Gratitude & Entitlement

 My father counseled me.

  ‘Feel gratitude, my princess!’

Such love and joy filled his eyes

  as he shared his wisdom with me.

Yet, my heart was hardened by privilege.

  ‘For what should I be grateful?’ I argued.

My father, war-torn heart and thankful soul,

  intentionally guarded me from life’s traumas.

Yet, my Pollyanna life blinded me to the blessings

  all about me, which sired my sense of entitlement.

It wasn’t until well into adulthood that I learned

  of my privilege, entitlement and their impact.

Life did not afford me continued privilege

  throughout many of my middle years.

Rather, it set me upon a 15-year path

  of financial loss and discovery.

Abundance Born of Poverty.

  Feel gratitude my child!

Understanding My Neighbor

As I booted a man with a broken-down truck
  from our parking lot, the man without
  a home or food shared with me,

  ‘Most people don’t understand.’
  

He was right.  I don’t understand.

But rather than listening to his truth,

  I turn to my addled brain, trusting its

  contorted and highly specious process

  to elucidate for me the answers I desire.

Before you decide these thoughts outlandish,

  consider how our brains treat lack of knowledge.

  Our brains do not tolerate voids in understanding.

  They fill empty space to help us make sense of life.

It is in this process of filling this intolerable void that

  we dredge our own mysteries, our unconscious mind,

  and in so doing welcome specters unknown to ourselves.

Our bias and prejudice thrive in the shadow of anonymity.

  Untethered to the realities corroborated by evidence,

  our biases reign…entirely outside our awareness.

Our implicit biases, and we all have them,

  are inculcated in us from early childhood,

  reinforced by family, community, religion, 

  media, political and economic institutions.

And the unique way in which our brains perform

  renders us, quite literally, blind to our own biases.

  We cannot see our biases yet are controlled by them.

Returning now to the story, stirred by

  the recognition that I do not understand

  the circumstances of my unhoused neighbors.

Aware of my brain’s inability to provide answers,

  I wonder if I might ask the person who does know,

  my neighbor.

Our Neighbors

People living on the streets pop into our lives for a time.  
  Then they disappear.  And we may never see them again.
  So, don't our relationships with them matter all the more?

Reaching out.
  Listening to learn.
  Seeking to understand.

The Heavens Tear

 

'My God!  My God!'
  'Why hast Thou forsaken me?!'

Pleas from God's beloved

  throughout the epochs

  dying on our streets.

The cries shatter my heart,

  drive stakes into His palms,

  darken the sky and our souls.

'My God!  My God!'

  'We have forsaken Thee!'

  

Our bodies ravaged by pestilence born of opulence.

  Our minds soured by tales penned to betray us.

  Our voices strangled by vitriol and malice.

  Our souls ravaged by fear turned hate.

We fall prostrate before You,
  pleading for forgiveness,
  aching for the grace
  that only You
  can bestow

  upon us.

Nomads…by Choice or Sweep

 April 7, 2023

   Elucidating for me why so many unhoused people

relocated to the church this month, he explained,

‘When one of us moves, the others will follow.  

That is how our nomadic community works.’

    I didn’t ask him why, but I can guess.

Humans need community, others.

When faced with trials and loss,

we need each other even more.

   His community travels together,

simply as they are community.

I also didn’t think to ask why

their community is nomadic.

   Lest I fill my void of knowledge

with my ill-advised perceptions,

I turn my mind to another thing

I witnessed this year on this block.

   I learned and witnessed this last year

that there is a crusade of the ‘haves’ 

to sweep ‘those people’ from our streets.

  Wrapped in cloaks of anger and disgust,

they call politicians, the fire department,

police, the county, anyone who will listen.

   And they demand the expulsion of 'those people'

from our streets and lives, forcefully, if needed.

   Green flyers are posted on the trees with words

warning, ‘Leave or Be Moved’ and the implied

threat that all their belongings will be impounded.

   Word has it that people can get their belongings back.

They just need to drive to some undisclosed address.

   I made such a call three weeks past, charged with vitriol

and fueled by my fear, exhaustion and self-righteousness.

   The police came, but didn't do anything, making me even

more furious at ‘those people’ and the law enforcement that

doesn't enforce the law for 'good people who are trying to help'.

   Let us pause now, in this story unfolding, to breathe deeply.

For see, this, for many, is the most holy week of the year.

   Thank (not God, I think) 'those people' are finally gone,

in time for us to celebrate in peace and without fear,

in our bubble of self-justified rights and privilege. 

And, These are the People

Empty page
my old friend
inviting me back
holding the space
awaiting spirit to rise
within me and take to
this earth walk once again.

witnessing of late the agony
of living in a large institution.
people moved from one space
to another, squeezed like rats in a box.

with strangers, they spend their days,
people who know not of their dreams
or fears or inhibitions or desires...and
who are told they are not supposed to know
because that would violate the oh-so-stringent
rules we have crafted to survive this unnatural
human experience

Hiding in offices with windows and chairs,
elated at having personal space when
all those 'out there' don't.
Knowing that sets me apart from 'them'.
Wanting to believe it sends a clear message to that,
I matter.

And yet, this office binds me to an agreement
that, somehow, I will manage the rabble at my door.
Somehow, I will get them to do the things that those
with nicer offices demand of me...in return for this space.

And, those in cubby-world?
Are they satisfied with their lot in life?
From whence comes their connection to
this place, these rules that bind us to waking
every day, doning the expected attire, stepping foot
into this 5x5 cubby to do....what...for what reason?

Rushing home now, at the strike of 5,
leaving behind that cramped cubby,
the dictates of someone who understands
nothing about interacting with human beings,
much less, how to create a space where they can thrive.

Shedding the costume, searching for, and hopefully finding
the real me, relieved that another day was survived
in this institution bearing the crown of one of the
highest achievements of humankind - learning,
where so little learning actually occurs,
where learning is judged like so many
pigs at a fair, the brightest, shiniest
one wins.  The rest go home.

And yet, for all its faults,
which I have only just begun
to list, there is something sacred
about this place, about the melee,
the struggle, the battles, the chaos...

It reminds me of the game we used to play,
intertwining our fingers and folding them
into the cup of our hands.  Chanting,
'this is the church, this is the steeple...'
Turning our hands inside out...
'and these are the people.'

And, these are the people.

I have witnessed, in my tenure at this place,
the basest of human qualities, greed, manipulation, lies,
efforts - some successful, some backfiring - to destroy others.

Two questions fill my heart as I bear witness to the
damage to human souls incurred by other human souls.
I wonder how I will allow it to affect me, for that will be my choice.
Will I allow it to grow the cynic in me, to fester anger and hatred
to those who abuse power and people, to develop the facile talent
of defense and offense against those who would plot my demise...?

Living in this raw, unadulterated state of human madness,
it's easy to fall prey to the base within me.  And, I have.
So lost can I become in it all that I forget
I am a spirit experiencing this world,
that I have a reason for being here,
and that the reason connects me to
the greatness that is within me

and that connects us all.

I want to step outside the melee
to remember, once again, the hope
that is humankind, the potential that
is the birthright of every, single person.

I want to open my heart to the potential
disguised in human drama, and free my mind
to create openings for spirit to create beauty
amidst our turmoil.

Opening my hands, the people shine forth,
bumpy and ragged, broken and wilting,
precious and sacred...all...
creating beauty.

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