Article

A lesson from a child...

Watermelon

First, I have to say, I’m not the best fruit picker. People who know me know that I don’t shop much for groceries, and when I do, I don’t quite remember how much things should cost, nor do I pick the best fruits and vegetables. But at the farmers market a few weeks ago, I took my time to choose what I was hoping might be the “perfect” watermelon. I applied all of my learning: what I’d seen others do and all the reading I had done on selecting sweet fruit. I went about smelling, thumping, lifting and turning.

After spending what turned out to be an inordinate amount of time, I took the prize home and sliced it; first in half, then in quarters, and proceeded to cut the succulence into chunks, placing each one delicately into a large freezer bag. The next morning, we were to leave for a long trip to Wisconsin. We were driving, which meant packing snacks for my partner, young cousin and me. But the watermelon was for Granny—we had just gotten word that she was in the hospital, suffering from heart failure. And all I could think of before we left for the 13-plus-hour drive to Beloit, Wisconsin, was making sure I had watermelon for Granny.

When we arrived at the hospital the next day, my grandmother was very ill and appeared extremely frail. She hadn’t been eating well and could barely speak. After talking to her for a while, I opened the bag of watermelon, removed a small piece and touched it to her lips. She opened her mouth and I gently placed the chunk on her tongue. She was without her dentures, but she began to chew, the juice of the watermelon visible in her mouth.

As she chewed the fruit and as I reached into the bag again, my fingers seeking just the right-sized piece, I remembered our ritual. I was suddenly on the porch of the old house on Tower Street—the house where I lived the first four years of my life.

It was hot that day, and my grandmother was breaking chunks of watermelon with her hands, removing the seeds, and feeding the juicy fruit to me. When I was done chewing, I would open my mouth, our special language of trust, and she would place another sweet and salty piece on my tongue.

She continued to open her mouth to take in the juicy bits of melon. I had gotten the seedless variety.

She carefully removed each black seed before feeding me another piece—one for Granny and one for me.

In the dark of the hospital room, it was Granny and me again, perhaps for the last time, I couldn’t know. This time, she was the one trusting. I thought it might please her to know that I had learned my first lesson from her.

As I left the hospital that day, it occurred to me that my connection to watermelon, a fruit I rarely eat today, might change after Granny is gone—it may well become the thing I think of eating when I need to take care.

If...

If
today was
all we had we might
make each
moment
be about love.
If there was no
tomorrow
there would be no walls
around hearts as
open as hands
and as easy to touch
and hold.
There would be no
need to save
things
for rainy days
no need
to care if everyone
was watching.
If there were
no more days

to decide
when and
how much to
give up and in
there would be no time
to focus on
ways to avoid
a broken heart or
hide one
but instead
how quickly can we
let each other in and
how far
can we get inside
because shutting down
takes too much time.
If there were no
next weeks
we’d be more careful
about being what we mean
and doing what we can to
make each moment
be
about
love.

Aging and Detachment

There's something deeply moving about getting older. One thing I've noticed lately is that it takes less and less to make me want to cry. My very dear friend's poetry always makes me want to cry.

He says that every time he finishes a poem, he doesn't expect to ever write another. Yet, he always has the knowing that he is a poet, whether or not another poem ever comes. To me, this way of honoring the work while releasing it is akin to appreciating a moment fully instead of quickly seeking, then moving to the next.

My friend says, "Whether or not I am a poet again anew, I will always be a poet."

One is not a poet because one has written a poem, in the same way that one is not an artist because one's art hangs in a gallery.

Life as Art

I heard the singer Maxwell discussing his 7-year hiatus from recording and performing. I was struck by his response about why he "disappeared" from the music scene, just as his career was at a high point. What I got from what he said is that he needed to live his life so he'd have something to write about. That, to me, is a profound understanding.

Experience is the fertilizer if art is the seed. I imagine a conversation with Grandma Moses, who started her painting career while in her 70s, going something like this:

"Why is it that you started painting so very late, Ms. Moses?"

"Well, I imagine I had to experience the Beautiful World before I could paint it.."

I'm guessing Grandma Moses was always an artist, even before she picked up a paint brush. And when living is done well enough, new possibilities have room to become. A new word. A new brush stroke. A new note. A new dance step.

I claimed myself a writer at the age of 12. And I remember what I wrote then as being very important to me. Only recently have I begun to understand the concept of "voice" as it relates to my own work. It is the product of experiences enjoyed and suffered, some seemingly insignificant, but each one building on the one before.

Parenting with Patience

The other day, I observed an interaction that gave me a deeper way of seeing the level of patience that is commonplace among those who parent.

Target, as it turns out, is a great place to witness the most wonderful things.

I observed a woman of a certain age after 40 and her young son, who looked to be about 3. They were leaving the toy aisle and the little guy was saying (loudly, I might add), "FIX IT MOMMY, FIX IT!"

The little boy was holding something that resembled a building with an animal attached to it and he screamed even louder the second time: "FIX IT FIX IT!" thrusting the thing toward his mother. She took the toy and began to work with it for several minutes as I pretended not to be nosy while looking at colorful towels that felt much more expensive than the kind I use at home. After a few moments, the mom handed the toy back and said, "I'm sorry, Jason, Mommy does not know how to fix this."

I heard her mutter under her breath, "Mommy doesn't even know what it is..." as she proceeded to look at the Batman shower curtains.

I was amused by this and chuckled.

I thought her reaction was sweet and wondered if I could have spoken with such an even and loving tone to a child screaming in the middle of a department store. My thoughts then returned to my own reason for shopping, so I walked on, not finding the boxes with lids that I had come for but coming across some candles to use for meditation.

The mother and son reminded me that I've been thinking a lot about patience lately, and about how to know when to wait for a thing and when to pursue it with gusto. As I picked up the right-smelling candle and added it to my shopping cart, the mom and son passed me again, clearly on the way to check out. The boy was louder, if that were even possible, and he was saying, "I FIXED IT MOMMY, I FIXED IT MYSELF!!"

The mom turned to the child and in the most gentle tone said, "That's good, honey, Mommy is SO proud of you!" Then I watched her turn around to start walking and, mid-turn, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as her cheeks filled with air. I also thought I heard a barely audible sigh on the out breath. Our eyes met briefly, and we both smiled. Her smile did not, in the least, seem to be related to fatigue and exasperation. It was the knowing kind that comes from successfully and lovingly pretending. A way of honoring another in such a way that it feels good throughout the challenge of the interaction. A smile that says, "I'm determined to respond in a way that allows my child (partner, wife, husband, etc.) to feel good about herself/himself."

This moment was priceless to me in so many ways. It was an example of the kind of patience I want to exercise when a salesperson chit-chats on the phone while I wait to be acknowledged. Or when a car cuts me off in traffic. Or, even more importantly, the next time I am tempted to be impatient with a loved one who wants to repeat a story I've already heard, I will try to think about Jason and his mother.

I heard a story once about a couple where the husband was living with Alzheimer's disease. Hearing the wife talk about her love for her partner, I vowed to be more patient with my own partner's memory lapses, but I keep forgetting to do that.

Perhaps true patience can happen most often, but also goes most unnoticed, in the common, everyday experiences. The mundane and the sublime rolled into a life's worth of small allowances. A willingness to give that which is sought--the inaudible sigh.

Remembering Audre Lorde

I had the great fortune of meeting Audre Lorde in 1988. The memory of this meeting came flooding back to me after reading Dr. Johnnetta Cole's essay in the newly published book, I Am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished Writings of Audre Lorde.* This collection includes reflections by Alice Walker and bell hooks, as well as some of Lorde's essays from Sister Outsider and other works. In her essay, Dr. Cole writes about her friendship with Lorde and how she convinced her to come to speak at Spelman College after being treated poorly there during a previous visit in 1978.

Being in Audre Lorde's presence for the first time, I was moved enough to challenge my fear of talking to people I didn't know. This radical act was put in motion on my way to hear her speak.

I had stopped for gas. While pumping, I fingered a piece of quartz crystal in my pocket. I had found it a few years earlier after a friend told me about the mineral's healing properties. I was instructed to, when seeking a crystal, look for one that would "speak" to me. Though I didn't quite know what that "voice" would sound like, I stumbled upon one that I liked very much while shopping in a new-agey store near Atlanta.

I remember the selection process well. Among numerous pieces, finding one that spoke to me proved daunting. There were ones that were clearly beautiful to look at and perfect on all sides. These would have no trouble speaking, I reasoned, and passed them by. The one I eventually chose was cloudy and had, for me, some character. It was about 6 inches long and misshapen, with facets in the center and some divits and chips on the outside. Sometimes things with character get overlooked beside the seemingly perfect. So, what spoke to me was this piece with the flaws. (I discovered sometime later that the cloudy or "smoky" crystals are believed to be associated with specific properties of manifestation and protection).

I took the crystal out of my pocket. Though I wasn't quite sure how the healing worked, I enjoyed looking at it often; holding it felt good to my hands. As I looked at it against the evening sky, it suddenly slipped from my grasp, hitting the concrete, breaking into two equal pieces. I was crestfallen in the moment, feeling this once-whole piece of mineral from the earth was now quite damaged. I immediately thought about glue; I had infused a part of myself in it by the very act of treasuring it. I felt a pang of disappointment to see that part lying disjointed on the ground.

Perhaps a full minute passed before I collected the pieces, reminding myself that this crystal wasn't a heart or a sentient being or a even a wonderful memory--no loved one had picked it out especially for me. In fact, the salesperson had been perfectly pleasant while taking my 50 cents, but the transaction wasn't particularly meaningful. So, I put the halves in my pocket, finished pumping the gas, and carried on to Spelman and Audre Lorde.

What struck me most that day, as Lorde introduced herself, was her courage as she, without hesitation, embraced all of her many parts. No shame, no apologies. It was a time in my life when I was unable to do that--mainly because I had no idea what all the parts were. For me, Lorde's courage was equal to the courage it would take to stare death in the face. And she had.

After she spoke, she graciously signed books and spoke with people for more than an hour. I waited until the last person was almost finished and got in line behind her. The book she signed for me was ZAMI: A New Spelling of My Name. I nervously told her what the book meant to me and how much I had gotten from her talk. I don't remember the exact words of her response, but I do remember how precious I felt she was to the world as I watched her lips moving. When she finished, I reached into my pocket and gave her one part of the broken crystal. She looked at me with tears in her eyes, as if the moment conjured up something very personal, as if the crystal were not broken, and I watched her take the half and place it near her heart before hugging and thanking me.

I wished for too long that the crystal had been unbroken when I gave it to her, until I made the connection that my small crystal had most probably started out as a part of something much larger. That thought reminds me of how even the tiniest spoon full of the ocean has the same properties as the entire ocean.

I've been thinking about the meaning of perfection and about the beautiful and perfect diagonal angles each broken piece of the crystal created.

Sometimes things have to be broken to be made.

I keep the other piece close, to remind me.


* View upcoming event details for An Evening for Sister Audre.

Namaste

In Sanskrit, namah + te (namaste) means "I bow to you." The words "na ma" mean, "not mine," or, the notion that one's ego is nonexistent in the presence of another.

There is significance (both in the Japanese culture and as a Hindu way of greeting) to bowing at the waist or bowing the head to another. It is to recognize the only one and pervading reality, divinity or God in all beings--our "oneness."


President Barack Obama bends over so the son of a White House staff member can pat his head during a family visit to the Oval Office May 8, 2009. The youngster wanted to see if the President's haircut felt like his own.
(Official White House Photo by Pete Souza)


When I see this photo of President Obama bowing to the child, I am reminded that we are indeed "one." I see the layers of humility, acknowledgement, reverence, and compassion toward the child. But deeper still, Obama, to me, is communicating, "I am no greater than you. I am accessible to you. I am like you."

For so many reasons, this child needs to know these things. "Yes," Obama seems to answer. "My haircut feels exactly like yours. Namaste."

Angels Among Us

I learned about angels years ago while traveling to an ashram in upstate New York. I was alone and had way too much luggage for the 2-week trip. At the time, "packing light" meant packing only one complete outfit per day. I had been planning my two-week adventure for months. It was to be a spiritual journey (of sorts, since I also planned to visit with family). I had decided to fly into New York, visit with family in Rhode Island and New Jersey, and spend 6 meditative days at the ashram, taking the Greyhound Bus to each destination. What I discovered, as I struggled with my luggage at Port Authority and throughout the trip, was that this was a flawed plan. It was about 20 degrees outside, where, incidentally, I was going to have to spend a great deal of time, and my 14 outfits were mostly sweaters. Additionally, it was unlikely I would encounter other "seekers" during my multiple bus transfers and stops with which to converse.

I had never been to Port Authority. Those of you who have know this is terrain best negotiated with eyes widely peeled. So, it was in confusion and with bewilderment, late for the next bus to South Fallsburg, that I put my luggage down in the center of Mayhem, New York City, and started to panic and, OK, cry. Too many people in too much of a hurry. Directions not intuitive. Late. Where is the bathroom and how do I use it with all this luggage? Clearly, in this frantic moment, I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings but was focusing (and intensifying) my frustration and anxiety. A light touch on the arm was the "snap-out-of-it" moment that initiated a lasting change in the way I view the world.

My sense of it now is that a person had been standing beside me for at least a moment before he actually touched me. He was African American, in his mid-40s (I guessed), and seemingly homeless. I could smell on him perhaps several days of living in survival mode--his clothes were extremely dirty, as were his hands and face. He still had a few front teeth, which were exposed by a warm, easy grin that made his eyes narrow. My first impulse was genuine (to smile back), but my reaction was not, informed by cautionary tales and travel tips. I moved back, regained my composure and personal space, and tried to attach a look to my face that conveyed well traveled savoir faire.

"Yes?" I said, coolly.

"I....I was wondering if you needed any help," he mumbled.

"No," I lied quickly, wishing I knew kung fu. He turned to walk away. I watched the back of his thin frame for a minute and then went back into rapid-mind-twirl mode. I hope I didn't hurt his feelings. I wonder if he thought I was afraid of him. I WAS afraid of him, what did he expect, rolling up on me like that?

And then he was back.

He picked up my luggage--large, stuffed garment bag under one arm; backpack with all kinds of books and journals over his shoulder; large roller board pulled with the other arm (I had my purse and camera bag)--and started walking, before I could say a word. I followed, desperately trying to keep up with his fast pace. I admit to having all kinds of thoughts I won't share here, but one involved my family seeing my face on the 11:00 news.

We walked for what seemed like several minutes, through crowds of rushing people. Twice, I lost sight of him for a few scary seconds. He finally stopped in a place where many departing buses were parked. My heart was beating wildly and I was out of breath. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow and had begun to drip.

"Where you going?" he asked sweetly.

And then I got it.

He needed money. Of course, what was I thinking? I had to laugh at myself for being so naive. I had heard of the people who start to wipe the windshield of your car before you can stop them and then ask for payment for said service. I told him the name of the bus I needed to take, and we walked a bit further down the platform until he found it. He gently placed my luggage beside the open luggage space. I had about 8 minutes to spare to catch this bus, the last of the night.

"I really appreciate this," I said, relieved and happy as I turned away to quickly but safely look into my purse. I located the five dollar bill I had stashed in a secret compartment and took it out, carefully closing my purse. I prepared to extend my hand to him with the money and thought about what I might say to express my gratitude.

"Thank you so mmm..." was all I could manage to get out. He was gone. I turned in every direction to see if I could see him, to see if perhaps he had started to help the bus driver load my luggage onto the bus. There was no sight of him anywhere that I could see.

And then I really got it.

Sometimes, angels show up just in time to help, even when you don't know you need it.

A Leader Honors All of Life

King Asoka and Obama--a love of animals in common, it seems.

Asoka's Edict 2 of the Fourteen Rock Edicts reads: "...made provision for two types of medical treatment: medical treatment for humans and medical treatment for animals. Wherever medical herbs suitable for humans or animals are not available, I have had them imported and grown. Along roads I have had wells dug and trees planted for the benefit of humans and animals."

Clearly, King Asoka valued the lives of animals and people equally. So, what does a leader look like who exhibits value for all of life, without differentiation? I'd like to explore whether or not this type of leadership is possible in our modern society, where war is accepted by some as having a time and place.

According to Buddhist convictions, animal life is just as Divine as human life. Certainly, then, each human life would be ascribed equal value. Each person would have equal access to health care and medical treatment, without regard for resources. Each person, regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation, or any other differences, would have the exact same rights under the constitution.

It's good to see our President feels lives go better with pets. It's good to see him working on reforming the health care system. And it's especially good to see he can embrace his spiritual life while separating church from state.

Compassion Beyond Humanity

I got my first dog, a little beagle, when I was 5 years old. I named him Pepsi, after my favorite beverage. When I think back, Pepsi was probably my first friend, notwithstanding family and my Kindergarten teacher, Miss Fox, who was about 60, pleasantly plumpish with gray hair and a bosom like a shelf. My mother told me later that I referred to Miss Fox as my friend. But I was in my 30s before it dawned on me that the tune I often could not get out of my head was to a song she taught my class called, "Cotton Needs a Pickin'." Remembering that I was one of two African American children in the class, I began to wonder if Miss Fox was really my friend. To this day, I'm not sure. But that's another post.

In the mornings, my mother would walk me to school, and Pepsi would customarily follow us a few blocks down the street, until my mother would say, "Pepsi, you can't go to school," and he would turn around and trot back to my grandmother, who sat on the porch waiting for him. On one particularly sunny-but-cold day, Pepsi turned to go home and behind me, I heard car tires screech and a "thump" sound. This is one of my earliest and most painful memories. After a few days, Pepsi was in such pain that the grown folks decided he should be put to sleep.

Growing up, there was Bunky, Charlie, and Jazz. With each death, I was less invested in the next dog, knowing that it, too, would eventually die. As an adult, I decided that dogs were simply too much trouble--they pooped on the carpet; you had to get up early in the morning to walk them, even when you didn't want to; you had to be home at a certain time to feed them and leave a fun party earlier if you hadn't been home in awhile. Pets were trouble. And on top of trouble, they'd go and die on you just when you started to get used to them being around. I made a decision to take that "open-your-heart, attach, then grieve" thing in very small doses.

As life would have it (and usually upon making closed-heart-type decisions), the future love of my life had two dogs when we met. Sigh. Two beautiful and regal standard poodles (the extra large ones). I forgot to add that when I did have dogs, my preference was the small variety. Sigh again.

When I first met Quincy (black) and Milele (brown, and pronounced ME-LAY-LAY), I had very little to do with them, which lasted for about the first two years. If I happened to be home, I'd do feeding duty. I was pleasant and polite but aloof. It is clear to me now that my heart, though opened wide for a new relationship, was less open for the pets. Gradually, however, I began to see them and pay attention to how they lived.

Number one, they are always happy. They don't seem to do much worrying, unless they can't be near us for an extended period of time. Every morning, they wake up excited, seemingly forgetting any worrying that happened the day before. They are so excited to see me, even when I leave and come back after 10 minutes. They wag their tails so hard I think they might break. On the morning walk, they seem just as excited to see the same old trees--trees with funny-shaped leaves I would hardly notice if not for them. They look at me constantly to get my attention and approval, and, upon receiving it, whine with delight and squeal with pleasure. I have come to regard them as my teachers. I have come to wish I could always be happy and squeal with delight without shame or embarrassment. I have come to regret not having a tail to wag.

I know they will die one day, maybe before I do. And I know I will miss, mourn and remember them. But I also know I will feel, in the place of me that they touched, happy I was able to let them be there and happy for my own evolving capacity for compassion for sentient beings that need love and care, and who love me back.

They have taught me a lot about open hearts. I have taught them a lot about tricks.

Recently, I've noticed myself tearing up when I think about Pepsi, who just wanted to go to school...with me.

Obama, King Asoka, and Compassion

Folks in my circles have this hope that we finally have a President and administration that actually sounds and, moreover, "feels" like we do. A government that we can anthropomorphize and that allows us to sleep soundly knowing it weeps for the children of Rwanda and Darfur, the way we do. Is it too much to hope for a government that actually makes laws with the sole objective of doing good for the people of its society and, at the risk of sounding idealistic, the world? I don't think so.

Many of us believe that we have not seen truly compassionate government in the U.S. since the Kennedy administration. But Obama seems to go a step further; it may be too soon to tell, but he's beginning to feel like our very own modern-day King Asoka. I hesitate to make this comparison too soon, but I can at least begin to draw comparisons and contrasts where they might exist.

King Asoka was a king in India who lived about 2,300 years ago. He is a key figure in the early spread of Buddhism throughout India and Asia. There is very little known about his life, but during his reign of 38 years, he issued a series of edicts for the purpose of creating a balanced and compassionate society. Asoka's edicts now exist throughout India, as well as in Pakistan, Nepal, and Afghanistan. Initially inscribed on stone pillars and deciphered by scholars in the 19th century, they might serve as a benchmark for conversations about what compassionate leadership could look like today, as well as an interesting way of thinking about how we, as responsible "compassion activists," can create compassion in our own environments, as well as hold our government accountable for actions that don't quite measure up.

In my next several posts, I thought it would be interesting to use King Asoka's edicts as a means of beginning to explore compassionate relationships, families, organizations, and leadership structures.