A little humor, with apologies to Mary Oliver:
Why I Wake Early (my life is not a walk in the woods)
Hello, cat in my face
Hello you who make the morning
And the evening and all the days and nights
And ow! Your claw, and the nodding off in the afternoon
While you sleep peacefully in the sun
Even when I am miserable and crochety–
Best motivation that ever was,
Your meowing and this river of red
That threatens to overflow its banks today
Right now, onto these sheets and this duvet
If I do not heed its subtle warning
Get up, get up, good morning.
Watch now, how I start the day
In duress, in bloodiness.
A little bit ago I posted to facebook: “Pleasure is not always comfortable.”
And I got two comments back: “Explain?”
So now that I have some time…
sometimes, pleasure is comfortable.
The stress melts away and your nervous system takes off
for the beach
with a little umbrella.
The sympathetic responses calm down.
You breathe easy.
Life is good.
it’s not like that.
Sometimes it’s more like…
Or jumping into a cold mountain stream.
It’s like waking up to your favorite dog licking your face
or a fuck that feels like a steam train.
Sometimes pleasure is a roller coaster,
or jumping off a cliff to see if you can, in fact,
Pleasure is accomplishing something you didn’t think you could do,
or learning to pole dance with a baby belly,
or figuring out that skinny dipping might be okay,
or talking to that twinkle-eyed person serving tea or tennis balls or time.
Pleasure is making uncomfortable art and sharing it,
or climbing over a chain link fence after getting locked into the garden
because it was such a nice night
and the gnats weren’t bad until the end.
Pleasure is eating bad food in good company
or eating something that you don’t even recognize in a country where you don’t speak the language,
or saying I love you first.
Or saying it at all.
It might be comfortable.
But just as likely
you’re on the skinny branches.
The stars are beautiful out there.
(the kind of enoughness I’m contrasting with here was originated by Jennifer Louden http://jenniferlouden.com/art-of-building-your-truer-life/)
I have often threatened to get a button that says, “This is what a minister looks like.” People don’t expect me to be a minister. More, they expect me NOT to be a minister. Whatever the picture of “minister” in their heads may be, THIS is not it. That might be why I have such a hard time at interfaith clergy gatherings. Like Reid Mihalko, who shows up at business conferences wearing his Sex Geek t-shirt, I’m not what they thought they’d see.
It happens to me a lot, and not just about ministry. Justifying my presence is sometimes fine, and sometimes exhausting, and I do it a lot. I believe in identity-based spaces. I think they’re important.
There’s a fine line between identity and exclusion.
In fact, sometimes it’s not even a line at all.
And sometimes that’s okay.
And sometimes…it’s not.
Let’s face it: humans don’t come in binaries very often. Mostly we come in delightful, complex, multitonal shades of grey. But when we go to create a group, there has to be an out in order for there to be an in. It is necessary that someone not belong.
That not-belonging can be determined in a number of ways, but especially in identity politics it is often determined by–obviously–identity.
Who are you? Who were your parents? Where are you from? What color or language do you claim? Who are you attracted to? Who do you sleep with? What do you do for work?
It all seems very clear. And it all seems very important–for marginalized communities, protected spaces are vital for survival. There’s no question that being among your people is one of the deepest and cleanest breaths of fresh air available.
And then we, even if we are well-intended and well-educated in the ways of oppression, run headlong into the uncertain marshy territory of intersectionality.
Intersectionality is what happens where the ocean meets the grassy plains. Sometimes it’s wet. Sometimes it’s dry. Sometimes you can walk. Sometimes you need a boat. It’s muddy. It’s messy. And where exactly the ocean ends and the marsh begins is really up to judgment and imagination.
And enoughness…becomes a much bigger question.
Am I brown enough? Queer enough? Asian enough? Religious enough?
We end up in a kind of mashup of oppression and identity competitions. But the lines aren’t clear, and are not usually formally drawn. “If you identify as xyz, please come.”
Well I do.
But if I’m dating a cisguy, or I just look like I have a deep tan, or I’m the kind of minister that talks about sex from the pulpit, or if I didn’t struggle to come out, or if I don’t speak Hindi, or I’m an unaccented diaspora child of an educated immigrant…do I belong? Will you let me in? Can I be part of your group, your identity, your movement?
And will I feel any relief there, or will it just be another place in my life where I don’t quite fit in?
The more complicated our outward identities get, the harder it’s going to be for us to hold hard lines. People will show up claiming insider status and we’re going to wonder how that could be true. We’re going to be suspicious. We’re going to wonder if we belong, if they belong, how we can know who belongs.
The concept of identity itself is going to be shaken. Categories are getting complicated and blurry.
Now there’s a danger there, as well as a liberation.
When categories get blurry, individual identity becomes dominant, and with that, prioritizing individual needs over the needs of the group can move from being an imperative to being a tyranny.
That’s another fine line: between seeing that your own needs get met and honoring the trajectory, priority, and process that belongs to the group.
As with inclusion, exclusion, and boundaries, the balance between the two is vital. In both cases, it leads back to the same place:
you have to know yourself well enough to be able to withstand challenges–to your own identity and to your choice of social locations. You have to know yourself. You have to be sure of yourself. You have to be willing to learn and yet you have to be very clear that you are who you are, that you can tolerate not being fully accepted, that you can stand not getting your needs met, that the group can take precedence.
When you spend your life being told that you’re not quite…right…because you’re not the dominant race, culture, gender, age, class, ability, etc, that confidence is hard-won. When you ARE dominant, it comes without thinking. It comes “naturally”, as a gift from the people and culture who form your context.
If you apply that confidence from being dominant in a context where you are not dominant, you can bring down some serious wrath on your own head. But sometimes it’s worth it.
Sometimes it can gain you entry into the space where previously you were denied or merely tolerated. Sometimes, it gives you the power and the voice to change the conversation so it includes you.
Being enough–powerful enough, real enough, marginalized enough, even–is sometimes a matter of saying, “This is what [that thing you are including, or talking about, or desiring] looks like.” It doesn’t look like the picture in your head, or the photo shoot in the magazine. it doesn’t look like the stereotypes or the brochures or even the speech that one activist made once that was inspiring. It looks like this. It looks like me. I am it, I am here, and I am ready. Let’s do this.
It looks like you. It looks like me. It looks like us. Let’s do this.
Saris: the best resource for draping saris is Chantal Boulanger’s book. But if you want a quick-and-dirty primer on the most common draping style (nivi) and a few bonus options, go to sarisafari.com. She also imports and sells some beautiful saris, if you don’t live near an Indian district.
YouTube has some excellent additional videos. A drape that I’m particularly fond of is the fishtail, shown here. There are fantastic text explanations here, from a SCA person whose character is a 14-1600’s dancer in India. She includes a description of how to go to the bathroom without undraping the whole thing, which I have found useful for both sari and some dhoti styles.
1. here‘s a good solid basic video in English.
2. this is a slightly different style (make sure it stays closed in front!)
3. and here‘s a video for Kshatryia (warrior caste) style. I find this a very practical drape for getting things done. The crossed front on this style avoids the gapping-open-fly problem that sometimes comes with style 2. Style 1 manages this by draping the pleats in front of the opening.
All three of these dhoti styles can use the toilet as described in the fishtail drape description. Nivi sari drapes don’t have that problem, of course, they’re just like skirts. Now there are three more variations on the bifurcated sari drape, done with the longer 9 yard sari instead of the usual 6 yards
nauvari drape (from Maharastra) one version here and one here
So I’ve been on about draped clothing before. Draped clothing: when you get dressed from a (usually rectangle) of fabric, with no cutting or sewing. Saris are draped, dhotis are draped, kangas are draped, so are sarongs/lungis and a host of other garments around the world.
Some people think that draped clothing is likely to fall off, but that’s not been my experience.
And I’m all in favor of draped clothing, because it’s custom fitted to the wearer, every single time. Gain a pound? Lose a pound? No problem. Also, it packs FLAT. You can get a TON of draped clothes into a suitcase. And it’s very versatile. I have done almost everything except swim in draped clothing now, at least for my bottom half.
Also, the range of gorgeous fabrics is amazing.
But there’s been one glaring hole in what I’ve found. I can make a dress, or a pair of pants, or a shawl. But a top/bra? Not so much.
I was noodling on ancient bra technologies (don’t wear one was really popular, but after that it was usually just a strip of cloth across the middle of the breasts, more to hold them down than anything else) and then I started thinking about babywearing, and the wraps that people use. And I realized that if you remove the baby, you might get a decent start. So I hopped up and got my trusty bolt of muslin (if your local fabric store is ever having a deep discount sale on muslin, grab a bolt (25 yards) of 45″ to experiment with, you can thank me later.) I cut 4 feet of it, tore it into 4 strips of about 11 inches each, and sewed them end to end. (Now technically I could have taken 3 yards of muslin and torn a single long strip, but I didn’t want to waste fabric). The next step was suddenly (after all this time) obvious.
Put the middle of the strip on your sternum. Wrap the fabric to the back, crisscross it and bring the ends over opposite shoulders. Crisscross it again between your breasts, wrap it to the back, tie a half knot, wrap it to the front, tie a double knot.
This avoids the discomfort of a halter, which hangs the weight around your neck, and creates both sturdy coverage and support. It does NOT create the standard silhouette at all, so your couture dresses will still require an underwire. But it works.
Improvements: I would like to experiment with a bias-cut strip (which would probably conform better to the breast shape, this one gaps a bit), speaking of wasting fabric, and with a knit. I also think some kind of buckle for the ends would be preferable to a double knot. And I am test-wearing it to see how it holds up under actual use. I suspect the fabric that covers the breasts could creep over time, but practically speaking it may not.
Further questions for investigation: can this garment be worn swimming?
So back in February, I made a post to Facebook that became a series of posts that became a private group, about being intense.
Being an intensive, I called it.
And as intensives are wont to do, I went hell-for-leather for a while, all-in, thinking, writing, totally absorbed. (It’s part of what we do.)
And then, emerging, I got into a car accident, and then I got sick….
and the shiny wore off.
And so my intensive-ness and my analysis of it moved to the back of the fridge.
But as I emerge from that fog, the question is this: how does one live into intensity?
How is an intensive sick? How is an intensive tired? How is an intensive when they’re taking codeine laced cough syrup?
How is an intensive slow?
And the answer seems to be this: either an intensive is INTENSELY slow (slow to the point of stopping, restful to the point of immobility) or an intensive is still going at 3000 or 4000 rpm behind the scenes even if the body can’t keep up.
I tried option one. I’m on to option two.
But option two puts a lot of pressure on the system, building up thoughts and possibilities, waiting. And waiting. It puts the focus forward, not in the now. And I’m not getting to “all better” fast enough to keep up with my brain. Brain recently decided, for instance, to go see if songwriting is fun. After 30 years of not writing songs. And then there’re the two books in the hopper. And coaching, of course. And a new circle of friends. And and and.
So the challenge now, is how to manage the backlog. It seems to involve measured progress, focusing on something and doing enough of that one thing that my intensity is satisfied, at least a little bit, that there is progress, at least a little bit.
But we shall see. There’ definitely something here, something with gears and ratios, something with not-stopping that is also not-rushing-forward, something that is useful for moving between the not-intensive and the intensive worlds. More to follow.
Ever since Charleston, I’ve been watching myself. I’m so far from perfect you can’t even see it from my breakfast table, but I’ve been asking the questions, over and over: where am I actively, outspokenly, effectively, daily anti-racist? Where am I not? How can I do better?
Certainly, I’ve done better on Facebook. I spend a lot of time there; I’m choosing to say more and stay silent less, and that’s deliberate. I’m engaging more often and rolling my eyes less often. I’ve got a network; I’m learning who of my friends is willing to join with me and who is not.
And my life has always been just a few steps to the side of the experiences shared by most people around me. I’m brown (mixed race) acculturated mostly white, trying to figure out what that even means in a conversation that’s got nothing but stark no man’s land for border dwellers.
The first time a saw a movie with all South Asian actors, I was in my early 20’s and it took me half an hour to turn off the TV when the videotape ended. I looked at my partner at the time and said, “Is that what it’s like to be white?” He didn’t really understand the question. And how could he? He had no way of knowing that when you don’t see yourself reflected in the media around you, ever, you either bend your identity to fit what you are seeing or you begin to believe you don’t exist. The complexities of multicultural and multiracial identity can wait; my point here is that I rarely saw any South Asians on TV or in the movies and when I did we were weird exotic outliers, more often than not. There were only a handful of us in town and we didn’t happen to cross paths, except one person with whom I was constantly getting confused. Even when I expanded the “us” in my head to include Middle Eastern families, there was still just not much context.
And context matters. Social media, TV, newspapers, movies, mattered then and they matter now. Video games, comics, novels: matter. Who we see matters. I recently signed on to beta read for author Mary Anne Mohanraj, who is working on a fantasy novel with a strong base in South Asian culture and I am delighted every time something feels familiar to that corner of myself that is so often neglected. This is my experience. But it has been giving me ideas about #blacklivesmatter. Because media matters, and not just the news.
I’ve been sick for about a week. So when I sat down to watch Netflix and all of my usual suspects had been exhausted, I flipped through and landed on a kind of a classic chick flick. Boy meets girl, stressful situation, they fall in love, external circumstances conspire against them, in the end they triumph. Not super complicated. But. About halfway–maybe further–through the movie, I noticed that damn near all the characters were black. Of course if you’d asked me in scene two, I would have told you that they were. But I was more interested in this cop who was being groomed for politics, the stage mom turned manager, the talented performer, so it took a while before the analysis kicked in. And I realized that there are choices I make. I can choose to seek out more media with black characters, with leading roles and supporting casts that are black. There are a striking number of stories that could be authentically told in nonwhite contexts that are not. And with Netflix at the ready, it’s hardly justifiable to only see movies I’m sure of. When I visited DC a couple of months ago, I was kindly lent a car; the owner had the radio tuned to the radio station of Howard University. I was delighted. And I didn’t touch that dial. We don’t have black radio here in Scarborough, Maine, at least not that I’ve found. But I bet it’s on the internet.
And when all the music I always listened to seemed to be associated with some painful past moment of my life, I turned to Songza and found it thick with R&B and hip-hop, which I didn’t think I liked, but I was wrong. Then there was the revelation when I discovered that I knew absolutely zero about funk, its history, its connection to American civil rights movements, or anything else. So I’m getting myself educated now. Better late than never.
When I was a teen there were black kids all around me–not as often in my classes, because racism is rampant in our schools–but on the bus, in the halls, in the cafeteria. Since I left that part of the country I’ve lived in very white places, most of the time. Aside from a two year stint in Chicago, everywhere else has been overwhelmingly white. My cultural exposure has been limited by my geography. Now I know that movies are not reality, but I also know I learned a LOT from books as a kid, and there’s truth in the cracks where the light gets through.
So I’m making a conscious choice to seek out media that represents the world I live in, not just the street where I hang my hat. It changes my brain. And that matters.
Holy shit Charleston.
I wrote a piece that isn’t ready for the public eye, and may never be. Because holy shit.
And now I’m writing this, because the debate has devolved in many quarters into the meta debate: what is this really about anyway? Is it race or guns or the history of the Confederacy?
I think the biggest part, the thing that needs the attention, is race. But whenever any thinking person starts to address it, we end up with a lot of other conversations and a lot of side conversations. These are at root conversations about values, which is exactly what they need to be…but they’re also conversations about something else, something we’re not talking about.
so I sat down to figure it out, and here it is.
I can’t write about one thing without writing about the others anymore.
How do I talk about race without talking about gender? How do I talk about privilege of any kind without talking about class?
It doesn’t work.
But when the story about Charleston broke, I tried. I tried because the alternative feels impossible, overwhelming, absurd.
It’s like untangling a huge knot, made of about ten different kinds of yarn. If you have to find all the ends and begin at all the places all at once, you’re never going to even get started. Which is where the US has been, as a country, since….oh, Columbus and Vespucci or so.
So instead you pick ONE kind of yarn. The purple one, say. You start following all the purple threads, and let everything else blur out. A little at a time, a little at a time…until you find what you think might be an end, the origin of the purple thread. And then you start following it forward again, up and down and under and over, drawing an increasingly long and unwieldy tail behind you, slowing freeing pieces of the other yarn but ignoring them, remaining single-minded, following, following, following until you arrive at the OTHER end, and then you start over with a different color, with what is essentially a brand-new knot, dramatically changed by the removal of the purple yarn, destabilized but still definitely tangled.
Works great with yarn.
Sucks with people.
Because the whole knot relies on the whole knot. And so the yarn, which is made of both people and their ideas, the yarn fights BACK. It grips and tangles and grows thorns. It shapeshifts and becomes a writhing mass of serpents and dragons, drawing blood at every turn. The purple yarn, especially, becomes razor wire with a brain. It doesn’t want to be removed; it doesn’t want to be reduced to insignificance by being taken out of the equation. The other yarns like it; they need it; they hold on and intertwine with it. When you drop that loose end for a second it bends back and begins weaving itself into the knot again, more tightly than ever.
And because human brains are like this, when we are part of the yarn we do this without even realizing it.
So we SAY we are all for disentangling. Meanwhile we are growing fangs and claws that we can’t see and using them in ways that we don’t understand.
This is change theory, this is systems theory, this is also not theory. It is the very real answer to the question, “Why haven’t we come farther in the years since Selma?”
Take the classic family systems scenario, which conveniently has absolutely nothing to do with race.
There’s a person who’s got a long and trying history of alcoholism. He has spent years avoiding sobriety and his family has spent years complaining about his drinking. it’s clear that his drinking has caused a whole bunch of problems. The complaints are well-founded.
Then one day he figures it out. Maybe it’s a visit from God, maybe it’s getting hauled in for DUI AGAIN, but whatever it is, he gets it, all the way into his bones. He goes home, pours out all the alcohol in the house, goes to three AA meetings in his first day and 30 in his first month, and he starts getting sober. Really, truly sober. A month, two months, six months….still sober. It’s working, whatever it is. He’s a changed man. The program starts impacting his attitudes, the way he moves through the world, his choices for social activities, his values. Suddenly, one day, he comes home and there’s a bottle of vodka in the middle of the dining table. He takes a deep breath, calls his sponsor, goes out for coffee, attends an extra AA meeting. He asks his wife if she would please put the bottle away and she lashes out, has a list of a hundred and twenty seven things he did wrong when he was drinking and says she won’t have her fun curtailed by his faults. Then she pours a drink right in front of him. He takes a deep breath, calls his sponsor, and disappears for 24 hours. He stays at a friend’s house, someone in the program. He’s determined not to drink and is hurt and angry that his wife would make it so hard for him.
What’s happening here? His wife complained bitterly when he was drinking. What is this?
This is human systems at work. The very short breakdown is that he changed. He is connected to his wife. When he changes, she has to change, too, because he is no longer playing his old role in her life. She subconsciously doesn’t want to change. So she starts acting out in ways that might draw him back into his old role, so she can go back to what she’s used to. Human brains and human systems don’t like change. When we’re interconnected, our change affects everyone around us. The system we’re in is going to resist that change. It’s adapted to who we were, not who we are trying to become.
This theory of human behavior has its origins as Family Systems Theory but in fact it could be called Any Humans Connected to Any Other Humans theory. It has been reconfigured for use in religious organizations, in business situations, and even in internal family systems, which is more or less the set of voices you carry around in your head that comment on everything you do (the movie Inside Out makes this kind of thing visible).
So with regard to social change, the cultural and political system, along with our family and friend networks AND our internal systems, are all adapted to our various biases and prejudices. We use them. When we try and change them, we change the system, and the system fights back.
So we can’t untangle everything at once. And when we try to untangle just one thing, we get stuck with yarn that bites. Now what?
The answer is simple but not easy. The answer is fear. Fear of a lot of things, but it almost doesn’t matter.
Fear is what makes the yarn come to life and twist and twine and grow spikes. Fear is what makes the wife bring home the vodka. Fear is what drives stasis. It might be uncomfortable to be the way we were, but we know what to expect. As long as the discomfort is tolerable, we let fear run the show.
A year that starts with Ferguson and ends with Charleston is not tolerable, and that’s why things are starting to change.
When we address the need for change in a way that induces more fear than necessary, we make the pushback worse.
This goes to a bit of neurobiology that, vastly summarized, works like this: when you’re scared your brain shuts down all the higher-order thinking: creativity, complex reasoning, gray areas, sense of humor, gone. Those parts of your brain get taken offline so you can’t get distracted from the central work of survival. You become a very, very unsophisticated survival machine. This happens to everyone. Fear shuts down the useful parts of the brain. You are left with breathing, running, fighting, and staying very, very still. That’s fight-flight-freeze.
So if you’re arguing with someone and they get scared, the conversation is effectively over. And the more often this reaction gets triggered by this conversation, the easier it is for the trigger to get tripped again. The brain learns. And if you’re arguing with someone and YOU get scared, the same thing happens. No one is immune.
So we changemakers are walking this fine line between tolerating discomfort and putting the very people we want to have think creatively into an anti-creativity panic that’s biological and unavoidable.
And that’s where building relationships comes in. If you know a person and you have a good relationship, the panic doesn’t kick in as readily. When the panic doesn’t kick in, conversation, change, and compromise are possible.
[A word about where you come from: if you’re in one or more marginalized groups, you are accustomed to much higher levels of discomfort than the unmarginalized people around you. You operate better under higher levels of dissonance and change, and you have learned to moderate your responses to specific kinds of stress, including prejudice. You shouldn’t have to, but that’s the world we live in. You may even have come to associate moderate levels of dissonance with healthy stretching-of-brain and growth. When your standards are substantially different from the people you’re interacting with, the low threshold has to take precedence, because one panicked person means the whole conversation ends. And just because you can tolerate high levels of stress on one topic doesn’t mean you are necessarily similarly equipped on other topics. You may be used to talking about poverty but totally unprepared to talk about race, for example. Also, your level of discomfort and therefore your willingness to tolerate it is almost certainly different from that of the people around you.]
When you can relax, the yarn relaxes. The knot loosens. Everything gets easier. (Not usually EASY, just easier.)
That’s the third path. Loosen the whole knot, gradually, unweave ends when they show up, and keep tugging gently, gently, gently.
They are all connected to each other, all held in place by fear of change.
Of course race and class and gun control and the history of the Confederacy and mental health are all connected. Of course they are.
And of course, we will feel much better when we’ve untangled the whole messy thing. But that’s going to take time. Meanwhile, see what you can do about fear. Your fear. Find it, ferret it out, and unwind it. That’s where this whole thing starts.
I wrote a piece about Charleston, about responding to Charleston. But I’m not sure where it belongs or if it’s meant to be public.
My alarm goes off at 9:30 every morning.
It’s not there to get me out of bed (my body pretty reliably does that).
It’s not there to tell me I’m late (every day is different).
It’s there to tell me to love the world.
I have an Android phone. It lets me change things, including what my alarm says. This one says, Love the fuck into the world, darlin’
That’s what the alarm is called. It goes off three times a day: morning, noon, and night. And right up on the screen, love the fuck into the world, darlin’.
It’s my personal call to prayer.
See, there’s this idea that goes around the world, about praying without ceasing, let every breath be a prayer.
There’s this idea that goes around about loving the world like you love yourself, about living your deepest and most truly held beliefs. There’s this idea about living what you believe being the best thing you can do.
And in the end, the only thing you can do.
Church, religion, belief, morality, love isn’t set-it-and-forget-it. It’s not something you do once and you’re done. Love is a choice you make every day, every hour, every minute. Doing what’s right is a decision and a habit and a practice. It’s a Thing.
That’s why, if you dig into the old faith traditions, they’re embedded in daily life. Pray in the morning, pray three times a day, pray before bed, give alms to the poor, fast, keep the sabbath, eat the right foods, meditate, get on your knees, stand and face the sun, whatever it is–whatever it is–it happens over and over and over. It goes from one thing to another, from rule to practice to ritual, hand over hand, until each breath is a prayer.
Each breath is a prayer.
That’s how I want to live. Each breath a prayer: of gratitude, of remembrance, of strength, of giving, of love.
But I don’t.
I live in this world laced with Facebook and car accidents and bills and tourists and HouseHunters International and sometimes, much as I would like to, I fail to see the opportunity for prayer.
Sometimes one is staring me in the face and I ignore it.
Sometimes I don’t even realize that the grace was there for me to offer, if I had just paid attention.
Sometimes, I forget that all of us, even me, are the hands of the Holy.
We are each the incarnation, the hopes of the world made flesh, given this skin and these bones to make heaven out of this belabored paradise.
In our highest work, we bring peace to the wounds of war, we bring love to the broken hearts of hate, we bring unity where we are divided, yes we are divided. We are healing ourselves, we are sacred and profane, together–together in one complicated paradoxical body.
We are one.
So my alarm goes off to call me back to that. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail. But I cannot–I dare not–fail to try.