we are the exhausted majority* struggling to hold pain rather than become numb
calloused casually distracted cynically distorted
our breaths shallow our eyes dull our lips quiver our minds scattered our souls hollowed out by
the terror of children images of exploding homes, playgrounds, schools, maternity hospitals shattering horror forced upon humanity by ones sharing our humanity
above the roar our ears hear doors slamming to mute the groans of those whose bodies are beaten
denied humanity dignity inclusion
relegated to barbarism stigmatization dehumanization
chokeholds imposed to bolster another’s insecurity insufficiency insufferability
injustices we cannot conceive of
our faces drenched with silent tears soaking the fabric of our frayed lives remembering one million no longer here
one million
a loss so great we allow words to die unspoken along with the dead
we have lost one million—
one million and counting
we as people of justice are not well we as people of freedom witness its extinction we as people of compassion drown in grief we as people of hope thirst for relief we as people of integrity refuse hasty platitudes we are people of exhaustion
and
we are pro-choice
choosing to open our arms for embrace choosing to open our eyes because of darkness choosing to soften our granite hearts choosing to fight foes of freedom choosing to demand justice choosing to err on the side of grace choosing to envelop all into expanding tent choosing to love against all odds
exhaustion does not extinguish great love nor great action
There’s always space in her heart
to house the mighty ocean,
though its raging could ………………………………..one day
overtake her.
She tackles the summer turbulence,
taming its tempest into tolerant
forgiveness, terror evolving ………………………………..one day
into communion as equals.
She balances a lighting bolt
on the tip of her tongue,
adeptly bidding it illumine ………………………………..one day
without destruction.
She never lacks the cold gray steel needed
to withstand demeaning assault,
yet resolutely melts deadening blow ………………………………..one day
into life-sustaining glow.
The stab of loved ones lost,
hurled into premature departure
from a life of hope and promise ………………………………..one day
assured for everyone’s children.
There can be no darkness light-less enough no tentacles so suffocating no struggle brutal to the point it holds her under wears her down wipes her out drives her away colors her anything other than ………………………………..one day a full participant in every freedom.
What do you do when
designers of coverups and
corruption leave
you staggering
as if inebriated by
excuses, duplicities,
blatant hypocrisies,
denial of mounting evidence
pushed aside,
choked off,
drowning out
testimony that
is unwelcome to
oligarchs bent
on destroying all
that is sacred?
What is left
of the slow, bloody march
toward justice, freedom,
all humanity included in
rights of dignity and respect,
if monuments, symbols and
posturing salutes that breathe
oppression, threaten genocide
are defended,
applauded,
even promoted as
legitimate,
worthy of reverence,
while brothers and sisters
are stripped of their
inalienable rights?
Where do you go when
violators of liberty
upend decorum, subvert
integrity, heap cataclysmic
conflagration upon
ravaged communities,
voiceless populations,
imprisoned masses, then
spew venom,
perpetrate violence,
divert funds
from those who are dying,
left gasping in
the grip of disease,
suffocating stranglehold, all
with impunity?
When
no effort seems
effective
to stem
debilitating flood of
destruction and decay,
the deluge of reports on
never ending inquiries,
repugnant divergences,
when energy flags,
vision, grace, one’s very
lifeblood seeps
from weary soul, …….deeper life calls from …….the lonely places, …….the wide open spaces,
where clouded spirit,
dulled heart, grievously
depleted body
restore,
where jaded dreams
and faded hopes
absorb the wind
of possibility,
where chest rises and falls
to inhale the expansivity
of light, the color
of inclusion, the fresh air of
abundance, rich integration,
connection with each other
as with nature, in
the DNA of the Divine.
the immigrant –
working without complaint
until hands are raw, backs are bent,
figures of enormous restraint,
these moral giants among us who
teach the young respect,
the simplicity of laughter, gratitude, hope,
grasping the true meaning of home.
No one speaks for me!
I cry for justice for
those whose skin
is darker than my own
whose loved ones
live with fear, some
no longer here,
too oft a target for lead, not safe
even in their bed
no fault, no crime; systematic bloodshed.
No one speaks for me!
I bow in reverence,
acknowledging lives risked
homes shared, bread broken
together with those hunted
hounded, rounded up to be
sent away – our scapegoats,
forced to carry the turmoil
we refuse to face
within our souls.
No one speaks for me!
No one!
I am white, unconscionably privileged,
yet at odds with prevailing winds
that bend the mighty oak
away from compassion and justice
to unrecognizable versions of itself –
callousness, derision, hatred –
rejecting common civility that sees
you as my brother, my sister.
The dream of the
eighty-one percent is not my dream! ……………No One Speaks For Me
I heed a different gospel,
follow a different creed,
exchange white ethno-nationalism*
and greed for the embrace of love,
regardless of age, creed, race, status or orientation
stand resolute, head high, arms outstretched.
“One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul.”
Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Native American poet, author, spoken word artist, elder.
***
Today I attempt to stand up and to show my soul – in part, ever emerging and evolving with hope.
Here I sit, …stand, ……pace,
Lie awake – tossing amongst …twisted sheets,
Drugged by staccato …voice, ……tweet, ………image –
some people jubilant, …many horrified, ……others rising up, facing
existential fear – …for their lives, ……families, ………freedoms,
personhood.
Here I think, …ponder, ……deliberate,
Peer deeply into my soul – …so raw, so utterly vulnerable,
Inundated by sinister recollections of …incitements, ……insinuations, ……duplicities
that target people …in our families, ……o our circle of friends, ………our homes and world communities –
at the core.
The calls for moderation,
unity,
patience,
good will,
peaceful continuance
in forgiveness,
fail to pause, overlooking
the fundamental prior question:
What is it like to be YOU?
What’s it like to have
a skin-tone that immediately
places you into an even more
menacing place than you’ve
already been relegated to?
What’s it like to wear
clothing, easily
identifying you as belonging
to a member of a minority
faith community?
What’s it like to have a
heritage, first exploited, now
facing massive backlash,
children fearing
upheaval, uprooting, unthinkable loss?
What’s it like to be a woman
where you not only have to
fight harder, work longer, outperform,
but you now need to be EVEN more vigilant –
poised to defend yourself at every turn?
What’s it like to be differently abled
in a world where we have seen
we do not hold accountable those
who mock and disregard people
who are different from us?
What’s it like to be the original
dwellers on this soil, hearing
the recent conquering peoples’ choice
threaten others’ welcome to this land
based on belief and country of origin?
What is it like?
Unless we have been there,
experienced that,
humbled ourselves to listen,
to come alongside,
witnessed in silence,
sat down with
rather than risen up above,
We must peer deeper still into our soul.
To show my soul is to confess
I will continue to peer –
to discern where I
harbor self-serving derailers,
perpetuate acquiescence,
become an enabler of oppression.
To show my soul requires
a stronger commitment …to solidarity with …those who walk another path, ……to stand my ground with ……those whose inalienable rights are ……being stripped away, ………to learn by listening, …………observing, …………walking side-by-side …………for as long as it takes until …………we all stand together as one.
She sits on the expansive wooden floor of her rustic, small-town home, head bent forward onto her knees. It appears to be a relaxing, meditative pose, possibly to regain equilibrium in her demanding world, but her shoulders convulse and muffled sobs can be heard coming from her folded body. How long would she stay in this position and what brings her there?
Every evening Enya stumbles through her front door, drops her outerwear–depending on the season–just inside. Her frayed canvas bag lands squarely on the kitchen table. It’s her catch-all for documents from work, scraps of paper inked with scribbles pertaining to clients or reminders from conversations, minutes from recent committee meetings, and lunch remains. She grasps her head with both hands for a moment, tosses her glasses onto the kitchen counter, then brushes unruly strands of hair back from her face. She reaches for a bottle of medication from beside the fridge, pours herself a glass of chilled water, and pops a handful of pills into her mouth. She drags her feet as she moves, holds onto furniture until she reaches this very spot on the floor. Here she collapses. Every evening.
Enya is in her early fifties.
One evening, after this mystifying ritual has gone longer than most nights, Enya rises and sits in a wooden rocker next to a floor-to-ceiling window facing snow-covered rocks, trees and mummified globes that transform into blooming shrubs in the springtime. She picks up a plain dark green notebook and begins to write.
It’s been twelve years and yet it feels like a few months.
Back then, I spoke with Jennifer in the break-room, like I had for years. But this time was different. She confessed that the reason she frequently wore dark glasses, even in the office, was not due to problems with her vision. She had done so to cover up damage inflicted to her face by a capricious man in a blind, narcissistic rage.
Twelve years ago my pragmatic mind looked for a quick solution: contact a local domestic violence shelter and all related support services. But, there was nothing. Nothing at all. No services to assist women in critical situations whatsoever. Not in a fifty-mile radius!
I was dumbfounded and set out to do something about it myself. I would see to it that this community–my town–would have the resources we needed to help Jennifer. I would spearhead establishing a facility for victims of abuse first, then put all peripheral services into place. There was nothing I had ever put my mind to which I hadn’t completed. Successfully. I can do this, I told myself regularly.
I researched clinical and legal aspects of such a venture, talked with people, approached property owners, asking them to provide space, met with people from town council, law enforcement and the mental health professions. What I found astounded me: indifference, denial and outright resistance. Not one person saw a need. After all, we had never had the need for this service before; why now?
It took eight months of coming up completely empty before I realized I would need to change my approach from a social/business focus to education. I wrote editorials for the local paper, began a podcast highlighting the prevalence of abuse, invited experts to provide training for local medical and counseling professionals. I offered free classes at the local YMCA for bystanders–those who know someone who may be a victim of abuse. The first three classes had no attendees. Only relentless promotion finally brought the first few participants.
That was the beginning. It was two years before I was even allowed to speak about the need at a town council meeting. Then another year-and-a-half before a local businessperson said he would think about leasing space for a small shelter, with an additional 9’x9′ space offsite for counseling.
I was ecstatic. We were moving forward. I had known all along that I could do this. I was a Byrne, after all. But, had I known then what I now know, I may have faltered. The more I spoke about the need to protect and fight for the wellbeing of women and their children, the more people opposed me. Not only casual acquaintances, but people I had known for years turned viciously against me. Initially they took aim at my project, as they called it, but when I was undaunted, the attacks became about me. This ugly resistance, more than the mountains of bureaucratic paperwork, compliance to codes, licensing of property and personnel, took a grueling toll on my body and spirit.
Yet, I pushed forward. It took nine more years before the shelter for women and children would be stable and functioning. At the six year point I had my first full-blown migraine, complete with violent nausea and vision disturbances. This is where my nightly routine on my floor began, since that–along with high doses of medically prescribed pain medication–was all that brought relief.
It’s been more than six months since I handed the day-to-day operations of Hope Restored–location not publicized–into capable hands, yet the physical and emotional toll is a price I still pay. My life blood.
Enya Byrne
***
When I speak with Enya, it is to ask her to deliver the commencement address at her Alma Mater. Prior to this, I had known nothing of her journey; I simply know she is a tenacious advocate for women, children, the environment, buying local and many other issues of justice–as she calls it.
Over freshly-brewed coffee in a locally owned coffee shop, she hands me the dark green notebook, then follows up with a crisp verbal commentary on the price of activism.
Some stories are simply a joy to write. This is one made me smile.
One arm hung limply next to the mattress; the other clutched a pillow scrunched next to her chest. Her torso was partially covered with a faded bedsheet; unruly hair blowing in sticky air coming through an open window. Had it not been for the the faint rise and fall of her back, she would have appeared lifeless. Face pale and wrinkled cheeks sagging; eyes closed and unseeing.
At the jangle of a rusted alarm clock inches from her face, the motionless form leaped to silence the intrusion, then collapsed again with a nearly inaudible sigh.
To others her life appeared to be a mere sigh. Not a statement. Certainly not a song. Growing up she had always been surrounded by achievement, and now her siblings exuded financial stability, selective social connection, contributing their own excellence to vast bodies of literary and artistic expression, admired and reviewed by renowned critics. While they soared, she seemed to stumble.
She pulled herself upright before the abhorred device would release another deafening interruption, reminding her of the passage of time. With legs swung over bed’s edge, her hands slowly rubbed her eyes. Her neck stretched long as she methodically tilted her head first to one side, then the other. She inhaled deeply, then allowed her breath out in a steady stream.
With one swift foot movement she pulled a long, purple mat from under her bed. For the next ten minutes she sat in stillness, ramrod straight, inhaling and exhaling with eyes closed. This was her routine each morning before placing an ungainly water kettle onto the hot plate in the corner of her sparse cooking and eating space. Before long she held a cup of steaming coffee in her right hand while grasping a thin cracker spread with cassava paste in the left.
She strode into the garden, settling into the shade of the ancient mahogany trees. She thought through the day ahead, as she did every day. Deliberately she allowed each face she would see, every question she might be asked, every scene that could be depicted and described, to pass over the screen of her productive mind. She allowed her thoughts to rest briefly on the luxuriously spread table under canopies of leaves and color, where she would meet health workers and international delegates for her evening meal.
Her face emitted radiance and peace as she picked up her high powered camera and shouldered her tattered canvas bag containing the only writing materials she possessed: two pencils, one yellow legal pad and a well worn iPad. Quickly she slid a tall bottle of tepid water into a mesh pocket along the side of the bag. She stooped momentarily as she passed through the front door, then closed it carefully behind her.
Within moments her tall, slender frame covered with a flowing orange cotton skirt and a white gauze blouse was surrounded by a growing entourage of chattering children–running, dancing or hobbling, many carrying infant brothers or sisters on their backs. Her face broke into a sparkling smile as she conversed easily with these smallest treasures of humanity. As they clung to her, she patted heads, stroked cheeks and offered fist bumps in return for similar morning greetings.
Without a doubt, this was the best part of her life! The children. Not yet caught up in the agonizing tedium of responsibility or the enticing grasp for power. They allowed life to pour from their innocence, easily absorbing into her receptive soul. She savored these moments–willing them to last longer, be felt more intensely, providing the driving force for her very being and for her being here.
Just before entering the market square, she sat down on the stump of an old tree to prolong this exchange. The spirited group attracted more and more vibrant miniatures, all seeking to grasp a portion of her skirt, blouse or arm. Some ran their fingers through her long curls or touched an ear. At times one child would cry and she would gather this one into her lap to simply rock and sing for a minute or two. Then she would carry on, knowing this scene would be repeated that evening–provided the demands of her day would not keep her too long–and certainly the following morning.
The one day she had unfettered time was Sunday. On this day each week she would worship with the townspeople, then choose one place near the center of the square to simply sit! The townsfolk knew her well and came to chat! One or two people, or large groups at a time. Someone would invariably provide her with delectable morsels from noon or mid afternoon food preparations.
And the children! They came and stayed. She learned new games, saw creations made out of twigs, moss and locust legs, listened to tales spun out of subsistence existence and witnessed stories read from prized books. The laughter was infectious; the joie de vivre intoxicating.
At dusk each Sunday she would rise, tall and serene, bend to bid goodnight to every small child still remaining, embrace each adult who had shared the final daylight hour with her, then wind her way back over the dusty path to her dwelling.
She sat next to the single flame from the oil lamp on her kitchen table and wove the delight, glory, pain and struggle that engulfed her into one passionately human story after another. Each evening, one week after another this had been her rich routine for the past three decades. Her body of work included stories on parchment, encased in glass bottles on the graves of many hundreds of her dearest friends; justice encouraged–and witnessed–in countless meetings, determining the future of her chosen home; articles, stories and photographs appearing in local journals; and a series of books describing and depicting life as she lived it. Life, as it could be!
Her life was not a sigh, nor a statement. It wasn’t a song. It was a symphony.
Life Matters 