Time Machine Hardware

(Written around midnight Thursday, June 3, 2010.)

I am no physicist, but I think I have figured out a method of time travel.

Deb and I went to Knoblocks Hardware the other day, to shop for knobs for “my mom’s” bookcases, which have been ours for years, waiting patiently for us to refinish them.  Deb took the bull by the paintbrush and made the old things beautiful.  We wanted to find knobs to add a touch of uniqueness and that my mom would have appreciated.   So, on the recommendation of Tompkins Hardware, we were off to knoblocks.

I had barely taken two steps into the place when I stopped in my tracks to inhale deeply.

At that moment, I was back at Big Joe’s hardware store, walking into the front door.  I was getting my very first lesson on how to run a business:  Me, “why do you put things on sale?”  Big Joe, “to make things cost less so people can buy them.”  Me, “so, where do you get all this stuff?”  Big Joe, “I buy it, then I sell it to other people who need it.”  Me, “so, you help people out by selling them stuff for less than you paid for it, that’s so nice of you to help people like that.”  (I was obviously totally convinced that his selfless generosity toward me spilled over to his generosity to the world.)  Big Joe, laughing, “no, I sell it for more.  I have to pay the bills.”  Me, still puzzled, but trusting in Joe’s generosity anyway, “oh.  Can I buy something?”

Then, I was back at Knoblock’s in Flint, grinning and saying to Deb, “THIS is what a hardware store is supposed to smell like!”  We lingered at the store, looking at everything:  knobs, pieces of welding steel, beautifully colored arrow fletching, beeswax,  replacement shovel handles, screws, fertilizer, wooden dowels, potato chips, shelves and shelves of ordering catalogues (behind the counter), and a sign noting that they specially make bows and arrows for hunting.  Hardware stores like Knoblocks, or my other contemporary favorite, Tompkins, bring smiles to my face and the same anticipatory alertness that I feel when I walk into a bookstore or a fabric shop.  I never know what treasures await- a new blender to replace my broken one?  A garden torch?  Canopied chairs in which to park my butt while I watch concerts at the upcoming Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival?  I get as excited as a kid in a hardware store- I mean, in a candy store.

Although Savard’s Hardware, Big Joe’s store, has long been closed, I will always associate small family owned hardware stores with love and laughter and adventure.

As summer camping season begins, it is more than fitting that Big Joe is in my heart and on my mind.  The Savard family and our family had a tradition of camping together.  I believe that I was with that gang when I first discovered tent worms.  They were such beautiful fuzzy caterpillars.  On this particular trip, I collected as many as I could find and put them on the roof and sides of our tent.  My mom couldn’t figure out why our tent was crawling with them.  When she caught me relocating them, she asked me why on Earth I was doing that.  I replied that they were supposed to be there because they ARE, after all, tent worms.  Like the whole belly button thing, mom had to explain once again a fact of life that I had misunderstood.  She explained that they are called tent worms because they make their own tents and kill trees.  For a long time, I didn’t want to believe that my beautiful tent worms would kill my beloved trees.

When our families camped together, there was always fun to be had:  eating mom’s half raw yet burned gooey mess of camp pancakes, walks in the woods, learning to squat in the woods without peeing on my feet, campfires, building a homemade sundial, singing, and stories, lots of stories.   My favorite seat at the camp fire was always on Big Joe’s lap.  (Little Joe is my brother-in-law.  We just call both of them Joe now, they know who they are.)  Big Joe assigned us all camp names.  Mom was “Queen of the Road” because she always drove a big van full of noisy kids and she often found shortcuts to our destinations, usually making the van ride about three times as long.  She would say we weren’t lost, we were having an adventure!  (I get my sense of direction from the Queen of the Road.)  My sister, Annette,  was “Princess Blue Eyes”  because she has the most beautiful blue eyes and long eyelashes that I’ve ever seen.  And, my camp name that was bestowed by Big Joe was “Princess Boney Butt,” because his leg would be sore from my butt bones digging into his thighs as I adamantly asserted that no, I wouldn’t rather sit on a log or in a chair.  Of course now, my name would probably be “Princess Wide but Boney Butt.”  And now, I would much prefer a chair- perhaps one with its own canopy.  I can’t remember anyone else’s camp names.  I’d love to hear in the comment section, what camp names people have had, whether Big Joe bestowed them, or your Girl Scout counselor or your great aunt Hilda.

Today, Knoblocks called to say that our knobs are in.  I pulled the message off of our voicemail when I came in from the rain to make wooden markers for the Anaheim and Sweet Bell peppers I was getting ready to plant.

Deb and I worked and played and laughed in the garden for five and a half hours today.  About four of those hours were in the rain.  We had mud in our hair, between our toes and in our belly buttons.  The weeds were willing to let go of their tenacious holds on the Earth with a little help from the rain and Deb’s hard work with “the garden claw”.  Then I  carted their not so little corpses to the compost.  Then, I got to do my favorite part-  I got to start putting plants in the ground, or, rather, the mud.  By the time I was done planting two and a half twelve foot long beds, I did not have one more place to wipe the caked mud from my hands.  I’d already used my pant legs, my big boney butt’s pants, the front of my shirt, the sleeves of my shirt, and, finally, I wiped my hands on my face, then impishly held out my hands as if with a bowl, and said in fake Cockney accent, “Please sir, may I have some more?”

At the point where the mud and cold and rain had us ready to turn in our tools, the rain stopped and the sun came out and the damp soil took almost no time to get warm to the touch.  Along with the emergence of the sun, came the emergence of our new neighbor kid, Steven.  He popped his head over the fence and said, “can I help?”  Of course, I wasn’t going to stop then, with free labor at stake, despite my hunger.  He happily took over my job of toting weeds to the compost pile as I finished hand sifting through my third bed, picking out tiny tendrils of old roots.  Steven was surprised when I told him I’d seen a couple different kinds of beetles in the soil and melodramatic when I told him that what is now dirt was once horse manure.  He seemed interested to learn that earthworms help plow our garden and that the soil is full of life when chemical fertilizers are avoided.    He very conscientiously dug a nice deep hole for his first roma tomato plant and laughed in delight when I told him that we just planted some spaghetti sauce.  I sent him home with a big bunch of tall, muddy green onions that he helped to pull.  He seemed proud as he headed home and the tools were put back in the shed.

As I reflect on my time with Steven, I realize that in some ways, I have become my mother.  I don’t have eleven kids of my own or a nursing career, or a husband, nor did she have a wife.  But I could almost hear her speaking through me while I reached down and pinched off a leaf of sage for Steven to smell.  I imagined how she felt while teaching me how to plant tomatoes as a kid, even if I did omit the lump of horse poop in the hole that she used to have me put in.

So, this week, I have figured out that I can travel through time using the magic of smell or the joy of getting my hands so filthy, I’m not sure if they’ll ever be clean.  Except that the rain and the soil and the kid, and the smells and the laughter and the good memories all work together to scrub my mind clean of negativity.  I wonder if I can apply for a patent for “mental exfoliating scrub,” made with stuff that once came out of a horse’s butt, available in Jasmine or hardware store scent.

Walking among the Ghosts of Flint

(written October 29, 2009, sorry so late)


As a field trip for my psychology of death class, today we went to Glenwood Cemetery on Court Street. After wasting a quarter of a tank of gas by driving around in circles, several times taking the wrong fork and ending up in Grand Blanc once, I finally pulled in to the drive. Despite my agitation and frustration at being half an hour late, as soon as I got out of my car and stepped on that sacred ground, I felt at peace.

I was surrounded with burial markers so old as to be difficult to read and others, shiny new, as if recently placed. The ground is dotted with soft green moss and bright orange maple leaves. And, there was a calm silence surrounding the place (which, at that moment I needed badly because the young woman I had given a ride to barely took a breath or shut her mouth during our entire circular, frustrating tour of the streets of Flint).

As I walked along the one lane drive looking for our classmates, I passed by familiar names: Mott (I said a small thank you at that one for their family’s generosity which continues on to this day), Whiting, Dort, and even White, my mom’s maiden name.

Finally, we caught up to our class, our professor, and the sexton who was giving them a tour. He was going over the who’s who in the great history of flint and the history of the motor car industry and lumber baronies of 150 years ago. So many of the names mentioned weren’t on my radar as being of significance, but without these brave and resilient souls, Flint wouldn’t be what it is today- or what it was in its heyday. Decker. Payne. McCreery.

Each grave marker has a unique beauty, even those that started out plain but have been worn at the edges by time and the elements. My favorite was what I at first thought to be trees that had been cut to stumps. There was a whole family of markers in the shape and texture of trees that had been felled. My professor said that during Victorian times, the chopped tree motif was a common symbol for a life cut short. I left the lane to touch a couple of these, to feel the stone of them and get a closer look at their striking, simple beauty. If I were going to choose a grave marker for myself and a living tree were not a possibility, these beautiful markers could be used as a model for my monument. Interspersed here and there among the stone grave markers are similarly shaped stone objects with metal chain loops sticking out of the sides. These stone hitching posts are there so that we can secure the horse we rode in on. Whitwam. Bergin. Lake.

I was really surprised among the older markers, before antibiotics or sterile anything, how long some of these people lived: 70, 80,90 even. Of course, these seemed to be the monied folk who could afford the extra expense and care of a doctor or a midwife to attend births and illnesses that the poorer folks couldn’t afford. (Things don’t seem to have changed much in that regard.) McCall. Burlingame. Durand.

We were given worksheets to fill out to draw our attention to different aspects of how death memorials and lifespans have changed through time. Since I was so late, I will probably go back on Monday to take a slower look, a more mindful walk at my leisure. Decker. Bishop. MacKinnon.

As I drove out through the wrought iron gates, I posed the question to the chatterbox: “I wonder if there are any black people or Native Americans buried here.” She shrugged off my query and said that you can’t really tell from the names. I think, from the political, social and economic power of many of these families, it is safe to answer “probably not” to my question. During the time of some of these deaths, the underground railroad was very active in the area and, by the 19 teens, a lot of poor white and black folks were migrating here from the South, bringing jazz and Jim Crow. Fenton. Burton. Smith.

Many of the graves are planted in goupings, where the largest marker is in the center, memorializing the family name and patriarch. Smaller headstones are arranged around it naming men and their wives, gathered around the larger marker, like family members roasting marshmallows around the campfire flames reaching toward the stars and making wishes for the future. Aldrich. Northrup. Hess.

HIGH NOON IN BALTIMORE AT CAREFIRST BLUE CROSS-BLUE SHIELD

(Article published in the online paper Baltimore Chronicle and sentinel:)

How does an old man get arrested?

Here’s the story. I joined 30-some folks in front of a high rise building those houses offices of Carefirst in Canton. Our collective energy brightened up a damp, drab October 29th at lunch hour. Marching and chanting slogans like; “Patients, not profits!, Singlepayer now, everybody in, nobody out!, we weren’t welcome. Front doors of this public building were locked so we couldn’t enter.

Later, a group of 4 walked to the back entrance to confront a Carefirst spokesperson. We continued marching in front.

Heading the small delegation, Kevin Zeese, Executive Director of Prosperity Agenda, US. He organized our little adventure locally for the national group called Mobilization for Healthcare for All. So far there have been 26 sit-ins in 23 cities across the country. 138 arrests have occurred while over 200 willingly risked arrests. Dr. Margaret Flowers, a staunch Medicare for all activist accompanied Kevin. She suspended her pediatrics practice to work on this cause fulltime. Margaret’s sparkling personality and intense dedication inspires many to join us to work toward a singlepayer medical system. Dr. Eric Naumberg, a pediatrician from Columbia, went with Kevin and Margaret. Eric, a quiet, compassionate man, is single-minded about singlepayer. He contends that too much of his time and energy trying to be a healer was sucked away by fighting with insurance companies over denial of necessary treatments. Rounding out the group was Maryland State

Delegate, Jill Carter (D-Baltimore).

They demanded, “An end to insurance abuse and immediate approval of all doctor recommended treatment.”

On returning to us, Kevin reported the Carefist response. “He told us to send it in writing and we’ll consider it.”

My silent response, “Fat chance!”

Four of us decided to risk arrest. The plan was for our entire bunch to fill the spacious lobby in the back. However, as we approached the entrance, a rushing tide of Baltimore police, ran for the doors to block our way. In the excitement, Margaret and Eric, along with a Millersville teacher, Patricia Courtney, slipped in and sat down. A policeman and I, simultaneously, spied an unattended door. The race was on. This creaky-kneed old body got there first. Huffing and puffing, I fell on the floor with the others.

When asked to leave, we smiled politely but refused. Officers seemed reluctant to arrest, except the young stud that I beat. Of course, they did their duty. We really tried to be dignified as they marched us to the awaiting paddywagon, but it’s tough to do with handcuffs on. On the ride to Central Booking, we tried to laugh about our situation. Don’t know how the others felt, but I was a bit queasy anticipating this new and mysterious experience in my life.

Why submit ourselves to this degrading aggravation? Let me recount only a few of a myriad of well-known reasons;

- 47 million of our fellow citizens are uninsured.

- 120 Americans die every day from lack of coverage.

- One million of us go bankrupt from medical debt, and 78 percent of those had insurance.

- Sometimes those insurance denials are a death sentence for sentence for patients who trusted their insurance company to protect them from harm.

Health insurance injustices should raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. We should want to buck the political-corporate establishment that shames our country now. If that arouse frustration and anger, you need to be resuscitated.

Here’s an example of bypassing the present madness. One of my sons lost his medical coverage because the small construction company he works for could no longer afford to carry it. He is an excellent interior house painter and drywall installer.

His teeth became painfully infected. They began to rot, loosen and fall out. He couldn’t afford to get them fixed. On Craig’s list, he found a dentist who was willing to trade dental work for painting the walls in his house. So, the dentist got a great paint job, and my son got a new set of choppers and a healed mouth.

A young father I met just this week recounted his Care first story to me. When his daughter was born, his wife’s water broke earlier than expected. He rushed her to the hospital. His doctor found no pulse in his wife’s tummy. Something was terribly wrong! An emergency caesarian section was performed. The baby’s umbilical cord was positioned so that it cut the flow of blood and life giving oxygen. The doctor’s quick and heroic action saved her life.

There seemed no reason the deny payment for great medical treatment. Ah, but, the insurance company manufactured one. They denied payment on grounds that the young dad did not seek a second opinion! Took him a while, but he did pay cash for the life of his, now, healthy, vibrant 4 year old daughter.

Back to our arrest story.

Central Booking was very busy that day. Eric and I waited in a long line of handcuffed men. Margaret and Patty were processed in another area.

When we finally got in the door, the first person we were required to talk to was a nurse. She carefully took our vital signs and asked us about our general health. Next we were shuffled to a physician’s assistant who grilled thoroughly on our entire medical history. Finally, we faced an extensive review of what we had revealed earlier.

Can you see the irony? We protested for a Medicare for all system with no pay for treatment. Going to jail gets you exactly what we have been fighting for. Any incoming inmate with any kind of medical problem can count on a whole team of medical experts to give the full spectrum of needed care.

Eric and I were put in a small, crowded, smelly and very cold holding cell to await a hearing. Our younger cellmates were fascinated and questioned us eagerly about why we were among them. Despite being bored, detoxing, miserable and cold, this mixed-race bunch of so-called, “bad guys”, coexisted peacefully. No nasty name-calling and no fights. Complaining was directed at people outside the cell. Surprisingly, we became a quasi-impermanent family.

Everyone, other than we two old guys, was arrested for drug offenses. If marijuana were legalized, we would have had the miserable place to ourselves.

It took approximately 7 hours to get our hearing with the Court Commissioner. When we rose to leave, many of our young brothers stood up, slapped hands and wished us luck.

The Commissioner quickly set our trial date and released us on our own recog. That’s recognizance to those of you not educated in a jail cell.

After picking our belongings confiscated by police, we were greeted by the smiling face of Kevin Zeese. We found out he had called several times to track our progress through processing. Thank you Kevin!

Would I do this again? Yes if the cause was righteous.

Did I learn anything? Yes, that we are all One family, and we ought to take care of each other.


Charles Loubert
Retired Counseling Psychologist
Writer of two unpublished books
Community Mediator

The Gift of Blood

Yesterday, I had a disturbing encounter with a woman who seemed to honestly not know why giving blood is a good thing. She appeared to believe that saving someone’s life is not a good enough reason to give blood.

I really hope that her saying to her 10-12 year old son “why would anyone want to do that?” was simply her way of stimulating thoughtful conversation with him. I really hope she was trying to get him to say what I was saying behind her, “because it saves people’s lives.” (She had a blank look at that answer.) I really hope that the mistake is mine in misinterpreting her question. I really hope (but doubt) that the ignorance is not hers in believing that the personal discomfort of a needle in the arm is a mere annoyance in the face of saving someone’s life with the red elixir. I really hope that the mistake is mine in failing to see her as trying to get her son to think critically about such an important gift. I really hope (but doubt) that the selfishness is not hers in believing that it is not her or anyone responsibility to help people besides themselves. I really hope that the mistake is mine in seeing the whole short exchange in a cynical light.

I cannot give blood, unfortunately. The first time I donated as a freshman at MSU, I allowed myself to sink into blissful oblivion and got really annoyed when the nurse put smelling salts under my nose to wake me up. I was trying to take a mini mind vacate-tion from the chaos that was my life at the time. The second time I tried to give blood, they told me not to come back. My body would only give up a partial unit. My veins gave up giving up the red with less than a half pint. They had to toss it, because they said that they can only use full units. They said that my veins weren’t able to perform as required.

I am thankful for people like my friend, John, who not only volunteers for the Red Cross, but also donates platelets and whole blood as often as possible. I am thankful because I have a partner who requires a weekly infusion of blood products in the form of Gama globulin in order to stay healthy, probably in order to stay alive. I am thankful because I had a friend in high school who relied on human insulin because his body wouldn’t respond appropriately to swine or synthetic insulin. I am thankful because a friend of mine who is dealing with cancer needs periodic blood transfusions in order to keep up her strength so that she can keep up with her beautiful children. I am thankful because the little old lady across the street had transfusions last week because her own blood was not doing its job on its own. I am thankful for people like John because I cannot give blood myself and I feel like he is giving of himself on my behalf.

For more information on giving blood, you can visit the website of the American Red Cross at: http://www.redcross.org/donate/give/

Teachers of Life in the Classroom

(written June 12, 2009, posted today)

I just finished Tuesdays with Morrie, and I still recommend it. I don’t want to go into too much detail because this small tome speaks volumes for itself. It is a story of a man and his dying teacher. It is their story to tell, not mine. I’m sure it will be another one of those books I re-read periodically.

This book brought to mind so many people whose lives have touched mine, but in particular, I’d like to single out some of my teachers to honor. Although I have had many informal teachers, I want to recognize some of those who have stood in front of my many classes over the years, some of those who touched me in some pivotal way in my life. (They all did on some level whether or not I was/am conscious of their influences. I just am not mentioning all of them.)

Mrs. Bishop- my first grade teacher who caught me cheating on a test on how to tell time. She taught me that I don’t need to cheat in order to look smart. Cheating is stupid and like stealing from another person’s brain. (Besides, what if their answers are wrong?)

Mrs. Arnold- my second grade teacher. I had a crush on her, but was still happy for her when she got married. She helped me learn to deal with bullies without beating them up.

Mr. Pence-my sixth grade social studies and science teacher. Before coming to our school, he taught on a Hopi reservation for a year. Through his stories and his obvious love of the people and the culture and his acute awareness of the devastating poverty and health issues there, he opened my eyes to the richness of diversity. And, he had me build a really cool eyeball model even when I didn’t think I could.

Mrs. Bouton- an English teacher from East Junior High who made linguistics into a fun game and first boosted my confidence in the written word.

Mrs. Neira- my high school English teacher who was the toughest teacher in the school. She piled on homework and graded hard. She didn’t let me get away with only doing as well as everyone else. She made me do my best in order to get a decent grade. Mrs. Neira always gave us her best and expected the same from us. We called her the “ditto queen” (with her total consent) because she didn’t think that any of the English textbooks on the market were adequate. She designed her own exercises and assignments, tailoring them for each class as needed to help us love English and ourselves as much as she did. I trusted her with some of my very personal writings that were not written for class. She said to me “never stop writing”. I have always been grateful for her faith in me. I write letters to her still. She never writes back, but she told me she wouldn’t. After all those years, I still hold out hope that she will write back.

Randall Robinson- an English professor from MSU. I took four or five different classes with him and went to England for a summer to learn from him. Randall taught me to love Shakespeare and made me sit down and shut up while other students lavished me with compliments. That was probably the single most uncomfortable, actually horrifying ten minutes of my life, and I thank him for it. He would never give me a 4.0, not because my writing wasn’t excellent, but because he knew that I was holding back my true soul from the page. He gave me a 4.0 the summer that I wrote a play about someone coming out for the first time as a lesbian to a lifelong friend. (I wish the real experience the following January had been as successful.)

Sister Beard- an African American studies professor at MSU was the coolest feminist black nun that I have ever met. Come to think of it, she is the only one. I had a bit (big) of a crush on her.

Reverend Doctor Kim Yarber- my history of African American religion professor at U of M Flint. Dr. Yarber taught me most of all not to write off anyone based upon their religious label (he is a Baptist minister). And, most of all, he cares what his students learn and he seems invested in how the knowledge his class inspired/inspires his students in everyday, long term and extraordinary ways. He speaks his truth and listens to others as they speak their truth.

Charles Thomas- my religion in American culture professor, who I also know from church. He teaches a touchy and personal subject in a way that encourages his students to express their views and share insights with one another. He seems to enjoy learning from his students as much as he enjoys seeing them get excited about their subjects. I must admit that I was nervous about taking his class because he has seen me at my very best-in the pulpit-where every word and note has been precisely chosen. I was afraid that he would either grade me really hard-using my performance in the pulpit as a measure of my abilities, or grading me too easy because of our church affiliation. He actually did neither of those things. He graded me fairly and I worked hard for his class-as it should be.

Tristan Hassell- teaches Philosophical Foundations of World Religions. His vast and varied mental library of knowledge blows my mind. I had a really hard time deciding on a paper topic for his class because I was afraid I couldn’t be original enough or inspiring enough. Insights from his class have really helped me to go further on the road to clarifying the language for my spiritual journey.

Larry Koch-(pronounced like the word, “cook”) is a sociology professor at U of M Flint. Larry agreed to supervise me in an independent reading class that was the most informative and fun grade I have ever earned. Larry is to me what Morrie is to Mitch Album- but without the terminal illness as a catalyst to the passing on of wisdom.

These are only a few of the formal teachers who have helped me to become who I am becoming. I know there are others whose lessons remain with me in everyday ways. They are in my heart and memories as well.

Of course, I have far more teachers of the informal kind: friends, past lovers and present partner, co-workers, kids I get paid to work with, kids I volunteer to work with, former customers, strangers. Each moment with someone has the potential to become a teaching moment. Each person becomes a teacher when one is receptive to being a student.

I plan to always be a student of those I meet.

Friendship Paths and Prizes

I have been thinking a lot about friendship lately. I think that I have been taking too many people for granted. Not just today’s friends, but friends from my past.

I recently got back in touch with a friend from my hometown who really meant a lot to me. Even though he meant that much to me, somehow, we lost touch. Somehow, I lost touch. For years, he occasionally called my mom’s house to reach me or my brother, John. She would update him on how to reach one or the other of us, and he would call us wherever we were living at the time. I never reciprocated-until now. I looked him up on facebook and have been touching base with him now and then for the past few weeks. Granted, it is nowhere near the three hour phone conversations we used to have a couple of times a week when we were young, but it is good to be back in touch.

Something that I need to tell him, that I never told him before, is that he is one of the reasons that I am alive today. When I met him, I had very little sense of self-worth and often wondered if the world might be better without me in it. He helped me to know that I had some worth in this world. And, he is the reason that I got involved in the church that I went to in high school, where I found other people who valued me as a person, as a unique individual with a brain and a heart and a soul that was my own and valuable to this world. I don’t think I ever told Brian that he helped to save my life.

Church once again plays an important part in my perceptions of myself, and once again, transformative friendships are essential to that experience. Although I no longer consider myself a Christian, and go to a church where more people are likely to call themselves Humanist than Christian, that loving sense of community and welcome are very similar. I still get that “Cheers” bar feel where everyone knows my name that I used to get at my high school church. (I also used to get that when I lived in Lansing, when I’d go to dances at the Center, or to a couple of the gay bars in town. Now I know no one there and get those feel-good moments at UUCF.)

I have heroes there who are transforming our troubled community one garden, one workshop, one bowl of food and one load of recycling at a time. I have heroes there who helped me through my cancer days with Reiki treatments, massage, meals, verbal encouragement, help with the yard work, and just plain being. I have heroes that I have gotten to know through there who are struggling with health or aging issues and who still find energy and love enough to share with me and with others in their lives through words and work. I have heroes there who have not only encouraged me to finally go back and finish my bachelor’s degree, but also have been helping me pay for it. I have the confidence there to get up in the pulpit and be myself and speak my mind and heart and not feel that I have to conform to someone else’s ideal of who they think I should be. I feel honored to be among people who are willing to pick up rakes, shovels, clippers and chainsaws when they know that someone is in need, as several good people that I know through church did for some friends last week.

In short, I guess that today, I just wanted to say thank you to all of you in my life who have extended friendship toward me-whether just for a moment or a lifetime. I too often forget to express how much you mean to me. Thank you.

A Child Remembered

Every time a child dies, grief of the parents and even the grief of strangers leads us to ask: Why is such a young life wasted when they held so much possibility for the future? The death of a child causes people of faith to question the fairness of their god and it causes people of science to scramble for solutions to prevent this type of death in the future. The death of a child feels so senseless and painful.

I recently read an article about a little girl who died around the age of three. She died near the water, covered with pebbles and sand swiftly upon touching bottom. No person of science has scrambled to prevent any future such deaths. Likely, no person of faith raged at their god for the loss of this girl child still donning her mild teeth. Instead, scientists are marveling at her tiny fingers and teeth and, perhaps, a person of faith may question the origin story that they have always unquestioningly accepted- that of Adam and Eve 4300 years ago in the Garden of Eden. This little girl died around the age of three, and it took 3.3 million years for anyone to find her. She is known as the Dikika baby and I read about her online in a National Geographic article assigned by my anthropology professor. (To read the article yourself, go to: http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/11/dikika-baby/sloan-text .)

As I read the article, I was fascinated and excited that such a fossil skeleton was found in such amazing condition, a very rare find and rarer still for being the fossilized bones of a child to be preserved so perfectly. Soft child bones usually decay before the minerals can be replaced by the surrounding minerals of the land and water around them. In that time, if they didn’t decay, they likely were eaten by predators. Her bones are preserved, encased in limestone as if preserved in the cement foundation of a human made building, delicate and expressive, right down to her tiny curled fingers, now made of stone. She is the same species of our ancestor as Lucy, the adult female partial skeleton that was found when I was a kid, only 3 years older than the estimated age of the Dikika baby.

As I read this article, in my head I was thinking of a sad mama Australopithecus afarensis, perhaps Lucy, or perhaps a relative of Lucy. (Not likely Lucy since she was 100,000 years younger than Dikika, as I call the girl.) I imagine this mama crying out as her not quite weaned daughter drew her last breath. I wondered if she fell into the water and died there. Or, did she fall into the water after death, displaced there due to a strong rain or earthquake rolling her downhill until she landed in the wet limestone-rich sand. Or, did her mama have some private burial ceremony by the edge of the water, digging a hole in the sand with her bare hands and lovingly placing her daughter in her sandy, rocky grave soon to be covered in water with the spring floods and rising waters of melting glaciers, and changing shorelines. (As an experiment, when I die you can bury me in sand near water and dig me up periodically to see how long it takes me to become fossilized into stone. No, really. I’m serious. Or not. Maybe I’ll blog one day about my after life wishes.)

As this vision of the unlikely possibility of the mama burying her dead daughter, I imagined the mama’s grief, her cry of anguish. Perhaps the first human word-like sound meant something like, simply, “why?”. Perhaps with that grief-filled desperation inspired hope that out there somewhere, maybe, possibly, there is “something” that knows the answer. “Something” that might respond.

Did I mention that Dikika baby gave anthropologists an extremely rare sample of a hyoid bone, a bone so soft that rarely does it complete the fossilization process. It is the bone that is necessary for human speech. It is the bone that allows grieving mothers across the globe scream out “WHY?” when their sons are killed by war or their daughters are maimed by assault. Dikika baby possessed the secret of language, the cornerstone upon which today’s human cultures depend. She possessed the secret of words, my words, my thoughts, the secret of my words that you now read.

Contraditory Turns on the Path that is my Mind

I find lately that I am a soul full of contradictions.

Yesterday was an awesome day. Deb and I, along with 10 others went to an anti-racism workshop at the U.U., led by Melanie Morrison. I knew Melanie in a surface type of way back when I lived in Lansing. She and her parents, Elanor and Truman have been fighting the good fight against all kinds of oppression and “isms” for as long as I’ve been alive. They founded the Leaven Center, and now Elanor has retired and Melanie has started a new organization called Allies for Change. She does diversity training like what we did yesterday. Her website is: http://alliesforchange.org/ .

Seeing Melanie yesterday made me miss Lansing. I miss Schuler Books where I worked for over 7 years and where my thirst for information and entertainment was always quenched and where the customers and my co-workers challenged me in ways that made me grow into a better person. I was challenged to recognize that no one should be judged because of their gender (men are not the enemy that I once perceived them to be), religion (Christians are not inherently judgmental or bigoted-many are committed to justice, equality and the human experience just as Jesus was), geographic origin, (New Yorkers don’t intend to be rude, it’s just not a Midwestern cultural dance around what needs to be said) or age (I loved and miss some of my older customers who looked out for me, knowing that my parents weren’t close by to make me stay in line and brought me a human mirror and helped me to see more truly who I am and for that I am a far better person than I ever thought myself capable of being). I miss that place. I miss those people.

Being at that workshop not only reminded me of a home that I loved, it re-enforced to me that I have also come to love Flint and no longer pause before calling it “home.” This often surprises me because I see so much lacking here, but I also see so much potential for transformation toward a healing good. I see people like those in the room at that workshop. I see students and faculty at UM Flint striving and succeeding at building a strong dedicated community of diversity and opportunity and service to others. I see locally owned businesses who, despite the economic devastation, stay here, stay opened and continue to faithfully serve their community. I see some of those same businesses, like Good Beans Café, not just taking people’s money, but actively working to change the world for the better by providing a safe haven for LGBT people, artists and community organizers working for change. I see the Flint Farmers Market with a year-round dedication to providing a quality experience for all who enter their doors, but especially connecting with local residents, farmers and artisans. When I go to the Flint Farmers Market, I can either buy some fine wine or a used sci-fi novel. I can get ice cream, artwork and animal shaped stones, lentils, fresh bread, eggs and cheese from all over the world. And, of course, as I so often say, there is the Unitarian Universalist Church of Flint where I found shelter from the storms of segregation and homophobia that I felt surrounded with when I first moved to Flint from Lansing.

So, I have been feeling the contradiction of deeply loving two cities- even though I took a vow as a kid to “never become a city girl.”

Another internal contradiction that the workshop awakened for me is the feeling that I deeply love and appreciate my family for instilling in me a thirst for knowledge and justice, and at the same time color blinding me as far as race is concerned. Although I have never felt anything except equal to people of color, I didn’t understand until I left them and began my own life, that race colors pretty much everything in our society, from the schools to the jails to the sidewalks under our feetl. This color-blindness that I have serves me well in the sense that I get to look at other people’s hearts and souls without judging them for their skin color, but while my blindness helps me see beyond the color of others, at the same time, it blinds me to my own white skin. In being blind to my color, I am blind to the benefits of whit privilege that I reap every day without even being aware of it. That blindness to my own privilege, in itself is a form of racism.

Another contradiction that has been flashing on and off in my consciousness, that I touched upon in my last post is that of my deep commitment to bettering the human condition, but my own self-centeredness too often takes over my mind and my mouth that I think I get in my own way sometimes. It’s hard for me to shut up sometimes and listen.

A Life's Inventory

(Written on January 11, 2009)

Deb and I went to a funeral today to celebrate the life of a woman named Joann Downing. I didn't know Joann very well, but the time I did spend with her, even when she was in the hospital last year, she was insightful and working toward making this world a better place.

As I listened to those closer to her speak, I had to begin to take stock of my own life; my own passion to create a better world. I've gotta confess, my contribution has been far less than stellar.

There are several people that I know and admire for working to make this world a better place. Some days I wish I had their courage and committment. Just a few of those bright lights that I haold up as examples of Being the Change that they want to see in the world include people such as: John Straw, Ellen Mettler, Sue Kirby, Joann Downing, Holly Lubecki, Marguerite O'Brien, Rayna Bick, John Helsom and Marion and Van Van Winkle. These are just a few that come to mind. (I'll add a "My Heroes" list in the side column, update and change it periodically if you are interested in following this train of gratitude.)

No amount of my phansiful philosophising will change the world. I need to get off my butt, out of my house and commit to being the change that I want to see in the world. There are so many things I have to do, that I let my volunteering get lost in the business of daily living: work, school, sleep when I can, socialize when I can, write if I can. Somehow, I have set aside many of those things that move me to be a better person in order to enjoy my own selfish desires.

So, how does one go about re-prioritizing their life in order to save the world one mitzvah at a time? Better yet, how does one decide what comforts or conveniences to set aside in trade for a peaceful soul and more fulfilled sense of one's own humanity? How does one (me) get out of that rut that I so often rant about: that American trap of haveing an overinflated sense of entitlement?

Someone, it may have been MLK or Ghandi, or someone else, I'm not sure, said that everyone should have something in their life that is worth dying for. Meaning that that type of committment and dedication point toward one's destiny, passion and life fulfillment. I don't know if I have yet found that thing, except maybe Ana and Maddie. But they are people that I love, not causes for justice or mindful humanity. They are not faceless others that I can reach out to annonymously and improve their life experiences. They are only two, not a plethera of people needing rescure. They are simply souls who love, just like me. Does that count in the grand scheme of things?

Today, I have no answers, only questions. But today, my hypothesis is that usually the questions in life are more important than the answers.

The Past Speaks to the Present

I just finished reading Warriors Don't Cry by Melba Pattillo Beals. Ms Beals was one of the "Little Rock Nine," African-American high school students who were the first to integrate Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1957-three years after Brown vs the Board of Education. I read the version abridged for young readers. It was very powerful. I imagine that the adult version is probably even more so.

As I read it, I couldn't help but wonder if those nine brave men and women will be at Barak Obama's inaguration. I hope so, front and center, because without them, we would not have won him as a president.

I'm bummed that my dad's house is already going to be full to the brim with guests there for the inaguration. There's no room at the Pop and Linda Inn. I was hoping to go and stay with them.

Another Reason to Believe in Human Goodness

In the wee hours of the morning today, two families made heart wrenching decisions in order to save a little girl's life, whom they don't even know. I don't want to go into details because it is a private matter, but I just want to say that such generosity is surely noticed and blessed by the Divine. For those of you who pray, please send out prayers for three families who are dealing with confusion, fear, generosity and hopefully a miracle among them.