Author: wlsnyder66

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.

Photo credit: David Middlecamp  

As I wait for the moon to become visible behind the clouds, I muse about the significance attached to this full moon. April’s full moon is characterized as the Pink Moon because of the colors of the flowers that dot the landscape and decorate the gardens this time of year.  It’s also called the sprouting grass moon. This particular moon is also in Scorpio, which holds meaning for me since my sun sign is Scorpio.

I hesitate to take Astrology too literally, but I am certain that our cycles and energies are affected by the phases of the moon as well as the position of the stars in the sky at the time of our birth. Since our modern culture robs us of our sacred connection to the Earth, the sky, the moon and the stars, I make a point to consider how all these elements of our universe affect us.

According to several astrologers that I consulted today, this full moon marks a time of transformation, a time to tap into your inner powers. Another astrologer named Victor Oddo calls this time a “total paradigm shift.”  He also says something that I find super interesting. He claims that this is a time in the world where we can transcend our problems in a short span of time. We are reminded that we don’t have to attend to all the aspects of our wounded selves. A more efficient way to live is to expand our consciousness. We know we aren’t actually the character that we’ve been playing so we don’t have to perform in the show.

He mentioned a book that sounds intriguing called Disrupt You by Jay Samit that addresses this disruption of perception that can change our way of thinking and disappear our problems in the blink of an eye.

I’m reminded of just how many times that I’ve dreamt that I am in a play and don’t know my lines.  The butterflies in my stomach are on fire and I have to do everything in my power to wake up and get out of this theatrical production for which I have not memorized my lines. What a joy and relief it is once I disrupt the bad dream and free myself from the burden of that performance!

It also reminds me that most of my so-called problems are not problems of survival but of self-actualization in a society that is incapable of affording basic subsistence for the majority of humanity.  No wonder we are distraught, anxious and depressed. If only we can realize our role to repair, revolve, transform our isolating individualism into collectivity and connection.

Goodnight Pink Moon.

Here’s a book that I plan on reading. I learned about this book by way of a search for images of the trickster. I’m posting the cover of the book to remind myself to read it someday and also because I like the image of the winged heels.

For the past several years I have given myself permission to tap back into my creativity.
I lost it a little bit as I grew into adulthood.  This little blog is evidence of my commitment to tapping in, making and sharing, in this case, words and ideas. I’m working up to a post a day. But I’m also trying to work out the flow. So there will be days that I don’t post. I will not strain myself and hurt my body in the name of creativity.  I don’t want to force it. I want to love it.

And so it is with most activities in my life these days. If I’m going to be doing them, I want to love them or at least find the love in them. My days of admiring the tortured artist are over.  The martyr is a tired old, washed up European Dark Ages notion. The martyr takes herself way too seriously. She’s self-righteous and judgemental. She keeps to herself and even sets herself apart from others. Her propensity for self-pity and isolation is damaging. Her depression is imminent. I choose the trickster over the martyr.

I learned this idea from Elizabeth Gilbert in her article entitled, “It’s Better to be a Trickster Than a Martyr.” (which also features a really interesting interview on the subject with Caroline Casey).  “The trickster doesn’t compete, doesn’t compare, doesn’t beat his head against the wall, doesn’t wrestle demons, doesn’t try to dominate mysteries that were never meant to be dominated in the first place. The trickster just keeps on PLAYING. The trickster is slippery and sly, wry and wise, always looking for the secret door, the hidden stairway, the funhouse mirror, the sideways way of looking at things — and the trickster always endures.”

Count me in.

We are not just social animals. We are unable to survive on our own.

I’m pretty certain this is because of our consciousness as humans of the paradox of the cosmos, its significance as well as its void. Without each other’s love, we could sink into the depths of despair of unknowing. I need you as you need me. One person eats the food while the other one looks out for danger.

For years I have written in private journals. For nearly forty years of my life, the journals helped me process daily life. I am so grateful for them. It’s possible that they also caused me to overthink things.  I thank and also curse Monsieur Keplinger for feeding us that steady diet of Existentialist angst. His French classes most definitely helped to grow my overwrought thoughts.

Overthinking is a condition which affects those of us who’ve grown up on capitalism’s pedestal.  We take for granted the stolen land and resources and the violence under the surface of everything. We grow up oblivious to the violence that created our culture so that we should have space and time to pontificate, theorize, agonize and even complain about our troubled, privileged lives. Yes, we are usually afflicted with the condition of overthinking. Overthinking most definitely became my coping mechanism. And I have books and books of it.

I decided to create this blog as a way to imagine an audience and to curtail my propensity to overthink.

Three years ago I drove for Lyft, for one month. I picked up this young tech worker woman. She complained, “I can’t understand why people publish blogs that are just like daily journals. I’m a journalist, so that doesn’t make sense to me. Why would you publish your private journal?!”  Her words affected me. I don’t know why I let this stranger, this  Lyft rider in North Oakland whose name or face I will never remember, affect me so much. But who was she?  But her words held a power over me for some reason, and I felt self-conscious about blogging for several years.

And here I am,  back to journaling, this time in public. Whatever! I say.  It’s ok.
This time I won’t be getting lost in my own thoughts. This time I’ll also be of service to the world and to others.

Leave me a comment, my fellow monkeys. I need you.