Veils</b><br />
<i>It was the summer of ’43. What did my young parents know</i><br />
<i>about the Europe they’d fled</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>the trains the chimneys…</i><br />
—Naomi Ruth Lowinsky<br />
“Birth Day”<br />
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A poem of my own has just been published in the online journal <a href="http://frontporchjournal.com/a-poem-by-naomi-ruth-lowinsky/" target="_blank"><i>Front Porch</i></a>. It too is a “slant” poem, a trickster poem of resistance, which refers only tangentially to the “evil spirits” that spook our times. Like Messer’s poem it undermines the fearful “Spirit of the Times” by casting a larger view of life as seen from an ancient cave: “Your little life and mine in the flow/of all the mothers of mothers the grandmothers of magic/the daughters of ritual skill.” The poem invokes Maia, the goddess of illusion, creation and imagination—herself a trickster. I hope you’ll check it out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuV8tBU8BhTtxdnEdrYWuDT3i2XIjL9RI2wl3n6UxgOX-mhVOf6fLdHOTRwxQknfk4ZLC3gnskNmb-blKPMsuXJ3Vzren2KL2mTFNDHsWG4HhmZRZzaAaOCD16NLtW28frfkgf7mFaMLGE/s1600/Image+8.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuV8tBU8BhTtxdnEdrYWuDT3i2XIjL9RI2wl3n6UxgOX-mhVOf6fLdHOTRwxQknfk4ZLC3gnskNmb-blKPMsuXJ3Vzren2KL2mTFNDHsWG4HhmZRZzaAaOCD16NLtW28frfkgf7mFaMLGE/s640/Image+8.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-56195745310634071882017-09-12T21:20:00.000-07:002017-09-14T16:43:20.389-07:00The Muse of Fractured Times<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Poetry of Resistance IV</b></div>
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<i>The time is out of joint.</i></div>
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—Hamlet</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTld9__xCJC305WwSci3ZXazybgGFwvOMgFlRwkKXO3tTASPqbKiQRjqYHdcktcgdK6wAx89OLGTJDbZwj3krQrR1Q9OpjBhyphenhyphen5AS9gY8TekP37mCu_Jt8JuIznJ4E8ZQD8ofqfwVsUZhr/s1600/1b+Not+my+president.jpg"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTld9__xCJC305WwSci3ZXazybgGFwvOMgFlRwkKXO3tTASPqbKiQRjqYHdcktcgdK6wAx89OLGTJDbZwj3krQrR1Q9OpjBhyphenhyphen5AS9gY8TekP37mCu_Jt8JuIznJ4E8ZQD8ofqfwVsUZhr/s400/1b+Not+my+president.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Whose Country?</b></div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>the haters will crawl out from under their rocks<br />the “white only” nation come out of the woodwork<br />You won’t know whose country you’re in</i><br />—Naomi Ruth Lowinsky, “Wishing in the Woods with Hillary”</blockquote>
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Do you remember the night of the election, November 8, 2016? We probably each have our own story, as we always do about catastrophic events. I remember driving home from work, looking forward to drinking the champagne Dan had put on ice for us to celebrate the election of our first woman president. When I drove into the garage Dan came out to greet me with an eye roll I will never forget. He knew what I was still denying, though the radio had given me inklings. We were not going to drink that champagne.</div>
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I think we’re all still reeling from that moment. It is hard to find words to describe how we felt. Often it takes a poem to express the inexpressible. My friend Bruce Bagnell wrote such a poem, the fourth in the Poetry of Resistance series. The poem is very short, and very potent. It gives us three images in three stanzas that brilliantly elucidate our scary times. Here’s the poem:</div>
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<b>November 11, 2016, Grey Dawn</b><br />
<br />
After the election I took a selfie;<br />
flesh ripped to the bone,<br />
tangled neurons,<br />
knots of muscles.<br />
<br />
Imagine if it had been a bomb<br />
this sudden drop of words;<br />
this acid rain<br />
is not Aleppo.<br />
<br />
I still have the silver spoon called America<br />
bent as it may be.<br />
I renew my vows to straighten it,<br />
polish it until I can see myself again.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Those bodily images of rupture and brokenness in the opening stanza are shocking and accurate. Bagnell is a Vietnam Vet. He knows the realm of war, in which people are shattered, physically and psychologically. His just published poetry collection, <a href="http://sugartownpublishing.com/catalogue__ordering_with_paypal" target="_blank"><i>The Self–Evolution Spa</i></a>, which I highly recommend, has a number of poems on this theme.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemSfoejU3ZAmvwFu8Tk49r41iVS31A9KSxAY7mev_hhYhdfohjzT8chkeujoWLWAVd4NIjVlvVtV0Gfsnbx4aKdg3hTpzkvO-VanbXkWR9pZSwca7MbWpLILrpv_pKwQlArgq-NGifHiB/s1600/Bruce-Bagnell-cover_full_sm_2.216175806_std.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemSfoejU3ZAmvwFu8Tk49r41iVS31A9KSxAY7mev_hhYhdfohjzT8chkeujoWLWAVd4NIjVlvVtV0Gfsnbx4aKdg3hTpzkvO-VanbXkWR9pZSwca7MbWpLILrpv_pKwQlArgq-NGifHiB/s320/Bruce-Bagnell-cover_full_sm_2.216175806_std.jpg" width="216" /></a><b></b><br />
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<b><b>I Took a Selfie</b></b></div>
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</b></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We wander to the center of the earth<br />shattered by our own hands.<br />We seek ourselves on the other side…<br />There is a war within us,<br />the one stalking meaning.</i><br />
—Bruce Bagnell, “Questions for Dante”<br />
in <i>The Self–Evolution Spa</i></blockquote>
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Bagnell learned about the dread side of life when he was young, in his service as an Air Force Captain in the Vietnam War. I learned about it in my nightmares when I was young, chased by the Nazis who would have murdered my family, had they not fled Hitler’s Europe. In the long journey of seeking myself “on the other side,” I faced those inner Nazis, and was reassured by the relative lack of anti–Semitism in my American life. When I saw that Heil Hitler salute to Trump after the election, I felt shattered, ripped up, tangled up, in knots. It happened again, even more intensely, just recently when the Neo–Nazis showed up in Charlottesville, Virginia chanting anti-Semitic slogans. I’m sure many of you have versions of this story, how the selfie you took after the election showed you in pieces.</div>
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Bagnell describes one of the dangers of war—a loss of feeling, of soul, a Medusa complex:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We the still–flesh,<br />conquered by Nam’s disease,<br />slowly yielded to Medusa,<br /> our souls turned to stone</i><br />—Bruce Bagnell “Those Were Strange Times”<br />in <i>The Self–Evolution Spa</i></blockquote>
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Those words are pertinent to the second stanza of Bagnell’s Election Day poem in which we are invited to imagine the “sudden drop of words” as a bomb. For those of us who have not gone to war, not contracted Nam’s disease or had our lives shattered in Aleppo, it seemed like a bomb had gone off, tearing down everything we thought we knew about America.</div>
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But Bagnell is a veteran. He knows that bad as things are, “this acid rain/is not Aleppo.” Words are not sticks and stones, or bombs. The “sudden drop of words,” though it won’t break our bones, will damage our spirits and run the risk of turning our souls to stone. The phrase resonates with many meanings—as in the lowering of standards of civility, integrity, factuality, as in the President’s twitter storms, in which he indulges in temper tantrums, untruths, bullying and rabble rousing, as in the torrents of words in the media and online responding to his every taunt and tirade. The man is a walking time bomb, with access to the nuclear code. He sets off explosions in the press, on TV, on Facebook, in the blogosphere, in the White House, in Congress, in bedrooms all over America where people awake to yell at the radio about yet another outrage, another early morning provocation from our bad boy president. And yet, Bagnell reminds us, he is not an autocratic ruler bombing his own people, like Assad.</div>
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Nevertheless, did you have any idea things could get so bad? That we’d have so much to lose, from health care, to women’s rights, to civil rights, to environmental policies, to our very democracy? Do you, like me, feel whiplashed between the maturity and grace of our “no drama” President Obama, and the soulless greed and rapaciousness of the current regime, which steals from the poor to further enrich the rich. Do you, like me, feel traumatized, afraid of what acid, what bomb of words, or worse, will drop next?</div>
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<b>The Silver Spoon Called America</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The question that wakes you in the night is<br />What if your worst fears are the story of our time?</i><br />—Naomi Ruth Lowinsky “In the Wild Wake of the Election”</blockquote>
America has been a silver spoon in the mouths of many of us lucky enough to be born here. Those of us who are first generation Americans, the children of refugees, like Dan on his father’s side, like me on both sides, really value that spoon. I don’t think African–Americans feel this way, however; their ancestors came here against their will, stolen from their lives and culture. That silver spoon is after all, a symbol of privilege—part of our delusions about American exceptionalism. As James Baldwin put it in his marvelous essay, “Down At the Cross,” from The Fire Next Time, his people tend to “dismiss white people as slightly mad victims of their own brainwashing.”<div style="text-align: justify;">
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That said, I love how elegantly Bagnell uses the image in his final stanza. The spoon has been bent by the election, perhaps by many earlier events we can think of, that batter its shape and dim its luster. The poem’s speaker renews his “vows to straighten it.” This is a familiar American spirit—practical, no–nonsense, can do. The poem has taken us from the horror of the first stanza, in which the damage, the trauma, is reflected in a selfie, to the capacity for thoughtful differentiation in the second stanzas—“This is not Aleppo”— to the solution suggested in the third stanza—to straighten and polish that spoon. Bagnell’s speaker is a no Hamlet, crying: “The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.” He’s an American. He plans to fix it.</div>
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<b>The Portal of Despond</b><br />
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<i> The nightly news is a hike through the Book of Revelations.</i>—Al Gore<br />
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As happens with a potent image, well expressed in a poem, that silver spoon set up residence in my imagination. It’s what we Jungians call a living symbol. I watched it tarnish, shape shift into a dark portal, an opening that lets in evil spirits, lets all our worst fears come flooding in. As in the first stanza of Bagnell’s poem, we feel overwhelmed, frightened, traumatized, impotent, don’t know where to turn or what to do. It’s a syndrome many of us are suffering these days. We have to learn how to manage the unspeakable specters that arise from the tarnished spoon we call America. Here are some of mine:</div>
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<b>The Russians have invaded our elections. We can no longer trust our voting process</b>.<br />
<br />
The <i>New York Times </i>of Sept. 1, 2017, ran this headline “Russian Election Hacking Efforts, Wider than Previously known, Draw Little Scrutiny.” The Times has produced an in–depth report on this issue. Their research shows that Russians hackers targeted voting systems in at least 21 states. For example, in North Carolina, some people were denied their right to vote despite having current registration cards. This was mostly an issue in Durham—a blue–leaning county in a swing state, which Trump won. One has to wonder, did he, really? Has a foreign power manipulated our election process? Can this be America?<br />
<br />
The <i>New York Times</i> of Sept. 1, 2017, ran this headline “Russian Election Hacking Efforts, Wider than Previously known, Draw Little Scrutiny.” The <i>Times</i> has produced an in–depth report on this issue. Their research shows that Russians hackers targeted voting systems in at least 21 states. For example, in North Carolina, some people were denied their right to vote despite having current registration cards. This was mostly an issue in Durham—a blue–leaning county in a swing state, which Trump won. One has to wonder, did he, really? Has a foreign power manipulated our election process? Can this be America?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNgRbWwQRhledTf0t2KgvyYGvVRSWyp8hklU95eNY-qAHhsvL3QBK3ZM9u5Vvzr9WqFLv8kewp4ubhyNK6PQ4hmgeWf6DO4o2x8LVAzxm7SQrE9GLHdWhZbViPc0C8mxZn2ACWkWBctT7/s1600/Voter+lined+up.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNgRbWwQRhledTf0t2KgvyYGvVRSWyp8hklU95eNY-qAHhsvL3QBK3ZM9u5Vvzr9WqFLv8kewp4ubhyNK6PQ4hmgeWf6DO4o2x8LVAzxm7SQrE9GLHdWhZbViPc0C8mxZn2ACWkWBctT7/s400/Voter+lined+up.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lining up to vote in Durham, NC</td></tr>
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But here’s the thing: if you watch that dark portal carefully, if you read and listen to our blessed American press, you will see people emerge from that underworld opening who stand for the America my parents believed in, the America in which people believe they can fix things. Take Susan Greenhalgh, “a troubleshooter at a nonpartisan election monitoring group,” according to the <i>Times</i> (9/1/17) “The problems involved electronic poll books—tablets and laptops, loaded with check–in software, that have increasingly replaced the thick binders of paper used to verify voters’ identities and registration status.” On November 10th Greenhalgh sensed something rotten in the state of N. Carolina. “‘It felt like tampering, or some sort of cyberattack,’ Ms. Greenhalgh said about the voting troubles in Durham.” She asked a colleague at the Election Protection agency in North Carolina “to warn the state Board of Elections of a cyber attack and suggest that it call in the FBI and the Dept. of Homeland Security.” She was told the state didn’t view this as a problem and wanted to move on, Greenhalgh recalled. “Meanwhile I’m thinking, ‘What could be more important to move on to?’” She hasn’t given up. She’s still worried, and so she talked to the<i> New York Times</i> for their in–depth report.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ039M1uXFWALe-sqaLz3PtIPWXHa9X7996pe9-CBZvwYXE0sbMC0DPgIgeTSXvQGk1kFWjD1qRLQa_4yrd0K9rX84NDs5_BLV6B3x_tOTiDyc_rKAmKz8ASTzniBvpiay3h0vn_PssRUE/s1600/Greenhalgh.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ039M1uXFWALe-sqaLz3PtIPWXHa9X7996pe9-CBZvwYXE0sbMC0DPgIgeTSXvQGk1kFWjD1qRLQa_4yrd0K9rX84NDs5_BLV6B3x_tOTiDyc_rKAmKz8ASTzniBvpiay3h0vn_PssRUE/s320/Greenhalgh.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Susan Greenhalgh</td></tr>
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Susan Greenhalgh is America; she’s a fixer, and so is Verified Voting, the non–profit she works for. They stand between the Russian hackers and us.</div>
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<b>Mother Earth is in a fury and will never forgive us for pulling out of the Paris Climate Accords.</b><br />
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Hurricane Harvey has dumped more water on the U.S. than any other weather event in history. So said Politifact, on August 31, 2017. Since science is fact based and precise, scientists disagree on whether climate change and specific weather events connect. But here are some helpful summary statements from Politifact: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6hb-NgBAZroPJ5aMxQap1TOVmNWGkJStVkr1sK4somnCUgKOeGhu2dbtTIrhAX_bjrzpugu5jwDj_kvDV7NzMyPTQDqLXFoJDUAJCsiTOkz0o9K7SBIjMwPQaAgBy6PP-4LiADVTB0zXX/s1600/hurricane-harvey-wading-out-rt-ps-170828_12x5_992.jpg"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6hb-NgBAZroPJ5aMxQap1TOVmNWGkJStVkr1sK4somnCUgKOeGhu2dbtTIrhAX_bjrzpugu5jwDj_kvDV7NzMyPTQDqLXFoJDUAJCsiTOkz0o9K7SBIjMwPQaAgBy6PP-4LiADVTB0zXX/s400/hurricane-harvey-wading-out-rt-ps-170828_12x5_992.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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As Earth’s temperature warms, land-based ice melts and ocean water expands, causing sea levels to rise. This in turn increases the risks that the sea will rise with the atmospheric pressures of a storm, causing more waves and flooding. </div>
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Scientists may disagree on the degree to which anthropogenic (or human-caused) climate change intensified Harvey, but almost all concurred that Houston’s lack of preparation for it magnified its ramifications. </div>
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Urbanization turned prairies and forests into concrete, reducing the land’s capacity to absorb rainfall, and lax zoning codes gave way to development more prone to cave to the flooding. </div>
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The Earth’s rage takes the form of terrible storms and floods as well as fires. We had an experience with the latter in the usually lovely town of Ashland, Oregon recently. It lived up to its name in a dreadful way—the air was filled with smoke and ash from eight wildfires, surrounding the area. We couldn’t walk to the theaters—the air quality was deemed unhealthy, and people were urged not to spend time outdoors. The Oregon Shakespeare Festival cancelled its outdoor performance of <i>The Odyssey</i> because the air was so bad. The mountains were hidden behind a veil of smoke. People wore masks to walk the streets. After seeing the death of King Henry IV and the ascension to the throne of Prince Hal, who had reformed his rowdy ways, we walked out of the theatre into over 100 degree heat, the air so thick with smoke it was almost unbreathable. There was ash on the car’s windshield. The quarter moon glowed orange and angry. Our lovely little retreat town, with its cultural riches, has turned into a hell realm. There’s the hell of fire, and the hell of water. Ask the people of Houston about the latter. They suffered 70 deaths, major flooding and destruction of their homes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdYL5omzD7tjAHl9hAABaOIRUUJBE8EP5BbNLzQwyno2Vkpo0_fxV2hkWdQPSZsAqEiQ3wiurcpW8ABr6Qxe_5mmf-EeiKbDWGBci3J1w6xFbK_bmchSfDsdgrxpNSTHtOgfzV9nsW69x/s1600/smokey+sun.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdYL5omzD7tjAHl9hAABaOIRUUJBE8EP5BbNLzQwyno2Vkpo0_fxV2hkWdQPSZsAqEiQ3wiurcpW8ABr6Qxe_5mmf-EeiKbDWGBci3J1w6xFbK_bmchSfDsdgrxpNSTHtOgfzV9nsW69x/s320/smokey+sun.jpg" /></a><br />
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Are the fires a result of climate change? Here’s a headline from Pacific Northwest News, Oct. 11, 2016: "Climate change doubled size of western forest fires, study says, and it will only get worse." According to the Union of Concerned Scientists higher temperatures cause drought, the soil dries, making wildfires more intense and difficult to put out. Depressing, right? And our fact-denying president doesn’t want to work on this issue? What’s happened to America?</div>
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Enter Al Gore, through the portal of despond. He’s been working on this issue for a decade, and has a new movie out, <i>An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power</i>. Carole Cadwalladr, who has interviewed Gore several times, describes it in <i>The Guardian</i> of July 29, 2017.</div>
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The film runs through a host of facts – that 14 of the 15 hottest years on record have occurred since 2001 is just one. And the accompanying footage is biblical, terrifying: tornadoes, floods, “rain bombs,” exploding glaciers. We see roads falling into rivers and fish swimming through the streets of Miami.</div>
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The nightly news, Gore says, has become “a nature hike through the Book of Revelations.” But what his work has shown and continues to show is that evidence is not enough. The film opens with clips from <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/" target="_blank">Fox News</a> ridiculing global warming… What becomes clear over the course of several conversations is how entwined he believes it all is – climate change denial, the interests of big capital, “dark money,” billionaire political funders, the ascendancy of Trump and what he calls (he’s written a book on it) “the assault against reason.”</div>
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Gore brings a different American spirit into these times. He is a do-gooder, a man on a mission, who intends to change the world by talking to people about climate change one person at a time. He shouts at us: “Couldn’t you hear what Mother Nature was screaming at you?” He sums up what he’s figured out in the phrase, “Our Democracy has been hacked,” this time not by the Russians, but by the rich, particularly the Koch brothers. He speaks Truth to Power and I am grateful.</div>
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<b>Until I Can See Myself Again</b><br />
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<i>We are living through a battle for the soul of this nation. The giant forward steps we have taken on civil liberties and civil rights and human rights are being met by a ferocious pushback from the oldest and darkest forces in America.</i></div>
—Joe Biden on the <i>Atlantic</i> website.</blockquote>
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The Evil Spirits that have haunted America since slavery and Jim Crow are back, in full daylight. They feel supported by our rabble–rousing president.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFK_9DrDwByX6iHVseQoGu4aczRiQcAdhE2tLPnZJ53HHA8iYzJrhlNDU8v1Vepw0uYieOHIXJ293YrqyIVROs4LYyoQ6W2ml_smgSEuPOOdX449xOhiPRZcWj_2E6g_TaZtEE1wltiO0/s1600/Robert+E+Lee+in+torchlight.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFK_9DrDwByX6iHVseQoGu4aczRiQcAdhE2tLPnZJ53HHA8iYzJrhlNDU8v1Vepw0uYieOHIXJ293YrqyIVROs4LYyoQ6W2ml_smgSEuPOOdX449xOhiPRZcWj_2E6g_TaZtEE1wltiO0/s400/Robert+E+Lee+in+torchlight.jpg" /></a></div>
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According to the Southern Poverty Law Center “Trump’s run for office electrified the radical right, which saw in him a champion of the idea that America is fundamentally a white man’s country.” They came, Neo Nazis and White Supremacists in full force to “Unite the Right” in Charlottesville, VA on Saturday Aug. 12th. They were protesting the removal of a statue of General Robert E. Lee from a city park. The event became a cauldron of rage, Nazi slogans, counter demonstrations, violence erupting between groups, and a young man who ran his car into a crowd of peaceful demonstrators, killing one young woman, Heather Heyer. The governor declared a state of emergency. The president refused to condemn the white supremacist provocateurs, preferring to blame both sides, clearly misstating the truth of what had happened. There was a furor of condemnations of the President’s remarks, including from Republican leaders of congress. Was something new emerging from the portal of despond, in horrified response?</div>
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I was moved by a story I heard on NPR. In the wake of Charlottesville, a young pastor, Rev. Robert Lee IV, a nephew many generations removed of General Robert E. Lee, was interviewed by Lulu Garcia–Navarro, the host of NPR’s Weekend Edition Sunday. He walked through that portal, illuminated with his moral clarity, and gave me a moment of tearful relief when he said of the monuments:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
I do think they need to come down. I think it’s time we have a conversation about how to remember our past without commemorating our past…We have made an idol of Robert E. Lee. We have made him an idol of white supremacy. We have made him an idol of nationalism and of hate and of racism. And that’s unacceptable. And not only for me as a person of goodwill but as for me as a Christian, I can no longer sit by and allow my family’s name to be used as hate–filled speech.</blockquote>
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Garcia–Navarro asked him, gently, about the threats he’s been receiving. He responded:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
It’s been hard. I mean, I’m a 24-year old. I’m a pastor. I’m not a violent person. I don’t condone violence in any form. And so to see that there are people who wish to be violent against me and my family, against my church community is terrifying.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Qj-_b4gRjjbXrHssGFXqDAzifyDbPC0o_iRDZYpF6C9DxoffoxbKeP5I4dbo9DGpY8258P51Dkv_0OzZ0NS_NUJApN_PqkHcdfPTATW8CfjHkpqCdRulN5rdda3loUsw-YhyphenhyphenTcDrQmH3/s1600/Black+Lives+matter+1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Qj-_b4gRjjbXrHssGFXqDAzifyDbPC0o_iRDZYpF6C9DxoffoxbKeP5I4dbo9DGpY8258P51Dkv_0OzZ0NS_NUJApN_PqkHcdfPTATW8CfjHkpqCdRulN5rdda3loUsw-YhyphenhyphenTcDrQmH3/s640/Black+Lives+matter+1.jpeg" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At the end of the interview Lee says:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
I just got an email from a lady who spoke to me about being owned by my family and how her ancestors were owned by my family…and what that means for her now to hear someone speak out against it in the name of the Lees.</blockquote>
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The Rev. Robert Lee IV brings a spirit that we have not often seen in America, the courage to face the shadows in our past, and to take responsibility for them. We need many more Americans like him.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-14659828645358607542017-07-23T20:42:00.000-07:002017-07-25T09:42:16.354-07:00The Muse of the North<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The region to the north…is the seat of the highest gods and also the adversary…</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
—C.G. Jung</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaozByxabEikkkhC4EXSIeDXvQkyC81JeAfUpbCPejpxctzxNBTzEWfS35Nx_iPlVjh8S99XHtxdEgPUo451PNYuoqqEL6MZ3cFXUQ-2Lu0yH2jiWuhewz1Xjc_zmECHtUu5jmrmm165g/s1600/IMG_2534.JPG"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaozByxabEikkkhC4EXSIeDXvQkyC81JeAfUpbCPejpxctzxNBTzEWfS35Nx_iPlVjh8S99XHtxdEgPUo451PNYuoqqEL6MZ3cFXUQ-2Lu0yH2jiWuhewz1Xjc_zmECHtUu5jmrmm165g/s400/IMG_2534.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>From the North comes the power to keep silent…to keep secrets, to know what not to say. The Goddess as Dark Maiden, the new moon that is not yet visible, and the God as Sacred Bull are the totems of the North…</i><br />
—Star Hawk in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Spiral-Dance-Rebirth-Religion-Anniversary/dp/0062516329"><i>The Spiral Dance</i></a></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I can remember, decades ago, a parade of my elders heading North to Alaska. They took cruises, or traveled on Elder Hostel journeys, returning with a new light in their eyes; they’d loved it. I never understood exactly what it was they loved. I was in my busy mid life. I didn’t really listen, didn’t really take in, what their joy was all about. Now I know. Dan and I have recently returned from such a trip to Alaska, and there’s a new light in my eyes.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
We left in the middle of June. I was feeling disoriented in life and in our country, devoured by the daily news cycle, unable to see what kind of drama we are in. Is it a farce, a tragedy, a soap opera, a crime drama, a reality show, a vast right wing conspiracy? Are we watching “Saturday Night Live,” “The Sopranos,” “House of Cards,” “The Americans,” “The Apprentice?” My Muse complained bitterly. She felt hijacked by the manic spirit of our times, unable to dive down into the depths where She usually lives. It was time to take my Muse on vacation. Dan’s Muse came along too. She’s the one who takes photos.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At the airport the TV screens were all about the Warrior’s victory, which cast a glow on people who, even in endless lines at Starbucks, were good humored and kind. This seemed a good sign as I tried to shake off the Senate Intelligence Committee hearings, the Attorney General claiming not to remember anything at all about his associations with the Russians.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I thought of my paternal grandparents, who fled Russia in the early years of the twentieth century to escape Russian pogroms and the dread twenty-five year draft for Jewish men. The Russians were stirring up a ruckus in my heart. I can hear my father’s voice: “Russians are passionate, they are wild, they are profound and mystical, they are wily and can’t be trusted.” I am descended from Russian Jews. I spent much of my adolescence engrossed in Russian novels. My ideas about life were shaped by Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, <i>Anna Karenina</i> and<i> Crime and Punishment</i>. Is Russia my “old country”? Are the Russians ancestors, enemies, or both? In the grips of a culture complex inflamed by our dangerous times, I was haunted by the catastrophes my family had escaped. Our trip to Alaska snapped me out of it! So did a dream, in which I found a carved wooden Buddha—about the size of a chess piece—amidst the vegetable parings I was throwing away. The little Buddha’s right hand was holding his head in a look of amused dismay, as though to say, “Oh my, oh my.” I understood that this was the attitude I needed to cultivate.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-Qr3ZxNdfZtelTV-jcjQAg0a4tTz892YYgIo9Q5thJkGYw1mQSz4xk74-fuTuvAHd8sJKBpWe0_8m75WLrtU5576cwQyqrizhHP5ZE3y2KR-UKTf1wm4mX3q_AAASKhliDnaIg5skSCF/s1600/IMG_2510.JPG"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-Qr3ZxNdfZtelTV-jcjQAg0a4tTz892YYgIo9Q5thJkGYw1mQSz4xk74-fuTuvAHd8sJKBpWe0_8m75WLrtU5576cwQyqrizhHP5ZE3y2KR-UKTf1wm4mX3q_AAASKhliDnaIg5skSCF/s400/IMG_2510.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
<br />
<b>What the Traveller Brings</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I’d grown up fearing the coming hordes of Everything-Wanters.<br />Ordinary Wolves</i> by Seth Kantner</blockquote>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Another helper was a novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ordinary-Wolves-Novel-Seth-Kantner/dp/1571311211"><i>Ordinary Wolves</i></a> by Seth Kantner, set in the Alaskan backcountry, among the Iñupiaq Eskimos. The narrator is a boy, Cutuk, who becomes a man in the course of the tale. His father, Abe, is a white guy from Chicago who has gone native. His mother, a native, has abandoned the family. They live a subsistence existence in the wild. Their home is an igloo built by Abe. Cutuk, whose tribal name clashes with his blond hair and blue eyes, gets picked on and scapegoated in the village where they go for supplies. The novel introduced me to a world I’ve never experienced, in which so little goes so far.</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Abe had taught me to skin and dry foxes…And though we often used only the thick warm fur for mittens, he made me skin to save the toenails, tail, eyelashes—out of respect for the animal we’d taken.</div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Cutuk’s world is stark and wild and tender: “Our dogs raised their nuzzles to inhale the sweet scents of love, food and fights.” The story begins in the ‘70s, when the natives were entirely dependent on their sled dogs for transport in the cold North. In the isolation of such a life, the traveller is a welcome break from the every day, bringing news of other realms, and companionship. Enuk, an elder of the tribe, is a frequent guest in Cutuk’s childhood; he is the great hunter the boy longs to become.</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My mother…was a fairy tale that kept fogging over, while Enuk, even vanished down river, stood in my life as sharp as a raven in the blue sky.</div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Cutuk showed me my shadow as a white person from the native point of view:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It was annoying and white to talk too much or ask questions, especially when a traveller arrived. Shaking hands, also, was a sign of being an outsider.</div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was living a double life. One life happened in Cutuk’s world, in which everything he wore and ate was carefully taken from what the family hunted. In the other life—my “Everything–Wanter” life—I inhabited the glamour of our cruise ship—a magical vessel with beautiful staterooms and common areas. We sat in the aft of the ship, watching our wake, as the little yellow Pilot, our tugboat, pulled away, leaving us to the gray blue waves.</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVd8o3cOhQbzlzBb9TLtb0klFZG7l60G-yaqEpMpYnoVK8vA4Gc-HrcFPmCz5IEA2wa5u2Z3Zy2u88ricHk7exlcJkL_j8_UGmw0b8Mmk3fGQbBJkxqyMdEOVT4DH2hzd3X6qMksDztwaW/s1600/IMG_2513.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVd8o3cOhQbzlzBb9TLtb0klFZG7l60G-yaqEpMpYnoVK8vA4Gc-HrcFPmCz5IEA2wa5u2Z3Zy2u88ricHk7exlcJkL_j8_UGmw0b8Mmk3fGQbBJkxqyMdEOVT4DH2hzd3X6qMksDztwaW/s400/IMG_2513.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seven Seas Mariner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saxman Village Woods</td></tr>
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Our first stop was in Ketchikan, Alaska, where we were transported by bus to the Saxman Village, home of a group of Tlingit people. They welcomed us travellers, made us feel valued, and showed us a video about their tribe. I remember the strength of the people’s faces, especially the women. The narrator thanked us for coming, said by doing so we helped them claim their heritage. Tears sprang to my eyes. Maybe there was a good side to being an Everything–Wanter. Our hosts were gracious, but they also teased us. They taught us a Tlingit phrase, an answer to their question, “How are you?” which we, being mostly old folk, promptly forgot. We were the slow children and they the authorities in their own ways and language. In Alaska, there are no Indian reservations. I could feel the difference. We were guests in their house.</div>
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We were guests, also, on the lovely forest path we walked to see the totem pole collection. We were guests in the Beaver Clan House, made of red cedar, smelling like the forest—a sacred space painted with animal faces and a dark doorway like a vulva. On either side a beaver totem looked as though it was giving birth to a human.</div>
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An elder in a red and black costume, with beautifully stitched leg warmers and an impressive staff, introduced the dance, performed mostly by children. They were all decked out in their red and black tribal costumes, with their different clan totems on their backs: Eagle, Raven, Beaver, Halibut, Whale, Wolf, Frog. I had the sense they knew they all belonged to one another, but had plenty of room to be different from each other. I paid special attention to one boy, perhaps 12, who, like Cutuk in the novel, had blond hair and blue eyes. He sang and danced as passionately as did the others, and looked like he belonged to the tribe, or so I hoped. Dan and I were charmed by a toddler, who wandered around in her tribal finery, pacifier in her mouth. We learned that the Tlingit are a matriarchal culture, not surprising, given the quiet authority in the women’s faces and the values of Potlatch, expressed in a dance in which whites were invited to dance with the tribe, and honored by being wrapped in tribal robes.</div>
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<b>Mother of the Forest</b><br />
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<i>It felt strong and good to be near mountains without names.</i><br />
—Seth Kantner <i>Ordinary Wolves</i></blockquote>
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Our ship slipped through gray waters, past dark green forested shores, hills fingered by mists, mountains streaked with snow, sudden waterfalls. There was something at once breathtaking and mesmerizing about the ship’s slow passage along steeply wooded cliffs and rocky shores, as the waters glided away from us. My Muse had made a full recovery, and was busily writing down images phrases for this blog about voyaging north. I had cut myself off from the news. There was space in me, and silence.</div>
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We made an excursion to the <a href="https://www.fs.usda.gov/detail/tongass/about-forest/offices/?cid=stelprdb5400800">Mendenhall Glacier</a>. This was important to us. Though we had liberated ourselves from the Washington drama, we were still reeling from our President’s decision to pull out of the Paris Climate Accords. I wanted to pay my respects to the glacier, while it still lived. I was amazed at the power of its presence, glowing blue and white. It has been retreating for hundreds of years, going back to the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. Behind its great mass arose an unnamed mountain range, which looked like a fairy tale city.</div>
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The story of the glacier was more nuanced and complex than I had understood. It was told to us by a Forest Ranger, a young woman who improvised a charming story about the sick glacier and the black bear who loved it. She spoke in the voice of the dying glacier, getting weaker and slower. She spoke in the voice of the black bear who was grateful for the life the glacier gave her. She spoke of the love between them, the interpenetration of species at all levels of being. For the glacier creates new life as its retreating weight grinds rock into silt, which flows into waterways and provides nutrients for fish and other creatures. In its dying the glacier created the Tongass National Forest, a vast temperate rainforest, luxuriant with hemlock, yellow cedar, alder, pine, and Sitka spruce—known by the natives as “The Mother of the Forest.”</div>
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The forest as a whole is a fertile mother, a generous mother, producing flora and fauna in the cyclical dance of death and rebirth. I said to the Forest Ranger, “that’s a more nuanced story than the one we hear in the lower forty-eight.” She nodded. “The glacier is not just about death. It is a creator of life. But,” she added, “what will happen when the glacier is gone?”</div>
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The Mother of the Forest, as Sitka spruce, provides food and shelter for the bald eagle family we visited in a small boat. These impressive birds mate for life. They stand three feet tall and have a wingspread of six to seven feet. The pair we visited were protecting their enormous nest, in which, we were told, there were three chicks. To see our national symbol in the wild, as such a stirring, devoted creature, shifted something in me.</div>
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The Mother of the Forest, provides nourishment for the humpback whale. We were part of a gathering of strangers on a catamaran, bonded in awe and reverence as we watched the great whale blow, breach and dive, displaying her black flukes with distinctive white markings. Every whale, we were told, has different markings. Her name, the naturalist told us, is Flame. She comes every summer to the feeding grounds of her youth, and spends the winter near Maui. Some years she has a calf with her. Not this year. These whales had been on their way to extinction. But since industrial whaling was forbidden in the 1970s, the population has come back dramatically. “Thanks to you,” the naturalist said, “who make seeing whales a profitable business for Alaska.” Again, as when we were thanked by the Tlingit people, tears sprang to my eyes. Compared to Cutuk and his people I was certainly an Everything–Wanter. But perhaps maybe there is something to be said for us Everything–Wanters, at least those of us who want to see whales, grizzlies, wolves, to engrave them in our psyches, to shoot them with our cameras, instead of wanting to shoot them dead.</div>
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As our ship took us through the Inside Passage we saw more dazzling scenery created by receding glaciers. We sat in the aft of the boat, sipping an aperitif, and watched the glory of all this creation pass by us—a surround of jagged mountains rose above the rainforest. It was almost summer solstice and the sun stayed up late with us. In the long, long evening the waters were smooth and blue gray. The first growth forests gave way to saw tooth mountains behind silent mountains beyond silent castles of rock and ice—a parade of odd angles, askew ridges, jagged mystery. I knew I was in the presence of gods that gave no thought to human concerns. I watched my fellow passengers put down their iPhones and gaze at the mystery. The sun dreamed on through an endless twilight, and finally called it a day long past 10pm.</div>
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In Sitka we saw the Russian influence in architecture and history. The Russians came two hundred years ago to hunt sea otters, whose beautiful pelts were used to make expensive fur coats. The otters were hunted almost to extinction. Thanks to a ban on hunting them for all but native Alaskans, the charming creatures have made a remarkable comeback. We were delighted to see one, floating on his back in the middle of Sitka Sound, admiring his webbed toes. We learned his fur is so dense that he can float, effortlessly. He has an opposable thumb and uses tools to open clams. Somebody said, “Hand him a martini!”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYDp6p0OOU7fIoylDUhn_Puc_ju-C_YIku-Sd8HNhYRP_F_h8LnFpjKb0jPX0x7e4Gk49IzVMosSWdVErelyFyQjGM6khs6MksuErGkh3bIoCy25Vrhdo0boNcZfOKcZphTMXp0hw9YGR/s1600/IMG_2564.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYDp6p0OOU7fIoylDUhn_Puc_ju-C_YIku-Sd8HNhYRP_F_h8LnFpjKb0jPX0x7e4Gk49IzVMosSWdVErelyFyQjGM6khs6MksuErGkh3bIoCy25Vrhdo0boNcZfOKcZphTMXp0hw9YGR/s320/IMG_2564.JPG" /></a><br />
<b>The Great One</b><br />
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<i>That wolf—how many miles and years had he walked under this smoky green light? Walked cold, hungry, in storms, wet under summer rain, walking on this land I’d always called my home…How was it that I’d never considered carefully that an animal could know infinitely more about something than I could?</i></div>
</blockquote>
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<i>—Ordinary Wolves</i> by Seth Kantner</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgc6Z5OCLJRBMreaseOcyxXWpAvl8oMO3omwX55-IXfakLNrV9vnOluUuIkS_cUzbtv7WFX0Rl1CelOcCOg1mrzvJzbavRu5vC0D_Xq6_S8FZRQORAFRtvxoIdDk2Gc-j_VtTDbGLHkeZ/s1600/IMG_2588.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgc6Z5OCLJRBMreaseOcyxXWpAvl8oMO3omwX55-IXfakLNrV9vnOluUuIkS_cUzbtv7WFX0Rl1CelOcCOg1mrzvJzbavRu5vC0D_Xq6_S8FZRQORAFRtvxoIdDk2Gc-j_VtTDbGLHkeZ/s320/IMG_2588.JPG" /></a>On the Solstice, we arrived at Seward. Here we had to say goodbye to our lovely ship, and clamber unto a tour bus, which would take us to Denali National Park. The mountain, Denali, was named by the Athabaskan Indians, “the high one,” “the great one.” We were blessed. Denali revealed herself again and again as we were driven from Seward to Anchorage. This doesn’t usually happen. Only 20 % of visitors get to see the mountain, which is over 20,000 feet high, the tallest mountain in North America. We saw her again the next day, on our bus tour of Denali. Our eloquent bus driver/tour guide said: “You never know when she’ll show up, or not.” He said the same thing of the animals. We were blessed again by the sight of a mother grizzly, playing with her two cubs. She lay on the ground and pawed at them. They climbed all over her.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7o3OAXVx-pbZu9l3CTLzR6m6m2VvV_mOG1XurIhqgqm0_9SNe6ApWti7XPby8eUXaRDjn_3oMtvX376Qy13Ys8TUjh3ay2h2o-8FEwMxCJQGZZBRf0IoG1CwvgFSHDkRtEN2C4hhlEeOv/s1600/IMG_2589.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7o3OAXVx-pbZu9l3CTLzR6m6m2VvV_mOG1XurIhqgqm0_9SNe6ApWti7XPby8eUXaRDjn_3oMtvX376Qy13Ys8TUjh3ay2h2o-8FEwMxCJQGZZBRf0IoG1CwvgFSHDkRtEN2C4hhlEeOv/s320/IMG_2589.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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A Park Ranger had climbed unto our bus to greet us when we first entered Denali National Park. She got political. She told us the park was celebrating its centennial this year. She said it was a treasure of a park, an intact ecosystem—no invasive plants or creatures—one of very few left in the world. Protect it, she said. And please tell your congress people to support it. The bus full of strangers applauded. We were all on a pilgrimage to see wildlife. We were in the company of people who yelled “Moose on the Right!” “Eagle in the pine tree to the left!” “Caribou in the ice fields!” Poor caribou. They are created for weather that is 50 degrees below zero. It was 60 degrees above zero and they sought out what ice was left to lie on; they are suffering climate change.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-3E5GX096So7y3kc1F4gjlDOUsMhMogn8ji2UYOMuipMgAX3CBTY2b-tcyHOSDPFMpFLZgtcfsItfH3tZH4oGNv6-7unl_pHbimgSyZMtKd6YpSYE5X_igCYAai2rkZy1Aaa6PKgnMSC/s1600/IMG_2594.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-3E5GX096So7y3kc1F4gjlDOUsMhMogn8ji2UYOMuipMgAX3CBTY2b-tcyHOSDPFMpFLZgtcfsItfH3tZH4oGNv6-7unl_pHbimgSyZMtKd6YpSYE5X_igCYAai2rkZy1Aaa6PKgnMSC/s400/IMG_2594.JPG" /></a>Our time to return home began to loom. My dreams expressed alarm. In one dream children were being hit over the head with two by fours, which was how I imagined I’d feel returning to my life in the “lower forty-eight.” Obama showed up in another dream, his back to me, piloting a ship in dark waters. Back in the Eskimo world of Cutuk, things were terrible. He was a young man now, who had become a fine hunter. But, influenced by his sister, whose life expanded when she went to the city, he made the journey to Anchorage, and suffered profound culture shock:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Hotels with a hundred windows loomed. The roar was constant. Nothing at home was this frantic…Everything had words. As if someone had cut up a magazine, glued it to the sky. No reading the river, snow, ice, tracks—the city took it literally; reading signs meant reading signs.</blockquote>
He felt the suffering of trees: “Trees stood alone, dreary and dripping and surrounded, roots weighted under heavy stone.” He was mad at the city “for taking the animals’ beautiful land and turning it into ridiculous things: parking lots and strip malls, pensions, section lines and new hair styles.” He realized something that I was beginning to understand: “more than in wind or cold or [spring] Break up, the power and absoluteness of wild earth resided in its huge, uncompromising silence. Anchorage conquered silence, left not a trace.” Cutuk returned home to the backcountry, but home had changed. Sports hunters used snow mobiles to murder wolves. The village where he got supplies was not what it had been. Electricity and machines changed everything.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Suddenly, the past was over. It would never come back to protect us. We’d been pretending as well as any actors. The chasm between legends around the fire and surround–sound TV, snowshoed dog trails and Yamaha V–Max snowmobiles was too overwhelming, and no hunting, no tears, no federal dollars could take us back across. I felt an avalanche of grief…</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYuaPXZFUIBa6-A0Jw8h-JWPqYIAAxF-i0cYng5xlydMyV5zJfHQ7TPC_eXMdNGi7Sozbxx05GBk0Y10pPOZ8lTJD_T7B5CmmQf17rnDXUq_sOd6VWRsJQRxZdEIJipzdQrWKQyt2XAJV/s1600/IMG_2619.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYuaPXZFUIBa6-A0Jw8h-JWPqYIAAxF-i0cYng5xlydMyV5zJfHQ7TPC_eXMdNGi7Sozbxx05GBk0Y10pPOZ8lTJD_T7B5CmmQf17rnDXUq_sOd6VWRsJQRxZdEIJipzdQrWKQyt2XAJV/s320/IMG_2619.JPG" /></a></div>
The land of Cutuk’s grief, a land of ruined lives and many suicides, is “as haunting and beautiful as it had been ten thousand years before the introduction of sports hunters.” For Dan and me, who are city dwellers, livers of fast, noisy lives, it was a life altering experience. Now I can see that the light in the eyes of my elders, when they returned from their pilgrimages North, was the gleam of the silence of mountains, the mystery of wild landscape and wild creatures, a spiritual experience they would have called “Mother Nature,” a blessing whatever you call Her, be it Silence, The Great One, the Inside Passage, sea otter, Mother of the Forest, bald eagle, grizzly, or a whale named Flame.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfE_DBOcExqL7Emu5HvAf5JYGhKzIMz0dk-BGdRA_aua6wzr9YRrrjJlbQeHBUvdL_XQrCI2Fesi1FMysEUgNV_TcVKU4XrX4IJgFZt8ZXkk06VjxpvzbacWub1gE90kM4AN5fhi79eAt/s1600/IMG_2623.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfE_DBOcExqL7Emu5HvAf5JYGhKzIMz0dk-BGdRA_aua6wzr9YRrrjJlbQeHBUvdL_XQrCI2Fesi1FMysEUgNV_TcVKU4XrX4IJgFZt8ZXkk06VjxpvzbacWub1gE90kM4AN5fhi79eAt/s640/IMG_2623.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great One</td></tr>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7316691244626682900.post-61312130298504586042017-06-08T14:49:00.003-07:002017-06-09T12:14:39.995-07:00The Poetry of Resistance III<style>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Muse at the Oasis</b></div>
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<i>Chaos has awoken from a long nap</i></div>
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<i>is putting on dancing shoes and heading for the streets…</i></div>
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—Naomi Ruth Lowinsky, “In the Wild Wake”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hH0Rk3YfYd67eD04lJ8Too1T3S800yna_1bB2R43-IzRVdYChd6HSpRHa1LP25-Zl2oOSCBzguBKltFk2tEtSpXaFKEvXz8AmkPu7lJj-lfVjgK4hjXBNZeBjlR-WMpu_1kFIG3u81nR/s1600/1.+Oasis+image.jpeg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hH0Rk3YfYd67eD04lJ8Too1T3S800yna_1bB2R43-IzRVdYChd6HSpRHa1LP25-Zl2oOSCBzguBKltFk2tEtSpXaFKEvXz8AmkPu7lJj-lfVjgK4hjXBNZeBjlR-WMpu_1kFIG3u81nR/s400/1.+Oasis+image.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<b>High Anxiety</b><br />
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<div>
<i>The Kali Yuga say the Hindus is a dark age lacks holy law <br />a time of hubris greed war</i><br />
—Naomi Ruth Lowinsky, “In the Wild Wake”<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
We could use an oasis right about now, as the nightmare news cycle beats us about the head, invades our left temporal lobe, where speech dwells. It is hard to find words for the chaos we’re in. We wander a wasteland, our world torn apart at the seams, as our new president proceeds to rip up the careful advances of the Obama administration: Health Care, the Paris Climate Accord, Prison Justice Reform, wholesome food for school lunches, I could go on and on.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXvbu6uBlQbDFk26gYyJHOeGtvVdcRIh9zvtRwayttoc32FewyFEVdN0pNWjNcv9aGZ2HcSta_7uI3jpiFAWJS7NeFadoPIB9QaFl9QXl47MzRri4-f5JP64j91KFXEj-YYhPEaathbAn/s1600/2.+Taken+by+the+boogeyman_by_toxotes.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXvbu6uBlQbDFk26gYyJHOeGtvVdcRIh9zvtRwayttoc32FewyFEVdN0pNWjNcv9aGZ2HcSta_7uI3jpiFAWJS7NeFadoPIB9QaFl9QXl47MzRri4-f5JP64j91KFXEj-YYhPEaathbAn/s400/2.+Taken+by+the+boogeyman_by_toxotes.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken by the Boogey Man</td></tr>
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The boogey men are out—white supremacists, misogynists, homophobes, anti-Semites. Our rampaging president does a sword dance with Arab potentates while his supporters and his opponents duke it out on–line and in the streets. The phantoms of slavery emerge in Jim Crow–like laws, in police shootings of unarmed black men and in the Prison Industrial Complex. Immigrants who have been living in the U.S. peaceably for years, working hard and paying taxes, are deported for no good reason, their families splintered. Gunmen shoot strangers to make who knows what statement in a land where guns are king. The Russians it seems have hijacked our election. The President’s people may have colluded. There are investigations and more investigations; we are holding our breath for justice, for sanity, though we know all this will take time to untangle. We have a President who doesn’t believe in facts, in science or in climate change, who seems to care only about money, power and towers bearing his name, who keeps us in an anxiety state with relentless tweet attacks on all we hold dear: the earth our Mother, our democracy, our immigrant ancestors, our civil rights and liberties, our moral compass, our soul as a culture. He represents our cultural shadow, the worst, most shallow, materialistic, greedy side of America. How do we gain the consciousness we need to confront this?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNyL8rT3KxqhvnSe5ko10yk6Lq0lLNpSLYD196mfXE8UtK1e4yytmzp-OxMJjNtmpa_wbEwNe-JTSTupkbkIAuQPtptZehnb7hYoXGdDPgmAuHflO4DadwRBp8KWBVDD7l-SUlzrCzzYS/s1600/3.+March+for+Science.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNyL8rT3KxqhvnSe5ko10yk6Lq0lLNpSLYD196mfXE8UtK1e4yytmzp-OxMJjNtmpa_wbEwNe-JTSTupkbkIAuQPtptZehnb7hYoXGdDPgmAuHflO4DadwRBp8KWBVDD7l-SUlzrCzzYS/s400/3.+March+for+Science.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March for Science (April 22, 2017, New York City)</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Soul Medicine </b><br />
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<i>Tell all the truth but tell it slant —</i><br />
—Emily Dickinson<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let me offer you some medicine in the form of a poem: <a href="http://lucillelangday.com/" target="_blank">Lucille Lang Day</a>’s magical “Oasis.” Day comes at the truth slantwise. She gives us a poem that resists our collective chaos by creating a green and fertile place in our consciousness, a space where soul visits and the Muse begins to sing. Listen:</div>
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<b>Oasis</b><br />
<br />
At an oasis deep <br />
in my left temporal lobe,<br />
I encounter my soul<br />
just before it leaves the party<br />
at 33,000 feet, where<br />
the dead do as they please,<br />
and time is a circular target.<br />
<br />
Where does meaning<br />
lurk in a universe<br />
where mountains are mangy<br />
from fires and logging,<br />
the president brags about<br />
forcing himself on women,<br />
and marksmen take aim?<br />
<br />
In the heart of a hummingbird</div>
<div>
beating more than one<br />
thousand times each minute<br />
during a rapid dive<br />
in a high–speed chase,<br />
while outside a bright theater<br />
night ripens like an avocado,<br />
and a gunman decides<br />
not to shoot after all<br />
because consciousness<br />
is a moth that finally got in.<br />
<br />
(First published in <a href="http://talkingwriting.com/oasis" target="_blank"><i>Talking Writing</i></a>)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_FXhZ5DMYfZZaNw70bNzR7Igcx6gHjzPBCzk5fX5ZUzWBDNywDyw0-IqPFBmrlhgkQQRkEuecwgn7sQnj-qypebk2NJAcOztL4XfhpS6qj2kHgj4tVGT3BNo_jsHKjzhFwZ_bAx3AtDM/s1600/4+Mountain+top.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_FXhZ5DMYfZZaNw70bNzR7Igcx6gHjzPBCzk5fX5ZUzWBDNywDyw0-IqPFBmrlhgkQQRkEuecwgn7sQnj-qypebk2NJAcOztL4XfhpS6qj2kHgj4tVGT3BNo_jsHKjzhFwZ_bAx3AtDM/s400/4+Mountain+top.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mangy Mountain </td></tr>
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I imagine the poem’s speaker sitting scrunched up 33,000 feet above the earth, in that dissociated state we call airplane travel. Suddenly something shifts in her left temporal lobe, and she is released from the engine noise and the busy glow of lap top screens into another reality, where she encounters her soul. I know that moment—a sacred moment, a moment of grace—space and time open up, the dead show up, past, present and future converge and the poem begins to sing. The “Oasis” speaker looks down at the mountains, which, like a miserable dog, suffer from mange—a contagious skin disease caused by parasitic mites. In the case of the mountains, the disease is caused by parasitic capitalistic practices, which abuse the forest and the earth much as the president abuses women. The “Oasis” speaker looks for meaning in this ugliness. With the power of the pen she transforms reality: meaning lives in “the heart of a hummingbird/beating more than one/thousand times each minute…” This is a quintessential Lucille Lang Day move—merging a living symbol and scientific fact. Day holds a doctorate in Science/Mathematical Education; her poetry is full of healing medicine in our science-bashing times.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-_9lxtZACewfuVaD8vxxi8kJ3MXqI78JY3z-tnvHZYKdumk8y2oELbQCVv70JDn2vbrN_PtyKzo8AZy4wnaG2wiLCuWgAAtDvFe7SHsaIf7B_NrjOgMvSuhJuD504bs_GU0Ys5f95xXb/s1600/5.+Hummingbird.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-_9lxtZACewfuVaD8vxxi8kJ3MXqI78JY3z-tnvHZYKdumk8y2oELbQCVv70JDn2vbrN_PtyKzo8AZy4wnaG2wiLCuWgAAtDvFe7SHsaIf7B_NrjOgMvSuhJuD504bs_GU0Ys5f95xXb/s400/5.+Hummingbird.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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According to American Indian lore, hummingbird medicine evokes joy. Hummingbirds dart from one bright flower to another, sucking nectar, pollinating, able to fly backwards and forwards or to stay in one place. The poem, like the hummingbird, darts from one strong image to another: oasis, soul, the dead, mangy mountains, our misogynistic president. A single hummingbird makes a “rapid dive,” and everything changes: </div>
</div>
<br />
…a gunman decides<br />
not to shoot after all<br />
because consciousness<br />
is a moth that finally got in.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The poem takes the reader on a journey from a loss of faith and meaning, to the miracle of grace. We find ourselves, with the “Oasis” speaker, in the company of the hummingbird. The moth of consciousness gets in. The gunman decides not to shoot. When the moth enters the poem we are in the presence of a transformational mystery. The gunman is transformed. The world, spared all that evil, that suffering, is transformed. We, the readers, are delivered to an oasis, a healing place with trees and water, where we can imagine that moth of consciousness, like the butterfly whose wings change the weather on the other side of the globe, transforming our world.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeW-6yWqg7YeLZ27SMad7aBplk2OmEZIcmU7gkA4Oiez2w8IrzzC7b7N4mTBS_QsfBv-_9_-UvF_SlNwAyOb035knC37xjbDk3R5BuhieZje_jdABdp5wwUzsm7J7lpw-SKLi-dfXbl610/s1600/6.+luna-moth.jpeg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeW-6yWqg7YeLZ27SMad7aBplk2OmEZIcmU7gkA4Oiez2w8IrzzC7b7N4mTBS_QsfBv-_9_-UvF_SlNwAyOb035knC37xjbDk3R5BuhieZje_jdABdp5wwUzsm7J7lpw-SKLi-dfXbl610/s640/6.+luna-moth.jpeg" /></a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=6" target="_blank">Order Naomi's Books Online</a></div>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14051636173650394825noreply@blogger.com1