Friday, October 2, 2015

I Am All Happiness

If you've been reading here a while you know how much I love goats.  I've been working at my friend's farm for years off and on, and weekly for the last year or so. 

A poet friend sent me this (from the New Yorker), which describes perfectly why I love my goat friends.  Enjoy.

Pescadero, by Mark Doty

The little goats like my mouth and fingers,

and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board
 a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,

pushes her mouth forward to my mouth, 
 so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth, and the bristle-whiskers, 

and then she kisses me, though I know it doesn’t mean “kiss,”

then leans her head way back, arcing her spine, goat yoga, 
all pleasure and greeting and then good-natured indifference: she loves me,

she likes me a lot, she takes interest in me, she doesn’t know me at all  
or need to, having thus acknowledged me. Though I am all happiness, 

since I have been welcomed by the field’s small envoy, and the splayed hoof,  
fragrant with soil, has rested on the fence board beside my hand. 

April 4, 2015, Holy Saturday (between Good Friday and Easter).
Mary Magdalene was born right into my lap.  Lemongrass was a great first-time mama.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

A New Post, On a New Site

I'm excited to share that I'm now a contributor at a new blog being published by the UCC called New Sacred.  Here is an excerpt from my very first post:

The Jennings family is Black. As they tend the soil, two white men walk right through their front yard and into the garden, and begin to talk to Mary about their church.

They never ask anything about her, but plow through their rehearsed missionizing speech until his mother interrupts that she is already a Christian, a “pillar,” Jennings notes, of her church with a faith “as unfathomable as the blindness of these men to our Christian lives.”

The Jennings family lived but 200 yards from the white men’s church, and Willie regularly played basketball on the court in the church parking lot.

(There’s no way I can do justice to how Jennings tells this story. Please find this book and read it for yourself!)

Then, Jennings asks the question that has haunted me as a white woman ever since I first read it in December of 2012, in the aftermath of Trayvon Martin’s murder: “Why did they not know us? They should have known us very well.”

“Why did they not know us?”

Read more here --

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Prayer for the Day

School Prayer
by Diane Ackerman

In the name of the daybreak
and the eyelids of morning
and the wayfaring moon
and the night when it departs,

I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,

I will honor all life
-wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell-on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.

from I Praise My Destroyer. © Vintage Books, 2000.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

My Morning Meditations

This morning I am listening to the voice of my dear mentor, Dr. Vincent Harding, who died one year ago today.  I, and we, need him still.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Ash Wednesday

It's a slightly complicated Ash Wednesday for me which means I won't make services at either church where I am worshiping these days.  So, my cielo (being also a pastor) gave me the ashes in our backyard with the bright sun washing down, birdies hovering nearby, and crocuses blooming through the still-melting snow.

One of the readings we did was this Jan Richardson poem:

Blessing the Dust
A Blessing for Ash Wednesday

All those days
you felt like dust,
like dirt,
as if all you had to do
was turn your face
toward the wind
and be scattered
to the four corners

or swept away
by the smallest breath
as insubstantial—

Did you not know
what the Holy One
can do with dust?

This is the day
we freely say
we are scorched.

This is the hour
we are marked
by what has made it
through the burning.

This is the moment
we ask for the blessing
that lives within
the ancient ashes,
that makes its home
inside the soil of
this sacred earth.

So let us be marked
not for sorrow.
And let us be marked
not for shame.
Let us be marked
not for false humility
or for thinking
we are less
than we are

but for claiming
what God can do
within the dust,
within the dirt,
within the stuff
of which the world
is made,
and the stars that blaze
in our bones,
and the galaxies that spiral
inside the smudge
we bear.

Amen to that.  I have been through the burning.  Look what God can do with the dust!

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Canción Pequeña

Hace falta borrar las fronteras
la primavera no lleva documentos
para cruzar la aduana

Borders need to be erased,
the spring does not carry documents
to go through customs.

For J and so many others.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

I Heart This

I love that Emily thinks this is her best song.  This song has saved me.

Thursday, January 15, 2015


(and see my previous post)

On Seeing Selma

First of all, the explosion.

I knew it was coming.  I had read an interview with Ava DuVernay in which she described why she filmed it the way she did, so I knew it was coming.

And in the film, if you have any sense of US history at all, you see 5 little black girls in their Sunday best chatting down the stairs at church, you have to know what is coming.

The explosion. 
But DuVernay staged their chatter, and their passage down the staircase, bathed in pale, clear light, in a way that lulled me. For a moment they were so vibrantly alive that I forgot the fate that was descending on them. And when the explosion ripped through that staircase, like a beast lunging in from the right side of the frame and leaving a swirl of splinters and patent leather shoes in its wake, I was shocked in spite of myself. ("Selma is a Horror Movie")

I leapt in my seat, squeezed more tightly my cielo's hand, and began to cry.  I never really stopped crying, all the way to the end of the film.  The terror and question in the eyes of Jimmie Lee Jackson when he is shot to death by a cop.  Dr. King speaking to his grandfather at the morgue:  “There are no words to soothe you.” Marchers being beaten, whipped, tear-gassed.  
DuVernay has given us a plain and painful illustration of what it means to live under deadly threat. An environment in which murder at least puts an end to agonizing uncertainty and perpetual fear is utterly distorted and profoundly inhumane. “Selma” communicates at a visceral level a point many observers have been trying to make in a series of recent national conversations: what it means to live in constant fear of death or violence for which there will be no justice. (same link as above)
But not just the violence.  Also the dignity, the wrestling, the doubt, the humanity, the love, the humor, the refusal to stay beat down, the rising up over and over.  Tears, until the end.  All the way home.  All the way til dawn.  The film as shaken me, grabbed me up, and will not let me go.  It kept me up all night calling me deeper, ever deeper, into the freedom movement, into, to slightly paraphrase the protest sign of a friend of mine, "proving #BlackLivesMatter" with how I live my own life.

In reading about the film itself and interviews with DuVernay, I became aware in a way that I was not before how rare a film like "Selma" is for Hollywood, in that it is a story about Black lives told by Black folk (directed and written by a Black woman, even more rare) that centers Black life, Black experience, Black narrative, Black storytelling -- and decenters whiteness and the propensity of Hollywood that only finds acceptable stories of Black life that center the white hero narrative (which means it is more a story of white life, really. See, for example, the outcry that LBJ is not actually the hero of "Selma.").
[DuVernay]: " is rare to have a black storyteller have some autonomy over [the] story. Also it’s just rare to have a black storyteller telling the story when it comes to history, period.  So I think when you don’t have that, you have this kind of groupthink that turns into a homogenization of the events, turns into us not being at the center of our own story, as people of color or women or what have you, and this kind of smoothing of the edges starts to happen, and that starts to contribute to this whole idea of “ugh, the same old thing.” And so with this I was very focused on not letting that happen. For whatever people think about the film, whether they love it or hate it, it is the vision of a black storyteller undiluted. For whatever that means for the way we are presented as people of color on screen. I think part of the reaction that some people have to history, particularly around black history, is just the way that it’s been told and by whom. (The Nation interview with Mychal Denzel Smith, emphasis added)

As someone who works to be conscious about how race and whiteness function systemically it's not that I was unaware that Hollywood, and thinking now too of the awards season, is so vastly white (and male).  What has become more clear to me is how whiteness, white supremacy gets upheld by the stories that get told, get made, get funded, get nominated, get awarded.

During the Golden Globes on Sunday, that understanding became crystal clear as "Selma" was passed over for acting, directing, and best picture awards.  I tweeted:

Now the Oscar nominations are out today, with no nominations for "Selma" other than best song, and what feels like a token best picture.  And no acting nominees of color -- I mean, I love Meryl Streep, and I get nominating her for All The Things, but is her Witch really so much better than Carmen Ejogo's portrayal of Coretta Scott King, a performance so riveting I stopped breathing in the scene where she confronts her husband's infidelity? Masterful.  Dame Judi Dench, also awesome, got an Oscar for much less work/screentime for her Queen Elizabeth in "Shakespeare In Love."  No nod to David Oyelowo for his nuanced embodiment of King's humanity.

As we left the movie theater Saturday night, my cielo said, "Oh, this will win so many Oscars! It has to!"  I responded, "I don't know...I'm afraid they will think 'well, we gave you "Twelve Years a Slave" last year, what more do you want?' and...yeah, it's amazing but the Oscars, well...."

From a piece that came out today:
The minority actors who earn nominations are those who are in films that serve white interests and "converge with white sensibilities." Citing directors DuVernay and Spike Lee, he writes, "representations of blackness that defy racial stereotypes and challenge societal discrimination are almost never awarded, and seldom nominated." 

If you are thinking, "It's just the Oscars," think about the cultural impact the Oscars have.  Again I ask, whose stories are being told?  By whom?  Whose experiences are being lifted up? Whose lives are awarded? I even wonder, did "Twelve Years a Slave," surely a brilliant film and important story, break through the whiteness barrier because Solomon Northup eventually gets free thanks to a white man, so white folk can feel good about this "happy ending" and check off the diversity box on our to-do list? 

In "Selma" Black folks get free because of themselves.  And still it doesn't quite have a "happy ending."  The marchers make it to Montgomery, but the text on screen as the final King speech in front of the Alabama capitol rolls in our ears tells us some disturbing things, including white folk who are killed standing up for black life...and we watch always, always aware that yes, this struggle will take his life, too.  And then the closing song mentions Ferguson, so...

"There are no words to soothe you."
When Common, a black man, stands and acknowledges that all lives matter, but white people stand and only acknowledge themselves, there is no integrity to the assertion of inclusivity. ("Hollywood's Political Deafness: What Cosby, "Selma," and Hebdo Reveal about White Liberal Consciousness")

The Golden Globes and the Oscars tell us WhiteLifeMatters.  I want to be clear that I am not talking about skin color of nominees exactly but the stories.  Whose stories?  Vastly, overwhelmingly, the stories of white experience (particularly white male experience), ever strengthening the normativity  and value of white (male) life over all other life, white (male) life which is defended with award statues and choke holds.

I saw "Selma."  And I am still seeing Selma. 

I won't watch the Oscars and add my tally to the celebration of whiteness.  Instead, I will go see "Selma," again.  I invite you, too, to see "Selma." And to see Selma.

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Epiphany Blessing

This is just right. Just where I am. 

For Those Who Have Far to Travel
An Epiphany Blessing

If you could see
the journey whole
you might never
undertake it;
might never dare
the first step
that propels you
from the place
you have known
toward the place
you know not.

Call it
one of the mercies
of the road:
that we see it
only by stages
as it opens
before us,
as it comes into
our keeping
step by
single step.

There is nothing
for it
but to go
and by our going
take the vows
the pilgrim takes:
to be faithful to
the next step;
to rely on more
than the map;
to heed the signposts
of intuition and dream;
to follow the star
that only you
will recognize;

to keep an open eye
for the wonders that
attend the path;
to press on
beyond distractions
beyond fatigue
beyond what would
tempt you
from the way.

There are vows
that only you
will know;
the secret promises
for your particular path
and the new ones
you will need to make
when the road
is revealed
by turns
you could not
have foreseen.

Keep them, break them,
make them again:
each promise becomes
part of the path;
each choice creates
the road
that will take you
to the place
where at last
you will kneel

to offer the gift
most needed—
the gift that only you
can give—
before turning to go
home by
another way.

by Jan Richardson

Friday, December 19, 2014

Changes Coming...

Hello All Good Folk who still hang around this blog.  I know this space has been mostly dormant for a while but come the new year I am planning to begin writing again with more frequency.  In the meantime I'm updating things here and making some mostly-cosmetic changes do go along with my renewed commitment to SPEAKING OUT, not being silenced or hidden.  Stay tuned!