life and write

Extreme clarity is a mystery. -Mahmoud Darwish

Somewhere in the bended wrinkle of your boots, beside the tangled laces, the notes of your service, your experiences lie stitched in cloth and suede. In the bottom grooves of those boots, memories of the desert, the water, the hills and fields crowd in dark corners between heel and sole. Our little boys have all tried on your camel step, their small bare feet searching for the rhythm of their father, your narrative of love, courage, and hopefulness, your call of duty. I’ve watched you march in circles; sing your soldier’s song in call and response with our smiling children trying to keep cadence. I thank you for sharing your stories, your travels, your language, your life with us. As you serve, we serve with you, and we love you. Thank you Major Edwards for your service and duty sealed with your life in honor and commitment to the best for all of our lives.

Today, on Veteran’s Day, I thank you husband, father, brother, son…sing along with you today (and everyday) your solder’s song.

The challenge of social justice is to evoke a sense of community that we need to make our nation a better place, just as we make it a safer place–Marian Wright Edelman, Children’s Defense Fund

Foot Soldiers: Melissa Harris-Perry pays tribute to those standing up for Trayvon Martin, and gives an adaptation of Children’s Defense Fund founder Marian Wright Edelman’s prayer for the world’s children.

http://video.msnbc.msn.com/melissa-harris-perry/46849119

I was moved by these words, by these images of youths from around the world who deserve to live freely, safely, and covered in love.

I am weary of what’s behind bold headlines that press their cold limp rhetoric between women’s legs, inside women’s minds. There are no dark secrets we women keep (well maybe there are a few). Life lives in and through our creviced charm, and there are no words, legislation, or debate that can change the brilliant mystery ringing in our wombs. Yes, we can cultivate life inside of our bodies if we choose, but if we don’t, we can choose with or without social orders and legislation. The colors of those choices are ours to paint; the pain and vivid maroon are ours to bear. Oh voices behind the headlines, I wish we could let you borrow our paint palette for just one month, you would see the lines are not black and white.

As women, we can utter ourselves timing, patience, practice, or reservation. Oh politics, don’t you think those that can carry life (whether they do or not) in their bellies have sense enough to color inside or outside their own lines, speak for themselves, do what is best for their health in love and in logic?

I wonder about those dark suits and even darker tendencies inside smoke-filled offices worried about writing women’s narratives, their destinies, their choices, their health. Creating life is a mystery isn’t it? As women, we too are in reverence of the ability, the responsibility—which is why we can and should choose throughout our lives our own narratives without legislation, pen, or debate. If there are concerns for women’s natural abilities to create faces, love, and languages, or better yet, discussion and action on women’s health, I would then ask you voices beyond the magnificent headlines, what are your quotes, dark suits, and letterpress to contribute to that discussion, action, and creation—love, resources, time, or just chatter?

In the morning this gray day in our pockets will break the backs of someone already bending over and under for a piece of comfort in the lush of our great nation. Someone’s struggling tongue can’t translate their pain in a call for balance, their woes swallowed up in headlines, loud demagogues bickering.

And just across the street, two steps from a box on the corner, someone somewhere is busy balancing bills, juggling workloads, living from paycheck to paycheck or living with no paycheck. While words and politics swim in dizzying rhetoric, someone somewhere steps over suffering with dirt on their feet. Someone’s sunken shoulders will rise in the morning and again scrape loose change together for a loaf of bread and some hope. Last night, someone sighed of relief that the heat blowing in through the window was warmer than the water to bathe in. Today someone will sit with the pile of bills, worry as the checks dry up like breast milk did six months ago. Hungry mouths don’t feed simply on legislative drama; they are hungry for food, shelter, survival, and security. When hunger speaks by vote, by stance, by violence, I hope someone is listening. I hope someone is listening.

The airwaves, television stations, “Facebook” timelines and “Twitter” feeds are ablaze, saturated with shock and disbelief, tributes, reflections, mourning, sadness in the news of the death of legendary, iconic artist Whitney Houston (may she rest in peace and may her family, loved ones, friends, and fans in mourning be covered with love and grace).

I don’t know that those in reflection and mourning are so surprised, shocked that death exists, but maybe are impacted by the instant reminder that death can be sudden, can surprise any of us, can come without warning, and part without fail. I think that death reminds us we are all vulnerable. I think back to the conversations I try to have with my seven-year-old about life and death, and a moment like this (my seven-year-old has no idea who Whitney Houston is and hasn’t been exposed to the news of her death) reminds me of why he innocently rejects death’s final say, and fears death’s unpredictability. It is this conflict, this vulnerability that is the human condition.

However, in the wake of this news, a conversation with my husband last night inspired my thinking, and guided my reflection in a different direction. I awoke today not so much in shock of death (though loss of any kind still has its sting) but on the immoral presence of art. This moment reminds me of how the arts and how artists impact the very nature of our lives. The arts can bring together people of all walks of life and communicate the human experience, the human condition like nothing else. The arts are a way that we can speak to each other, understand each other, and share our human stories.

Seeing the footage, hearing the audio clips of music I grew up with in the eighties stirs up memories that remind me of how artists impact our lives, raise us with their words, works, color, and movement. I am reminded that artists tell us stories and leave us with memorable tidbits, love, loss, joy, and pain. Artists document life in ways that capture subtleties only a brush of charcoal, pen or paint, a clear lens, a harmony, a lyric, a beat, a bend, a jump, or a turn can imitate.

So after the shock of the news and sadness, I’ve decided that today I will not dwell in only the loss. Though it is tragic we lose the physical presence of some of our great artists, my hope is that we will never lose sight of what art and artists contribute to our lives, what moments and magic they create, what memories they leave us, and most of all the love, justice, and understanding that sometimes only art can convey.

I walked into their dark quiet room and sat on each of their beds. I watched their warm almond eyes closed, their blankets covered to their shoulders, their flattened fingers hidden under their cheeks. I stood there last night thinking, “I am honored to know you, to take part in raising you, to love you.” And when I kissed the tops of their foreheads, and rubbed the smooth brown of their skin; I watched them dream. I thought about how I too, dream. I thought about Dr. King, and so many others who wish and work everyday towards a time when justice and equality will be a way of life for all children all over the world.

And to my young ones, my little people, I celebrate where they have come from and who they will be. There is nothing that makes me happier than to be their mother. I have listened to those that have come before me and I will teach them about those voices. I will walk with these boys (as I will with so many other young ones) and support them as they discover the joy and perils of this life. And even as they realize that life will not always make them sing, or that they don’t always know the words to the song, I will remind them that they can call on the strength and love of those voices that have come before us to lift us up and show us the words.

Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

…the stealth vibration of rhythm balanced with the savory cry of angst, a conversation between steady thumping drum, wildly agile horn, and thoughtful pulsing bass. I clicked on my email the other morning and learned friend and fellow artist, Mark Lomax, along with Eddie Bayard, and Dean Hullett were included in a conversation on salon.com about the soundtrack to our neo movements, struggles, and calls for change and action in our sociopolitical realm. The premise of this article was to highlight jazz, but it also drew me to consider how the underground lyrics of hip hop and neo-soul were also not strangers, if not a preface to what we know as movements that include “Occupy”. These sounds have done more than accompany these movements. I would entertain that some of these sounds have led movements, charged voices with sounds that are of no one language, but of many.

I think of Lomax’s album, The State of Black America, and remember listening to its politically astute renditions far ahead of camping in parks and confrontations on foreclosed porches. The “call in response” the media likes to color as neo “Occupy” messaging really is more reminiscent of hip hop between DJ and MC, those roots and inspirations, along with jazz traditions are what Lomax, Bayard, and Hullett have carved into this album. Forward moving jazz is not always “easy” listening—not easy as in the kind of passive arrangement you might hear in an office lobby. Jazz can be complex, complicated, and just as thoughtfully tactical as the daily editorial columns accompanying this country’s most politically charged headlines. I’m glad that salon.com entertained that idea. I like the thought that our new movements might have a soundtrack. I’d like to entertain even further the idea that this neo movement built of vibrancy and variance, transcending myriad demographics is maybe not just accompanied but rather first penned in sound. I understand sometimes the words, the faces, the stoic stances don’t get heard—but it’s hard to ignore a roaring score.

Read more: Could jazz provide the Occupy Wall Street Soundtrack?

“Teachers are brain surgeons. They are highly skilled professionals that work on children’s brains every day.”—Shari

In the morning this gray day in our pockets will break the backs of someone already bending over and under for a piece of comfort in the lush of our great nation. Someone’s struggling tongue can’t translate their pain in a call for balance, their woes swallowed up in headlines, loud demagogues bickering.

Somewhere in between those typeset lines her womb is a story someone else can’t write for her. A belly swelling or a dark echo is a mystery only she can keep. From a distance someone can weep for her decisions or for her survival, but she must sound her own cries pushing and pulling at life. Those tears that sit on her upper lip taste like joy or pain or guilt or freedom.

And just across the street, two steps from a box on the corner, someone somewhere is busy balancing bills, juggling workloads, dropping pay. While words swim in dizzying rhetoric, someone somewhere steps over suffering with dirt on their feet. Someone’s sunken shoulders will rise in the morning and again scrape loose change together for a loaf of bread and some hope. Last night, someone sighed of relief that the heat blowing in through the window was warmer than the water to bathe in. Today someone will sit with the pile of bills, worry as the checks dry up like breast milk did six months ago. Hungry mouths don’t feed on drama; give them the chance to speak.

He wants to be

A brutal old man,

An aggressive old man,

As dull, as brutal

As the emptiness around him,

He doesn’t want a compromise,

Nor to be ever nice

To anyone. Just mean,

And final in his brutal,

His total, rejection of it all…

Read the full poem here: Self-Portrait by Robert Creeley : The Poetry Foundation [poem].

Even as the headlines spill of rapid fire, distraction and Middle East discord, lives remain fragile in the East.

NPR

Yesterday the sky was dark, lonely, deserted. Today fighter planes cut the thick dry air, their routes crisp and swift, and flicker with burnt orange. Below the streets are empty of busy chatter, instead replaced with anxiety, rage, or screams. There are interests the allied world seeks to destroy or preserve, saving and ending lives are a blur. Yesterday there was one lone voice, today there are many. They don’t speak a common language but all understand the “boom”.

NY Times on Libya

I don’t know why my husband is up, he is usually sleep at this time and I have the morning to myself. But no—he’s hyped up and talking so passionately right now about sports. First he reminded me that Ohio State was playing today and that he thinks their headed for the” Final Four”. Duh!!! (Go Bucks!) Then he randomly slipped into his frustration in the Knicks (the Knicks?), and his thoughts on what’s happening with the NFL (contract disputes). He also had a few brief comments on college recruiting. He jumped around from sport to sport, subject to subject in a matter of minutes. He’s good but it’s early…   

He finally settles into his thoughts on ESPN’s 1^st and 10, where Chris Broussard passionately commented on the Jalen Rose and Grant Hill controversy stemming from comments Jalen Rose said during the filming of the documentary “The Fab Five”. My husband is my inside scoop on sports (I think he was a sportscaster in a former life) so when he speaks, I listen (most of the time).

What happens when the “American Dream” of owning a home (which is paid for) drowns in its underwater value and no one in that home can swim?

No end in sight for falling home prices

Admittedly I nerd out on NPR every now and then. I typically listen in the car during my daily commute. My sons are too young to put up a fight so they have to listen…for now. The other morning on the way to school, political news beaming from the speaker, Mason hears something he’s curious about:

“Mom, what is a Democratic party,” he said.

“It has something to do with Barack Obama,” I said.

“Oh.”

“It’s  something called politics honey.” (I knew he didn’t know what I meant. I was struggling trying to explain.)

“Mom.”

“Yes.”

“I want to have a Democratic party. We should have a Democratic party. I can invite all my friends.”

“Hmm.”

There is a tension warm in the wombs of women. The thunder of politics is shouting at her belly. There is a subtle freedom buried in the secrets women keep. The narrative of joy or regret in someone’s choices in life is a mystery legislation does little to give voice to or resolve. This is something far more personal. Her story is beating and the rattling ink of rhetoric either can’t hear it or isn’t listening.

The Rhetoric That Shaped The Abortion Debate