the human mic

It was chilly last night, and I was tired. I had meant to shut the world out, read my book awhile, go to bed early. But just after dark I started to wonder what they were doing two blocks away, at UNM, at the site that was until 3 days ago the Occupy Albuquerque encampment. I was out of town when the big action went down, UNM President Schmidly refusing to meet with protestors or to renew their permit, the advance on his office building, and later the face-off with police that ended in 15 arrests. Earlier in the afternoon university police had formed a line across the now-forbidden greensward, and the people had gathered, bunched up, quiet, and pensive, on the sidewalks just out front of them and on the other side of Central. It had looked like nothing or anything could happen. Somebody had told me the coffee shop on the non-university side had offered their patio for the evening, but there hadn't been any sign of that happening earlier. I bundled up, decided just to walk to the light by the Frontier where I could get a second look at the place.

Yale Park looked wide and empty with the signs, the info table, and the kitchen tent taken down. The police were still there, standing silent and evenly spaced. But out on the sidewalk -- in the six feet or so of undisputed, concrete free zone -- about 50 people were, with enthusiasm and great efficiency, holding the nightly General Assembly. As I approached I could hear them using the 'human mic': the practice of repeating a speaker's words in unison, in small increments, so that everyone in the crowd could hear them. They had it down to an art form, on this night. It was an immediate call-and-response that bounced one phrase, and then the next, around the tight concentric huddle almost as fast as the mind could process it. It was almost like an echo of one voice: "Next agenda item/NEXT AGENDA ITEM! We have a proposal/WE HAVE A PROPOSAL!" Without missing a beat they covered the day's announcements, read a notice of support from several of the city's unions, and then a statement about standing with our communities' workers and their families as they struggle to create a better world. I was elated to learn that 'consensing' is now a verb, and to witness that action flowing round the circle like the firing of synapses. Fingers waved their assent like live neurons in the moment made visible. The tide of rising and falling voices was a joy to listen to, and to join my voice with the others was to dive into a warm, translucent sea of shared optimism and competence.

The evening's four facilitators moved expertly through the agenda, following the agreed procedures of speaking in turn, acknowledgement, deep listening. But they were interrupted at one point by another voice. A UNM professor stepped up, a man who made possible the recent teach-ins, and possibly some of the dialogue (as one-sided as much of it was) with university administration. Facing the circle he announced (apologizing for the break of respectful protocols) that the UNM police standing several yards away wanted to express their appreciation for our fine way of handling the awkward situation which their bosses had put them and all of us in. A great cheer went up from the group, and about a hundred waving consensing hands. Somebody yelled, "Cops are part of the 99% too!" Since we were maintaining the human mic, most people immediately repeated this exclamation, as we turned smiling to face the quiet line of men and women. They made no response, having apparently said their piece and, possibly, risked their job security enough for one evening.

The meeting returned to the agenda. They had agreed to pause at 8 p.m. and observe a moment of silence in honor of Occupy Oakland, and Scott Olsen in particular. "Does anyone NOT know who Scott Olsen is?" called out the chubby young man keeping the minutes on his laptop. One hand went up in the back. "Will someone please get with that man and inform him?" the minute-keeper cried. Without a pause, someone moved in the indicated direction, and the talk continued.

As 8:00 drew closer, one of the facilitators motioned to a man standing just behind her. The man - stocky, late-40's perhaps, thin mustache, long braid down his back - looked Native American and Mexican, with the added, unnaturally intense coloring of someone who's been living without shelter for a while. "We have a proposal," the facilitator called out (WE HAVE A PROPOSAL)to include this man's girlfriend in the moment of silence. She died this week. Her name was Stephanie." "Would the man like to say a few words about her?" a woman asked. The facilitator turned to him in silent question. The expression on his round face was the saddest I've seen in a very long time. He was silent a few seconds. Then he spoke, not very loudly. "She died four days ago." The human mic, primed by now to a heartbeat-length response, echoed his words: SHE DIED FOUR DAYS AGO. People glanced around as they said this to each other. He breathed, looked down, spoke again. "She died in my lap." There was a just-audible pause, then SHE DIED IN MY LAP, repeated the people. I could barely see the man at this point, ducking down as I was to fight off a wave of tears. I only hope he heard the repetition the way I did: an honoring of his story, a momentary re-telling of his sorrow into the collective memory.

At 8:00, at someone else's suggestion, we spread out along the sidewalk holding hands, and began 5 minutes of complete silence. There were enough of us that our human chain stretched the entire length of the park - maybe a little over a city block. The cars that passed continued to honk their approval, but for this moment we made no response. When the meeting reconvened, I was too far adrift in the sadness, gratitude, and deep deep peace to join them again. I said goodnight to a couple of friends, and started home.

At the crowd's edge, the man we had held part of our silence for was sitting on a low concrete wall. His expression was as vacant and without purpose as the park behind us. Three or four young people sat near him, not talking, just keeping a sort of quiet offer of company or vigil. I crouched in front of him, said "I'm sorry for your loss." Without entirely looking up, he reached out his right arm to hug me. "I hear you, sister," he said in his bone-weary voice. "I hear you."

compliment

Best compliment today that I've had in quite a while. Some of the most heartening words, too. After la danza, a compadre I don't know as well asks me, "How long have you been dancing?" He's lived in NM awhile, but originally comes from Mexico City and has danced with other groups in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and Denver. So, he's seen the scene. I sigh and answer, full of the everpresent frustration at my slowness, "Two and a half years." "Really?" he exclaims. "You dance this well after such a short time?"

2Jungquotesforme

"Loneliness does not come from having no people about one but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible."

"The unexpected and the incredible belong to this world. Only then is life whole."

--C. Jung

better yet

what can I give you then
I can't take your pain
or even sit with it an hour
can't unmake years of unknown sorrow
or a lifetime of small disappointments
your accumulating years of not-enough
and quiet desperation
I can't make you better
you or the belabored world
but can I offer a few images to imagine
some small gifts of the road
should they lift your spirit
or raise your eyes to something more
and o there is something more
outside the plastic and the package they have sold you
outside the trauma and the thousand lies they told you
outside the media and all mediators unneeded
so many many paths to freedom
as many ways as there are humans
as many doors as there are moments
and here are just a few of mine
that opened the real
re-membered to belonging
broke me into beauty
and counted to One

sunbright clearing sung with dragonflies and hummingbirds
Colorado breathed from its blinding crystal summit
lightning crash and the bliss of safety stolen then returned
bear elk and owl shiver reason's edges as they pass

last weary roadbend opens onto to ocean
stranger's kind word at the farthest point from home
the dream is a map of the road is protection
those with the least give the wealth of their welcome to you

stories passed over pinon fire on a starry mesa
rain breaking midnight with tin roof song
the clarity of light seen through hunger
the vibrance of green after drought

baby smiles you message from the infinite: you are perfectly accepted
homeless man calls you angel and pulls back the veil
priest at the altar laughs spontaneous, good-humored, at his own mistake
silent room of silver-haireds in meditation bends and bursts on a wave of laughter irresistible

carrots that still taste of earth and peaches still of sunshine
dirt beneath your fingernails
endorphin ache of giving more than all to the dance
blessed imperfection of the thing you built by hand

one bird startling skyward out of cedar spiral
dreamtime welcome to your homeground and community's embrace
dawn over deep water as sky sings your secret name
recognition returning your tribe after so long apart
this is not all there is
this is suffering and this is love
it gets worse and it gets better yet
there is more
there is more
there is more...

better

It's the sitting area outside a clinic, inside UNM hospital. I'm waiting for a door to open and somebody to call my name. And trying to ignore the everpresent TV just overhead, in the meantime. Or, failing that, to be grateful for the reminder, for the moment of perspective: few things like a public waiting room -- at any institution, really -- explain as well why so much of humankind is operating at the level that it is. The observations of the level of physical and emotional survival of so many are an invaluable insight. As are the inventories of what 'the masses' are given -- their diet of food, medicine, and mainstream media, to name a few -- with which to nourish body and soul. What they're given, and what they continue to accept.

I'm trying not to judge here. Really. Trying not to think in terms of motives or other things that I can't actually know about people. Just to explain, or at best to empathize. To imagine how my mind would function, if consistently exposed to the tangible and intangible mind-altering drug that is commercial television. To say nothing of the commercials themselves. After so many years of having been with decreasing frequency in its company, I'm just nothing but startled at what comes out of that little box. I truly can't believe that anybody ever thought of this stuff. Much less that others would choose to watch it, for entertainment. For any purpose not forced on them.

The program on right now involves a short thin woman asking a tall, slightly overweight woman how to shop for healthy groceries, while "staying on budget". They walk around a florescent-lit supermarket, pushing a loaded shopping cart down aisles as they talk. "What should we look for, if we want to be sure we're eating healthy?" asks the short woman. The taller expert advises scanning the labels of these many plastic-wrapped objects for the words 'organic', 'all-natural' or 'whole-grain'. Although, she points out, "'natural' means something different to every company, and is not regulated by the government like 'organic' is..." That's for sure -- "natural" is one of those words that should only appear in the public sphere surrounded by bold-face quotation marks. But, what's this? We need written directions, key-word-recognition, to inform us what foods nurture us? I know not everyone got the benefit of the high-intensity whole-foods experiment that my family subjected itself to when I was a kid (produce we planted, weeded, picked, washed ourselves; super-density bread that began with grinding wheat kernels in a food processor), but...really? Do we not come with any more help from our own operating systems? Is this what a lifetime of choosing one plastic bag over another does to the powers of discernment?

The expert is pointing out another budget strategy: using coupons that are good for all the items of a certain brand to get a more expensive jar of 'organic' tomato sauce, for example, for the price of the conventional. "It is NOT unethical", she assures her companion, "to use these coupons for the organic product." What a relief, that we're allowed to raise our sights just a little without compromising our consumer values. Just don't mention going for any ideals here: this is daytime TV...

We break for commercials. I almost laugh out loud when I see that even the name of the show is a relative term: "Better". We can't possibly see our benumbed collective way to "Ideal" or "Real" or "Best". Only to some middle-ground plateau between our physical and intellectual poverty, and what (some of us believe) we were created to be.

Can't bear to see the commercials. Nothing in the reality I understand moves that fast, or is that garish. I glance around the room. Of the 13 people waiting, 7 have heads bowed, communing with a faraway someone through texting. A young couple is arguing, in painfully honest terms, over all the ways each has wounded the other and whether or not they can forgive. They sit barely making eye contact, separated by two empty chairs, but the tension that pulls them toward each other is palpable. Two women in the room have young daughters with them; one mother gazes into the crystal display of her phone while her girl plays with an electronic talking toy. The other is wonderfully engaged with her one-or-two-year-old, talking, gesturing, responding to the little one's happy incoherent sounds. Against the far wall, a man and woman in army drab and boots sit side by side, wearing the same name on their uniform shirts. They talk very little, mostly gaze straight ahead, but both are smiling as if they know a happy secret.

Perhaps I could feel some relief that all 13 people aren't turning identical glazed stares toward the TV set. Maybe our mediaddictions don't pervade the way I thought they did. I look around again. A sign at the reception desk reads, "please do not use cell phone during your exam". Nope. I think it's a collective habit we've got, if there's a need for a sign such as that.

The woman at the desk gives me a paper affirming that UNMCare is committed to a program of "quality, excellence and compassion". I'd believe it. Almost everyone I've dealt with - doctors, assistants, receptionists - has been courteous, willing to listen and to answer questions. It occurs to me that their vision statement would be useful to offer to oneself, on the journey of getting well and staying well. Do I maintain a standing offer of quality, excellence and compassion in my dealings with myself? In the health that I create for me, as far as it's up to me? In the terms and conditions of the everyday I inhabit? Maybe...maybe not. I do gift myself with a healthier-than-average diet (as plastic-free as possible, and natural without the quote marks), but when it comes to the kind of inner compassion and forgiveness proposed, for example, by the book I'm carrying (from which I read a few more pages, here in the waiting room, before the TV's electronic hum distracted me), I've got room for improvement in my own vision, as well.

Again, I don't want to criticize the fellow humans that I see in public spaces. We all sit in some limbo of our own here. We're all waiting, looking sometimes for a way from here to there. Reaching for some level of healthy, alive, free. The sincerity of our effort is sometimes as painful to consider as are our failures to try. But why don't we want to try more? How can we, so many of us, be fine with remaining in our seats, letting the TV tell us what things like health and quality of life are? Why don't more people trapped under the glare of televisions rise up in indignation at its suggestions -- or at least laugh out loud once in a while? How can they be content with its shrink-wrapped propositions? Don't we originate with, or at least find along the way, many more stimulating possibilities? Don't we have that in ourselves, whether or not we were educated to seek it? When I described this scene, a friend commented, "For some, dreaming is all they want from life." Wow. If this is dreaming, I could dream of a life a whole lot healthier, juicier, more free than what that little screen boxes in. Even when I don't have any idea how to get there. Doesn't anybody else dream of 'better', without quotation marks? Or even, dare I say it, of their own unlimited vision of 'best'?

raindance

unlatch latent atmosphere
unlock water's bond with air
and inundate and sate this waiting ground

let earth exhale its weight of tension
pure survival in attention held so long
fine light find every separate surface
diamond it with drops of life
unite again above below
put to flight doubts of abundance
droughts of substance sustenance
and of beauty

recall leaves true green
lost shine verdant vibrance
land's life lease renew
oppressive heat release
let sky sign message of continuing

rewrite secret ciphers
drops rearranging dust
a hundred hidden messages on
every occluded surface
leave us to decode, conclude
or only joy in mystery reexposed

breeze away stagnation
breathing scent of infinite
in finished and unfinished
finesse of essences
blessed presences manifest
tell us we are not deserted
on this high and dry
but cycling in circle of completeness
time and timing poverty and sweetness
re-rhythm us free drink deep dreaming
sink new roots to share save circulate
all our regeneration

volando

Charango, guitar and a long arc of percussion wove a waiting forest clearing into which his wooden flute's music alit. Never had I heard a simple flute played with such sweetness and clarity of inflection. I had to keep my eyes closed while he was playing (even though he was in fact beautiful to look at, flowing black hair and all), because with sight it was just another afternoon in the desert, a crowd of people dancing up dust under a big cottonwood. Without -- or rather, within, inside that spontaneous sonic unsighted space, the music's essence portalled another world. A winding path opened through vinelaced primordial trees, sunshot illumination filtered slowly down, and a giant greengold butterfly waved sinuous wings above and ahead of me. I left all the world behind just to know where that butterfly would go, and in the moment even that wish vanished: it was enough just to follow (feet not touching the ground, at times) and watch its luminous lilt catch the treelight now on one wing, now the other...