“i once believed that silence was strength.” (anonymous)
and then i didn’t.
because “silence isn’t strength. it’s complicity.” (barbra streisand)
and so i – in my noisy – will stand firm and tall.
and i will wonder how others have not yet gotten there – to noisy. how others have not yet realized inside themselves that their silence – in these very days – is complicity. how others have not spoken up, spoken for, spoken against. how others have not been openly horrified at what this country’s administration is allowing, how this country’s administration is grifting, what this country’s administration is hiding, what this country’s administration is intending.
and i will wonder how others protect the wrongdoers. how others cavalierly wield the power differential around, like a discus before its release, spinning, spinning. how others thwart the rights of people they consider beneath them, lesser, somehow, than them. how others avoid accountability, culpability, the simple act of being responsible. how others stay quiet – seemingly a mute cheering squad for these, both voiceless and gleeful.
and i will wonder how it is that sexual assault survivors are expected to internalize their abuse, desperately seeking anything to normalize that which is not normal. how it is that sexual assault survivors are not lifted from their pain with the steady voices of everyone around them, instead of shushed or doubted or ignored. how it is that this question – “why we doubt accusers and protect abusers” – has any turf on which to stand.
but these are not my wonders to solve. these are mine to get noisy about. for it is my own heart i must answer to.
because, for me, silence is not strength. it is capitulating to wrong, quietly suggesting that i agree.
and i don’t.
“it happened. it was wrong. it matters.” (tarana burke)
without the haze of humidity the sun seems brighter, the woods seem crisper, the sky seems bluer. it’s as if the soft-focus filter was lifted and clarity was restored.
tuesday we stopped by our much-loved-mechanic’s shop. littlebabyscion has had a mountain of emissions work done and we wanted to share that it passed the emissions test. (all – money and time and effort and good intention – ironically – in the middle of an administration that could care less about the danger of greenhouse gases while repealing clean air initiatives and gutting the environmental protection agency.)
while there, i noticed a copy of the local newspaper on top of a big toolbox.
i used to subscribe to the paper. i’d read it each day, catching up on local, domestic and international news. it’s been well over a decade now since i have had delivery. having shrunk by leaps and bounds in recent years, it’s about the thickness of my college newspaper these days.
there were several headlines on tuesday’s front page.
one of the minor – minor! – headlines was this: “court lifts immigration operation restrictions”.
i was aghast.
in a 6-3 conservative majority ruling, the supreme court of this united states – that is supposed to uphold the constitution of these united states – decided that racial profiling is a-ok with them – liberally putting a match to all-men-are-created-equal, gutting the 14th amendment’s equal protection clause and paying no heed to the 4th amendment’s probable cause necessity, subjecting the populace to the elimination of constitutional freedoms.
though an AP article reporting on the court’s appalling decision was copied and pasted, the weeny headline penned by the paper intimated – no, completely underplayed – with a light and positive spin for a hugely negative action by the highest judiciary in this land – the people charged with the protection of this democracy, its institutions, its law. a soft focus filter applied to a stark reality.
now, i am not a journalist, but i am a consumer of journalism. and a brief foray into definitions and descriptions of the use of headlines would lead one to believe that a headline will most definitely set the tone of the piece that follows, give the gist of the piece, signal its significance. in real application, however, we see that headlines expose the underlying slant of a journalistic institution. they give one insight to the stance of that institution reporting “the news”.
so…where is the headline “supreme court lifts restrictions on racial profiling“? the headline “court promotes indiscriminate roving immigration patrols and stops“? the headline that blasts out “court ceases constitutional freedoms“??
let us not forget that this decision by this highest court will impact every single person in this country. it is a decision that can be maliciously construed for any population of people.
the headline and article with the largest font and the biggest presence on the page was “hundreds turn out to ride“, an article featuring the town’s electric streetcars.
this may be the reason the paper is barely a paper. daily delivery for this is $60 a month.
this day – today – marks the 24th anniversary of the september 11 targeted terrorism attacks, a time when our country came together to push back against the atrocities of hate.
are not masked “roving immigration patrols” an atrocity of hate within our own country?
where is the paper’s clarity of this perilous moment we are now in? where is their screaming headline?
as much as I’d like to – perhaps – write a post about historical town criers traveling town to town, city to city, ringing a bell and crying “hear ye, hear ye!” delivering important news for all to know….as much as i think it might be more effective than today’s mainstream media or social media or propaganda-filled decrees from the top down….as much as i think there are many, many people in the dark completely or in the dark catacombs of conspiracy theories….i will pass on this temptation and share – instead – that these virginia bluebells made me think of past years and years as a handbell director.
from my post and the handbells (july 2023): i’m not sure the handbells are played anymore. we had three octaves and a dedicated choir of players. it was the last rehearsal of the night – after choir, after ukulele band. by the time we got to handbells everyone was a little bit giddy. many of the bell players were also in ukulele band, so these amazing volunteers spent quite a bit of time in the choir room.
playing handbells requires a bit of hand-eye coordination. you are reading music while you have this bell as an extension of your gloved hand…counting, counting and then…you thrust your wrist forward, allowing the clapper to strike the bell, hoping it’s at exactly the right moment. there are many evenings when laughter was the music we produced. as the director, i was always grateful for the generous collaboration of this group. and every time we played – from old hymns to gospel songs to contemporary pieces – it was beautiful. the bells would ring out into the high-ceilinged sanctuary and, i suspect, each player would marvel at their own contribution to such beauty, to such a particular lift of melody, of harmony.
if the handbells are silent now, i am sad. handbells harken back to the late 17th century and early 18th century and are considered percussion instruments. their sound is particularly unique, meditative in isolation, exuberant in chorus.
the virginia bluebells play in tutti every may over by the fence of the house that has signs about migratory butterflies and many butterfly-attracting plants. each early may when we pass this house on our ‘hood walk i photograph these early bloomers. and this may was no different. these stunners – excellent pollinators, particularly in their spring-is-springing appearance – were waiting, perfect flowers for bees and butterflies and hummingbirds. and really exquisite at being photographed – it’s like they beckon “hear ye, hear ye! take my picture!” and i comply.
clearly, they bring back memories of decades of the ringing of handbells and gleeful groups of people performing in laughter and collaboration with each other.
but, just as these flowers conjured up the quieted handbells in my mind, this year these tiny bells also made me think of the old town criers. it made me think of the utter importance – the imperative – of the spreading of true news, of honest reporting to the people, of virtuous dissemination of facts, of telling it like it – really – is.
there are small house sparrows that make themselves at home under our awning. they perch and flit about and, every so often, attempt to start building a nest, from which they usually fly off after a bit. but they are clearly at home by our back door and we can see them through the window and across the deck as we sit on the raft and write.
as we entered the back door the other day – home from the market and with bags in our arms – i saw the feather, tucked into the old screen door. a sweet i-was-here…maybe a little we-are-all-in-this-universe-together symbol of reassurance, hope. this tiny grey feather – stuck on our back door – a tiny sign of encouragement, perhaps a nod of being watched over in distressing times. any way you look at it, we won’t remove the little feather,
distressing times. i’d say so.
from the smallest concentric circle in to the furthermost concentric circle, these are distressing times.
and, in the middle of reading tarana burke’s book unbound i read this sentence: “indeed, i don’t believe you can practice love and be in community with folks without an incorporation of accountability as an ethic and a practice.”
her book – all of it – was profoundly moving. she is the originator of the #metoo movement. her story resonated with me over and over again. accountability. accountability. i read and re-read it, this simple statement of ideology.
particularly in the context of this country as it is right this very minute, i stopped re-reading and snapped a photo of this sentence.
for there is not much more infuriating than to be in community with others who stress their transparency and, thus, following, their accountability to the others in the community but who are the least transparent and the least accountable. there is not much more infuriating than to see those who have wronged others – regardless of the community, the institution, the organization – big or small – get away with it, to take in those silently complicit, to watch the fallout, to bear witness to the lack of ethics indicative in letting others “get away with it”. there is not much more painful than being the victim of a lack of accountability, the dust – radioactive gossip, the decimation aimed and fired, the shock long-lived.
to practice love and to be in community would suggest holding each community member as important, as a cog in the wheel, as contributing, as morally obligated as the next.
to practice love and to be in community would suggest a set of expectations – rules, bylaws, laws, moral codes – that would reign supreme, guiding the steps and actions of the community.
to practice love and to be in community would suggest holding the fragility of love and its mutual obligation to each other as paramount. it would suggest leading with love, leading with respect, leading with support.
to practice love and to be in community would suggest holding to truth, to honesty, to responsibility and, thus, to accountability.
to practice love and to be in community would suggest that not taking responsibility, skipping any kind of ethical standard, having zero expectation that all in community would be accountable to each other and to the bigger picture would be the very antithesis of practicing love and being in community.
to be in community – in a freeforall devoid of moral compass – in a lack of answerability, no effort of liability, a structure without structure, without compassion or empathy, without the abiding of laws, sans checks and balances on the collective or those in charge, a governance with leadership lacking virtue – this is not a practice of love nor is it being in community. this is here and now.
grey feathers are said to be a sign that there will be a period of calmness and clarity. it is a buoying keep-on-going.
it will stay on the door as long as it stays on the door. and tarana burke’s words will echo in my mind as a north star message.
truth seems to have taken a leave of absence from this country, no longer useful or appropriate or agenda-aiding for the current administration. instead, we – as a populace – are being fed smarmy falsehoods and all manner of fabricated bull in the name of “truth”.
the ability to manipulate any story, any image, any narrative, any situation, any anything is on the exponential rise. it is hard to discern what is real and what isn’t, what communication we receive or read is real and what isn’t, what images we see are real and what aren’t.
which makes it ever more important to delve into something before jumping whole-hog into believing it.
case in point – the biggest inaugural crowd.
case in point – everything re covid, including bleach and this: “just stay calm. it will go away.”
case in point – winning the 2020 election.
case in point – the peace-loving tourists in the capitol on january 6.
case in point – “they’re eating the dogs. they’re eating the cats.”
and on and on and on and on and on, ad nauseam.
despicable.
and that’s all old news, old old news, old old old news. nothing like the news of the day: stuff made up to validate chaotic, cruel moves by the administration to accomplish hellish corruption.
the ease in which they manipulate you, your hook-line-and-sinker dedication is their frenzied rapture. truly. (it is ridiculously hard not to use bluntly profane language to make this point.)
if you are believing – without bothering to check – what this prez and his team o’ teams are spewing, you are as wrapped up in his sickness as he is. delusion is a powerful contagion and a profound addiction.
like i said, i hardly know where to start.
be a good citizen. look it all up. double-check. have a conscience. save the democracy.
i found the foam core board in the attic while i was trying not to step in between the floor joists. i was carefully looking for something in a box, placing my socked feet on the old piece of paneling that covers a small part of this tiny room under the rafters. leaning up against the wall and straddling two joists was this cellophane-wrapped blank foam core. making a mental note that it was there, i backed out of the attic – because turning around while bending over – which is necessary – bending over, that is – is almost an impossibility. one does not want to mistakenly place one’s foot through the plaster ceiling of the living room below. (this, by the way, is the reason i go into the attic rather than sending d…just in case any foot goes through the ceiling…i’d rather it be mine….for obvious reasons.)
when we heard of the protest early this month i went back up into the attic and retrieved the foam core, dusted it off and got ready to write on it.
which brings me to my question.
if you had a piece of foam core and one of those really thick intensely smelly magic markers, what message would you write?
because it is time to speak up. way past time.
who are you? what does your heart say? what does your conscience say? what kind of america do you want? what kind of america would you like to pass on to your children and grandchildren?
is it a supportive country that generously embraces the unlimited potentiality of its melting pot of different people? or is it a cruel isolated land where every evil move hinges on how it benefits only the wealthiest and the extremists among us, marginalizing the rest?
are you rah-rah-ing the fall of democracy? or are you stunned beyond belief that we are facing authoritarianism in this country – literally i’s-dotted-t’s-crossed – in the matter of a few days?
the sun was getting lower in the sky and was shining through the marsh as we walked past. we hadn’t hiked a long distance that day – only about five miles or so – but we had started late and it was time to mosey home and think about making dinner.
the shadows on the path ahead made me grab my camera to capture a picture. cattails.
their shadows so clear it left little doubt as to what they were, the cattails punctuated the gravel as the end of the trail led up to the trailhead. patterns across the path were spaced like college-ruled spiral notebooks or full and half rests scribed on staff paper.
throughout our hike i kept drawing attention to our shadows on this beautiful blue-sky-sunny day. they changed from a short-stumpy pair of people to two elongated-legged tall people. in every moment, clearly – people. those two people were us, but – were those shadows stamped in time – you could only tell that we were people. nothing more.
what will the shadows of this time look like, later on down the road? when the sun has completely set on a day when the values of this country are no longer upheld, how will those shadows appear? will they show the truth of all this malfeasance? what does corruption look like in a shadow? what do greedy, evil, soulless humans (and i use the term ‘humans’ loosely) look like in their shadows? can you tell they are greedy, evil, soulless?
there is no way to tell – by looking at the shadows of these cattails – the state of their inner being, the truth of the cattail. should we really wish to know we must be careful to discern their health or dis-ease by examining them more closely. we must be willing to know more about cattails and measure their well-being by applying this knowledge. we cannot simply look at their shadows – and not look at them, their environment and their impact on that environment – to determine their vigor, their fitness, their soundness, their dedicated synergy with the rest. the shadows don’t tell the story of stagnant water, dying ponds or an over-abundance of cattails toxically crowding out ecosystems, the risk of flooding or being a prime pest habitat, a dangerous breeding ground of illness.
we must be willing to look at the cattails for what they are, what they represent, how they are sharing space. we must be willing to discern their true impact – good or bad. we must look at the cattails themselves and not their shadowy shadows. anything less could kill the marsh and forever pollute the pond.
i’m not sure why no one early in my life mentioned to me that thru-hiking the appalachian trail or the pacific crest trail – or any long trail for that matter – was a possibility. sans internet or social informant i feel like i totally missed this information and – more so – this opportunity. neither of my parents were hikers and long island wasn’t really a granola outdoorsy hiking kind of place. my spare time was spent at the water, on the water, in the water – the sound and the ocean were the guiding lights there. but what you don’t know you don’t know.
so now, here we are – in our sixties – both pretty enamored of the idea of thru-hiking. consequently, we watch the videos of many, many hikers – as you know – studying their gear and their processes, their fortitude and their bliss, their bag-meals and their tiny stoves and – for me, especially – their water filtering systems and photography methods.
one of my favorite field trips is to REI. though we are clear – and, probably, ridiculously obvious – in our lack of knowledge about likely ninety percent of the items there, we love wandering and dreaming, pondering aloud the merits of each piece of gear we see. we linger near the coffee systems and the sleeping pads, knowing that both coffee and sleeping would be paramount.
and over by the EAT sign at the store are the most amazing bag-meals – of every sort. so many options, though pricey, they eliminate our fantasy of some chef bamboo-picnic-basket-droning in our evening dinner with a tiny box of wine and wine glasses. in reality, it is more likely to find us with the tortillas and peanut butter, tuna bags and ramen – practical, inexpensive, lightweight – that are commonplace in backpacks all along the trails. we dream anyway.
nevertheless, every time we go to REI, it, once again, occurs to me that i was uninformed which in turn makes me wonder, wonder, wonder about what else i was uninformed. we immerse in learning. because it is a good thing to learn.
as time marches on in the corrupt takeover of our country, i have found there is much i did not learn before. reading historical recounting – now – that gives context to today’s grab at authoritarianism stuns me at times. “i-didn’t-learn-that-did-you-learn-that???” has come out of my mouth more than once.
i’m astounded at the connecting-of-dots and what the perspective that this country’s true history have revealed about what is happening now.
i’m disgusted by the gross efforts to thwart access to this information, to bury our history, to distort the truth of this country’s difficult and ugly path.
it is insanity to whitewash the timeline of these united states . we have much to learn from our past – so much possibility to learn from our mistakes, the opportunity to grow as a democracy, to come ever closer to the intended dream of e pluribus unum.
sweeping it all under the rug instead reveals the underlying evil intention – pure evil – for the “great again” is not really great at all. it is the elimination of fought-for civil rights, the oligarchic hoarding of money, the plundering of lawful checks and balances, the annihilation of justice, the imbalance of power, the dumbing-down of the populace, the retribution tour of a small soulless man and his rabidly-panting project-overtake puppet-cronies all hungry for bright white control.
tomorrow we will go to the voting booth again. we take this seriously each and every time.
for weeks now we have been inundated with postcards, signs, doorstep visits, calls, texts, emails – because – tomorrow – our state has a state supreme court justice vote.
because people – so, so many people – are one-issue voters and seemingly easily swayed – there is much fervor over this election. it’s important in many ways – gerrymandering the state and abortion rights at the forefront.
one candidate would like to keep wisconsin both gerrymandered and rolled back to 1849 – when there were few rights for women – including the right to determine their own healthcare, when, even in the case of rape or incest, abortion was outlawed. now, it goes to figure that this candidate is a man – because, well, of course. sexist misogyny in the usa.
the other candidate – a woman – wishes to keep wisconsin out of the 19th century because, well, we’re a quarter of the way into the 21st century now. she would like women’s rights to be equitable to men’s, because, well, that equality thing and all. she would like people to have equal voting rights. again, that equality thing. enlightened in the usa.
because reading, researching, asking questions, seeking truth seem to have gone by the wayside, the candidate-supported-by-the-oligarch-buying-votes who believes in suppressing workers’ voices, stripping healthcare and fair pay, supporting giant corporations and the extraordinarily wealthy can just as easily win as the woman-earning-the-votes can – this woman who has fought to protect workers’ fair pay and benefits, secure affordable healthcare.
because, well, people zero in on one – and only one – issue and vote on that with no consideration of the overview, the other issues, the fact that they are being hoodwinked into thinking that this candidate – who has opined on the one issue – has any policy whatsoever that aligns with the values of democracy.
to vote on one issue is to lose perspective of the whole. and the candidates – the ones on the red wagon screaming about trans people and dei and fraud and waste and conception and various other distractions that are entertaining wagonriders – are throwing the tenets of democracy into the gutter and are counting on wagonriding mob-mentality stupidity.
tomorrow we will go to the voting booth again. we desperately hope that we will be able to say this again in two years, in four years, from now on. we take it seriously each and every time.
we hope every single person with the privilege of voting – in any state of this country – takes it seriously as well. these are the moments that will make or break democracy. take – at least – a minute and inform yourself. don’t get lost in the weeds of propaganda or gross misinformation.
reverse threading 