Month: May 2018

1. Write to reflect on daily life. For a long time, I just wrote things down just for me.  At the end of the day, I know it helped me sort out my world. I have those journals, stacks of them, going all the way back to the late 70’s.  In them, I’m trying to make sense of 5th-grade social interactions, which feel brutal.
2. Write to share stories. I used to think that I had to come up with stories. But no, now that I have lived some years, I know that stories come organically out of lived experience. You just have to pay attention.
3. Write for a purpose. For about two decades, I wrote mostly for a reason. There was a campaign, an event, a community struggle. And that was wonderful. Now I write for different reasons and sometimes it has what you could call a purpose. Other times I am writing for sheer pleasure. Both exist on the same planet for a reason and both are important.
4. Write for fun. I want more imagination and fun in my life to balance out all the seriousness.
5. Write for a lift. What better way to bring more joy and fun in my life than to lift up others! There are so many ways to do that.

The mural covers the wall of the building which houses Hasta Muerte Coffee. The images in the mural pretty much speak for themselves although I wonder why they have the young man making a peace sign?

I like how Starsucks, Whole Fools and luxury condos coming soon, seem to be but a facade and how “Justice for Oscar Grant” blooms out of the silver grey of the BART train tracks. I love the colorful pinwheel spokes of the bicycles of young Africans and Latinos in Oakland.

I’m sitting in Hasta Muerte on Fruitvale Avenue. It’s the second time I’ve come here. It’s Mother’s Day. It’s not that busy, but a woman comes in to set up for an event in the afternoon. With everyone in my house still sleeping, this empanada, coffee and time to chill in this cool space with revolutionary books and paintings is my little treat for myself.

I’ve had a phone call with my own mother. My sister made her breakfast and she is going to spend the day working on the berm that she made out of the oak which has succumbed to woodpeckers and wind, and my Dad’s chainsaw.

“Did you say berm?” I ask.

“Yes, berm,” she replies.

“How do you spell that?” I ask sheepishly.

I studied Comparative Literature, not English. And I still feel truly ignorant about the English language which continues to fucking baffle me.

So my mom explains that she is building this berm to do “as nature does.” It will serve as part of the hillside to make sure that the trees are protected and mimic the way the tree would have naturally decomposed and provided compost for the regeneration of the soil and proper drainage for the slope of the canyon.

“As nature does,” I repeat.  I love my no-nonsense mom, with her worm bin, building the berm, protecting the earth in her corner from human predation. People call my mom Bobbie, but her full name is Roberta.

Inside the cafe, there’s a painting of woman named Berta Caceres in the corner. I know she was righteous and I know that she was murdered because she defended indigenous rights in Central America. But I decide I need to learn a little more about her so I look her up.

Her full name was Berta Isabel Cáceres Flores. She was an indigenous leader from the Lenca people from southwestern Honduras and eastern El Salvador. She founded the Council of Popular and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras in 1993, dedicated to the defense of the environment in Intibucá and the defense of the indigenous Lenca people.

She literally died protecting her people and the Earth as she went up against the powerful interests attempting to build a hydroelectric dam backed by European and Chinese corporations which would have displaced the people, animals, and plants on the Lenca’s ancestral lands. She was murdered by someone who was connected to those interests who has recently been apprehended.  But the one who pulled the trigger was just another pawn in the game set up by the Finnish, German and Chinese interests who were trying to build this dam. Business as usual for world-wide imperialism. 

She was doing what is right for the people and the planet. I am honored to know about Berta Caceres and be a member of a movement whose interests align with those she was struggling for, the rights of indigenous peoples to be free and self-determining.  I am also grateful to be a part of an artistic community which gives me hope and inspiration for the future of humanity.

Much love to Berta and Roberta and all the fierce protectors of the wisdom of Mother Earth. To all those revolutionaries of the heart who nurture our spirits, those at home and those around the world, those living and those passed.

“In conscious awareness of breath, we touch on the sacred.  If we really truly become confused, fearful, lonely, anxious, come back to the breath. Recognize what you are and you won’t be alone.”   Tommy Rosen from Recovery 2.0

The picture above is the beginnings of an altar that I’ve placed in the entryway of our house.  I didn’t grow up with any type of religion or even an expressed spirituality. This used to make me feel empty and a little confused. Other times I felt relieved or superior to others. But I’ve come to accept this as neither good nor bad, it just is.  Following the sudden death of my brother, who is grilling chicken on the BBQ in the picture on the table, I’ve sought out spiritual practices that make sense to me. I’ve done meditations and visualizations and watched dozens of videos about spirituality, yoga, recovery, and creating a spiritual practice. I find church or temple in the Redwoods or at the ocean, but also just when I take the time to stop, pause, take a breath and marvel at the astounding fact that we are living, breathing, conscious beings in this world.

And this is a world in crisis. It’s a world that needs us to truly and more mindfully give more of a shit, show some gratitude and also take some action. This table near the door of my home is my next step towards giving more of a shit, being grateful and also taking more action.

My brother and my grandmother were powerful forces in my life. They were gone from my life less than one year of each other. I have learned so much along the winding and bumpy path of grief and one is that we never lose connection with our beloved ones when they die.  My brother is still cooking that chicken with me. My grandmother is still dressed in salmon and standing tall next to me. It feels good to take these steps towards more consciously integrating them into my life. It’s counterintuitive but as I bring them closer into my daily life, I feel a sense of relief. I can also let them go or rather come and go as they please. There’s a freedom in that.

I also put a picture out of my mother-in-law with her first husband Don. My mother-in-law was a loving mother and grandmother with a comical disposition that resembled Marge Simpson, sans blue hair. Don was a quiet, kind presence who taught his stepson how to fish.

I already know that I want to refine this space. A lower table would be nice. Maybe a different cloth.  I want more flowers, a few trinkets or shells that are meaningful to these beloved souls.   I’m looking forward to coming to this altar for some type of contemplative practice, which more and more feels necessary for me in this chaotic world.