Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the

Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept

him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow

as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day

to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

it is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you every where

like a shadow or a friend.

Naomi Shihab Nye, a Palestinian poet

Hope
by Ocean Robbins

Last issue I wrote about the inspiring talk of Ocean Robbins in my report about the 2005 Institute for Reverential Ecology conference at Zaca Lake. Here is a transcription of that speech. We publish it here not only for its insiprational and realistic qualities but to give you a taste of who this young man who will be the main speaker at the Green Earth Expo in San Luis Obispo; see their ad on page 2 of the print issue.

Hope is not a spectator sport, something that comes while sitting on the sidelines, calculating what’s going to happen in the world. Hope must come from the prayers and the dreams and the commitments that move through our lives; we must find a way to live hope, not as a noun, but a verb, something that must move through us, an action. I believe that to live truly in a place of hope means to be open to two things.

We must be open to the painful realities of our times, the tremendous madness in our world today. Every day on our planet we have less ancient forests, every second we lose more than a football-field-sized chunk of tropical rain forest, every day we have more air pollution, water pollution, every day tens of thousands of people die of hunger, every day we have more guns, bombs, madness on this planet.

At the same time, we must be open to something that is precious and sacred and beautiful, worth fighting, loving, living for, the beauty of humanity, of this earth. There is something so precious about this world, about this world’s people. That a child dies of starvation on this planet every two seconds is so numbing and overwhelming, because every child is so precious. As a father of four-year-old twins, I am moved by the preciousness of every life because I know how much I love our little munchkins and that all children deserve to be celebrated, supported, upheld, to be who they are, to give their gifts to this world. Everybody has unique contributions to make to this planet. There are more than 6.5 billion parts to play in the transformation of our world, each a unique path, coming out of our histories, our struggles and devastations, and our dreams for the future. Whatever love, nurturance, opportunities and privileges have been given to us, they’re ours now. In this precious and wild and crazy thing we call our lives, what choices will we make? What will be our impact upon this planet? and upon those with whom we share it?

Ecology tells us that everything we do sends out ripples. We’re merely a strand in the web of life, and whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. Ecology is the interconnecting of all the issues we face in the world today. We must keep broadening our definition of the environment: not just the trees, water, air, ozone layer or global warming; it is also people, and the social climate of our times. To be an environmentalist means to cease being a helpless victim of problems we didn’t create and become a participant in the transformation of our world. Each of us has the capacity to become an environmentalist, one who cares for the commons, for that which surrounds and protects us.

There is a myth in our society of the separate self, that we are somehow individual, disconnected from one another, that we can enrich ourselves, become “wealthy” materially or socially or spiritually, at the expense of other humans or other life forms. It is a lie we must challenge at its roots if we are to create a world that our grandchildren deserve.

The truth is that we are far more interconnected than we most realize. Around the world, tropical rain forests are falling and indigenous peoples are loosing their homelands and their entire way of life. In the United States, three out of five African Americans and Latinos live in a community with a toxic waste site; it’s called environmental racism. As long as we create pollution, it has to go somewhere. As long as certain communities are being marginalized or exploited and people don’t have the money or the time to speak out, polluters will have a place to deposit toxins. The issues are all interconnected, and we cannot just solve one problem without recognizing that we must solve “the totality.”

Ultimately, for me, it comes back to a vision of humility, that we are but one part in a grand relationship. It is not ours to save the world, but to inspire and awaken and enliven people. What they do from there is up to them. How important it is to do what is ours to do and respect each human being’s own journey! This whole thing we call life on Earth is playing out with forces that are so vast and beyond our control and comprehension. We must be willing to look at it with open eyes, heart and mind to see what is happening and ask from a place of real humility, what is mine to do? How can I be of service in these times? Ultimately, I believe that that which is truly ours to do will nourish us, fill us with beauty, joy, and meaning, because we cannot give what we do not have. I do see a lot of activists trying to create change in the world without being fulfilled and sustained, and I don’t really think we can give something we’re not receiving.

I think all the universe works in circles. If you learn anything from ecology, it is that everything has a life cycle, giving and receiving are one journey. We humans are not too different from that and must find ways to nurture ourselves and thrive, if we are to create the world we dream of. In these times when we are not necessarily being rewarded in the political domain for our actions, not seeing the political renaissance we would like in this country, how do we find deeper roots to sustain us in the times to come?

I’m 31 years old and have been working for social change full-time for about half my life, and I know I’m just beginning. I have been around long enough to realize it may take at least another ten years. I want to be around to see what’s going to happen, and I want to be nourished and fulfilled along the way. I also realize this thing called humanity is going to be around for a long time if we do our job right. We have roots that go way back, and we truly stand on the shoulders of giants as we move along our path, some of them famous, most with names we will never know. Without them, we would not be having this conversation today, and women, people of color or even people who don’t own land would not have the right to vote in this country. We would not have so many freedoms or opportunities to express ourselves, to make a difference. We might not have those eco-systems that still sustain us. We would not have those trees left standing that do provide the air we breathe today. So we must give thanks for all who have gone before us, who have made possible the expression and the lives that we live today, while also realizing that there is much left to be done.

Ocean Robbins is founder and co-president of YES!, www.yesworld.org, and co-author of Choices For Our Future. He will be speaking in San Luis Obispo on October 15 at the Green Earth Expo (see page 2 of the print issue for details).

THE
WHITE MAN WHO
WANTED
TO DANCE

by Sahedran
Ann Shelborne

 

It was a rainy Saturday night, my apartment softly aglow with small incandescent lamps placed all about the room, golden oldies playing on the radio – while I attempted to teach Michael how to dance.

To look at Michael he is Dionysus incarnate: nearly six-feet-tall, a beautifully proportioned body, the definition of his muscles revealed by the soft, sleeveless shirts and form-fitting pants he always wears, his long hair styled, framing his whole head in an electric halo; a black stud earring in one ear; and eyes that are sensitive and reflective, like deep pools of water. A recovering alcoholic, he has been to the blade’s edge of death and his face is old with suffering beyond his years, giving a depth to his beauty. The amber brown eyes are sensual and quietly beckoning – his whole presence emanating an intensely erotic male power.

I moved slowly next to him in the soft light of the room, my eyes downcast, listening, feeling for the rhythm of the music. Then I looked into Michael’s face. I have never seen such terror in the eyes of an adult. Completely against his will, he swayed a little opposite me, but his face reflected pure fear – like a deer frozen as it looks into oncoming headlights. The realization came over me in that moment that though he has taken on the outer appearance of a Dionysian male wildness and potency it does not yet truly emanate from within him. He is a prisoner of his thoughts and his social mask, unable to express his heart and soul through his body.

Aware of his own paralysis, he looked into my eyes and said softly, "You have the ultimate challenge in teaching this White Boy to dance."

To lie naked with Michael in our sexual love-making, to touch and be touched by him, is to float and roll, wrapped in layer upon layer of silk threads – deeply nurtured. The dark eyes that look into mine are adoring, captivating, vulnerable, and my whole being becomes liquid in his embrace. But when the moment of taking him into me comes – here, too, it reveals him to be a child of this culture: he gives totally of his mind, empties it out, holds nothing back. And of the flesh he is the same he touches and kisses and sucks and strokes; spinning, always spinning those ecstatic threads of silk around me. But at the moment of fusion, he does not empty out his heart, his passion, his soul. He cannot take the ride at that level; and when questioned – it is as alien to him as surrendering his body into movement while dancing.

After a year and a half of slowly building a friendship, we "leapt into the fire," and spent four meteoric weeks of absolute wonderment together – opening ourselves to that invisible stream of life just below the surface of the daily world: thoughts, feelings, fears, dreams, sensual touch all exploding in an intense sharing whenever we were together. But I have seen behind his mask; have accompanied him into his dragon’s lair – to the place of his greatest dread. And one day very shortly after our tentative dance that Saturday night he will write me a letter, filled with self-deception, logically explaining away the magic of our connection, overthrowing our budding relationship to retreat to the security of an old girl friend who will never ask him to "dance." So he will never have to face the abject terror, (and fierce longing in his heart), to break free of all the social restrictions and definitions in which he lives trapped, as in a cocoon.

I have seen the Butterfly within Michael, have reached out my hand and for one brief moment, brushed the soft, brilliantly colored wings with the tips of my fingers and have had my soul forever set on fire with love for him. I have felt his pain. Seen his fear. And then, in an agony of despair, watched as he recoiled from me.

I hope he will allow himself to dance freely one day perhaps he will do so in a fire circle, with other men, drumming and singing and chanting the old chants, evoking ancient rhythms. He has Indian blood on both sides, so perhaps, one day, this White Man will get up on his tip toes and dance as the eagle flies, as the stag runs, as the stallion mates in spring. And when that day comes I will know, will feel it in the depths of my own body and soul –through that invisible river of erotic connection, in whose waters Michael and I are forever joined.

April, 1992; Mourning our culture’s suppression of The Dionysian spirit in men (Sonoma County, California)

Reprinted from a larger work called The Holy Whore: A Memoir by Sahedran Ann Shelborne (P.O. Box 1965 Sebastopol, Ca. 95473)