Sara's ramblings

Surrounded by progressives, my strong female voice and feminine perspective is welcome. With conservatives (even when I was one), I feel constricted & silenced. Why?

It’s about conformity. Progressives tend to expect differing opinions and perspectives, and work for comprehensive policies to include a diverse society. Some dissonance is respected. It’s not a blanket acceptance – especially if opinions vary from staunch liberal political ideology, but dialogue – even heated dialogue – is welcome. It brings refinement.

In conservative environments, conformity is necessary. Tightness grips my chest for fear I’ll say something ‘wrong’ and be severely criticized – not based upon my ability to articulate my opinions or nuanced arguments, but because ‘wrong’ to conservatives is morally wrong in their opinions and subculture. Dissenting means I’m not Christian enough, or American enough, even if I am capable of giving every reason why faith instructs my views and the same soldiers died for MY freedoms as theirs.

It’s disrespectful to silence anyone, and it’s fundamentally Un-American. The Bible says to “question every spirit,” and my parents told me to listen to my heart and research the Bible if I felt even a respected preacher’s sermon was biblically off-base.

The more knee-jerk, abrasive, judgmental, uncomfortable pushback I receive – from *anyone* – conservative or liberal, the more I’m inwardly reaffirmed that questioning, dialogue, exploring grey-area arguments is absolutely necessary. It’s painful, I recognize their motives are rooted in fear or past hurt of their own, but after a lifetime of being falsely judged I’m more willing than ever to wade into the churning waters of discomfort. I’ll continually strive to be respectful, but I won’t be silenced by attempts of others to control my inward self or outward expression.

I only hope that by setting an example, it paves the way for others who aren’t as willing to outwardly express what they inwardly feel.

I know a man who many think of as crotchety, unreasonable, rather strange and generally grumpy. He bemoans what he feels is a “dead” culture, lacking in ‘sentient beings;’ a bloated culture that is growing unsustainably, much like the Roman Empire just before its collapse. He sees in our broader culture people who have lost their sense of community, whose lives lack meaning, direction, and connection to the land. In an attempt to feel *something,* a culture that bulldozes over wild nature to build and accumulate supposed monuments of greatness accented by limited manicured lawns.

He is a well-read scholar of ancient philosophers – the usual sort, and then some. His conversations often branch off into the meanings of words, the pictures and deeper relevance of language and music. He’s a philosopher of nature and a fierce advocate for its rewards. He is an artist in his own right, but my favorite thing about him is how he cherishes the smallest creatures with honor, care and tenderness.

I believe God has given us each a spark of the Divine, and among its purposes it provides us awareness of injustice. When used properly the resultant anger can inspire actions to effectively right wrongs.

The great love of this man for helpless, orphaned rats, an injured wild turkey for which he built a treetop roost until it healed and rejoined its family, the ancient-soul bull that was going to be put down… he has rescued countless such animals and tenderly cared for them.

Like Seuss’ Lorax, when he is speaking truth to power he is speaking for the smallest flora and fauna that otherwise have no voice. He is speaking, too often as a lone voice, trying to protect us from a future humanity impaired for lack of such natural resources.

When he advocates for a safe, walkable, sophisticated, transit-connected, vibrant community to replace planned sprawl development, he is thinking of the wild rabbits and birds for which he scatters seed. Perhaps he’s remembering the mountain lion he once locked eyes with, or even the rattle snake he spared but which later struck his foot and nearly ended his life. He honors them all.

His passion is infectious, children love him, and he is happiest when sharing the mysteries of nature with others. Even when it’s personally uncomfortable, his advocacy is sustained and renewed by the burden he feels to protect the habitat and animal life for children in the future.

The man alone is often denigrated, dismissed and laughed off by the leaders he addresses, who have no desire to be held accountable. However, he is a powerful source of inspiration and has built up an effective team of activists. He has sought out economists, internationally renowned planners, an acclaimed legal team, and he is following models of success demonstrated in other parts of the country and world for true balanced growth to protect the natural resources he holds so dear.

He is teaching me, my daughters, and our friends, and there are many more like us whose lives he has touched.

The voice of the lonely, philosopher-nature man isn’t so lonely.

I went on a journey tonight. Lots of reflection, flooding music and memories, mirrors of intense struggles and hard-won victories.

Other women have sung to me over the years, pushing through sorrow to strength and sharing their wisdom, as if just for me.

Songs of resolve (no more drama!), anger (sorry doesn’t cut it!), forgiveness (let’s shake free this gravity of resentment), songs offering freedom on the other side of grief (when one door is closed, don’t you know another is open?). Celebrating independence (the woman I’ve become) and a hoping-against-hope future (love will come to you).

I sealed these soul-salves in my mind and spirit during critical days and weeks, holding onto them as I moved through exhausting routines. As my desperate prayers, I leaned on the lyrics and melodies and took solace in the fact that others had been through dark times and survived.

I also drew from such writers as Maya Angelou and Iyanla Vanzant ~ powerful, soulful women who have weathered personal traumas more sizable than my own. I set my chin, grieved the loss of innocence and the dream I wanted for my daughters, grappled with life and gave myself no option but to survive.

The resolve to take whatever life was going to toss at me kept me in an ever-ready state, adrenaline pumping. I felt strong, capable, proud. The anger was a necessary gift, and easier to face than dangerous, potentially debilitating grief.

In some ways worse than the sometimes overwhelming sadness, anger, and exhausting readiness were the periods of… numbness. Empty. Flat. No end in sight. How long could I keep it up? I had only the slightest image of being happy and settled with my successful teenage children, years into the future from that point, but had no idea how to get there.

I just realized: right now is what I was seeing, craving, and stumbling toward.

You’re rebuilding yourself ground-up, Sister. You’re all about integrity; you’re in the process of growing benefits that you and those whose lives you touch will reap. In the meantime, you can enjoy unsurpassed exhilaration as hard work and diligence bring small and large successes. The tastes of joy and hope will propel you forward.

It took years for me to get to a gentler place and I’ve by no means arrived, but over time it became safer. I feel cushioned by love all around me. My precious girls are just fine, and I’ve helped make that happen.

None of us can make it all alone (why would we want to?), and different people and messages resonate at various junctures. Let them.

The important things: it’s all incremental growth. It’s all choosing, making the most with the energy each day brings, and being gentle with yourself through temporary setbacks. Savor the joys (I know, you already do. They’re life itself!), allow yourself space *not* to handle everything perfectly, learn and laugh as much as possible, reach out before it gets desperate, and give whenever you have abundance.

You’ve got this. And you’re in good company.

Compassion wells up unexpectedly, often with eyes meeting eyes.

The light turns red and lands my car next to the woman holding a cardboard shoebox top, “Anything Helps” scrawled in black. Handing her the muffins I’d planned to give my boyfriend, my eyes meet hers. It’s intentional: I want to see her, show her I see her, be present with her in our brief but personal interaction.

I don’t expect our eyes to simultaneously fill with tears.

“I came here today hoping for some encouragement,” she says, and begins to recite a portion of Psalm 23.

“… He leads me beside the still waters, he restoreth my soul…”

The light changes, I blow her a kiss, and she continues…

“… yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow…”

And that’s it.

It happens in restaurants. A well-to-do couple enjoys a homey breakfast at a local diner, charmingly interacts with the young woman waiting on them. Amidst all her goings-and-comings, one of them locks eyes with her in a disarming moment.

She is a real person, but a caricature of every noble, tragic, hardworking waitress, full of the struggle and pain of trying to take care of her family or improve her situation on a waitress’ wages and tips.

The couple is moved enough to give her a generous tip, endorsing her efforts in serving them, and hoping she “makes it.”

What have we accomplished, the charitable couple and I? We’ve seen others in similar situations, from our somewhat more comfortable circumstances. But what did it do, measurably, over time, to make any real difference for the respectable strangers we’ve met?

Nothing.

In the grand scheme of their lives, we’ve done nothing.

They’ve appreciated our very human outflow of charitable expression, of course. In some stretches of life the kindness of a stranger is all that matters. However, what they need is for basic sustenance needs to be met regularly, not to sit and wait for the next kind stranger to come along.

This is not a “give a man a fish” analogy. Or perhaps it is, in modern American terms.

We fund education, in varying levels of quality nationwide. But this is less and less the “Nation of Opportunity” we learned of in fourth grade. There are charts and statistics that paint a picture of the increasing divide between the extremely rich, the sinking middle class, and those living below the poverty line.

Part of what motivates us to dispense situational charity is how easy it’s become to assume that people who struggle are somehow lesser human beings. When we find ourselves interacting with someone very different and we are suddenly struck by their seeming unique nobility, we’re a little awe-struck. When we’re in a position to help, many of us do.

It’s a good quality – there’s a reason why it feels good to help others… but it’s not enough to replace improvements to the system with one-off, sudden expressions of charity.

Some think paying taxes to benefit social programs is forced charity, and they find it revolting. They’d prefer to personally approve of each recipient rather than entrust their hard-earned dollars to faceless government entities. They don’t trust hard-to-understand benefits criteria to analyze and dispense to faceless members of a “needy” class.

Some condemn unions as distasteful and greedy, forcing inflated health and pay benefits for the member workers beyond what they “deserve.” They pity the plight of the employers who are simply engaged in good old-fashioned bottom line competition.

But these perspectives miss the broader realities of how our needs and motivations intersect, instead providing fertile ground for more rigid class divisions and, ultimately, community-destroying policies.

Employers, fully indoctrinated in American capitalistic values, are motivated by increasing profits regardless of the state of the economy. Rather than shifting to a business approach that seeks to maintain a steady, healthy income, they begin to eat away at the livelihoods of their dispensable, impersonal workforces.

Without advocates, workers who are subject to the same challenging economy, rising gas and food prices, are forced to choose between decreased benefits and wages, or unemployment.

This does not bode well for our communities. So many work tirelessly only to live paycheck to paycheck. We cannot achieve better society, affording our individuals the freedom to flourish. When a growing number of individuals are stuck at the lowest levels of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, with basic physiological and safety needs threatened, the construct of our society is threatened.

We cannot assume that anyone who is not a high wage-earner is lazy, or deserves to scrape by and eke out an existence. We cannot rely upon situational compassion and charity to “fix” our society, which is currently on a downward trajectory.

If major grocery chain workers left with only the option to strike tomorrow, spend some time thinking about how these people have benefitted your life. Imagine how much worse your community would be without the fairly negotiated wages gained through collective bargaining.

Employers are driven by inflated ideals of capitalism – a fine concept in and of itself, but the hallmark of self-serving, ever-increasing greed in current practice.

The limited balance provided by many functional unions is necessary to keep people and families afloat. It’s more important to support their efforts in these uncertain times than ever before to ensure a steadily improving economy.

Loneliness. It creeps up in little moments of insecurity, maybe after a couple nights of insomnia, after drinking ill-timed wine, in crowded places or quiet living rooms.

It’s sneaky, finding ways to slip around my defensive arguments of: “But my life is so blessed; I’m so fortunate!”

When it settles in, it finds all kinds of ways to justify its presence.

Fact: I’m alone.

There must be some reason I’m alone, because I’d prefer not to be. I’d choose not to be if I could, but I cannot.

I must be alone because I deserve it.

I’m so flawed I’ve failed at two marriages and an additional tentative but genuine attempt or two in between.

Loneliness nods at me: Yup. See? I belong here.

It’s no further evolved than when primitive peoples, upon hearing thunder, deduced that the gods were angry. The fears were then justified, as was the conclusion that maybe someone should be punished before things worsened.

When I’ve begun to accept I’ve lost the latest illogical war with Loneliness, Guilt sidles up, reminding me that I should be happy. Others in “my situation” have it worse, after all. At least I’ve significantly grown through experience, built a friendly co-parenting relationship my girls’ dad and stepmom; I have a rewarding job with phenomenally amazing people. My family is supportive. I only worry a little about feeding my kids and keeping shoes on their feet. I’ve even managed to cultivate a budding relationship with endless potential but no stressed, unseasonal rush to get there. I should be happy.

I have no right to complain, and if I insist upon feeling lonely it’s my own fault.

I suppose some of this tear-spilling silliness is rooted in convoluted childhood messages of God’s judgment and grace. I accepted as fact the paradoxical and impossible dual messages of spiritual forgiveness of imperfection and church communities’ human expectations of perfection.

When bad things happened to church families, folks prayed for them… but thought there might be some hidden sin which provoked God’s punishment. Quiet head-shaking and renewed efforts to follow the code ensued. Looking over our shoulders for lurking wrath was even worse than the suspicious: “You better watch out, you better not cry…” for kids around Christmastime. Like God, Santa is all-knowing and only brings toys for good little girls and boys.

I guess it’s time for a little more growing up. There is no Santa, the gods are not angry, and Grace is the same thing as being continually, pervasively wrapped in love… a love that sees only beauty, no matter what.

Loneliness is okay sometimes. Instead of accepting it as a foreboding Eeyore-esque cloud, I can appreciate its occasional reminders that people are important. Connections to my family, friends, and strangers at the market are worth the investments of time and growth.

Reflection is essential to my well-being and ability to extend love to others. Time alone with myself is critical to best loving others.

Thanks, Loneliness, for reminding me how much I treasure my loved ones, and how best to do so. You’re not so bad when I know your tricks.

Thank you, Grace, for gently calling out my best, re-directing my assumptions about Loneliness, and for dousing Guilt’s lies with brighter truth.

Peace, gratitude, and happiness radiate from within. Take that, logical fallacies!

I’m going to bask a bit in this most nourishing, love-filled space.

It’s important to feel safe – to have a haven in life.

My physical haven is our cabin in Maine. My grandfather built it of lumber from the family farm’s barn long before my birth. I grew up spending summers running along the shore of the lake, through the woods and along the dirt road, catching snakes and frogs and picking raspberries and flowers.

My Grampie told me the frogs were calling “Sara, Sara” each evening, and I’d listen for them together with the sounds of the water lapping the shore and the loons calling across the lake to one another. Warm, soft earth, cool water, clean air. A free child. Safe.

We come back to camp each summer for as long as is manageable, and my young daughters literally walk in my footsteps – running the paths I did as a child, looking up at the same stars and eating s’mores by the bonfire, and reading by the warmth of the old wood stove on cooler nights and rainy days. I get to share my favorite place, safety, and freedom with my girls and see clarity reflected back in their peaceful, dancing eyes. I breathe.

Each summer represents a return to self; the space for reflection gives me life benchmarks. Some years the picture has been sobering – the distance between my free, childlike self and “real life” self has been too great. Those years I return from vacation in Maine a little more healed and open, but determined to find a connection to nature and internal haven to hold me until the following summer’s visit.

This year has been simpler and more joyful than some others. It always takes a few days to allow “real life” to melt away and allow my haven to work its magic on me. The wrinkles between my brows are now smooth; tensions have washed off with each lake swim. I joke and laugh with my Mom and daughters with ease. It’s more than vacation – we’re living in our place of safety and restoration.

It’s not without sadness, nor an escape from the realities of the world. I feel the struggles of family and loved ones here, and see the results of survival and hope in my sweet little hometown after another harsh winter (and there’s always another winter just around the corner of impending fall). I receive glimpses of world news, work and people I love from my real life, and I know I’ll be ready to roll up my sleeves upon my return. However, my view of all these is wrapped in love, from my place of safety and well-being. Just like it probably always should be…

I already can’t wait for next summer. I can’t wait to show my next year’s self how much closer to free I’ll be upon arrival. The new home I’m returning to is a haven in its own right, and I’m fortunate to have nothing but ever-growing love for my work family. My girls are excited to start their school year, and I have new ideas for ways we will connect with Southern California’s bountiful nature.

I’m going to look into people’s eyes more, this year. I’m going to swim in the ocean and worry less. I’m going to remember who I’m supposed to be, wise child that I was, and live accordingly and with great love. I’m going to advocate, unwavering, for good and noble causes, as did my young self.

A haven is a good place to gain strength, then go out and fill the world with greater love and integrity.

I’m going to be so proud of me next year.