Reaching for Hope

“This is peaceful civil disobedience” One participant stressed at a pro-gun rally in Richmond. Yet image after image show “Men”

decked out in military clothing with semi-automatic guns slung over their shoulder. Men strut armbands with the abbreviation “RWDS” — shorthand for “Right-Wing Death Squad” that is often used in reference to a fascist Chilean dictator who murdered, tortured or detained some 40,000 of his own people.

My fear is that these participants could be called by President Trump and the republican party to keep liberals in line. After writing the previous sentence I realize this sounds like I believe in conspiracy theories just like these participants. The difference, my arsenal contains, my blog, letter writing, phone calls, working for social change and talking to people about what’s going on.

In 1995 my hope for change soared when George Wallace, former Governor of Alabama, marched with men and women, he once damned retracing the steps of the Selma-to-Montgomery civil rights march in 1965. If someone like George Wallace, an icon of the worst of white supremacy during the civil rights movement, can not only turn his position around but also apologize, maybe just maybe all these pro-gun protestors, Republican elected officials and President Trump who spout white supremacy today will someday, and I hope soon, take a turn and speak up in support of social justice.

All of this going on in the shadow of the impeachment process happening in Washington, DC. An impeachment process broadening this climate of hate. Continuing to undo everything in the past that worked towards giving every American a fair chance. I have to remind myself that we still have free speech, to write a blog, post on facebook, read news in the free press. I’m glued to the New York Times, Democracy Now, NPR.

The truth spoken in Wallace’s apology stands out in our current climate of lying, and covering up truths. This apology is the good part of our history and a part of my hope that someday soon this political climate will end soon. I just have a hard time thinking beyond today, where day in and day out, Trump crushes this hope with lies.  He crashes an illusion that America is still on the protectory of equal rights for all. He crashed what I thought was our ethnic standards of caring and with his foreign policies he is changing those ethical standards worldwide.

The pro-gun rally in Richmond, where the state legislator is considering, that’s right just considering, regulating gun control is a symptom of this erosion of caring, of seeking the truth, respecting our neighbors. I surround myself with people who reach their hands out to the neighbors to make their community a better place. Not only is this an act of caring it is also a survival tactic to keep some kind of hope in my life. I often wonder what others are doing to get through this. And I hope we get through this soon.

When all my outreach tools fail me and things get to be too much, I get relief by walking in the woods or going out and gardening. Some how getting in contact with the ground calms me. Then I can I write again. I hope all of you find activities that give you hope, give you some relief to get through some of these darkest times in America.

Bicycle my Old Friend

Bicycling brings solitude. A solo sport that allows me to reach inside to my own strength, meditating on the rolling of the pedals. Noticing my breathing change with the terrains of the mind. Flying downhill thoughts race without a care and at the same time

watching with more awareness. Slowly uphill the pedaling meets the resistance to push through with the help of the breath. More times

than not the slowness gives the mind permission to wonder to places it has long wanted to explore.

The minds exploration often is the driver to get me on the bike. Up hills slowly move me through the inner journey, down hills blast me into the thrill of the ride. It’s funny how the bike and I flow together; the pedal stroke; the breath; the mind. It’s a precious time to spend with myself to center myself, to prepare myself for the rest of the day. My bicycle, my best friend through thick and thin, takes me places I would have never gone without it.

The bicycle became my best friend when I was five. We stayed together through moves across the globe, through elementary school. Then for years I went my way and lost sight of my friend the bicycle until I fell in love with Seattle. The longest ride, with my bestest friend from New York City to Seattle, we rode together to a new way of life. Over mountains, through the plains, confronting bears, slowly over hills, fast through waterways. A journey we both enjoyed.

When I haven’t bicycled for a while it’s hard for me to get on my bicycle.  To hone the radar that tunes me in to watch the road.  Once a car pulled in front of me, I plunge moving both hands to the breaks squeezing in unison as hard as I can without thinking. The bike goes into a flying summersault, I can’t unscramble from the bike, no choice but to go with the bicycle, holding my head down. On the ground, I watched as the car that slammed on their brakes drives right by.  A woman who saw the near miss came up asking me if I was alright. Not focusing well, I couldn’t think about the question at first, then when I was present enough, I managed to say, “I think so.” 

Looking over my bicycle asking it the same question, “Are you OK.” Closely examining I turn the wheels, jiggling the handle bars, twirling the pedals, she was OK too. What would I ever do without my best friend the bicycle? Life would dull to a cloudy gray, the feeling of the wind on my face would be lost, and the internal me would go dormant. I wouldn’t be myself. Bicycle, my old friend I’d be left behind if you were gone, bicycle my old friend I’d walk alone if you stopped to roll. I will always put my bicycle back together, saving us both from becoming obsolete.

All these memories came back when I was given a book “Sally Jean the Bicycle Queen,” for Christmas.

Writing a Memoir; An Inner Journey

As many of you surmised, I have a strong sense of wanderlust.  Now I’m on an inner journey, writing my memoir.  In this journey I am  crossing terrain more strenuous than hiking the Himalayas, more uncomfortable than crossing the Sahel in a make shift bus, more enduring than the pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago. All these outside physical challenges in the past, I took on with enthusiasm.  Comparing this process to physical challenges in my life helps me understand. At points along these challenges’ reluctance, doubt, and fear comes from within. It’s this inner self that I’m exploring.  The times in my life when I was clueless on what to do as I drifted to becoming an adult.  I still have those days today but I make better decisions.

I’m well on my way on this inner journey that’s how I know all this. The view from here scares me.  I turn in to find myself alone as I write my memoir down on the page. Yet I tough it out moving forward writing as much as I can get out.  A scene can be written over and over again.  One rewrite for each layer of memory.   Resisting the depths, depths that I have already traveled but don’t always want to go back to, but I must.

Do you look inward, trying to make sense of day to day living, or of your past life?  Many of us do this at different times, in different ways.  Significant times.  Times of turmoil.  For me, writing my memoir has thrown me into emotional chaos, not unexpected chaos but chaos none the same that throws me into evaluating my life.  I’m doing this by choice.  Other times I have gone into life evaluation mode because of some outside influence that has rocked my world. What I find interesting is that when I’m on a traveling adventure, I’m more malleable to adapting to outside influences that go against who I am. I’m constantly process my life.

Past memories don’t always reflect who we are today.  In writing a memoir one takes those memories, write them down as honestly as we can as we process how we got there to here.  Parents don’t always share their adolescence with their kids.  My sister and I defiantly agreed on topics off limits.  Most of those have come out but there are events I’m sure I have not told anyone.  Now it’s time to write them down and come to terms with them.  To realize events that I haven’t thought of in years. Most have lessons that I learned from.  These are the most satisfying to write down, to look at in hind sight.

The next year will both unsettle me and settle me. I learned this from a day I cooked bread all day and wrote.  This is what home feels like, I thought at the end of the day.  A warm, cozy place to just be.  My memoir is all about finding “Home,” for me.  Something as a military brat I never comprehended.  This year is the process of feeling comfortable at home with family and friends.  As scary as this journey is, I look forward to moving through memories and coming out to a better understanding of the blessings I have today.