Autobiography (Or How I Under-babied in Eight Soulful Steps)

                                                            "Peace on Earth," by Kiki Suarez

Roughly 1 in 3 Americans are "under-babied." What does "under-babied" mean? It means that you don't have any children, or you have less children than you would normally want to have... We're way below what we need, just to replace the people we have in America.

 ~ Dr. Mehmet Oz, Administrator for the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services

What follows is a poetic take on my life as a woman who chose not to have children. By Dr. Oz's metric, I am "under-babied." There are many in this country who have happily made the same decision. There are also many who have suffered greatly because they were unable to have children. I wish to acknowledge their pain, while lifting up my own choices, which have led to a very fulfilling life. 

_________________________

Love kids.

Be the neighborhood babysitter everyone wants ~

you know, the kind who plays crazy games and

does voices for the stories.

So much of life is ahead of you and you know

you're going to be a great mom one day.

Take risks.

Disappoint your disapproving guidance counselor by

turning away from shrinkingly stifled expectations while

voraciously pursuing adventure.

Cultivate a desire to dream in two languages.

Fall in love with Mexico,

with Spanish language and literature

(along with a couple of ill-advised hombres).

Take a deep dive south of the border and

down into your own soul-mystery.

Return home a year later, realizing

you now dream in countless languages,

some of them containing words.

Remember your desires.

You still know you're going to be a great mom,

but not for awhile yet.

Marry a wild-eyed sailor who

is building a Polynesian catamaran in

the New Mexico desert.

Rejoice that his weirdness matches your own.

Take it seriously when he tells you that

he doesn't want children.

Set aside the swirling shoulds and realize

(with surprise)

that you don't really want them either.

Acknowledge the astonishing shift.

You know you could have been a great mom,

but you don't think you'll miss it.

Become a teacher ~

a good one ~

and embrace the role of "cool auntie."

Because of your under-babiedness

you have wild amounts of creative energy

and time for kids ~

kids who never occupied your uterus but

who surround and inspire and delight you.

You now know for sure that 

you could have been a great mom

but oh, it's such a relief that you aren't.

Go on countless crazed adventures

with the wild-eyed sailor ~

bicycling, sailing, hiking, explorations of the heart.

When you amicably part years later,

recognize that some of your best adventures

are still to come and 

that many of them will be on your own.

Rejoice that you feel utterly

comfortable in your own skin.

This, you will come to discover, is not terribly common

among the many who didn't have the chance to kick

shrinkingly stifled expectations to the curb

at a young age.

Give a damn.

Care for your parents and

when their time comes,

honor their deaths. 

In fact, honor the deaths of many,

recognizing this as yet another calling in

a long vocational list that 

never included motherhood.

Welcome immigrants and strangers, 

honoring your mother who was

an "anchor baby" long ago.

Help the people

left behind on the streets.

Mentor the young ones who

yearn for a better world.

Continue to celebrate this chosen life that

allows you to love in so many ways.

Support your friends who are not under-babied ~

when they complain about their kids,

annoy them by slapping your forehead and exclaiming:

"I can't believe I forgot to have children!"

Remember to send the wild-eyed sailor a thank you note for 

his part in your glorious under-babying.

Love the greatest mother of them all ~

Gaia, Mother Earth ~

she who is most definitely NOT under-babied.

Let the words of the crotchety prophet of

Walden Pond echo in your soul:

Simplify, simplify!

Tread softly and intentionally.

Ditch the car, ride your bike, take the bus.

Walk ~ saunter ~ everywhere

as you joyfully pay attention.

Stop to notice birds and dragonflies and trees,

the diamond flash of Sirius,

the striking daylight moon on an aquamarine sky.

Listen to your Mother ~

everyone's mother ~

as she begs us to just stop . . .

she who groans under the burden of insatiable human appetites,

who wishes her wayward children would wake up to the idea of enough,

who wonders why Dr. Oz and his ilk can't embrace and

welcome the multitudes of precious, multi-hued children 

who are already here, desperately seeking safety 

throughout her world.

Cultivate imagination.

Imagine the militant ignorance coming out of Washington 

finally dissipating as the current occupant of the White House, 

along with his merry band of twisted bigots,

rockets to Mars, wrapped in the remnants of 

their twisted, white-tinged pro-birth agendas. 

Imagine sharing.

Imagine welcoming.

Imagine a disappearing footprint.

Imagine enough.

Imagine enough for all.

Mercy

For Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde

    Everything faded into mist.

    the past was erased,

    the erasure was forgotten,

    the lie became truth.

                                George Orwell, 1984

Some say love it or leave it.

I prefer to stay and fight.

Even as bloodthirsty gods of

perverse patriotic passion

demand - require -

blood sacrifice.

Let her bleed.

Let them bleed.

Let them be afraid as we

burn it to the ground and

recreate it in our own image.

Even as our domestic mirror warps,

shooting back a twisty-rotten reflection

of truth-death,

an amnesia of conscience.

Even as the blubbery god of 

vicious vitriol

slithers back into power,

smothering his victims with

slippery, slanderous slop.

Even as 47 drops of blood splatter on

the bundles of money the billionaire offers.

47 drops of blood will get you a nice new wallet

filled with Monopoly money.

We all know who owns Park Place and 

what they intend to use it for. 

Even as Jesus weeps under

a diamond-studded crucifix.

There a predatory rogues gallery circles up

to surround the woman who is slowly bleeding out.

Cloaked in robes of brownly-reeking double-think,

they spout the twisty truths of the tyrant as

she draws her final breath.

Respect life!

War is peace!

Freedom is slavery!

Love is hate!

Pillaging thugs are heroes!

Let her die.

Let them die.

Let us make them afraid as we burn it all to the ground and

recreate it in our holy image.

But the preacher-woman is not afraid.

She cries MERCY

for the multitudes who are.

Jesus wipes his tears.

Small of stature but

fierce in spirit

she glides past them,

speaking softly and carrying a big stick.

(A lady bishop is probably not what Teddy Roosevelt had in mind,

but there she is.)

Fearless ~

though her stomach churns.

Strong ~

though her legs are suddenly rubbery.

Forceful ~

for she knows who she is:

an open channel for her good friend,

that kindly, brown-skinned prophet from Galilee who

is so weary of being misquoted.

He, who famously said:

Do not judge, and you will not be judged.

Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.

Pardon, and you shall be pardoned.

Give, and it shall be given to you.

Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over...

For the measure you measure with will be

measured back to you.

Woke pabulum, they cry!

Jesus, who learned about irony from

his streetwalker pals,

now starts to laugh as

the bishop slyly grins and

rolls her eyes.

They are not afraid.

They know who they are

and how conversion works,

how to play the long game even

in the cruelest of times,

when a good-troubling arc of justice

eludes.

    A spider's web is stronger than it looks. 

    Although it is made of thin, delicate strands, 

    the web is not easily broken.

                                            E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

Jesus, who's always loved to spin tales,

is not surprised when he spots whimsical spiders

weaving wakeful wonder-signs

just above the tyrant's head

and out the windows

and down the street

and around the nation

and beyond...

For Jesus, who's always cherished kids and their stories,

recognizes that it's Charlotte's namesakes who keep this

wickedly wild web of many colors going,

year after year.

They spin without pause for

they know their time is short,

these wily weavers of truth-telling who

keep hope alive while saving

a few good folks along the way.

Jesus, who's always loved a good laugh,

encourages the Charlottes to

weave the lewdly ludicrous lacquered locks

of the doddering despot into

silken missives of hope.

Their legs and spirits fly.

SOME BISHOP

the strands proclaim across his forehead.

SOME RESISTANCE

the baby-fine hairs on the top of his head announce as

the arachnid artisans skirt the substantial bald spot.

The tyrant's toadies scramble to put the obscene 

hairdo back in order but

they are not quick enough to block the

wispy, wondrous messages winging forth into 

an awakening web of worldwide proportions,

straight to the hearts of those who

are just about to give up.

There's no stopping them now.

And Jesus, 

who's always loved a good challenge,

smiles.

Dear Me

Dear.

She called me Dear.

Does she call everyone that,

or just old folks?

Oh Dear, now that I mention it

I realize I've started saying it, too ~

calling young folks Dear, that is ~

using an endearing term

to convey my caring.

It seems appropriate, given my elder status,

which is clearly no secret 

considering how often 

I get offered seats on the bus.

Manners are not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

But this particular Dear lingers.

Was it the way she said it?

The tenderness, the kindness

without a pinch of condescension?

A medicine, almost,

surrounding me and pulling me in,

a reminder of all that is

dear in the midst of the drear

that so easily overwhelms.

Isn't it a wonder

that the innocence of the dear 

hasn't been gulped up

by the snark of the fear?

Kindness is not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

She called me Dear 

and I have decided to embrace it.

A Bad-Ass Dear, that's what I'll be.

Come, won't you join me?

You might want to bring a big walking stick ~

useful for navigating the frightening patches ~ 

but also imagination and faith to see

the dearly improbable transformations

just waiting to be freed.

Hope is not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

________________________

Dear Me

Querida.

Ella me llamó Querida.

¿Así llama a todas --

o sólo a las viejitas?

Ya que lo menciono

me doy cuenta de que yo también

he empezado a decirlo --

llamando a los jóvenes Queridos,

usando un término cariñoso

para comunicar mi interés sincero.

Me parece apropiado, considerando mi estatus

de persona mayor

que obviamente no es secreto,

considerando cuantas veces me ofrecen 

un asiento en el autobús.

Los modales no están muertos, Querida.

Todavía no.

Pero esta Querida que me llamó permanece conmigo.

¿Fue la manera en que lo dijo?

La ternura, la bondad,

sin un pellizco del desdén?

Una medicina, casi,

envolviéndome y abrazándome,

un recuerdo de todo lo que es querido

en medio de lo triste que

facilmente nos agobia.

¿No es una maravilla

que la inocencia de lo querido no haya sido

devorado por el sarcasmo del miedo?

La bondad no está muerta, Querido.

Todavía no. 

Ella me llamó Querida

y voy a celebrarlo.

Una Querida Bad Ass, ésa voy a ser.

¿No te unirás conmigo?

Necesitas un bastón de madera --

útil para navegar las partes espantosas --

pero también la imaginación y la fe para ver

las transformaciones improbables

que están por liberarse.

La esperanza no está muerta, Querida.

Todavía no.

The Vast Complexity of Gray

The world has gone

eye-popping smack-down red

with tinges of orange that creep in

yellow-hot to explode with belligerent certitude

reminding you, yes you

(with a withering eye roll)

how stupid and

self-righteous and

uninformed and

triggered

you really are.

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let the soul decimating beat go on!

Please. Someone. Bring on the gray.

I want to go gray. 

Gray: where bouquets of colors come to rest,

where complexity and passion mix it up,

where Truth ~ with a capital T ~ stands ready to evolve.

Gray: where ideas and conjecture have a home, 

where gray matter matters,

where hate and cruelty dissolve

in an elixir of subtlety.

Gray: where you realize that all your fretting 

and screaming and outrage-ing

is getting you nowhere. 

Gray: where the mysterious alchemy 

of conviction and curiosity forms soul-balm and hope,

where all colors find a home in a place of 

endless color and

no-color at all. 

Please. Someone. Bring on the gray.

I so want to go gray.

_________________________________

La gran complejidad de gris

El mundo se ha vuelto

rojo escabroso y chillón

con matiz de anaranjado que entra a hurtadillas

amarillo-caliente a estallar con una certitud belicosa

recordándote ~ sí, a ti

(con un revoleo de ojos devestador)

cuan estúpido y

arrogante e

ignorante y 

provocado

eres de verdad.

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que siga el ritmo

aniquilando el alma!

Por favor. Alguien. Venga el gris.

Llévame al gris.

Gris: donde los ramos de colores llegan a descansar,

donde la complejidad y pasión juegan,

donde la Verdad ~ con V mayúscula ~ está lista para evolucionar.

Gris: donde las ideas y la conjetura tienen hogar,

donde la materia gris es material,

donde el odio y la crueldad se disuelven

en un elíxir de sutileza.

Gris: donde reconoces que

gritar e inquietarse y enojarse

no te sirve de nada.

Gris: donde la alquimía misteriosa

de convicción-curiosidad crea  la esperanza y

bálsamo para el alma,

donde todos los colores encuentran un hogar en este lugar de

color sin fin y

no-color.

Por favor. Alguien. Que venga el gris.

Tanto quiero irme al gris.

Love in the Time of Corona

                                         
(Art by Lia Halloran. Available as a print: https://society6.com/product/every-atom-belonging-to-me-as-good-belongs-to-you-art-by-lia-halloran-for-the-universe-in-verse2373447_framed-print?sku=s6-11773478p21a12v52a13v54)

It courses through our minds
and seeps into our souls,
first opening subtle pathways
of uncertainty and fear,
then twisting and strangling until
we can't breathe.
We can't breathe
so we blame it on them,
always on them,
because we are afraid.

Fingers entwined across adjoining hospital beds
in the living room where no one watches TV anymore
they keep each other afloat,
mingling bodies and spirits
(as they've done for oh so long)
staying alive on this rickety, makeshift raft.
Their daughter laughs:
"65 years and they still like each other.
Imagine that!"

Imagine that.

Meanwhile, the virus swirls and flows
hiding in the crevices and
lying in wait for the vulnerable ones.
They can't breathe and so they die.
They can't breathe.
They've always been here, of course,
but now we are counting them.
We wash our hands and count them
because we are afraid.

When he drifts away
(softly, without a sound)
no one is surprised.
She smiles and closes her eyes
to follow in his wake
sinking
slowly
far into
indigo-blue 
mystery-waters of
no words, no words.
She can't breathe because
she no longer wants to breathe.
She is not afraid.

Meanwhile, the virus sickens our souls,
circling
as it has for millennia,
squeezing
compassion to release
(slowly, breathlessly)
spirit-shredding
bone-numbing
fear-mongering
hatred
that will not be washed away with soap.

She would tell us, if she could,
the truths of the indigo-blue mystery waters.
She would tell us how love comes full-circle
when it is honored.
She would tell us that it's not too late
to learn to breathe in a different way.

Imagine that.

________________________________

El amor en los tiempos del corona

Pasando por nuestras mentes
se filtra en nuestras almas,
creando sendas sutiles
de inseguridad y temor,
luego torciendo y ahogando hasta que
se corte nuestro aliento y
no podemos respirar.
No podemos respirar.
Les culpamos a ellos,
siempre a ellos
porque tenemos miedo.

Con los dedos entrelazados 
en las camas de hospital conectadas
en la sala donde ya no les interesa la tele 
se mantienen a flote
compartiendo cuerpos y espíritus
(como lo han hecho por tanto tiempo)
preservando la vida en este bote salvavidas improvisado
Su hija ríe: 
"65 años y todavía se caen bien.
 ¡Imagínate!

Imagínate.

Mientras tanto, el virus gira y fluye,
escondiéndose en los huecos
acechando a los vulnerables.
No pueden respirar y se mueren.
No pueden respirar.
Siempre han estado aquí, claro,
pero ahora los estamos contando.
Nos lavamos las manos y los contamos
porque tenemos miedo.

Cuando él se va, 
(suavemente, sin sonido)
nadie se sorprende.
Ella sonríe y cierra los ojos
para seguir su estela,
hundiéndose
despacio
al fondo
de las aguas misteriosas de azul-índigo
sin palabras, sin palabras.
No puede respirar porque
ya no quiere respirar.
No tiene miedo.

Mientras tanto, el virus ataca nuestras almas,
torciendo y doblando
como lo ha hecho a través de los milenios
ahogando la compasión y soltando
(lentamente, sin ruido)
semillas de miedo
escalofriantes
pavorosas
un odio
que no se limpia con jabón.

Ella nos diría, si pudiera,
las verdades de las misteriosas aguas de azul-índigo.
Nos diría cómo se cumple el amor 
cuando se honra.
Nos diría que no es demasiado tarde 
aprender a respirar de manera diferente.

Imagínate.

Refusing to Live in Fear

It's sometimes called The Blue Marble photo, that striking picture of our planet taken by the Apollo 17 astronauts in late 1972.  It was the first clear image of a fully illuminated Earth and it changed the world, allowing us to savor the beauty, fragility and isolation of our home planet ~ along with our interconnectedness. It's pretty hard to look at the Blue Marble photo without being overwhelmed by the reality that we truly are all in this together.  NASA speculates that the photo is the most widely distributed image in human history.  Without question, it was a remarkable gift to humanity.

It was also upside-down.  The original photo was taken with the South Pole at the top because of the orientation in which the astronauts were traveling at the time.  The image was rotated before it was distributed since we are so accustomed to seeing the North Pole at "the top." In reality, of course, the photo wasn't upside-down at all ~ notions of up and down or top and bottom don't have much meaning in space.  It's all about perception and what we're used to.

When I taught school, I had two world maps side by side in my classroom:  the traditional Mercator Projection and the Peters Projection, which depicts the true size of the continents much more accurately (South America and Africa are suddenly much more prominent).  Both projections have serious limitations, but encouraging students to examine them both often brought about a shift in perspective, a challenge to them to let go of  preconceived ideas.  I think if I were teaching today, I'd also have one of these, just to keep the conversations interesting . . .

"Everyone takes the limits of their own vision for the limits of the world," Schopenhauer once said. How true. Fascism is now on the rise worldwide and fear of "the other" is the dominant theme, all because of limited and limiting perspectives. Even a cursory reading of history reminds us that this will not end well if we do not change our way of thinking, recognizing our common humanity. If there is any upside to climate change, it is perhaps that it reminds us ~ in a way that we simply can't deny ~ that no border wall or travel ban will keep us safe if we continue to live in fear while destroying this elegant, beautiful "blue marble." 

Someday, after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love, and then, for a second time in the history of the world, people will have discovered fire.

~ Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J.

During these challenging times, may we not be afraid to move toward that holy fire.

_____________________________

Negándose a vivir en el miedo

A veces se llama la foto de La Canica Azul, esa fotografía asombrosa de nuestro planeta, tomada por los astronautas de Apollo 17 a fines de 1972.  Fue la primera imagen clara de la Tierra totalmente iluminada, y cambió el mundo, dándonos la oportunidad de saborear la hermosura, la fragilidad, y el aislamiento de nuestro planeta, junto con nuestra interconexión. Es difícil ver la foto de La Canica Azul sin sentirse abrumada por la realidad de que todos estamos entrelazados.  NASA dice que es la imagen más distribuida en la historia humana.  Sin duda, fue un regalo extraordinario a la humanidad.

También estaba boca abajo.  La foto original fue tomada con el Polo Sur encima a causa de la orientación en que viajaban los astronautas. Giraron la imagen antes de distribuirla ya que estamos tan acostumbrados a ver el Polo Norte "encima."  En realidad, por supuesto, no estaba boca abajo ~ los conceptos de arriba/abajo o encima/debajo no tienen mucho sentido en el espacio.  Todo tiene que ver con la percepción y a qué estamos acostumbrados.

Cuando era maestra, tenía dos mapas mundiales en mi salón:  la proyección tradicional de Mercator, y la proyección Peters, que respresenta mejor el tamaño verdadero de los continentes (de repente Sudamérica y África se ven mucho más grandes).  Ambas proyecciones tienen serias limitaciones, pero animando a mis estudiantes a examinar los dos mapas causaba, muchas veces, un cambio de perspectiva, un reto para que cuestionaran sus ideas pre-concebidas.  Creo que si todavía daba clases, tendría uno de estos también, para que las conversaciones siguieran interesantes . . .

"Cada persona considera que los límites de su propia visión son los límites del mundo," dijo Schopenhauer. Qué cierto. El fascismo ahora se está extendiéndo por todo el mundo y el miedo "al otro" es el tema dominante, a causa de las perspectivas limitadas que limitan. Un repaso ligero de la historia nos recuerda que esto no va a terminar bien si no cambiamos nuestra manera de pensar, reconociendo nuestra humanidad común. Si hay cualquier aspecto positivo al cambio del clima, es quizás que nos recuerda ~ de una manera que no se puede negar ~ que ningún muro de la frontera o prohibición de viajar nos mantendrá salvo si vivimos en el miedo mientras destruimos esta hermosa y elegante "canica azul."

Algún día, cuando hayamos controlado los vientos, las olas, la marea y la gravedad, dominaremos para Dios las energías del amor. Entonces, por segunda vez en la historia, la humanidad habrá descubierto el fuego.

~ Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J.

Durante estos tiempos difíciles, que no tengamos miedo a acercarnos a ese fuego santo.

Advent

Light the candle.
Be still.
Wait and remember and hope.
The times are dark.
Your soul is strong,
so strong that it tells you again
(because you were too distracted to hear the first time)

Light the candle.
Be still.
Wait and remember and hope.
Linger awhile in the calm.
Maybe a long while.
Savor this time so you may receive its blessing,
to know when the moment is right
to get up and start walking again.

Don't forget the candle.
You will need its light as you bump up against your fears
and the harsh cruelty of the world.
You will need its light to pierce the darkness
in the hidden, hurting corners.
You will need its light to remember
that as the nights grow longer
waiting can be holy and
listening can be sacrament.
So listen well,
more than you talk.
Learn,
then return.

Light two candles.
Be still.
Wait and remember and hope.
The times are dark.
Your soul is so strong. . .

_____________________________________


Adviento

Prende la vela.
Estate tranquila.
Espera y recuerda y ten esperanza.
Los tiempos son oscuros.
Es fuerte tu alma,
tan fuerte que te vuelve a decir
(porque estabas demasiado distraída para oírlo la primera vez)

Prende la vela.
Estate tranquila.
Espera y recuerda y ten esperanza.
Quédate un poco en la calma,
y quizás un poco más.
Saborea este tiempo para que puedas recibir su bendición
de saber cuando sea el momento adecuado
para levantarse y empezar a caminar otra vez.

No olvides la vela.
Vas a necesitar su luz mientras enfrentas tus miedos
y la profunda crueldad del mundo.
Vas a necesitar su luz para penetrar las tinieblas
en los rincones escondidos y dolorosos.
Vas a necesitar su luz para recordar
que mientras las noches se ponen más largas
saber esperar puede ser algo sagrado y
escuchar puede ser sacramento.
Así que escucha bien,
más de lo que hablas.
Aprende,
luego regresa.

Prende dos velas.
Estate tranquila.
Espera y recuerda y ten esperanza.
Los tiempos son oscuros.
Es tan fuerte tu alma . . .

borders

Hope is believing in spite of the evidence, 
and watching the evidence change.
~ Jim Wallis


The little girl with the dancing eyes has not yet realized that she lives in squalor. What will explode in her when she does?

Trying to escape the extreme danger in their Central American countries, they left everything behind and bundled up their families to make the harrowing journey north, only to end up trapped with 1,000 other people, living ~ surviving, really ~ in unshaded tents on steamy concrete in Matamoros, Mexico. Across the International Bridge from Brownsville, Texas, the Land of the Free is just out of reach, as is the possibility of applying for asylum, given recent changes in the law that mandate that they stay in Mexico. They are in limbo in this desolate place, where the relentless heat, humidity, and hopelessness meld to form a wall as impenetrable as any made of steel. The hours turn into days turn into weeks and sometimes spirits break; desperation takes over as young parents attempt to escape the misery, swimming the Río Grande, children in tow, and perishing in the hidden current. Or making it across, only to be thrown into the "hielera" ~ the "freezer box" ~ where the overly refrigerated air blows relentlessly, chilling them to the bone as they lie on concrete floors. The flimsy mylar blankets they receive are no match for the perversity of the hielera torture that freezes out the vulnerable while frying our consciences and our earth.

Yet some consciences are piqued, not fried, by the relentless, fear-filled propaganda currently permeating our political discourse. So it is that Team Brownsville came to be. Starting as a small volunteer organization, a group of Brownsville teachers felt they had to do something to reach out to the many migrants who were ending up at the bus station, hoping to be re-connected with loved ones around the country. As the migrants have become trapped in Mexico, and as their numbers have increased, so too have the volunteers from around the country. In early October, I was one of them. The most common explanation for why we were there? For most of us it was: "I just had to do something." Or, as a woman from Chattanooga, TN told me as we were making salad for 700 people: "I want to be able to tell my grandkids that I was on the right side of history."

The little girl with the dancing eyes runs toward me and gives me a big hug. She remembers me because I was kind and playful when I met her at the "escuelita", a weekly sidewalk school that my friends David and Melba help organize. She is easily recognizable to me because of her big smile and the delightful kitty-ears headband she wears. Her name is Pearl ~ Perlita ~ and I cannot think of a better name for a little one so bright and alive. How long will she shine? How long until she starts to recognize the poverty, the hopelessness? Or will she, I pray, be blessed with a resilient spirit, inspiring others to be brave, to hope, to overcome . . .

I was recently asked, "So, what is the solution?" I don't have one; but here's what I know:

That recognizing our common humanity is crucial.

That I have no idea what it's like to have made such a treacherous journey, so I'd best be humble when talking about the people who do.

That yes, we need borders, but maintaining them should not betray our ideals.

That children should not be separated from their parents.

That our long, checkered history of military intervention throughout Latin America ~ and specifically Central America ~ is a major reason so many people are fleeing the so-called "Northern Triangle" countries. Because of this, the United States bears much responsibility for this humanitarian crisis; we should be debating how our country can best help to encourage more stability.

That the money being spent on that godforsaken, ineffective "Wall" would be much better spent on immigration judges and courts so that asylum seekers would have the opportunity to present a claim. They might not be approved, but they would be treated with respect and we would be "on the right side of history."

That's what I know. Today, anyway.

On my last night in the camps, I helped a young father from Honduras translate some paperwork. When the time came for me to go, he looked at me and said, not unkindly, "Thank you. I'm glad you get to cross." I walked across the international bridge slowly, with tears in my eyes, as I returned to my life of freedom and spaciousness, glancing down at the river that has taken the lives of so many, just seeking to be safe and free.

The little girl with the dancing eyes ~ Perlita ~ reminded me of one more thing that I know:

That sometimes a lively 4-year-old ~ whose eyes sparkle brightly in spite of the darkness that surrounds her ~ sometimes someone so seemingly insignificant can save our souls, if we would just take the time to really see her.

(If you would like to "do something", the following organizations can always use donations: AID NW, www.aidnw.org; and Team Brownsville, www.teambrownsville.org. Thank you.)

________________________

fronteras

La esperanza es creer a pesar de la evidencia, 
y observar mientras la evidencia cambia.
~ Jim Wallis

La niñita con los ojos danzantes todavía no se ha dado cuenta de que vive en una situación miserable. ¿Qué estallará en ella cuando lo reconozca?

Tratando de escaparse del peligro extremo en sus paises centroamericanos, dejaron todo para hacer la jornada desgarradora al norte, con el fin de quedarse atrapados con 1.000 personas, viviendo ~ sobreviviendo ~ en tiendas de campaña en el pavimento caliente en Matamoros, Mexico. Al otro lado del Puente Internacional de Brownsville, Texas, la Tierra de los Libres ("Land of the Free") está justo fuera del alcance, igual que la posibilidad de pedir asilo, ya que las leyes han cambiado y deben quedarse en Mexico. Están en limbo en este lugar desolado, donde el calor incesante, la humedad, y la desesperanza se mezclan para formar un muro más impenetrable que uno de acero. Las horas se vuelven días se vuelven semanas y a veces los espíritus rompen; agobia la desesperación mientras los jovenes padres de familia intentan cruzar el Río Bravo, llevando a sus niñitos, y desaparecen en la corriente escondida. O llegan al otro lado, donde los llevan a la "hielera", con el aire demasiado refrigerado soplando sin pararse, congelandolos hasta los huesos mientras tratan de dormir en los suelos de concreto. Las cobijas de mylar que reciben no dan protección de la perversidad de la tortura de la hielera que congela a los vulnerables mientras destruye nuestras consciencias y nuestra tierra.

Pero algunas consciencias están despertadas, no destruidas, por la propaganda miedosa que actualmente permea nuestro discurso político. Es así que llegó a formarse Team Brownsville. Empezando como una organización voluntaria, un grupo de profesores en Brownsville sientieron que tenían que hacer algo para ayudar a los muchos migrantes que llegaban a la estación de autobuses, esperando a juntarse con sus seres queridos en otras partes de este país inmenso. Ahora, con los migrantes atrapados en Mexico, y mientras sus números han aumentado ~ también ha aumentado el número de voluntarios de todo el país. En octubre de este año, yo fui una de ellos. ¿La razón más común que dimos para estar ahí? Para la mayoría fue, "Sabía que tenía que hacer algo." O, como me dijo una mujer de Chattanooga, TN mientras hacíamos una ensalada para 700 personas, "Quiero poder decirles a mis nietos que estaba al lado correcto de la historia."

La niñita con los ojos danzantes corre hacia mí y me da un fuerte abrazo. Me recuerda porque era amable y jugaba con ella cuando la conocí en "la escuelita", una escuela en el pavimento que organizan mis amigos, David y Melba. Yo la reconozco facilmente por su sonrisa grande y la diadema de orejitas de gatito que lleva. Se llama Perlita, y no puedo pensar de un nombre mejor para una niñita tan brillante y viva. ¿Por cuanto tiempo brillará? ¿Cuánto tiempo hasta que reconozca la pobreza, la falta de esperanza? O acaso será, espero, bendecida con un espíritu fuerte, inspirando a los demás a ser valientes, a esperar, a vencer . . . 

Hace poco, un amigo me preguntó: "Pues, qué es la solución?" No tenga una; pero sí sé esto:

Que reconocer nuestra humanidad compartida es esencial.

Que no tengo la menor idea cómo sería hacer una jornada tan peligrosa, así que debo ser humilde cuando hablo de los que lo han tenido que hacer.

Que sí, es necesario tener fronteras, pero mantenerlas no debe tracionar nuestros ideales.

Que los niños no deben ser separados de sus madres y padres.

Que nuestra larga historia de la intervención militar en Latinoamérica ~ y especialmente en Centroamérica ~ es una razón principal por la cual tantas personas están huyendo de los paises del "Triángulo del Norte". Por esto, nuestro país tiene mucha responsabilidad por esta crisis humanitaria y debemos considerar cómo mejor podemos ayudar a estos paises.

Que sería mejor gastar el dinero que actualmente se gasta en ese miserable "Muro" para conseguir más jueces y cortes para que los migrantes que buscan asilo podrían hacerlo. Claro que muchos no serán aprobados, pero serían tratados con respeto y nos encontraríamos "al lado correcto de la historia."

Es lo que yo sé. Hoy, por lo menos.

En mi ultima noche en los campamentos, le ayudé a un joven padre a traducir algunos documentos. Cuando llegó la hora de irme, me miró con una sonrisa triste y me dijo sinceramente, "Gracias. Me alegro que puedas cruzar." Crucé el puente despacio, con lágrimas en los ojos, mientras regresé a mi vida tan libre y espaciosa, mirando al río que ha robado las vidas de tantos inocentes que sólo buscaban ser libres.

La niña con los ojos danzantes ~ Perlita ~ me recordó una cosa más que yo sé:

Que a veces una niña alegre de 4 años ~ cuyos ojos brillan fuertemente a pesar de la oscuridad que la rodea ~ a veces alguien tan aparentamente insignificante puede salvar nuestras almas, si solo pudiéramos tomar el tiempo de verla, realmente verla. 

how to say goodbye

The little girl who was supposed to die
lived 90 years more
and when she heard that her time was short
she smiled and said:
Well then, I need to see my people.
And so it was
with a morphine breeze nudging open
a window of calm
sweet memories slipping in and out
she held court
as her people came
blessing each with a message
simple and oh so clear:
I have loved being your sister
your auntie
your grandma
your mom.
I have loved being.

With deep gratitude to my mom
Mary Frances Riconosciuto Bradford
1920 - 2016

___________________________________

cómo decir adiós

La níña que iba a morir
vivió 90 años más
y cuando supo que le quedaba poco tiempo
sonrió y dijo:
Bueno pues, necesito ver a mi gente.
Y así fue, con una brisa de morfina abriendo
una ventana de calma,
y los recuerdos flotando por ahí,
tuvo una audiencia con su gente,
bendiciéndoles con un mensaje
sencillo y oh, tan claro:
He amado ser tu hermana
tu tía
tu abuelita
tu mamá.
He amado ser.

Con profunda gratitud a mi madre
Mary Frances Riconosciuto Bradford
1920 - 2016

how to fly on a clear night

                                                Photo by Jan Jasinski

Choose a window seat, location determined by the likelihood of getting a moon bath. Once airborne, look for favorite constellations and familiar stars. Crane your neck at impossible angles in order to view them better. Explain your contortions to your seatmate, who may or may not be interested. Consider that doing such things makes you a card-carrying member of the eccentrically soulful 1% ~ the 1% that really matters. Celebrate your membership in this auspicious group by toasting Flannery O'Connor, she who once said, "You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd." Notice the moonlight illuminating first a river, then a lake, with silvery threads of light. Ooh and ahh appropriately. Begin to hum "Moon River", flowing right into "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" ~ quietly, though, since your seatmate is beginning to wonder about you. Sit back and breathe deep. Remember that you are winging through the air in a metal cylinder at about 500 mph, 30,000 feet above the ground. There is nothing ordinary about where you find yourself, so take time to savor this. And when the time comes to step off the plane, don't you dare forget it.

___________________________________

cómo volar en una noche clara

                                                Foto de Jan Jasinski

Escoge un asiento de ventanilla, ubicación determinada por la probabilidad de recibir un baño de luz de luna. Busca tus constelaciones favoritas y estrellas familiares. Torce la cabeza en ángulo imposible para verlas mejor. Explica estas contorsiones a tu compañero de asiento, que posiblemente tenga interés. O no. Considera que tu comportamiento te hace un miembro del 1% de personas apasionadas y excéntricas ~ el 1% que realmente importa. Celebra tu membresía en este grupo auspicioso, brindando a Flannery O'Connor, ella que dijo, "Conocerás la verdad, y la verdad te hará raro." Fíjate en la luz de luna que alumbra primero un río, y luego un lago, con hilos plateados de luz. Empieza a cantar "Moon River", seguida por "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" ~ pero en voz baja, ya que tu compañero de asiento está empezando a preguntarse qué estás haciendo. Relájate y respira profundamente. Recuerda que estás volando por el cielo en un cilindro metálico a unos 800 km/h, a 30.000 pies de altura, y no hay nada ordinario de este lugar donde te encuentras. Toma el tiempo de saborear esto. Y cuando llegue la hora de salir del avión, no te atrevas a olvidarlo.