WWJD?

Bell bottoms, leggings, skinny jeans, Tevas, mom top pants. They all had their second chances. It's time for the resurgence of the WWJD bracelet.

We need a simple, fun, apolitical reminder of whats OK and what's not. What would Jesus do? Most people who know his story are able to intuitively apply the correct answer to this question given many life situations. Should I share my kit-kat? This person is really bugging me, should I call them names? I think I'm right, should I argue or try to listen? Love or hate? etc. etc. etc. 

Not every question can be answered definitively. There can be conflicting right answers from many perspectives, particularly in politics. Should we levy a school tax this year? How much of the state budget should go towards fixing our roads? Do we need a light rail for our city? What is the best way to deliver healthcare? Jesus might not weigh in as heavily. I imagine he would have encouraged healthy dialogue in situations where both sides have different approaches to achieving a greater good. 

It shakes me to my core that hurtful and destructive rhetoric has crept its way into acceptance, has become political, polarizing, a catalyst for chaos. The gentle yet definitive message from the 1990's bracelet fad is too frequently overlooked. Should peaceful protesters be teargassed? Is it OK to mock the disabled? Cooperate or dominate? Human or illegal? Respect and listen or insult and argue? Love or fear? etc, etc, etc.

I was moved to tears recently when I read about a simple and powerful gesture from a policeman during a protest against police brutality. He took a knee. The humble acknowledgement that change starts with the individual, that he can do better, and that he is listening. Peace comes when leaders listen, when the marginalized have a voice, and when your own perspective and life experience is not the only one you try to understand. Martin Luther King Jr. said "Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that." Jesus, light, love, take your pick and use it as your guide. If it helps, wear it as a colorful reminder on your wrist.

It's fun. It's simple. It's apolitical. And it's time. WWJD? 

How to start a fire

A couple years ago, on the eve of the longest and most treacherous hiking trip I have ever attempted (and also the first), I came to the realization that I could not start a fire. I had a stack of dry newspaper, a bundle of dry pine firewood, plenty of kindling, matches, and even a gas lighter. It was going to be the simplest easiest fastest campfire ever. But it never happened. Match after match, the promising flames that bloomed from my endless reams of newspaper would fizzle out into delicate ashes of smoking memory. With every failure my hope dwindled, and I desperately added more kindling and wood. None of the kindling took, and the pine was never so much as scorched. That night, we went to sleep with the sunset.

The next morning, as we were shuttled to the trailhead in a van full of seasoned hiking survivors, my hope was restored as every passenger gave me detailed instructions on how to get a fire going. Everyone had a different way of doing it. But the message was all basically the same. Armed with their wisdom and a new understanding about the nature and needs of fire, I set out into the wilderness.

There are two things you need to understand about a fire before getting one started. It cannot be rushed. And it needs a good place to grow from. That means that you need to approach the job with patience and a good foundation. You also need faith that the fire will catch. No faith in the fire leads to desperation and smothering.

Almost every fire I have started with a single match began with the Lincoln Log method. You start with a piece of newspaper bunched up, or any other quick catching material (lint, wood shavings, dry pine needles, etc.) Surrounding this nugget of volatile stuff you build a little hut in the Lincoln Log style with thin twigs. Above the mini hut, you arrange a couple of larger in diameter twigs and branches that will catch the flames from the hut. Fire moves up, so put the stuff you want to burn next on top. Not too many logs at once; add branches at the pace the young flames consume them. Once the fire takes, trust your intuition to keep it burning strong.

There are many starting methods that will get you to a good fire. Some people swear by the teepee. The best thing to do is get out there and try it for yourself; I can assure you that sitting here and reading about making fire will not keep you warm. I found a way that works for me. With a patience, a good foundation, and faith in the flames, I'm sure you will find your fire too.

Who is Flint?

In the past year, I've taken a liking to this place. The cozy little yoga studio where I teach, the bright airy farmers market where everybody knows everybody, the monthly art gallery parties downtown. Even the soup kitchen feels more like a big, loud family reunion than a meal for the poor. When I moved here, Flint's reputation had me crippled with fear. Yet the more I became exposed to the quirky and gentrified downtown, the more those concerns faded away and were replaced by another sort of blind satisfaction with this place.

Then a different side of Flint began to seep into my periphery. One of my patients told me he needed his hip to work for him because he couldn't walk outside in a compromised physical condition. Not because of pain or his inability to walk long distances, but because if he was jumped on the streets he wouldn't be able to get away. "It's a ferocious world out there," he told me, in a very manner-of-fact way.

One of my jobs is reading surveys given to people at the farmers market about their satisfaction with the new location. They are all resoundingly positive, and everyone is thrilled with the new community hub. Last week, the enthusiasm for the market came with a dark undertone. "It is like an island here," one survey read. "I feel like I am in a different universe. Everyone is so happy and nice." Most surveys mention that it feels like a safe place. I get monthly email notifications about shootings that occur at the bus station right across the street, so I never walk on that side. I started to realize that I live on the Flint island, and I have never even set foot on the beach.

Yesterday, I met Flint. She was a scrappy just-over middle aged woman wearing pajama pants and a jean jacket. She was the kind of person who looked tired and full of energy at the same time, bright, alert eyes framed by dark circles. She is an artist and a dancer and works for Walmart, and she has big plans for the city. She is writing a grant to turn an old warehouse into artist studio space. In the fall, she was going to buy a big house and convert it into an art studio/bed and breakfast, but her partner backed out on her at the last minute so she bought a house at the tax auction for 300 dollars instead. When you buy a house that way, she told me, you inherit all of it's problems. Without running water or a stove, she has been urban camping in this place ever since. She has a membership at the Y, where they have hot showers and coffee and snacks and a comfy leather couch where she can sit and read the paper. This was a great comfort to her during a rough patch after she had been attacked by two pit bulls, her car had broken down, and she was terrified to walk outside. Two years of constant loss, she told me. Two years of nothing going her way. Even Robin Williams died, she said. But on that sunny spring morning, she believed things would change. The next two years are going to be good, she told me, because we are due for it.  

Exhausted and full of energy. Beaten down and full of hope. I'm still not sure what Flint is, but I know it's never what I expect.





 

it will bee ok

The sun was fading quickly behind a stormcloud and the air was thick with bees. Flying in every direction at once. Electric with anticipation,  I opened up the hive with fidgety hands. It was roaring. In the green light that only glows during an evening summer storm hiatus, I searched the dark, glistening combs for the queen.

Frame after frame I searched. Resisting the urge to swat for fear of mistaking a bee for a mosquito, I let my blood for the thirsty hoards. The bees crawled curiously over my fingertips, palms, the crease of my elbow with a firm, sticky grip. Frame after frame of workers, drones, young fuzzy bees, old tattered ones, juicy white larvae. One newborn struggling out of her waxy womb. I saw everyone but the queen. 

My mind is crawling with bees, their hum blocks out all other thoughts. I know, before I even turn out the light, that they will dominate my dreams.  

It would have been nice to find the queen, to carry out my plan to make a neat hive split and mold the force of nature to my tidy square boxes and orderly frames. But nature cannot always be coaxed to my will.

In fact, nature has been asserting her dominance over me all month. The bees are doing their own thing in spite of my interference. The tendrils of my cucuzza squash are reaching for everything but their intended trellis. My kombucha mother is converting sugar water in ways I cannot predict or influence. My houseplants shrivel in the meticulously ideal conditions I have created for them.

Despite (or because of) my insignificance in the natural order of all my hobbies, they worked themselves out. The bees are making their own queens. The squash tendrils found a sunflower to grow up. The symbiotic mama ended up making some nice bubbly sweet tea. And the houseplants are still dying, which may be for the best. Things don't always go my way, but they always bee ok.  

  

potholes

Today I found myself sitting next to a man who was crouched next to a pothole on the service drive to the freeway, sifting through the asphalt crumbles with an arthritic knuckle. He was searching for cigarette butts that had a little white at the tip, the ones with a drag or two of life leftover. A growing parabola of urine stained the front of his grey sweat pants. He had on a pair of black leather shoes, slightly too big but laces neatly tied in a bow.

I was sitting in a black leather seat in the back of a new Ford Focus, listening to satellite radio with the air conditioning blowing over my face, thinking about what I would eat for dinner when we rolled to a stop next to him. I looked up to scope out the area, the way I always do when I come to a stop light in Flint. Someone in the car mumbled something about how we should leave the city by 7, and it was 7:05.

The car was silent for the duration of the light. The driver fiddled with the radio and then started to tap the steering wheel with her thumbs. We were anxious to get back to the suburbs, where the grass was mown and the potholes were filled and the cigarettes were either brand new or in the garbage and all the apartments looked the same and all the people in them were predictable and tidy and comfortable.

I kept thinking about his shoes, and what it must have been like the moment he was tying them.

Its a bumpy ride home. Here, potholes and highways mark the boundary between heartbreak and sterility.

Highest Aim

When I was little, one of my favorite ways to spend a Sunday evening in the summer was at my Great Grandma Padalino’s home in East Detroit. We wouldn’t go inside- but straight back to the yard where she was invariably doing something in the garden. She would lead all of the kids into her cobwebby garage, walls lined with jars of seeds from gardens past and crusty tools whose wooden handles were soft from decades of use. Above the workbench was strung the most marvelous collection of sun bonnets I have ever come across. There were bonnets with ribbons, bonnets with flashy artificial flowers stuck to the brim, scratchy bonnets made of straw. She would let us each choose one, and then we would all head to the garden to water and pick and play and explore. I admired these bonnets, and the time I spent in them. When I sat down to think about my ‘highest aim’, the bonnets were the first thing that came to mind. And then the jars of seed. And the soft-handled tools. And the long summer evenings in the garden with the people I loved. The essence of these evenings is my highest aim. 

It’s not really an impressive bonnet collection that I want. It’s not a collection of seeds and tools (although I wouldn’t say no!). To me, the bonnets represent a lifetime of colorful experiences, a tangible reflection of a lifetime of living, and the ability to share that life experience with others. The seeds represent a direct connection to the past and the future, that exist perfectly contented and patient in the present moment. And the tools with the soft handles represent work. Hard work, a relentless struggle to begin, to grow, to survive. And when the time comes, to rust with acceptance, knowing that I used myself up. 

Those long evenings, sitting with my family under the open garage door in lawn chairs, that was love. Listening to the crickets chirp the night in as the sun sunk lower and oranger into the horizon, that was love. Perfect, contented love. And that is my highest aim.

Seeing Pickerel Lake

what does water look like? I wondered, as I watched it.
It was brown and silvery and purple and smooth.
But it was more than color, texture, shine.
It could not be drawn with my sharpie.

I looked harder and saw less, until I saw nothing at all.
I stopped searching, my eyes relaxed, my attention shifted
A frog burp in the arroweed, the soft whip of the casted line,
The honk of a billed bird, the plop of a snacking bluegill

Suddenly the surface revealed itself to me.
A reed line and tree line and skyline.
The underworld so real
rustled by wind and by ripples.