Your Home

Your first home was my body. From nothing more than a knowing you were there to pounds of aliveness churning, kicking and hiccupping, we rode together. You transformed me. As I expanded to fit your growth, the way I experienced life shifted to fit you as well. Every moment of every day and night, we were together, inseparable. My nourishment was your nourishment, my breath feeding into your life.

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Your second home was our arms and a sweet little hospital room. You came into the world with a gasp. I heard your breath before I saw your body. For three days, we existed together in a space between the womb and the world, colored with light gently filtering through rosy curtains, the hours as soft as your new skin.

Next came the space between the walls of our house. A home to bring you into and up within. We negotiated the slightly growing space between us and our need for one another. As days passed, we started to gaze outward more and more.

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Your truest home, your most lasting, permanent, forever home, is the one we fling ourselves into for peace. First, there were the long walks when my mind couldn’t comprehend the enormity of your upcoming birth. Then, after we traversed that threshold together, there were all the times I strapped you to my chest and propelled us both into the forest when nothing else could ease your cries. We’d wander between trees and as the smell of mosses, the touch of sunlight and the call of birds washed over me, my calm became your calm.

I have watched as you have found your way in that truest, most lasting home. As your body has grown, so has your attachment to the wide, open space beyond walls and “comforts”. Your hands explore plants, thread through soil and reach to follow the flight of butterflies. Your questions come fast and furious and so I have searched for answers.

Propelled by your curiosity, we have learned together, you and I. And something I didn’t believe possible has occurred. As we talk about pollination, as we identify species on our walks, as we spend an entire winter amble with noses to the ground, tracking the path of a fox, my own love for the natural world that births us and sustains us has grown.

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This truest, most lasting home has held my whole life. My mother assuredly carried me into the woods in the womb for reflection and comfort. My photo albums overflow with images of both my parents touching trees, bent over ferns, or ankle deep in the ocean, a little tow-headed toddler right alongside. I have loved, cried, hid and sought inspiration in the natural world time and again.

I don’t think I have a hope for you more profound than my wish that you know the same powerful, everlasting connection to that world. You grow up in extraordinary times. It has never been so critical that we realize that we are a part of and completely dependent on the natural world. We have very little time left to wake up to the truth of our existence, the truth that we need to preserve that most fundamental of homes in order to survive.

But it comes down to more than just need. Yes, we need the natural world. But action based in obligation lacks inspiration. And this is about so much more than obligation. We don’t just need the natural world. We love it. And if we don’t recognize that fact, I truly believe we are suffering a disconnection from our deepest nourishment.

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From the plant on an office desk in the heart of a city to the dance between fireflies on a summer night to the way we look at the moon and the stars to the drive to get “out in the countryside” on vacations to the way words fail when we stand on top of a mountain, our connection to our truest home runs so deep, to deny it is to deny a fundamental truth about ourselves. And to disrespect that world is to disrespect the core of who we are.

And so I hope you continue to run between tall grasses, climb rocks even more than jungle gyms and sit silently before wide expanses of water. I hope your eyes and heart and soul continue to light up as your lungs fill with the freshest of air. I hope you never, ever forget the home that will always be there for you, if we only honor it fully.

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A place to begin

This morning, as I backed my car up to pull out of our driveway, my cellphone rang with a call from my husband. Our 2.5 year-old daughter was in tears just inside the house. She had, unbeknownst to either of us, been making me a Valentine with a plan to give it to me before I left for work. I had kissed her goodbye, not knowing exactly what she was doing and she hadn’t realized I was walking out the door and was now in tears, finished Valentine in-hand.

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My daughter never cries these days when I leave. For me, it was a no-brainer to put the car in park and dash back to our front door. Face against the glass, my daughter stood with a red paper heart clutched in her little hands. I opened the door and she pressed the heart towards me. She had glued smaller hearts across the surface, wrinkled and piled, and her effort was clear. Tears gone, she beamed up at my face with anticipation and delight. I exclaimed gratitude and love. She started to trot back into the house and then turned around.

“Momma, I was upset, because I wanted to give that to you before you left.” I crouched down. “I am so glad that you did. I am going to carry this with me all day.” She walked right up to me and put her little nose against mine. Big eyes looked straight into my own. “I love you so much,” I said. “I love you!” And then her pajama-clad, soft little body was gone.

I got into my car and drove away, hooking a recent Fresh Air interview into the speakers. The interview was with James Balog, an environmental photographer who most recently created the powerful film The Human Element. The film vividly explores both the already-existing and future impacts of climate change on humans. I listened to Balog talk about a special school in a hospital in Colorado established for children with extreme asthma, induced by poor local air quality. Balog estimated that nearly 100 children attend the in-hospital school. These children can rarely play outside. As I listened, my unborn son kicked steadily against the side of my uterus.

I spent part of my workday reading more stories about the current impacts of climate change on young people: impacts ranging from loss of homes or parents in extreme weather events to severe anxiety to massive food insecurity. The most vulnerable are just that: most vulnerable. I thought about my two children, one who is already running around, breathing in, and loving the world and the other who has yet to see his first tree, hear his first loon call at night or identify the feeling of fear by name.

We are so fortunate. The air around our home is not extremely contaminated – yet. Water is not lapping at our front door – yet. We have not had to pack up our children and our possessions and embark on life-threatening travel to a new home – (here, it is especially terrifying to add “yet”). We have food and clean water. Our children can breathe and explore and learn to love the world free of extreme fear – for now.

I spend a great deal of my time these days researching, thinking and writing about how to best prepare young people for a world with climate change. I find myself increasingly supportive of introducing the topic younger than many might imagine – although certainly in very simple terms at first. I think a lot about how to balance truth with encouragement. Joy and play are essential. I do not want my children robbed of their childhood, pushed to grow up too quickly by the looming presence of climate change. But I also want them to incorporate the reality that is climate change into their worldview. I want them empowered to apply their joy, their play and their best loving, creative selves to the challenges ahead. I want them to know that bravery is not the absence of fear and that empathy is possible across vast differences, be those differences based in ideology or species.

When I get home today, I will wrap my daughter into my arms, perhaps with a little extra vigor. I will not tell her about the children with asthma or the ones who have lost their homes. For now, I will affirm her creativity and kindness. I will help her learn to value feelings, hers and others’, to name them and allow their presence while also learning how to transform them into action. I will walk with her out in the world and together we will soak up the interconnection of living beings and learn as much as we can about the delicate but powerful ecosystems that sustain us all. We will learn respect and empathy. We will recognize our agency and ability to create solutions to problems. We will read stories about heroes. We will learn how to listen to others and appreciate their feelings and values. We will separate our wants from our needs. And I will continue to leave her to go to work, to face the harsher realities, both so that I may make my contribution and so she may learn about courage and the value of community beyond her parents.

This is where we begin. Together, we will stitch the fabric of the blanket that will one day provide comfort, support and nourishment as she learns the facts about climate change.

Valentine’s Day, we have told her, is about saying “I love you” and showing the care that accompanies that emotion, something we hope to celebrate every day.

Together, I hope we become a Valentine to the world.

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What remains

I hope you know the feeling. You love someone so deeply, you want to just look at them, absorbing every detail with your eyes, without hurry. You are not driven by a desire to own them, somehow, by looking, but to know them. And in knowing them at this level of intimate detail, you are lifted beyond the walls of your skin. You become more than your limited self as you ponder the mystery that is the existence of another.

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This feeling, this is what I experience as I sit at the edge of the water. I want all the time in the world to look, not at another person, but at the explosion of beauty before me. My eyes feast on the water as it moves, chased by the same breeze that ruffles leaves on nearby trees. I want to learn from the particular way the light reflects off each part of the water’s surface. I want to memorize the curvatures and lines of the rocks that dip into the edge of the lake. My eyes travel to the tip of a particularly tall pine and I know freedom lies in the truth of that silent giant right where it meets the sky and that if I could look long enough, I’d somehow learn that truth too.

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I could sit for hours, with need for nothing more than the feast laid out before my eyes. Within this feast lies not just nourishment, but lessons delivered through the poetry of life’s simplest movements and presentations. How could anyone, ever, consider themselves to be more important than anyone else if they only sat here and looked? The larger truth is written so plainly in the water, the sturdy rocks, the reaching trees – life continues. I am to life as one more drop of rain is to the lake. My presence is felt, assuredly, and will ripple. The force with which I land (mightn’t that force depend on consciousness more than push?) will determine the spread of those ripples. But, ultimately, both myself and my ripples will be absorbed by the rest.

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And so I sit and look and I do not hurry away from this lesson about existence and impermanence. Eventually, I rise, slip between pines, and fade. The lake, the shore, and the trees – they remain.

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Helplessness

Each morning recently, after I wake up, I lie for a moment and watch the early morning sunlight dance off the trees. Then I roll over, open my phone, and read the latest stories on what is happening to immigrant families in this country. My heart pounds, my thoughts race, helplessness and hopelessness fill my body until I cannot read any more. I throw back the covers, hurriedly dress, lace up running shoes, and pound my anger and grief into the pavement.

I return to our home to hear the voices of my daughter and husband and find myself drawn, immediately, to them. I want to see them, hold them, let their immediacy run through me like medicine for the ache that does not really go away.

It stays as I make breakfast for my daughter, her little feet padding through her home as she greets the day, our dog, her “friends” (stuffed animals), so excited, so happy, so fortunate. I sit down as she eats and have to pull myself back, again and again, to the solid wood of the table, the lilt of her young voice, her questions, her gaze, her love, so beautifully present. She is here, in front of me, to hug and feed and scrub down afterwards.

On some days, I then deliver her to her wonderful caregiver so I can work. I thank any God that might be listening for this kind, exemplary woman who cares so profoundly for my daughter and the children of several friends. And then I sit down and drag my attention to work, again and again, as it moves away to keep reading the stories and looking at the pictures.

In the middle of the day, I hike. As my legs push up the mountain, I wish I could give the same energy to actually making some difference. I want to hold all the children. I want to brush away their tears, heal their ache. I want to hold the parents. I want to tell them how deeply I am aching for them, but the words sound hollow even as I think them amidst my climb towards the sky.

After more work, I pick up my daughter. She is dashing around naked by the little “kiddie pool”. I wrap her softness in my arms and breathe in the faint echo of baby smell that still lingers, thankfully. As we drive home, I let her questions and stories and thoughts fill me, a mantra to tie me to the now. We spend the evening between trees and the plants in our little garden and around the dinner table with her father.

After dinner, my heart breaks open for the ninetieth time that day as I watch her put a diaper on her stuffed animal monkey and think of the children helping other children change their diapers. I duck into the bathroom and read another story: a mother, released on bail, is trying to get back her eight year-old daughter and has been told she may need to wait several months. She says she feels like she is going to die, she feels powerless. I want to hurl my phone into the toilet. I want to scream. I want to do something, anything. My daughter bangs on the bathroom door. I open it and exclaim over Monkey’s beautiful diaper.

I’ve donated, I’ve called representatives, I’ve signed petitions, and I feel completely helpless.

In the evening, after all the curtains are drawn and the lights are out, my daughter stays in my arms longer than usual for lullabies. Often, these days, she is ready for her crib before I’m ready to let her go. She is growing so fast, and her body drapes around mine as I sit in the rocking chair. I sing. I sing for her, for myself, the traditional, soothing songs. I sing for the children, in “shelters” throughout our country. I sing for the parents whose feelings I cannot fathom, but the little I can imagine would break me into a thousand pieces. I sing for their strength.

I don’t know what to do, so I open my computer and let these feelings spill into words. Ultimately, the words do very little, aside from allowing that feeling of spill for at least a moment or two. Ultimately, all I can do is say: if you are reading this, and you feel helpless, I’m right there with you.

ADDITION to this post:

After sharing this on Facebook, I received some really beautiful, thoughtful replies urging me to stay strong and inspired. First, I’m so glad that those individuals are in this world, making a difference, carrying so much love. Their comments clearly come from a place of deep commitment and vitality. I’m so grateful. The comments and my reaction to them also provided a great opportunity to reflect on something that I wanted to share, in case it is of use to anyone else. What I realized I needed to communicate is that, while this piece reflects the grief, anger and helplessness I’m feeling, I also feel very strong and incredibly inspired. For me, grief does not preclude strength. Some of the most inspired, creative and love-filled moments in my life have come from grief. And, strange as it seems, helplessness does not even preclude inspired, loving action. In this case, it is driving me forward, to fight to eliminate helplessness. As I look around me, I believe it is really important that we learn to feel both grief/anger and even helplessness AND strength, love, commitment and inspiration – all together! When I push aside the grief and anger, I feel myself dissociating from what is happening. However, as those commenting so beautifully stated – we do not want to drown in grief and helplessness and not act. We must feel the whole package, reflect and act consciously. For me, that package is the beautiful, complicated truth of our interconnection. So, I will continue to feel, feel deeply, and act consciously from that place of connection. 

What could have been said…

I understand why men didn’t speak up at the Golden Globes this year. I really do.

I did not watch the awards ceremony, but, boy, did I hear about it. I imagine there are few who didn’t. The theme of recognizing the work and struggle of women with everyone wearing black, the speeches – from Oprah and others – eloquently and powerfully addressing the work women are doing right now to spotlight both harassment and continuing inequality – it was clearly a different awards show this year.

My friend posted an article that really grabbed my attention, particularly when coupled with her commentary. The article highlighted the conspicuous silence of the men present. Why didn’t they address the blatant and important theme of the evening? Why didn’t they speak to their role in the equation?

In sharing the article, my friend also shared the complexity of her feelings on the topic. On the one hand, she recognized that men can support the women’s movement in ways that are not as publicly visible. On the other hand, if they have a platform, a position of power and the opportunity to reach millions of listeners, shouldn’t they use that opportunity? Others commenting on her post pointed out that no matter what the men present said, it would not have been the right thing and would have taken attention from where it should be – on the women and what they are saying. Anything a man would say in that situation would inevitably come across as self-serving or promoting.

The article and the comments my friend made and received rattled around in my mind all day, along with a question of my own: When we are confronted with a situation in which a group of people have suffered persecution at the hands of another group and we are identified with the latter, through race, class, gender or by some other factor, how can we verbally show support for the persecuted? Recognizing the many, many complexities in such a situation, recognizing all that we do not and can never know about the experience of those persecuted, how can we speak out in a manner that isn’t self-serving, that is truly supportive? Do we have to remain silent because to speak is to step into a truly uncomfortable and complex realm?

Or can we learn together? Is there some way to speak from exactly the place of complexity in which we find ourselves – to address it rather than shove it under the rug or use it as a reason to remain silent?

What if the men present at the Golden Globes had said something like this: “I’m worried about saying the wrong thing here, but I believe to not speak up in support of the incredible work being done by women right now is to not support that work. I don’t want to take the attention away from where it should be: on the work being done, on what the women are saying, on the very real issues they are highlighting, and on the important changes that need to happen. I just want to say that I support this work 100% and I’m here to do anything I can to help make those changes.”

I don’t know about other women, but this would have worked very well for me. I would applaud the man who could stand in his discomfort and not-knowing and speak these words, words that stay focused on the work the women are doing and don’t draw the attention towards the man’s discomfort in the face of that work. To be able to stand in discomfort but not make that the story. To recognize that within not-knowing lies an opportunity to learn. To know that even if the work ahead drives straight into uncharted and potentially increasingly uncomfortable territory, your support is the best thing you can give, especially when coupled with a willingness to learn and to be changed in that process of learning.

I get that it is unfair to place the responsibility of teaching on the persecuted party. To do so is to doubly burden those who have already shouldered undeserved weight for far too long. But we cannot know what we do not know. When we pretend otherwise, we further abuse those who truly do know, who have experienced the persecution firsthand.

As I think about the resurgence of so many movements that seek to address the inequalities and injustices rampant the whole word over, I find myself hoping again and again that we can be brave enough to stand in discomfort. May we be capable of admitting when we do not know. May we be willing to offer support while not seeking to take over the story. May we be ever and always open to being changed in the process of communal learning this world so desperately needs.

And may I learn from what was missing at the Golden Globes. The next time I want to show support but am nervous about speaking up, may I remember the words I would have liked to hear from the men present at that awards ceremony.

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To Feel More Fully

Here we are, once again nearing the turn of the year. Whether we shrink from it, gallop eagerly forward, or stand still in impartiality, the threshold between this year and the next approaches us as surely as the darkness at the end of each day or the dawn after each night.

I am reminded of something the late great Irish philosopher and poet John O’Donohue said about thresholds: “[I]f you go back to the etymology of the word ‘threshold,’ it comes from ‘threshing,’ which is to separate the grain from the husk. So the threshold, in a way, is a place where you move into more critical and challenging and worthy fullness.”

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More critical and challenging and worthy fullness. Good lord, doesn’t that sound beautiful? Doen’t that just reek of exactly that which is most needed in this world today? So many of us seem to be moving at a pace that actually dilutes our sense of being. We function as shreds of ourselves as we rush from one “doing” to the next.

I see the impact of this rush in myself. As my daughter and I spend the afternoon together, I move from cleaning to cooking to folding clothes, occasionally glancing at my phone. “Mama, playdough!” she says. “Mama, mama! Quesadilla!” And she trots around the corner, a huge beam on her face, proudly holding a plate on which she has perched a blob of playdough that she painstakingly flattened with her little, soft hands.

And I almost miss it. I’m almost so busy feeding the woodstove that I don’t take the time to turn towards her. Assuredly, there have been many moments where I have missed her invitation, have stayed in the busyness at hand rather than turning towards my bright, beautiful daughter as she seeks connection.

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Turning towards connection. Another phrase that grips my attention as some sort of compass towards the healing this world desperately needs. We are so disconnected, shrouded in our bubbles of productivity and individuality. How often do we actually take the time to feel the truth of the connection that ties us to the rest of the world?

I’m not talking about just being social. It’s not as simple as that. We can be in the midst of a raging party and still be disconnected. Yes, we need to celebrate community more fully, but as a massive introvert, I’m a big believer in solitude as well. What I’m talking about is connection to the moments of our life. A commitment to show up fully, with presence and the porousness required to actually feel the moment we are in.

I get it. To feel fully, profoundly, is so. fucking. hard. Especially today. As I read news of another police shooting, as I watch Dreamers live in fear that their right to exist in this country might be stripped, as I look into my daughter’s eyes with the echo of a recent article I read about the increasing pace of climate change ringing in my head, I’d like to run from my feelings. I’d like to hide my head in pretty much any metaphorical “sand” that might numb me to the harsher aspects of today’s world.

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But here’s the thing. The fact that I can choose whether or not to feel these truths means that I live in a position of profound luxury. For those impacted directly, that choice does not exist. And yet, the fact that I am not impacted directly doesn’t mean I’m not connected to the system that causes those horrible truths in the first place. Through feeling, I wake up to my role and the choices I have surrounding that role.

I believe we have to feel, we must feel, and that in this feeling lies our salvation. If I did not experience a wildly complex mix of love, grief and fear when I hold my daughter and think about climate change, I wouldn’t have any desire to try to find solutions, to seek to make a positive difference. I’m not advocating that we allow ourselves to be completely overwhelmed by feeling. I understand that balance is so important, that we must have the capacity to hold our feelings. But the balance generally seems to be tipped in the favor of less feeling these days.

My hope is this: that as we journey through the upcoming threshold, we might all shed the husks that shield us from feeling. May we set aside any worry that feelings might make others uncomfortable. May we reclaim emotion as a powerful tool for positive connection and change. May we care and care deeply, emboldened by the knowledge that it takes tremendous courage to care and that within caring lies a promise, yes of pain, but also of a sure path to meaning.

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Let her go

It’s not because of the labor. It’s not because of those incredibly rough moments in the first months: moments like standing in the kitchen with my finally sleeping baby strapped to my chest while eating my first bite of the day – a few spoonfuls of garbanzo beans from a can. Since becoming a mother myself, I appreciate my mom in a whole new way. But it’s not because of days of labor or moments like that.

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It’s because of the most basic and most challenging paradox I’ve found in motherhood: loving and letting go.

It starts so early, doesn’t it? I spent the months and days leading up to labor preparing myself in any way I could – yoga, meditation, birthing classes. I wanted to give our daughter as easeful a passage as possible into this world. But when the contractions begin, the only part of the process in your control is your response to whatever unfolds. She comes into this world in the way she must. And then you hold her and love her and, once she starts to wake up to the world, listen as she tells you about her experience of birth.

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And it doesn’t stop. You feel overjoyed as she begins to walk, marveling at the sight of that little body deciding where to go and getting there all on her own. You marvel and your heart leaps into your throat as you realize she will fall. Even if you hover behind her every step, which you don’t really want to do, she will trip and tumble in the way she must. And then you hold her and love her and listen to her tell you about how that felt. After she is done, you set her down and carry your heart in your throat as she totters off again.

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As I look ahead, I see the stakes rising right alongside her height, vocabulary and desires. She will meet so many people. Some will want to be her friend, some will not. She will try out for a certain sport, a certain role. She might get it and she might not. She will feel like her identity lives and dies in receiving certain selective positions – maybe a job, an internship, a college. She might be accepted, she might not. She will fall in love. Her heart will break in the way it must. And you will hold her and love her and listen to her tell you how it feels.

And then one day, maybe, she will go into labor of her own. She will call you, overjoyed that soon she will be holding her own baby. And you will wait, for hours that stretch into days, pacing, trying to keep fear at bay. You will receive text messages from her husband, maybe, or her wife, updating you on the process – dilation is not occurring. There is no fluid left in the sack. Now dilation has started. Now it has stopped. Now they have hooked her to Pitocin. Now she is pushing. You wish you could push for her. Hours. Now it will be a C-section. She will labor in the way she must, and the next day you will hold her child and love her and listen as your daughter tells you how it felt.

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And so I thank you, Mom. You taught by example. You modeled how to walk in that paradox for so many years. You listened as I wept. You did not try to fix it. You held me after I tumbled or when the world itself seemed to fall. You did not try to put it back together. And by not fixing or controlling my surroundings, you showed me that I was capable. That weeping was fine and tumbling was inevitable and no feeling is permanent. That I carried boundless strength. It was that strength that enabled me to labor for nearly three days, carried me during the first months of my daughter’s life and echoes each time I hold her and love her and then let her go.

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A lie I cannot tell

It happened during one of my early riding lessons. My mother had grown up with a strong love for horses and an equally strong desire for a horse of her own. Once they had some land, she and my father managed to find a couple of horses that sorely needed a home and got two ponies thrown in to boot. My sister and I inherited our mother’s love, although perhaps to a lesser degree, and eventually I found myself at a proper stable taking proper riding lessons.

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Love horses though I might, I was also terrified of the creatures. A complicated relationship, I know. But allow me to explain. Not long after my parents first got horses, I witnessed my mother take a spectacular tumble that landed her in the hospital. I was probably four or five at the time, which means my sister was only one or two. My parents were riding the horses in my grandparents’ large field while my sister and I played on the screened porch at the edge of the field, watched by Granny and Grandad. My parents galloped across the dried grass, really letting the horses stretch their legs. Something suddenly spooked my mother’s horse at the far edge of the field, right by a cluster of pines. She took off, bucking and rearing. I watched as my mother was thrown from the saddle.

I don’t remember the exact details of what followed, but I do know that my sister and I began to cry, pressed against the screens, trying to get to our mother. I remember watching my father lift my mother up and carry her across the field. I don’t recall how they got the hospital. I do remember being terrified, as any child would be when a parent crumbles to the ground.

So you see, from a very young age I knew spending time with horses could result in significant injury. And thus I approached my own riding lessons fascinated but trembling. My riding teacher instantly picked up on that fear. She had a solution. She asked me to repeat one phrase in my head, over and over, as I mounted the horse and as we circled the arena: “The universe is safe and friendly. The universe is safe and friendly.”

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As a child, I took everything I was asked to do quite seriously. And so I approached this assignment with full dedication. I can imagine what I looked like – a little tow-headed sprite in a huge helmet and hand-me-down riding clothes, eyes bugging out, lips practically forming the words: “The universe is safe and friendly. The universe is safe and friendly.”

The thing is, it didn’t really work. Because, even then, I knew it wasn’t true. I had watched my mother fly off a horse and be unable to walk back across the field. And while my parents carefully monitored our media intake, I had once walked in on my grandparents watching the news and seen footage of the Gulf War that haunted me for months after. Horrible things happened in the universe. That was the truth and I knew it.

I understand my riding teacher’s desire to reassure me. I experience the same desire as I prepare my daughter for bed every single night. We wander her room slowly, saying goodnight to books, toys, pictures and animal friends. We close the curtains and I hold her. I don’t know what she understands; she has only spoken one word definitely attached to its object at this point: “Mama”. But I talk to her. I tell her I hope she has a cozy sleep with sweet dreams. I thank her for a lovely day and mention some of the things we did. And somewhere in my mind, I remember my own childhood fear of the dark. I want to reassure her, just as my riding teacher reassured me years ago. I want to tell her that she is always safe, that the world is a safe and friendly place.

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But the words stick in my throat because I cannot speak them honestly and I will not lie to her. At first, this left me feeling quite helpless. I’m sure all parents experience that moment, when they realize they cannot completely ensure their child’s safety in this uncontrollable world.

But I have found my way through that discomfort, at least for the time being. I have found the truth I can share with my daughter. I cannot tell her that she will always be safe. I cannot even tell her that I will always be able to keep her safe. But she can know that she is loved. She is so very loved, by so many wonderful people. She can feel that love and carry it with her through the night and, someday, out into the world and wherever she goes.

And she can know joy. I cannot stop her from being afraid. Nor would I want to. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is learning to be with fear and move forward all the same. My daughter will certainly know fear, but I hope she also knows unbounded joy. May she delight in the world so utterly that the joy of it carries her and buoys her even in the face of all that is terrible.

And so I kiss her and send her to her dreams. No, the universe isn’t safe and friendly. But it is also a place full of joy. And you are loved beyond measure.

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Photo cred. Beth Woolfolk

Thoughts on the day a budget is released

I don’t know about you, but here are some things I care about:

I care about the natural world (in case that’s not already more than evident through my previous posts here). Nothings uplifts me more than coming around a bend in the woods to suddenly glimpse a great beam of light slanting between tall trees. Nothing. Unless it’s filling my lungs with the crisp air of fall, or listening to waves pound sand, or smelling moist, steamy, freshly thawed earth after a spring rain. And then, of course, there is the fact that we are part of the natural world. What we do to that world, we do to ourselves.

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I care about people caring about each other. Positively contributing to the lives of others fills me with a sense of purpose. Receiving help, well, that’s edgy for me but I’m working on it and it certainly is appreciated. And I love witnessing unlikely candidates coming together in supportive community.

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I care about creativity. There is quote pinned to the board over my desk. It reads: “The creative adult is the child who survived.” (I don’t know where it came from.) Children see possibility wherever they go. Creativity is about moving towards that possibility. Boy, does it take courage sometimes. And to really dive into what might be possible, you kind of have to drop all comparisons, don’t you? But all I have to do is make a quick scan of history to see that many of the most important and lasting contributions to this world were developed through some sort of creative process. Creativity leads to innovative solutions. Artistic expression fosters connection on an emotional level and cultivates understanding. I’ve seen these things to be true.

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I care about equal rights and access. I cannot imagine looking into my daughter’s big, beautiful eyes and seeing hunger that I could not feed, or knowing that she was cold because I could not heat our house, or being unable to provide her with a house or an education or medicine or my time. And that just speaks to the financial aspect of equality. What if she felt threatened or less-than simply because of who she was or who she loved? No way. No one is less-than, except perhaps those who live in such fear of someone else that they believe they must strip that person of respect and rights.

Sure, I care about safety. But without all of the above, what is the point? What am I protecting if my life and the lives of those around me are devoid of meaning? If all the juicy, beautiful, messy and important aspects of life were gone, would we want to live it at all?

These are the thoughts that pound through my head, through my being really, on this day, the day our dear president released his proposed budget. And so I pick up the phone and I call my representatives, and I raise my voice, and I look for other ways to act. And I commit to making sure, making damn sure, that these things continue to flourish in my home and my community and wherever I can promote them. Because my country will celebrate these bright, beautiful things.

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Nous sommes le monde.

January 2015

Okay, let me begin by being clear. The recent attack on Charlie Hebdo in Paris was despicable and deserves the world’s attention. We should be shocked when the right to free speech is so violently targeted. We should raise our voices and collective conscience in response.

And…

As I watched social media absolutely ignite in the days following the attack in Paris, I had to wonder. And I was not alone. In the midst of the very vocal protest occurring across the Internet and beyond, a few feeble voices started to echo my wondering. What about the horrific attacks on freedom that occur around the world every day? Every. Single. Day.

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Yes, it was horrifying to see artists so violently targeted due to an act of expression. Yes, it was horrifying to see those attacks happen in broad daylight on the streets and in the buildings of Paris. Yes, it shakes us to the core to see nonviolence met with violence, to see a community stricken by such unjustifiable, unfathomable loss.

And…

On January 10, three days after the attack in Paris, 20 people were killed in a market in Nigeria when explosives strapped to a young girl (believed to be 10 years-old) went off. This was just the latest in a string of attacks that began January 3, carried out by the militant group, Boko Haram, that have reportedly claimed around 2,000 lives. Yes, these events received news coverage, but it has been massively eclipsed by the events in Paris.

Even the recent Taliban attack on a school in Pakistan that left 150 dead, mostly children, received neither the extent of coverage nor the extent of international response seen in the days following January 7.

Why? Yes, these attacks occurred in countries with far-less stable governments than France and in areas less accessible to journalists. But if we stop our exploration of the disparity in attention there, I think we fall short.

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We fall short in what it means to be a part of the global community. We are Charlie Hebdo, yes, but we are much, much more. We are the world. Attacks on free speech, attacks on the right to education, the strapping of bombs to innocent, young girls, we cannot choose which to see, which to bond with, where to unite. We are united in it all. We are the artists, the students, the ten year-old girl. We are the people living in the island nations that are rapidly disappearing due to climate change. If we kid ourselves, even for a second, that we are isolated from these hardships, we are forgetting just how global the world is today.

The odd, bizarrely paradoxical aspect of these horrific occurrences is often the voices of hope beautifully and bravely raised in response. Who wasn’t touched, and deeply so, to see so many join together to march the street of Paris? It is incredible, isn’t it, to see how despair can be met with such resounding hope, such vocal visions of the possibility, always present, of the best, most humanitarian world possible.

So, yes, let’s raise our voices to protest what happened on January 7 in Paris. Let’s be shocked. But can we, please, be equally shocked by the widespread acts of terrorism that continue in Nigeria, and in so many other parts of the world. I get it, it is overwhelming. There is a tremendous amount of suffering in the world. But I believe that it is our responsibility, those of us who are incredibly fortunate to live in safety, security, even luxury, to see that suffering and to do everything we can to stand alongside it and help. Let’s not stand over it all and select what to see, where to care. We are wildly compassionate beings. And we are the world. Let’s stand in the midst of it all and raise that collective voice of hope.

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