Category Archives: Human Connections

Glitter, Gloss & Human Dignity

Last Saturday, I attended the San Francisco Gay Men’s Holiday Spectacular at the Sydney Goldstein Theater in San Francisco for the first time. Oh! What a night!

When my daughter and I arrived, a quiet but eager crowd was gathered around the theater’s entrance. We donned our required Covid masks and presented our tickets to a friendly usher who pointed to the stairs. Above, another smiling usher led us to our excellent seats and we sat down—only two in a theater filled with Christmas sweaters and holiday cheer. Excited voices murmured throughout the cavernous room.

The stage curtain was lit up with the title of the chorus in capitalized red letters, and, a few minutes later, the curtain opened to reveal the silhouette of risers brimming with over 200 singers. The lights came on, and the audience suddenly saw ten rows of men dressed in long-sleeved red T-shirts and black bottoms on a staircase of risers. The orchestra began, the conductor raised his arms, and the men began to sing.

Young men, gray-haired men, bald men, men with beards, men wearing skirts, men with canes, and men sitting on stools all crowded the risers and faced the music conductor with professionalism and purpose. No one read lyrics from a song sheet. All of them sang by memory.

The chorus sang “On this Shining Night” by Morten Lauredsen, a song I had sung with the Blackhawk Chorus a few years ago. The men’s voices were rich, on tune, piano and forte. I fell in love with their sound.

After each song, several chorus members quietly exited from the risers and went back stage. As the next song began, these members came back on stage as dancers in various costumes to complement the chorus. Some stood at microphones at the front of the stage to sing solos.

In the middle of the performance, the chorus sang a long rendition of “Jingle Bells” that got the audience toe-tapping and clapping. They sang many verses in a variety of styles that became more exuberant all the way to the song’s finale.

The song that sent shivers up my spine was “Huddled Masses” by Shaina Taub, a song about the plight of immigrants and our moral duty to support them. The conductor explained to the audience that, although this wasn’t a Christmas song, it promoted the spirit of Christmas, which is love.

On the right side of the stage, in front of a glowing Christmas tree, was a sign-language interpreter who signed the words of each song. His hands gracefully moved as the singers slowed their tempo and stretched the lyrics over a series of beats.

One of the last songs was “Silent Night.” The orchestra began the introduction and then the chorus, instead of singing, signed the first verse silently. When it was time for the second verse, the orchestra stopped, and the chorus continued to sign the verse as the audience watched in silent wonder. In the quiet of the moment, my heart filled with so much gratitude to the chorus for expressing what a deaf person hears and how silence can evoke wonder and awe.

Later in the program, the chorus held a moment of silence for the five LGBTQ persons recently gunned down in Colorado Springs. For two hours, without an intermission, and with energy and vitality, the chorus recited lyrics of peace and promoted love in both prose and lyrics. This was a night filled with joy despite life’s hardships and disappointments.

I left the theater with happiness in my heart—contentment that I live near San Francisco, a city filled with respect and love for the LGBTQ community—because I know, that a culture that treats all persons with dignity is the cheeriest place on earth.

The Kashubian Warriors of Winona

Even the sweetest human being contains a little bit of wickedness, and the most awful person possesses at least a little goodness.  This is because each person is made from a complex collection of DNA that has been blended over and over again, generation after countless generation; furthermore, these durable genes have survived a variety of political systems, religions, geographic locations, war, peace, cruelty, and kindness—all of the experiences of their ancestors. 

One day, when I visited the Polish Museum in Winona, Minnesota, I saw a photograph of one of my ancestors, Lawrence Bronk.  I thought I was looking at a photograph of my father—a man of fine build, blonde hair, and handsome face; however, Lawrence was the brother of my Great-great-grandfather Ignatius, and he immigrated to Winona, not from Poland, but from Kashubia, a place that bordered the Baltic Sea. This man inspired me to find out just who these Kashubians were and what made them Kashubian instead of Polish.

Not only did I research the immigration of the Kashubians to North America, but I also investigated how the Kashubians settled in Kashubia.  What I found out was that I was related to people who had lived complex lives of peace, aggression, oppression, and chaos throughout the centuries.  This is their story.

After the Roman Empire dissolved in the 6th Century, Slavic tribes from the East, mainly from the Ukraine area, migrated north into Russia, west into what is now known as Germany and Poland and the Czech Republic, and south into the Adriatic Region.  These were distinct from the Germanic tribes that had migrated from Scandinavia into the Roman Empire starting in the 4th Century.

The Kashubians were a Slavic tribe that settled in Eastern Europe on the coast of the Baltic Sea at that time.  Specifically, they claimed a region of land that was south of Sweden, north of Poland, east of the German homeland, and west of Lithuania.   Their ancient territory stretches from the Kashubian capital city of Gdansk to as far as the German Capital of Berlin. It lies between the Odra River to the west and the Vistula River to the east. The whole north side borders the Baltic Sea.

During the migration, the Slavs became a nuisance to the Byzantine Empire, which was really the eastern part of the Roman Empire that lasted for a thousand years after the fall of the western Roman Empire.  Since Slavs were an adaptable species, they learned how to use the weapons of those they conquered and attacked cities instead of trade routes. 

These pillaging Slavs believed in nature, and they had adopted a mythology consisting of a pantheon of gods.  Their shamans were known for telling great tales about their gods, and the Slavs traditions and way of life were developed from these tales.  

The Byzantine rulers wished to calm these robust terrorists, so they ordered two scholars and brothers, Cyril and Methodius, to educate the Slavs in the Glagolitic alphabet, which was closely connected to the teachings of Christianity.  This is how Kashubians and other Slavs became Roman Catholics. 

When the Byzantine Empire ended, the Slavs created Slavic kingdoms across Eastern Europe, effectively squelching the influence of the Mongol tribes who wished to spread their Muslim religion. 

The Kashubs were also called Pomeranians, which translates to “the people by the sea”. When they settled by the Baltic Sea, they spent many years isolated from other Slavs and peoples.  This allowed them to develop their unique Kashubian dialect and create their own traditions, folklore, music, dance and cuisine. Their access to land induced them to become an agricultural people, farmers who worked the land to provide for their families.  They organized their smallest community structure into Catholic parishes, and their lives centered around their religion. 

Eventually, the German Empire encroached upon the independence of the Kashubian people, and Kashubia became part of Prussia.  Their German rulers forced priests to say Mass in German instead of the native Kashubian language, and the Kashubians strongly resented this.  Farmers had large families so that children could help work the land, but when these broods of children grew into adulthood, there wasn’t enough farmland for them to farm; therefore, the German government offered Kashubians free or cheap travel to North America where homesteads and land were abundant.

On May 14, 1859, three sailing ships left Hamburg, Germany for Quebec, Canada, carrying a host of Kashubian families.  The names of the ships were the Laura, Donau, and Elbe.  The river that connects Hamburg to the Baltic Sea is the Elbe, so the ship named Elba was likely named after this river, a common German practice for naming ships.

On board the Elbe were families with the surnames of von Bronk, Galewski, Kistowski, Konkel, Libera, Piekarski, Platowna, Rzenszewicz (Runsavage), Walinski, who knew each other in their homeland.  The records of the ship were posted in German using Prussia as the land of origin; however, Kashubians never did consider themselves German. 

My ancestors on the Elbe consisted of the Joseph and Francisca von Bronk family, including their five sons—Johann, Ignatz, Vincent, Lorenz, and Jacob.  Von is a German preposition meaning “from,” so this label indicates they came from a place called “Bronk.”  In the Kashubian region, there is a forest known as “Bronki” so they may have originated from that specific place.  All of the passengers listed on this ship were classified as “Landsmann,” indicating that they were farmers. 

Joseph von Bronk is my Great-great-great grandfather.  His son Ignatz, who changed the spelling of his name to Ignatius, is my Great-great grandfather mentioned above.  The family left Quebec and traveled south, eventually arriving in the Winona area before the end of 1859.  Many of the families who traveled across the Atlantic with them also settled in the Winona area.  Others stayed in Canada and founded another Kashubian town known as Wilno. 

The Winona area was a lot like their home in Kashubia where there were plentiful forests, abundant water and fishing, and land for farming.  At first, the Kashubians settled on the east side of what is now known as Winona where they established a Kashubian village.  In 1886 after his second wife died, Ignatius bought land in Pine Creek, Wisconsin.  This property is owned by my Uncle David and Aunt Linda today. 

Artifacts in the Polish Museum in Winona revealed that the Kashubians were a literary and creative people.  Many of their descendants have continued the strong story-telling and writing traditions of the culture, including me, for instance.  Their colorful embroidery and distinctive pottery are world-renowned, and their flag and national symbols are celebrated today, not only in Kashubia, but now in the Kashubian communities all over North America. 

Today, in Winona and in the surrounding farms, the Kashubian descendants live in harmony with Polish, German, and Swedish peoples.  They work in each other’s businesses, attend each other’s weddings and baptisms, and share the same merry-go-rounds. 

This is the Kashubian story.  Now this is my advice.  If you have a Kashubian neighbor, laugh at their jokes, never insult them, keep the peace.  A Kashubian is a warrior.  Behind that friendly gleam in his eye, behind her engaging smile is a constitution of ferocity.  Those DNA have migrated over mountains, through valleys, into war, across water, and have survived. 

References:

  1. Larry Reski.  Poland to Pine Creek, Wisconsin.  https://polandpinecreek.blogspot.com/2014/02/elbe-departing-from-hamburg-14-may-1859.html.
  2. Haden Chakra.  The Great Migration and Early Slavic History.  https://about-history.com/the-great-migration-and-early-slavic-history/.
  3. Welcome to Wilno. Wilno.com.

Putin’s History Lesson

Putin does not know history.

Great leaders

Do not build empires of bombed out cities,

Where water doesn’t flow and electricity doesn’t heat,

Where theaters are hollow since the drama lives outside,

Where churches are empty because praying goes underground,

Where store shelves are filled with dust instead of bread,

Where people shiver in subways and flee from shrapnel,

Where men must wear helmets and babies wear unwashed diapers,

Where lines form for water, blankets, evacuations,

Where graveyards echo with tragedy.

No, Putin.  Great leaders

Help people build their own cities,

Municipal happy places,

Where growing leaders

Have opportunities to taste love,

And learn how to spread it.

My Christmas Story

I had a fabulous Christmas with my husband and family. My spouse’s eyes lit up like candles when he kissed me and said, “Merry Christmas.” My two-and-a-half year old granddaughter spent two hours drawing on the paper tablecloth with me at Christmas Eve lunch. Her impish smile radiated up as she labeled her squiggly circle as a “rock.” These moments made me happy, but my Christmas blazed with joy on December 20 when I helped Youth Homes organize a holiday party for their former foster young adults at Clayton Valley Bowl in Concord.

Youth Homes is a non-profit organization that provides homes for youth who have grown too old to be housed in foster care, but who don’t have enough experience or financial means to live on their own. Most of their youth take daily medication to help regulate anxiety or other emotional conditions resulting from their troubled pasts. Some have been sexually abused. Others are victims of physical violence. Some have experienced homelessness under cold freeway overpasses, and others have lost parents to prison or untimely death.

With my partner from the Alamo Women’s Club, I arrived at Clayton Valley Bowl at 2 p.m. with boxes of gifts and envelopes of gift cards. We wore double masks to ward off any Covid viruses that might be floating around in such a public place and carried the heavy boxes through the glass doors of the building, across the tattered carpet to the back of the dull, cavernous room.

My friend is a miniature five-foot-tall, sixty-five-year-old woman, but she and I pulled ten foot folding tables out of the side hallway and set them up against the dirty white walls to display our gifts. I wet a paper towel in the nearby restroom to clean sticky patches off of two round tables.

On one long table, we arranged knit hats made by the knitting group of our club; they came in every color imaginable, knitted by hand and by looms by senior women who felt good sharing their talents with people who needed them. Next to the hats, we lined up pillow cases made from floral, Christmas, cowboy, leaves, patchwork and other fabric designs. Each youth would get to take home two of these. Beside the pillow cases, we spread out rows of brightly colored placemats, also made by talented women, generous with their money and time. Each youth could choose two of these.

On the second table, we set up an assortment of prizes, such as a George Forman burger grill, little purses, cozy socks, hand knit scarves, gift bags of candies, and make-up kits. Each youth could trade in his or her raffle ticket for one of these.

The manager of Youth Homes arrived just before 3 p.m. and he greeted us with sparkling eyes, a Christmas mask that wrinkled when he smiled, and knuckle handshakes. Slowly, one by one and two by two, the youth arrived with shy faces and quiet demeanors.

Most of the youth seemed to be about eighteen to twenty two years old. They were tall, small, skinny, overweight, light-skinned, dark-skinned, male, female, happy, and sad.

One girl, taller and larger than me, with dark skin and a head of long, black braids, had taken great care with her outfit. She wore fashionably-torn blue jeans, a plain white Tshirt, and a pretty turquoise, brushed-cotton plaid, long-sleeved shirt. I complimented her immediately and guided her to the two round tables so she could first sign the thank you cards for the donors of all the gifts. When she got to the raffle prize table, she chose the George Forman hamburger grill so she could cook hamburgers in her bedroom.

One young man, about five-feet, six-inches tall, messy dark curly hair, and a warm voice chose all of his presents with his mother in mind. For her, he chose a flowered placemat, a pink pillowcase, and a pink hat with a large tassel. The light in his eyes was soft and tender as he picked up a gift bag of candy for Mom at the raffle-prize table.

Another youth showed my partner and I her artistic eye make-up and proudly proclaimed that she was now working as an event planner. “My job requires a lot of creativity,” she said. She signed the donor thank you cards with a large, flamboyant signature.

Also arriving one-by-one, came the counselors, who worked with these youth, guiding them in their daily living and helping them overcome emotional handicaps and the lack of family support. Ed wore blue jeans and a bright blue shirt; his jolly, outgoing, gregarious personality made us feel appreciated and welcome.

Cheyenne remembered me from two of the online college success workshops that she had conducted for the youth from the interior of her car. During these workshops, I taught the youth how college differed from high school and gave them tips for being successful in college. When she recognized me, I really felt part of the Youth Homes family.

Later, I found out that these counselors would have dinner with the youth on Christmas Day and then take them out for a movie so that none of them would be alone on the holiday. I knew I would be spending Christmas with my family, but part of me wanted to tag along with them, doing what I could to show them how much I wished for them to be happy.

For two hours, we guided the young adults through the gift lines, ensuring that they all received hand-made presents. We gave them $50 gift cards from Target or Kohl’s, and we watched the counselors set up bowling teams, bring out boxes of pizza and jugs of soda, and circle among the youth like they were the best of friends.

Finally, we boxed up the remaining beanie hats, pillowcases, placemats, and raffle prizes for the manager to take back to the office for any youth who couldn’t make it. We tucked the left-over gift certificates into the envelope and handed them over for safe keeping. New youth came into the program at any time, and they all needed clothes, personal items, and financial support.

The counselors masks wrinkled into beaming smiles as they wished us a happy holiday. Some of the youth looked up with big eyes from their pizza as we passed by their tables. Others shouted “thank you” and waved. Two of the larger youth continued playing a competitive bowling game, so when both of them bowled a strike back to back, I raised my firsts and yelled, “Alright!”

Christmas was still a few days away, but, this day, this afternoon that I spent in a dim-lighted bowling alley with no manger scene, no Santa Claus, no reindeer, no twinkling lights, became my favorite day of Christmas 2021.

A Place for All of Us

Last week, I saw Steven Spielberg’s remake of West Side Story with Rachel Zegler as Maria and Ansel Elgort as Tony.  Rita Moreno, who played Anita in the 1961 version, played Valentina, the wife of Doc, who was the original owner of Valentina’s drugstore. 

This fabulous musical—which whips emotions into a frenzy with enthusiastic dancing and impassioned characters—was relevant back in 1961, a time when racism was high in the United States.  For goodness sakes, the Civil Rights Act wasn’t even passed until 1964, three years after this original musical. 

The Civil Rights Act outlawed discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, national origin, and later sexual orientation and gender identity.  This act sought to establish equality for voter registrations, prohibited racial segregation in schools and public places, and outlawed discrimination in employment.

West Side Story, first written in 1957 by Jerome Robbins was inspired by Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.  Remember, Romeo and Juliet came from two different feuding families in Verona.  Robbins wanted his lovers to come from two different religions in America—Maria was to be a Jewish girl and Tony was supposed to be from a Catholic family.

But when Laurents and Leonard Bernstein started collaborating on the musical, they drew inspiration from the Chicano riots in Los Angeles.  By the time the musical was complete, the setting had been moved to New York and the opposing gangs were represented by the Puerto Ricans and poor white communities of the city’s West Side.

The 2021 version is spectacular, and as relevant as ever.  The two opposing factions could be any community in America: men verses women, Whites verses Blacks, heterosexuals verses gays, Christians verses Muslims.  Even though the 1964 Civil Rights Act was supposed to establish equality for every person in the United States, it didn’t.   

People aren’t equal here, and diversity still seems to threaten our various cultures.  Women have not achieved equal pay for equal work, and, even when they work, they experience inequality at home when they are expected to bear most of the responsibility for raising children and doing housework. 

African American men are viewed as dangerous and irresponsible and too often become the targets of police officers or white vigilantes. Furthermore, African Americans are dehumanized for their dark skin and course and curly hair.   

Muslims are labeled as terrorists just because they share the same religion with terrorists on the other side of the world. 

When gay couples want to have children, they are criticized and ostracized.  Transgender individuals are the victims of rape and ridicule. 

American society is still a white supremist society, and most white people don’t understand how pervasive this damaging attitude is to the non-white cultures of our country.  So when two people from different cultures fall in love, their ability to sustain that love is fraught with hatred from their respective communities. 

In Steven Spielberg’s version of West Side Story, Rita Moreno sings the song that begins with “There’s a place for us, some where a place for us.”  She sings about a place with peace, quiet, and open air.  She sings about a time for togetherness, time for recreation, time for learning and caring. 

The poor and discriminated in the United States don’t live in places of peace and quiet.  They live in places filled with pollution, noise, and stress.  They don’t enjoy togetherness when families break down due to financial hardship and lack of opportunity.  They don’t have time to play.  Stress takes up their opportunities to learn, and they don’t feel like anyone cares. 

I cried in the dark theater as Rita Moreno sang this song. 

When will women ever feel as equal as men in American society?  When will their assertiveness and leadership be valued as much?  When will African Americans overcome the cavernous damages that slavery imposed upon them?  When will religions ever learn to respect every individual no matter their gender, sexual orientation, or creed? 

Rita Moreno sang about how, if we hold hands, we can be “halfway there.”  Holding hands requires empathy for one another.  We’re not practicing empathy too well these days.

Let’s really get into each other shoes.  Choose the people who are the most unlike you, and ask yourself, “How would I like to be treated?”  Maybe then, we can start holding hands and finding a place for all of us. 

Wisdom of the Trees: Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Willow

Friday was the last day of class, and Profesora Casti lead her students to Almagro, the part of the city known for its flower vendors.  First, the group wandered among the flower stalls on Acuňa de Figueroa where baskets of roses filled the air with intense fragrances.  Leonie bent over the bunches to breathe in their perfume, and she took turns saying their names out loud with her classmates.  They chatted with the vendors who told them where they grew their flowers and how they worked from early in the morning until late at night planting seeds, hand-watering, and pruning in order to produce the most beautiful flowers. 

The vendors smiled when they talked about Mother’s Day, weddings, and baptisms for which they sold the most flowers.  Some vendors stayed open 24 hours a day.  The best time to buy flowers—late at night or early in the morning.

Then, the class meandered to Calle Sarmiento where even more vendors had their shops.  One shop was filled with tuberose and jasmine, which filled the shop and the air outside its door with heady perfume.  Inside, the vendor was busy wrapping flower bouquets in cellophane paper for a woman and her two daughters. 

Leonie wandered away from the group to admire the lilies of another vendor.  While she was reaching out to touch a petal, a woman dressed in a green apron came out to greet her. 

“Your lilies are gorgeous,” exclaimed Leonie.

“Thank you.  My grandfather used to sell flowers on the streets of Buenos Aires.  My father sold flowers in the old market in stall 8, and, now, I rent this shop here to continue our family tradition.”

Leonie moved under the shade of the willow tree that grew right in front of the storefront.  “I love flowers,” she said.

“I love flowers, too,” replied the vendor.  “I’m sure I’ll sell flowers until I’m old and frail.”

Leonie paused in thought, running the woman’s response through her mind.  Forever was a long time to do just one thing.  Leonie didn’t know that she would ever find something that she wanted to do for so long.

“So,” Leonie asked, “You don’t ever wish that you could do anything else?”

The woman smoothed down the front of her green apron with hands that were crusted with dirt and chapped from years of working with plants.  “No, I never wish to do anything else,” she finally said.  “I feel that each day in my flower shop is another day where I get to express my creativity, and doing that gives me intense joy.  Besides, I know that I like to be around beautiful things, and what could be more beautiful than a shop full of flowers.”

“You seem so contented,” said Leonie.

“You see this willow tree that’s giving you shade?  A willow tree symbolizes fulfilling wishes of the heart.  It also symbolizes inner vision.  I’m lucky to know what fulfills my life.  That knowledge is my inner wisdom.”

The vendor showed Leonie around her tiny shop, identifying the names of all the flowers and inviting her to smell their fragrances.  Leonie told the vendor that she was about to take a trip to search for her life’s purpose.  As the woman listened to her story, her eyes glistened and a whisper of a smile set upon her lips.

Before Leonie left, she held out a yellow rose.  “This rose symbolizes our new friendship,” she said.  “Friends are one of the most precious treasures of your life.  From now one, you and I are lifelong friends.  I wish you success on your trip and hope that you find your version of life fulfillment. 

That night, just before Leonie went to bed, she sat at her desk to write in her journal.  I know what fulfills me, she wrote.  After setting down her pen, she felt anxious.  But I don’t know what fulfills me, she worried.  I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.  I don’t know what makes me happy day after day after day. 

As she sat, she thought about the vendor in the green apron and how she had found fulfillment.  She remembered how gently the woman had picked up each flower and described its characteristics.  She had moved among her flowers with grace, touching each blossom with respect and admiration; her movements were filled with love. 

Now Leonie knew.  The woman had been a messenger from her own soul to teach her how to find her own purpose.  Love was an integral part of finding fulfillment.  When she found out what she loved, she would find her contentment. 

Wisdom of the Trees: Chapter 2/3

Chapter 2 – Birch

During the last week of class, Profesora Casti took the class on field trips so the international students could experience the culture of Buenos Aires.

On Monday, the class walked to the Manzana de Las Luces.  Profesora Casti explained that this was the Block of Enlightenment and contained some of the oldest buildings in Buenos Aires, including the Baroque church of San Ignacio, a church built by the Jesuits between 1686 and 1722. 

The students listened as their instructor explained how the Jesuits also built a school, museum, and pharmacy on the site, and operated all of them until the Spanish came and suppressed the Jesuits.  Since then, the site has been transformed into a university, cathedral, and Argentina’s first medical college.  Later, the Spanish opened Buenos Aires’ first printing press and orphanage on the site, extending its colorful and diverse history. 

What most fascinated Leonie was the warren of tunnels underneath the street, once used to store ammunition during Argentina’s fight for independence.  The students followed each other single file through the narrow, brick tunnels, stooping their heads low under the arched ceilings.  Here and there, the tunnels stopped, the entryways blocked by dirt and rocks from centuries of neglect. Utility lights lit up the corridors, and the lights created shadows on the walls that walked with them. 

When they came outside again, the sunlight blinded Leonie, and she shielded her eyes with her arm, squinting and squeezing her eyes shut until they became adjusted to the brightness.  The students sat down on stone walls in the courtyard to rest.

Leonie sat next to an older woman who was wearing a straw hat and drinking out of a metal flask.   Beside the woman leaned a walking stick, hewn out of white wood marled with yellow scars.  Leonie had never seen a walking stick so beautiful and unusual.

“Are you wondering about my stick?” the woman asked suddenly.

Leonie looked down at the ground quickly, fluttering her eyelids.  “Yes, I am,” responded Leonie.  “It’s so unusual.  What kind of wood is that?”  She slowly raised her eyes to look at the stick and then noticed the woman’s smile.

“I carved this out of birch wood when I was about your age, a wood that signifies new beginnings.  I can see that you are about to start a long journey, one that will give you a new beginning and help you find out your life’s purpose.”

Leonie opened her eyes wide and stared into the woman’s face.  “How did you know that I was going on a journey?  How did you know I was searching for my purpose in life?”

“I am an old soul, and old souls can read energy.  From your energy, I can see that you have suffered a great loss, but this loss will help you gain wisdom and strength, and, in the end, the loss will become your constant companion.”

“My mother died, and I miss her terribly.”  Leonie sank onto the rock perch, remembering the last time she saw her mother’s face.  Her mother had been beautiful, even when she suffered from the cancer.  Her face always glowed with an even sunny complexion, and her smile lit up her eyes like emeralds under a jeweler’s lamp light. 

“The first thing you need to do is to write down your affirmations,” said the old woman, rustling her wide skirts as she turned more to face Leonie.  “Whatever you wish to have, write it down like your already have it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”  Leonie scratched the back of her head.

“An affirmation is a positive assertion that claims something is true.  When you put forth a personal affirmation, all of creation conspires to help you attain it.” 

“That sounds very interesting,” said Leonie, “but my father wants me to go home right after I finish this Spanish class.  I keep thinking I should stay here longer so I can find out what to do with the rest of my life.”

“You must learn how to believe in yourself and not to rely on the opinions of anyone else.  Your father cares for you, but your life is not his.  You must follow your own heart, or you will feel like you are not living.”  The woman stuck one of her tanned hands into the folds of her skirt and took out a small book, about the size of Leonie’s cell phone. 

“This is a gift from me.  Inside this journal are blank pages.  Today, start writing down your affirmations, and then your life and fulfillment will begin.”  The woman smiled at Leonie just as the sun poked through the branches of an oak tree.  Leonie had to close her eyes it was so bright, and when she opened them, the woman with the birch walking stick was gone.

That night, Leonie sat up in bed, the journal opened before her, a pen in her hand.  She wrote—I want to make a difference.  No, that wasn’t right.  The old woman had told her to write as if what she wanted was already true.  She put a line through the sentence and tried again—I am making a difference, she wrote.

Pressing the journal to her chest, she leaned back to see if she felt better.  No.  She still felt like she hadn’t a clue of what to do or how she could contribute to the world. 

Contribute—a good word, she thought.  She wrote another sentence underneath the first one—I am contributing something positive to the world.  Now she felt a little better.  The way she would make a difference would be by contributing something positive.  She didn’t know what that was yet, but she was determined to find out. 

Leonie placed the journal and pen on her nightstand, turned out the lamp, laid her head on her pillow, and fell asleep with a feint smile on her face.

Chapter 3 – Myrtle

On Wednesday, Profesora Casti took the class to Iglesia de Santa Felicitas on Calle Isabel la Catolica in the Barracas District.  The students learned that this church was built in the early nineteenth century in honor of Felicia Antonia Guadalupe Guerrero, considered to be the most beautiful woman in Buenos Aires.  Her husband died from yellow fever, leaving her a widow.  Later, she was killed by her rejected suitor, Enrique Ocampo. 

Leonie walked through the eclectic gothic interior of the church, gazing into the faces of the marble statues of Felicitas and her son and husband.   Around the perimeter of the church, she paused in front of the stained-glass windows, looking into the faces of the saints and admiring the colors of the roses.  She was so intrigued by how the natural light lit up the panes of glass that she didn’t see the young girl until she bumped into her.

“I’m sorry, said Leonie.  I didn’t see you there.  I was so interested in these beautiful windows.”

The girl didn’t respond.  She seemed lost in thought and sad.

“Are you o.k.?” asked Leonie.  She gently touched the girl on her wrist, which she noticed was tied with a long, red ribbon.

The girl was about the same age as Leonie.  She had long brown hair, big brown eyes, full lashes, and a mouth that was wide and voluptuous.  Leonie thought she was beautiful. 

The girl looked at her.  “Oh, I was lost in thought.”  Her eyelashes scanned Leonie from head to toe, and then she smiled.  “Are you a student at the university?”

“Yes, I am.  I’m on a field trip with my Spanish professor.  This is the last week of classes, and we’re touring around Buenos Aires to learn more about the Argentine culture.  May I ask you why you are here?”

“I’m looking for love,” said the girl, waving her wrist in front of her. 

“I don’t understand,” responded Leonie.

“We have a tradition.  If a girl wants love, she comes to the cathedral and ties a ribbon on a branch of the myrtle tree in the garden, which symbolizes romantic and devoted love.  Soon, she will find a love that will be true and lasting.”

“What a nice tradition.”  Leonie smiled at the girl.

“Did your professor tell you that this church is haunted by its namesake?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“The woman for whom this church was built, Felicia, was murdered.  She was shot in the back by her suitor and died on January 30.  People say that on that day, a woman with a pale face and dark hair, dressed all in white, walks from the garden, opens the door to the church, proceeds down the aisle to the main altar and leaves a trail of tears behind her. 

“That’s such a sad story.”

“Now, Felicia brings love to all the women who request it by tying their ribbons on the myrtle tree.  She has turned her tragedy into positive deeds—bringing love to all women of her beloved city.”

“So, you are going to tie your ribbon on the gate?”

“Yes, to find my love.”

“May I help you?”

“I’d like that. Let’s go.”

The two girls walked out of the church together, smiling and chatting as they went.  Once they reached outside, they walked through the roses in the garden until they reached the myrtle tree.  The brown-eyed girl untied the ribbon from her wrist and, with Leonie’s help, tied it around one of the tree’s branches. 

“Thank you for helping me,” said the girl.  “I believe I will find my love even faster because of your kindness.”

“I was honored to share your dream,” said Leonie. 

“Let’s tie a ribbon on the tree so you can find your love.”

“Oh, I’m not ready for love,” said Leonie.

“That doesn’t matter.  Your love will arrive when you are ready.  Here, I have another ribbon.”  The girl pulled another red ribbon out of her pocket and handed it to Leonie.

Leonie raised her chin back and laughed which sounded like the rise and fall of a musical scale.  “I guess it won’t hurt.”  She chose another branch close to the girl’s ribbon and tied hers around it in a bow.

“I’m happy that you will find love too,” said the girl.  The girl smiled at Leonie, placed her hands on her shoulders, and kissed her lightly on each cheek.  Her eyes shone like topaz.

“I will never forget you,” said the girl, and she walked away, her skirts swishing gently from side to side. 

That night, before Leonie fell asleep, she wrote in her book of affirmations.  She wrote—I provide love to the world.  She looked at the words that she had written and thought about the girl with the full lashes who wanted to find love. 

I must first find out what I want, Leonie thought.  Until I know who I am and what my purpose is, I won’t attract the right kind of love. 

One thing I know.  I know I can provide love to others.  I’ll do this first and then, when the time is right, I’ll let someone love me. 

She turned out the light and dreamt about the myrtle tree and its red ribbons.

Wisdom of the Trees: Chapter 1

Photo by DARIAN PRO on Unsplash

From ancient times, trees have symbolized physical and spiritual nourishment, transformation and liberation.

Chapter 1 – Oak

One more week and she was done.  Graduated with a double major.  College over.  More educated than most of the people on earth. 

And you know what?  She wasn’t going back home, even when this class was over.  Her father had paid for a round trip ticket to Buenos Aires, but she was going to cash it in and stay.

This was her chance to really be independent, to find out what her values were without her father’s advice about this job or that apartment, this guy or that outfit. 

She missed her mother though, but her mother wasn’t at home anyway.  When Leonie was supposed to be having the time of her life in college, her mother had contracted breast cancer.  After three surgeries, six months of chemotherapy that sapped her effervescent energy, and twelve weeks of radiation that burned her skin red, the cancer came back. 

Just before she passed away, Leonie and her mother had sat under the oak tree in the back yard, the shadows of its branches spreading like arms across the grass. 

“I can’t lose you, Mom.”  She had wept beside her mom, the shade of the giant tree darkening her tears like black pearls.

“You won’t feel the same, but you’ll never lose me.  You’ll just have to learn how to live with me differently.” 

Leonie had felt so confused.  She stared at her mother’s face so that she could remember it—her gray-blue eyes, silky skin, a mouth that always held the hint of a smile.  She stared deep into her eyes, holding on, wishing for more time.

“I’ll be with you,” said her mother.  “I’ll guide you from a new place, a place you cannot see, but that is nevertheless powerful.  You’ll feel me.”

Leonie clutched her mother’s hand.

“I want you to find your inner strength.  Emulate this oak tree.  Every time you feel weak or lost, visualize yourself as an oak tree, rising strong, spreading wide, enduring challenge and finding the sun.  You won’t be alone because I’ll be beside you, breathing my love into your heart.”

“But I won’t see you.  You’re my inspiration.  I’ll be lost without you.”

“My love will remain here.  When you can no longer physically see me, you can find other women to inspire you.  Choose many, in fact.  One to follow for leadership skills, another to learn the art of love, and another to learn how to live with joy.  She may be one of your professors, a co-worker, a girl friend, a friend’s mother, or a woman you meet only one time in your life. Whatever you wish to be, you can find a woman to inspire you.”

“How can you be so strong?  You’re dying!”

“I’m content because I know that I will continue my life in another form.  My spirit is not dying.  My soul will continue, and I’ll grow from its future experiences.  I have many things to look forward to.”

Leonie remembered this conversation as she held her mother’s ashes six months later, secured in a pearlescent urn shaped like a heart.  Leonie kissed the top of the urn before placing it in the niche at the cemetery.   “Enjoy your journey, Mom,” she whispered.

Later, as she sat in the back yard next to her mother’s chair, Leonie thought she heard her mother’s voice.  No, maybe it was the breeze rustling the limbs of the oak tree instead. 

“My journey will be right alongside you,” said the breeze.

Staying focused on her studies was impossible after her mother’s death, but her girl friends had helped, and then Leonie decided to go overseas for a change of scenery—a much needed distraction that she needed to survive.

So now, she was in Buenos Aires and hungry.  She lived in a shabby dorm room in the basement of the university and tutored students in English to make money, but it wasn’t enough. 

Leonie searched through her backpack for something to eat: an empty plastic juice bottle, a paper envelope from the bocadillo she had for lunch.  She poked her fingers deeper.  Something waxy.  She grabbed at it and pulled out an apple, a little bruised, but it was food.

The next morning, Leonie woke up with a growling stomach and the sound of traffic.  Engines racing, horns blaring, and brakes squealing invaded her tiny room through the high window that wasn’t even big enough for her to crawl through.  Leonie grabbed her shampoo and towel, opened the door, and paced to the single shower room. 

Whew!  It was empty.  The water felt refreshing on her wet head, rinsing off the humidity and sweat of her body from the sweltering night.

Today, she was going to meet a friend that she had met in her Spanish class.  Clarissa was a native Argentinian and Leonie wanted to ask her about traveling throughout the country. 

Upstairs in the dormitory lobby, a canister of coffee stood on a table next to a large blue box of sweet pastries.  Leonie poured the thick, viscous liquid into her own mug, stuck a pastry between her teeth, and whisked out the door.

Clarissa was sitting at a table in the corner of the café with her laptop open when she arrived.  A cup of mate steamed to the right of her computer, Clarissa wildly typing on the keyboard.

“Hey, how’s it going?” asked Leonie, grabbing the back of the chair opposite her, scraping it across the floor, flinging her backpack over a post, and sitting down.

“Hey,” murmured Clarissa, finishing a sentence.

“You know, this Spanish class is my last college class, and I’ve got to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.  I feel lost without my mother, and I don’t want to go home without a plan.  I don’t even know if I want to live there anymore.”

Clarissa picked up her mate, sipped it, and looked up at Leonie. “I suggest that you travel and meet as many people as possible.  They’ll give you new ideas, and you’ll learn that you have endless options,” said Clarissa.

“That does sound good,” said Leonie.  “How should I start?”

“Just go,” said Clarissa. “Don’t think too much.  Don’t plan too much, but be ready to make your trip work each step of the way.  I’m emailing my sister.  She works at the Belmond Hotel, a few miles from Iguazu Falls.  Maybe she can get you a free room.  Iguazu Falls is one place you should go!”

“Oh, I’m so nervous about traveling by myself.  Maybe I’ll just stay here,” responded Leonie.

“Oh, no you won’t,” said Clarissa. “You’re going, and that’s that.”

“We’ll see,” said Leonie.  I have a whole week of classes left.”

“Yes, a whole week to build up your courage and begin your new life.”

Hidden

Photo by Anton Darius on Unsplash

Sylvia had a secret.  One that rolled around in her stomach like a marble in a maze, bashing against the walls until they bruised, swirling her energy into anxiety.

Sylvia’s friend Ruth told detailed stories about how her mother psychologically abused her during her teenage years.  When they were cleaning out her grandmother’s house after her death, Susan had wanted her grandmother’s wooden chest full of yarn.  Her mother refused to let her have it, and, instead, gave it to Susan’s older sister who didn’t even knit.  Susan wondered for decades why she wasn’t good enough to have such a treasured keepsake and why her mother had favored her sister over her.  Ruth told everyone about the hurts in her background, but she still walked around like a broken doll, permanently damaged, as if nothing could ever erase the scars she had suffered.

When Ruth talked about her feelings, Sylvia flashed her own memories across her mind about how her father had favored her sister over her.  “Isn’t she beautiful,” she remembered he had said.  Sylvia had looked in the mirror countless times wondering why no one ever called her beautiful.  She had clear skin, thick hair, blazing green eyes.  Weren’t green eyes as pretty as blue ones? 

Her friend Paul had told her about how his father was never around.  He never played sports with him, never sat with him on the couch for a game of chess, never even got to his high-school graduation until Paul had already walked across the stage and waved to his mother who was frantically waving back with both hands, as if she was waving for two.  Even today, Paul’s father didn’t act like a father, but like a distant friend who sent him an article once in awhile about a topic that never related to Paul’s life.  Paul had worked hard to build self-confidence, but struggling with a narcissistic father made that an up-and-down journey.

Sylvia’s friend Jen talked about her childhood, too.  She told Sylvia how a sixteen-year-old neighbor boy had raped her when she was eleven, luring her into his backyard shed one afternoon and slowly removing her clothes while he talked to her about the different birds in the garden.  Jen said that it was therapeutic to talk about it after so many years of keeping it hidden.  At first, she was embarrassed that it had happened to her.  What did she do to encourage that boy anyway?  Why did she let him get her into the shed by herself?  Didn’t she know better?  Sylvia didn’t see how Jen had let go of the trauma if she still had all these questions in her mind.

When Jen talked, Sylvia nodded empathetically: “It wasn’t your fault.  He took advantage of you.  He was stronger, and you couldn’t have stopped him.”  Inside her chest, however, Sylvia carefully drew a curtain in front of her own heart, shielding it from the memory of her own secret, stopping her from the minute-by-minute re-enactment of the scene, her shame, her acquiescence, her fear of exposure. 

Sylvia didn’t want her friends to know she had suffered so much, had been irreparably violated.  Maybe someone would use the information about her secret as revenge if they ever got angry at her.  They would expose her in front of people she didn’t trust, and she would endure more embarrassment than she could handle. 

Sylvia had spent years searching for her own self-esteem, her worthiness to be loved, her value as a treasured friend, her worth as an employee, her right to be happy at all.  She thought that she should go talk to someone about her secret so that she could get it off her chest.  Would that even work? 

Finally, she made an appointment with a female minister at a church she did not attend.  She told the woman about her secret, and asked her what she should do to heal from it.  

“First, ask God for forgiveness.  God will forgive anyone, even if you can’t forgive.  Once, you’re comfortable that God has forgiven you, then forgive yourself and anyone else involved.”

Sylvia had worked on forgiving herself and the other person involved for years.  Nevertheless, the memories, surfaced again and again like a nightmare when she least expected them.  Sometimes, she even invited them into her thoughts as if she could purge them out of existence by focusing on them one last final time. 

Nothing stopped the nightmares.  They came while she was sleeping in a vivid stream, and her fear rose incrementally during the dream until she would awaken all of a sudden, gasping for breath like she had been under water the whole time.  Her forehead was drenched with sweat, her heart tight with shame.

Sylvia did feel the pain of her friends, and because she did, she could listen to their stories and offer some solace just by suffering with them.  She also understood the pain that her students told her about. 

Samantha was a student in Sylvia’s college composition class.  Samantha’s mother had kicked her and her three-year-old daughter out of the house, and, now Samantha experienced anxiety that interfered with her performance at school.  Sylvia had counseled Samantha through several episodes of anxiety, and she had passed her English class in spite of her mother.

Van suffered from post-traumatic-stress-syndrome ever since he returned from Iraq, and his significant other left him right in the middle of the semester.  Since Sylvia knew what anxiety and poor self esteem felt like, she coached Van step by step until he, too, passed his writing class.

So many of her community college students needed emotional support in order to pass their classes.  Owen’s father beat him.  Misty lived with five family members in a noisy, two-bedroom apartment.  Monica’s parents wanted her to get married like a dutiful Islam daughter and give up going to school.  Randall had spent two weeks living out of his car during the semester until his uncle let him live in his garage. 

Sylvia knew that if she put in more effort to help these students, they could succeed and improve their lives through education and awareness of other opportunities.  Yet, sometimes, as Sylvia sat beside one student or another, she felt like a broken human being trying to help another broken soul.    

Was it true that people who never felt loved died of heart attacks?  Most mornings, she woke up with a tight chest.  She lay in bed breathing in and out of her nose until her chest relaxed a little, but the tightness never fully went away. 

Most people had a secret, didn’t they?  Weren’t most people walking around, hiding their secrets underneath their shirts, their polite manners, their rudeness, their abusive characters, their anxiety, their bullying, their surrender, and their repeated attempts at survival?

Yes, they were, Sylvia knew.  She was, too.  She had endured so many scars and affronts to her character, yet here she was, carrying her secret around like a satchel of wisdom.

Really, she thought she deserved a medal.

The Imagination Grandpa Story 1: The Clock Man’s Wise Clocks

Photo by Ella de Kross on Unsplash

Instead of going to Third Grade, Rosie was in a hospital bed with tubes connected all over her body.  Rosie’s heart had a problem and the doctors took her into an operating room one day to fix it.  Now, she had to lie down in bed all the time, and she couldn’t play.

The day after the operation, Grandpa Joy came in to visit Rosie.  He wore his blue jean jacket that had lots of pockets.  When he came in the door, he took off his beret and placed it on the table beside Rosie’s bed. 

“Should I tell you a story?” he asked.

“O.K.” said Rosie.  She was so bored just lying in bed. 

Grandpa started his story. 

Once upon a time, an old man owned a clock shop.  The shop was a huge room, and clocks covered every inch of the four walls.  He had clocks with black hands, silver hands, gold hands, and bronze hands.  Some clocks had round faces with 12 birds to mark the numbers.  Some clocks were carved out of wood with long pendulums hanging from the clock faces all the way to the bottom of the cases.  On one wall, a whole line of coocoo clocks hung silently, their birds frozen in various stages of entering or leaving through the coocoo doors. 

In the middle of the great room, large trunks were propped on their sides, and, against these great boxes, grandfather and grandmother clocks leaned silently.  No ticking escaped from their chambers because all the them were broken. 

In fact, all of the clocks in the whole store were broken and quiet.  The only noise in the vast room was the scratching from a mouse family that lived inside one of the walls and came out whenever the old man dropped crumbs and bits of cheese from his sandwiches.

One day, a young man came in to buy a clock.  He smiled at the old clock seller when he opened the creaking door and walked right up to the counter.  This young man wanted a clock to give to his wife for her birthday

“What kind of clock should I buy for my wife?” the young man asked. 

“Well, a grandmother clock might be nice,” said the old man.  I have several of them leaning against these big trunks.  Which one do you like?”

The young man hemmed and hawed.  He tucked his first under his chin and looked at the clocks with big eyes.  He peered into the clocks’ faces, and inspected inside the glass doors that held the pendulums. 

“I like this one,” the smiling man said.  “but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“All of these clocks are broken,” said the old man.  “I get them from people who no longer want to fix them, and I save them until someone new comes along that will appreciate them.  Some of these clocks are over a hundred years old.  When someone wants to buy one, I fix it until it works perfectly again.”

“Is an old clock be better than a new one?” asked the young man.

“I’d say so,” said the clock man.  “Old clocks have seen so many years go by.  They’ve watched girls and boys fall in love, lovers get married, babies being born, Christmases and Easters and Passovers celebrated.  And as they’ve watched these stories, they’ve saved these memories as wisdom to pass onto their next owners.  A new clock is just a metal face or a wooden box, but an old clock is a treasure chest of life.”

The smiling man stood in thought for a long minute, and then looked straight into the clock man’s face.  “Well, someday my wife and I would like to have a family, and we’re going to need a lot of wisdom when we do.” 

He peered again into the Grandmother clock standing next to him.  Her face shone like mother-of-pearl and the numerals glistened in the tiny spotlights that hung from the ceiling.  The face was set into a rosewood box and the rose-bronze pendulum matched the numerals.

“I’ll take this one,” said the smiling man.  “My wife will not only love how beautiful it is, but she’ll also love the stories that come with it.”

So the clock man fixed the clock.  He bought new wheels and whirs and inserted them behind the face so that the hands of the clock started moving and the pendulum swung gently from side to side.  He rubbed the face until it shone like a pearl and the rosewood until it gleamed like a shiny chestnut, and he cleaned and dusted every part inside and out.  One week later, the clock was ready.

The next day, the smiling man came into the shop.  With him, he brought a pile of blankets.  He looked around for his clock and his eyes found it standing under a single spotlight, glistening like a mermaid in the sun.

“My wife is going to be so happy,” the smiling man said.  “I can’t wait to get this home.”

The two men helped each other wrap a small blanket around the pendulum inside the clock case.  They covered the outside of the clock with more blankets and tucked the blankets securely so the clock wouldn’t get broken.  Then the smiling man paid for the clock and carried it out the door, his eyes shining like buttons. 

For a whole year, the clock man ate his sandwiches inside his clock shop where only his silent clocks kept him company.  Every day, he dropped crumbs and cheese bits from his sandwiches, and the mouse family darted into the room to pick them up, then rushed back to the hole in the wall. 

People came in to give him their old clocks, and other people came in to buy one of the broken clocks.  The man worked hard to make the clock customers happy, but he was lonely.

Then one day, the smiling man opened the creaking door and stood back.  Inside walked a young smiling woman holding a baby in her arms.  The smiling man walked in behind her.

“I want you to meet my family,” said the smiling man.  “This is my wife Sharon and my new daughter Rosie.”

The old man was so surprised that, at first, he couldn’t speak.  He just stood by the counter and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish for several long seconds.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” he finally uttered.  “Did you like your birthday present?”

“Oh, yes!” replied Sharon.  “My birthday clock is so beautiful that it inspired me to name our new daughter Rosie, like the beautiful rosewood and the mother-of-pearl face.”

The clock man beamed like a shiny copper penny.

“You were right about old clocks,” said the smiling man.  “Sharon’s clock not only inspired us to name our daughter, but it also reminds us to sing every hour, and that makes us happy.”

The old man’s face lit up like a flashlight.

“Would you mind if we visited you once a week so that Rosie gets to know you and learns about your shop of wise clocks.

The clock man looked around his clock shop as if he had never really looked at it before. These clocks were all potential friends, he thought. Then he looked back at the rosewood clock family and knew then that he’d never feel lonely again.

Grandpa was finished with his story, and Rosie looked up at him with shining eyes.

“That was a wonderful story, Grandpa,” she said.  “That baby had the same name as me?  Was it a true story?”

“No, Rosie.  I used my imagination to make it up.  Of course, the idea for the story is true.”

“What do you mean Grandpa?”

“Well, I wanted to tell you a story that started with you, and so I told my imagination to use your name to invent one.”

“Oh, I like that Grandpa.  That makes me happy.”

The Grandpa kissed Rosie’s cheek and tucked her blankets around her.  “When I come back tomorrow, I’ll tell you another story,” he said.  “Meanwhile, you can use your imagination to keep you company until your next visitor comes.”

“O.K. Grandpa.”  Rosie snuggled into her blankets and feel asleep a few minutes later, her face glowing . . .

Where the Spirit Is

Photo by nine koepfer on Unsplash

Ten years ago, the twenty-two-year-old son of a dear friend of mine died.  He was a junior at U.C. Davis and had just attended dance lessons the night before he died.  Alex also was intelligent, kind, and thoughtful, and full of an essence that made his face glow.

Six years ago, I went to a memorial for the twenty-five-year-old son some other dear friends of mine.  Max died while he was teaching English in Cambodia.  He was a spiritual, thoughtful, charitable, and intelligent young man.  On his last day, he had helped some friends rebuild their house after a storm.

What sense can be found in these losses?  How can such young people die before they have lived long enough to have children of their own?  How can parents endure the loss of a child?  It seems impossible to figure out the meaning of life when some lives end so early and abruptly.

At church one day, the priest told the congregation that the Hebrew word for spirit “ruach” also means “breath.”  When I heard this, I first thought that it meant that the spirit was alive as long as a person was breathing.  When the breath stopped, the spirit ceased.

But I kept thinking about this.  I know people that have died.  My dad died nine years ago and he is still alive in my life.  I breath thoughts about him or like him or with him at least once a week.  My friend Leona died even longer ago, and I still laugh every time I get lost because she and I got lost all the time.  We never worried because it was so much fun and we were too busy laughing.

My friend Henry died ten years ago.  Henry had lung cancer but he had also a heart attack while walking down the street.  When they put him on life support in the hospital, he registered as brain dead, and eventually died from organ failure.  As I sat next to him in the hospital for three weeks, I slowly realized that it was his time to go and nothing was going to stop him.

DSC06056

Now Henry lives for me in the pearly gold sunshine that bathes the granite face of Half Dome in Yosemite.  On spring afternoons, he walks with me up the mountain path behind my house where the wild flowers meet the even blue sky.  He fills my eyes with memories as I plant new flowers in my back yard.

My mother died last month. I remember her reading to me when I was a tiny, little girl. We sat on the edge of my bed, and her voice brought words to my life for the first time. She bought me pastries when I took the bus with her to the market on Saturdays. I still feel the greasy warmth of these pastries in my hands, and I think of those moments whenever I eat pastries today. During the last year before she died, she called me at least once a week to tell me she loved both me and my husband, Bob. I wondered, at the time, if she had experienced a spiritual enlightenment that instructed her to end her legacy of motherhood with the three most important words a mother could ever say to a child. In fact, the last three words she said to me were “I love you.”

These days, my mother doesn’t appear to me like a bird or a butterfly. I just feel the brush of her arm alongside mine as I go about my daily tasks and find out how to live a life without her pillar in the background. I turn to my phone to call her, and, then, I remember that her new phone number is “unlisted.”

So, what about these young people?  Will they live on like my dad, mom, Leona, and Henry, but come back in a different form?  Has their spirit been transformed from “breath” into something else?

I think these souls have something new to do.  I suspect that they were more evolved than I am and they had already achieved all they needed on this level of existence.  And if this is true, then I am happy that they got promoted.  Nothing is worse than being stuck in a dead-end job where you can already perform every task both forwards and backwards, and you’re yearning for a new experience.

Maybe the meaning of life is that life does have meaning.  Maybe it’s not important that we know where the spirit goes after life, but that we think about where the spirit is while we’re here, while we can sense the “ruach” through every breath.

Surely, the breath is tangible evidence and a good enough reminder that our spirit is alive and well.  I’m grateful for this because I often get caught up in less important details that don’t matter to anyone or anything, except to me for a brief, particular moment.  I need a reminder, like the habitual ticking of a clock or the consistent in and out of my breath to keep me balanced and focused.

But the souls that have stopped breathing don’t need the practice of yoga or any other rituals.  They don’t need the same constant reminders to stay focused on the essential essence of their purpose.  Now, I bet they’re working with a higher form of contemplation.

They make me a little jealous, and a lot inspired.

What should I do? Just what I now am doing. Focus on my “ruach” and make sure that my life has meaning. I’m not alone, after all. I have all of my beloved spirits brushing my arm.

Consideration and Other Covid-19 Behaviors

Way before the age of the internet, the Civil Rights Movement of 1965, the birth of Millennials and the X and Z generations, Emily Post (1872-1960) was promoting cultural humility through her advice about good etiquette. 

The practice of cultural humility promotes the putting aside of rigid personal perspectives and becoming open to the viewpoints of others.  When I engage in cultural humility, I become humble in the promotion of my own understandings and, in my newly-created humility, make room for comprehending the culture of others, especially those cultures that differ greatly from my own.  In this process, I contribute to making my community a positive place for all inhabitants to live and thrive. 

Post said that “consideration for the rights and feelings of others is not merely a rule for behavior in public but the very foundation upon which social life is built.” 

What she meant was that consideration for others or the lack of it establishes the foundation of social life.  In places where people show great thoughtfulness for others, social life is positive and fruitful.  When people lack consideration for one another, their social life is injured, broken, and painful. 

But what did Post mean by consideration?  It turns out that she interpreted the meaning of consideration the same as the meaning of cultural humility.  To Post, consideration benefits all of people involved in a decision, encourages a positive outcome, a better community. 

In promoting good etiquette, Post described other qualities that should exist along with consideration.

Respect is shown through actions and words.  When I talk about another individual, I honor and value them regardless of their race, creed, gender, or any other possible classification.  I treat them as equal to me and 100 percent worthy of esteem.  This even includes the treatment of people that I may easily consider morally less than me, such as a prisoner in jail for robbing a bank or selling cocaine. 

In his book Just Mercy, for example, Brian Stevenson explains that, because of the inherent biases in our legal system, we should honor and act merciful toward all imprisoned people.  Some of them have been punished with harsh sentences for insignificant crimes, some are mentally impaired and lacked adequate defense during their trials, and some are even innocent. 

With great difficulty and effort, Stevenson, through his organization, Equal Justice Initiative, secured release and freedom for Walter McMillian, a young man sentenced to the Death Penalty for a murder he did not commit. 

Stevenson makes an even more profound point in his book.  He claims convincingly that “each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

How many of us have skeletons in our closets, secrets from our teenage years, or idiotic histories from our youth?  Maybe we stole a bottle of scotch from a liquor store when we were in high school just to see if we could do it.  Maybe we drove while intoxicated after a college party, but we never got stopped by the police.  Maybe we smoked marijuana before it was legal and even inhaled, or maybe we did something that is best left in our past because it would mar our current balanced, respected reputation.  When we think back over our own mistakes, we easily can agree with Stevenson that “each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

Another aspect of respect is self-respect.  When someone possesses self-respect, they are equipped to honor others.  Self-respect avoids pushiness or boastfulness from conversation and encourages self-confidence.  When someone is self-confident, they don’t worry about their physical appearance or abilities, but act with integrity and good character, qualities of lasting substance.

Post’s etiquette and the concept of cultural humility also involve “honesty.”  Honesty is knowing our characters and maturity are flawed, yet still trying to speak the truth in a positive way.  Honesty is using our understanding of truth, but recognizing that as we grow and learn, our truth will become a greater expression of love than we are able to express today.

Graciousness was also favored by Post, which she defined as the ability to make everyone feel welcome.  This, too, is the essential purpose of cultural humility.  We open our arms to everyone no matter if they are rich or poor, heterosexual or homosexual, Jewish or Muslim, African or African American, Chinese or Korean, or male or female.  In graciousness, we hug each and every human being and make them feel secure and comfortable in our society.

“I am so happy that you got such a big raise, my friend.”

“Your husband is always welcome at our dinners, Mark.”

“Would your rabbi let me join your Jewish history class.  I’m so fascinated.”

“Tell me about how your family observes Ramadan, Raul.  I want to learn about your religion.”

“When did you decide you wanted to become a doctor, Krystal? I think you’ll be a great one.”

All of these welcoming statements express graciousness.

Finally, Post promoted the practice of kindness as part of good etiquette; likewise, cultural humility cannot exist without the expression of kindness between two people of different backgrounds.  Kindness is warmth from the heart, a transfer of love from one person to another.  When I am practicing kindness, I’m unable to judge, discriminate, belittle, or condemn another human being.  I’m treating people as my equals. 

In this day of social distancing, etiquette and cultural humility, both, can help us navigate our new society, hopefully an environment which is temporary, but now reality.  We have been ordered to stay six feet apart, wear masks in public places, and cover our hands with gloves to protect us from the Corona Virus.

What should we do when we meet people who are not following these protocols and potentially endangering themselves and other people?

If we look to Emily Post’s advice and the practice of cultural humility, we must remember to respect, be honest, act graciously, and confer kindness in our interactions. 

Instead of yelling at someone to back up six feet so we don’t get their germs—“Back up, you bozo!”—instead, we could explain that we are concerned about their safety, so it would be better for them if they left more distance between us.

When witnessing potentially harmful activity such as a gathering in a park, etiquette and cultural humility encourage us to avoid jumping to criticism.  An alternative would be to say, “Isn’t it great to get outside!  Don’t forget to stay six feet apart while you’re having fun.”

If we run into a customer at Safeway who is not wearing a mask, we don’t have to shame her for her insensitive behavior, which only makes us insensitive.  We can nod to her in a friendly way and explain that we feel more comfortable following the mask rule so as to avoid getting infected.  Then, send her on her way with “Stay healthy, my friend.”

If we see our neighbor’s gardener drive up, good etiquette and cultural humility guides us to refrain from judging in case we misjudge instead.  Perhaps the worker is cleaning up the weeds in the back of our neighbor’s house, which qualifies as an essential service.  If the gardener is not doing essential business, but just mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges, we might think about the type of relationship we would like to foster with our neighbor in the long term.  Avoiding confrontation or criticism now can help us to maintain our good connections that promote a friendly and safer neighborhood for everyone involved. 

After this pandemic has passed and our lives get back to a more normal state, if we’ve practiced good etiquette and cultural humility, we’ll have developed good habits for the rest of our lives. 

In addition to fostering better relationships and communities, we’ll have grown into more caring, considerate, and loving human beings.  Our new etiquette-minded, culturally-humble perspective will make us more joyful and help us foster happier relationships. 

Bridges of the Heart

I met an interesting guy in my doctor’s office this morning.

“I build bridges,”  said a sixty-year-old man, dressed in work pants and steel-toed shoes.

I thought he was being metaphorical.

“Really?  That’s so interesting.  Which bridge are you working right now?”

“I’m building a pedestrian bridge in Emeryville, right by Bay Street.  The bridge crosses the railroad track.”

“I love pedestrian bridges.  Usually, they’re artistic.”

“You want to see a bridge that’s artistic?  Pretty soon I’ll be building a bridge at the Facebook headquarters in Menlo Park, right on the San Francisco Bay.  You can look up the rendering of this bridge on Google—just type in “the least functional bridge in the world.”      

When I was alone again, I googled this prospective addition to Facebook’s campus.  The new structure will be a flat zig-zagged bridge that will follow the Bay for a while, then make a ninety-degree, right-angle into the Facebook property where it will meander into a few more forty-five degree turns on its way through the buildings.  Bikers will abhor the turns, which will make them contort their wheels into unfamiliar angles in order to avoid careening off the bridge.  Walkers will likely find entertainment in the cantilevering, yellow rails that line the sloping up and down pathway. 

This bridge was designed by Frank Gehry, one of the most famous architects in the world, and, despite its uniqueness, it will connect Facebook to the Bay, and invite the public to share Facebooks glorious Bay view. 

It won’t be dysfunctional. Bridges connect human beings to one another. 

The best part of a human community is where bridges exist—some are physical structures, but most bridges are invisible spans that connect human beings through their hearts.

The most successful humans understand the influence of bridges.  An oncologist’s medical knowledge has no worth if she cannot cultivate in her patient the will to live.  A judge’s sentence is not fair if she does not consider the accused’s state of mind when he committed the crime.  A government official’s actions are untrustworthy when he fails to consider the well-being and desires of his constituents. A teacher’s expertise in chemistry has no value if he fails to ignite in his students the motivation to learn. 

No amount of brainpower substitutes for a lack of social connection, empathy, and compassion.  The heart is the motivator for living.  The brain is but a vessel of information that the heart may use to either grow or die. 

Because I want to develop positive and nurturing connections to the people in my life, I pay attention to their stories, the ones they tell with their words and their actions.  I am a teacher; therefore, I must inspire students to use their hearts in addition to their brains, but I can’t teach them this skill until I understand where their hearts are. 

I have learned to be humble, but not better than anyone else.  I’m not better than anyone else, and I’m O.K. with that.  I focus on others in order to grow a beneficial relationship with them.  In order to grow into a better human being myself.

Books instruct us to understand other human beings.  Stories demonstrate how people act when they’re hurt, betrayed, abused, and supported.  Stories illustrate that human beings act according to the well-being or the insecurity of their hearts—their peace, nervousness, confidence, shame, or fear. 

One of the most riveting and profound books that I’ve read lately is Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption by Brian Stevenson. 

Stevenson graduated from Harvard Law School and started a non-profit organization in Alabama—the Equal Justice Initiative—to help people who’ve been wrongly convicted, end unfair sentences in criminal cases, and stop racial bias in the criminal justice system.  A intimidating objective, to be sure, but isn’t everything worth fighting for daunting?

What Stevenson reveals in his book is that African Americans have received the harshest sentences for the least crimes.  More than any other part of American society, Blacks are more often wrongly accused of crimes they did not commit, and, oftentimes, for these erroneous crimes, they receive death sentences. 

I learned a lot by reading about Stevenson’s clients, such as Walter who was wrongly accused of killing a white girl inside of a cleaner’s store.  I also learned the horrendous facts about the death penalty process—repentant faces, faulty electrical connections, jerking legs and arms, and burning human cells.

But what I learned more than anything else was how to be a better human being.  Stevenson writes, “There is no wholeness outside of our reciprocal humanity.”  What this means to me is that if I do not always treat other human beings as I would like to be treated, then I am not worthy of anyone’s respect.  

Sounds simple, right?  It is when I’m with people that are like me.  But, when I interact with someone who is not like me and whom I don’t understand, it’s not.  I am White, female, financially stable, employed, and supported by friends and family, but most of humanity is not like me.  This means that I must take the first step in being reciprocal to other races, genders of all kinds, the financially unstable, the unemployed, and those who lack supportive communities. 

I can’t claim that I am wholly human if I don’t exert the effort to understand another person’s position, especially when their lifestyle or life situation is unfamiliar to me.  Stevenson makes this message clear; some of his clients are guilty of crimes, but he still defends them in trying to secure fair sentences and views them with mercy while helping them back into society. 

My life provides me with a great opportunity to learn how to be a more expansive human being.  I don’t work in an office where everyone is female and White.  I don’t live in a community where everyone is white-collared.  I don’t limit my religious experiences to groups that sequester power to the few and judgment to the rest. 

Instead, I teach at a diversified community college and my charge is to educate students from all backgrounds and economic conditions.   For example, this semester, about 5 percent of my students are White and the majority are a mixture of Hispanic, Black, Middle Eastern, Eastern European, and South American.  About 75 percent of my students are heterosexual and the other 25 percent identify as LBGTQ+.   My classes include Catholics, Methodists, Jews, Islamic, and agnostic persons.  

I am blessed.  Being forced to work in an environment where I am challenged to understand differences every day forces me to be open-hearted.  Stevenson’s grandmother told him this: “’You can’t understand most of the important things from a distance, Bryan. You have to get close.’”

My job allows me to get close.  I learn by intimately interacting with people who are as different from me as a redwood is from an oak.  Here are a few of my close encounters.

Sota comes from Japan.  He plans to obtain a business degree in the United States and then go back to Japan to become a successful businessman.  Several times during this semester, Sota has visited me in my office to get advice on his essays.  He asks detailed questions and works hard to improve even though he struggles with the mechanics of English. 

Recently, Sota has been coming to my office to get advice about his application essays to U. C. Berkeley.  For at least four half hour sessions, I have read his essays, advised him on his content, critiqued his sentences, and praised his hard work.  He has learned a lot from me.

This is what I have learned from Sota.  I’ve learned that when someone is willing to work hard, my best compliment to him is supporting him with sound advice and generous time.  I have learned patience, awe, and humility when reading that Sota has endured failure, but has responded with self-examination, and come back to the table with wisdom and optimism.

Alona was born in Martinez, and her beloved father died suddenly last June.  Despite her grief, Alona has stood in front of the class and shared her opinions about adversity with her classmates.  She has shared how she and her sisters spend time together talking about their father’s life and how they miss him.  They cry and heal.  Sometimes, her voice has faltered, but I’ve seen her square her shoulders with the confidence that she is living for a higher purpose.  What I’ve learned from Alona is that using grief as the cornerstone of wisdom is beautiful; the lessons of grief are permanent and strong. 

Ariel comes from Oakland, and, when she entered the classroom, she wore an attitude of entitlement.  Instead of working hard to do her best work, Ariel complained to my Dean when I gave her a failing grade for poor work; she wanted credit for just showing up. 

When I found out about her complaint, I spent more time beside her, coaching her in her thinking and writing skills, turning her away from herself and, instead, toward the perspective of her audience.  Word by word, sentence by sentence, day by day, week by week, Ariel’s eyes slowly, slowly opened wider and her self-orientation transformed into confidence and openness.  What I learned from Ariel is that sometimes it takes a long time to learn how to grow into a more flexible human being, but the journey is still beneficial. First, we must understand what we don’t know. 

Katerine was in a car accident when she was young and sustained a brain injury.  She’s the sweetest, most kind-hearted soul, but her reading, speaking, and writing skills were so poor that she was unlikely to even achieve a two-year college degree.  When Katerine missed classes, I told her that I missed seeing her, and I gave her second chances to complete her missed assignments.  When she demonstrated the need for specific writing lessons, I developed lessons that would benefit her and the whole class, and I told her that she was my inspiration for striving to be a better English teacher.  We bonded.  She worked harder.  We spent time in my office talking about the issues she loved such as global warming.  I convinced her to register to vote.  She finally started earning C’s instead of F’s on her essays. 

What I learned from Katerine is that the most beautiful qualities of a human being center in the heart, not in the polished manuscript of an essay or the mathematical genius of a brain.  But, when the loving qualities of a heart are shared through speaking and writing, they spread like wildfire. 

My students help me build bridges every day.  The bridges that we build are sometimes traditional, sometimes avant-garde, sometimes eccentric, but they all are connections. 

This is what I know now.  Whenever I cross one of these bridges into the heart of another human being, I am designing more bridges of my own, and I am better with more bridges.