Heart of Devotion

I live a half mile up the side of a mountain overlooking Tianmu, an area of Taipei. Every morning I walk my dog on a mile loop on that mountainside. It is quite steep. I am fit and relatively young, and yet I almost always break a sweat. No one would call it a particularly easy walk.

Besides the beautiful views of the nature all around, and vistas of the city below, one of my favorite things about the walk is it takes me past two temples. The temples are situated very close to one another. One is large and sits above a smaller one, like a parent watching over a child. Some days there will be a ceremony going on at the large one. As I walk past, I hear chanting and bells. It fills me with a sense of the sacred, reminds me to open my heart to devotion. The small one sometimes has incense lit, the scent flows out to the street. I breathe it in like medicine. There is a powerful healing agent in ceremonies and all the elements involved. The senses are awakened to their own divine and holy nature, a deep knowing, open channels to heart and soul.

Another staple of my walks is a man. I pass by him nearly every day. We say “zao” (good morning) and smile at each other, and that sums up our interaction. The language barrier keeps locals at an arms distance or more from me. Although I have never spoken more than that one word to him, he has had a significant impact on me.

Every morning, there he is walking, slowly, and it often appears, painfully. He walks with a cane, the kind with four small legs at the bottom, in one hand. He uses the other hand to grip a stick of incense. The incense is held right up close to him, at heart level. Over time I have surmised that he walks down the steep downhill stretch to the temple, he gets the incense there, and then he ascends back to where he lives, and burns it at a family altar on the side of the road.

I can tell that this daily regimen must take all his strength. There is a look of will, his furrowed brow, a quality of determination. What strikes me though is the clear dedication, the insistence in this action, committed, faithful. I don’t need to know a single thread of his story, or detail of his life to know that it is centered in disciplined devotion. I don’t need to know the words of the prayers, or what god, goddess, or divine force they are spoken to. I am inspired in the mere witnessing of his action.

I see him, and I think about willful action. I believe in the power of such action, though I have not nearly achieved a practice of it in the ways I imagine I could. And he reminds me to hone it down, potent action can be singular, simple.

He takes one step at a time, slowly, he holds his incense, makes an offering of it. I am probably one of very few people who know anything about this act of earnest devotion he does, loyally each day, and yet, I know even when I am gone, even if no one passes him on the road, he will be there, doing what he feels called to do. He does this in the midst of pain, in the midst of suffering. There is suffering that can be seen, one hand gripping a cane, shuffling, but I am sure there is much more being carried, held close with the incense, clutched at the heart.

Human suffering. We all carry it.

I have been down lately. I have spells like that, some life events are pulling me there. I feel heavy. I slump toward immobility, a broody lethargy. I drop the ball on my practices and prayers, and then I am weighed down by guilt and shame, that I am in this state again. I always hope this time will be the last, but that has never been the case to date. Brightness always fades to grey, and back again. Moods like the weather on the mountain.

Clouds roll in around the mountain, sometimes a fierce storm, clouds roll out again. The mountain simply stands. The mountain does the action of being, it holds the space for all expression without judgment. It asks nothing of us, of me. I find that idea peaceful.

The earth is always underneath us. It is one of the few reliable things. Such a powerful and strong container, it bears all things. That is the comfort to be realized, to lean back into, soften, release, deeply receive. This truth. Everything that happens is held, all of the doing or not doing, all of the cycles, each change of season, the bright and the grey, day and night, life and death and every single thing that occurs in between. All of it perfect, to the earth.

The life that happens on this patch of mountain may seem of little importance in the larger world, but I find it profound. I am so deeply touched by the man who walks and prays, and the chanting and drums in the temple, the smell of incense, sweat and tears, struggle and mercy mingled. I honor myself in that as well. I am equally included, and I need do nothing to be whole and healed. The heart of devotion is like the mountain, the earth that supports us all, embracing the dedicated action, the weighted inaction, all of it taken, equally sacred, the smoke of prayers and incense, things being burned away. All of it a beautiful offering.

We are here. That is enough.

Life at an Airport

I was trying to get from my home country to my host country, from one home to another. Sometimes getting from point A to point B gets complicated. It is easy for the way to become encumbered, disrupted, or just plain blocked. Such is life. It is mostly curves, with only the occasional simple straight line.

My way was impeded by a pack of typhoons threatening Tokyo. Gale force winds, torrential rain, powerful forces of nature blowing a hole right through my route home. My flight from Tokyo to Taipei was canceled and this left me committed, by force, to a meandering course, including an all day lay over at Minneapolis International Airport.

I happened to be traveling alone as my husband and kids had already returned to Taiwan for the start of school. I was missing them intensely, and I knew they needed me. My husband was right then readying for his own trip, going away on business, leaving our children solo on the other side of the world. I pictured my children, two teens and one tween, there, alone, waiting for my curvy path to arrive back in Taipei. I started to panic as the check in agent informed me of my new and very long itinerary. I became extremely frustrated by this delay. I was short with her, my irritation spilling onto the messenger of things that are beyond anyone’s control. I can be reactive at times and I wanted her to fix it, make it to my liking, dial up the weather gods and get it right. It didn’t work. No shit. I had to concede defeat and apologize to the poor woman just doing her job.

I am only human, and we do have claws and fangs. Mine occasionally get brought out a bit hastily, especially when mama is on a mission for her kiddos. I walked away from that interaction feeling bad for her, bad for myself, wincing at the sharp dagger of my inner critic. I should be better than this. Sometimes being human tastes bitter to me, a blend of tears and blood. I wonder if people notice my claws and fangs. Suddenly mine felt sharper and bloodier than others. Perhaps I am more beast than beauty. I often wonder if people are looking at me, pretending not to see my ugliness, my scars. I get an intense impulse to hide. I turn to run toward exile. My ideas of separation and unworthiness rise within me, relentless and brutal. I don’t belong. I’m not worthy. I so intensely long to be seen, to be included and understood, but I equally want to hide. Pulled apart by paradox, as we tend to be.

I spent ten hours at the Minneapolis Airport. I had a lot of sitting ahead of me on the two flights to come, so I decided to walk. I followed signs for Terminals A,B,C and Terminals D,E,F.  I determined to connect all those dots, cover all the terrain. As I walked I began to relax, and my attention shifted from being self absorbed, frustrated, and guilt ridden, spinning in my inner story, to the buzz of activity all around me.

Airports are truly a microcosm of the larger world. For a moment, a few hours, or occasionally even days, people end up at this hub of exchange, randomly thrown together as they travel straight lines or curvy meandering paths in a shared quest to get from point A to point B. As I walked I observed all these people. There were young people and older people. Babies in strollers alongside elders in wheelchairs. Beginnings and endings. There were people of all different colors, speaking varied languages. There were people from all backgrounds and walks of life.There was a business man sitting next to a teen aged girl with pink streaks in her hair. He was wearing a suit and tie, she had on ripped jeans and combat boots. He had a briefcase, she had a violin. Only at an airport would it be likely that these two would end up side by side.

I saw a Catholic nun, and then later a Buddhist monk. I saw a guy decked out in cowboy wear and a woman dressed to the nines in couture. Buttoned up people and buttoned down people.

We may seem so far from each other, so different, so distinct. But spend a little time at an airport and you will observe all of us engaged in what we do in common. We journey. We endeavor to get from point A to point B. I watched in wonder as I walked. So many people, so many stories to be told. Sometimes I guessed where people might be headed, and other times I overheard.  Some of those people were going to weddings and others to funerals. I saw people crying and saying hello, and I saw people crying and saying goodbye. There were families heading out on vacation, and families going home. A young man off to college, another in uniform returning to his military station after a visit with his family. I saw parents hugging their children and parents scolding their children. Newlyweds going on their honeymoon with big dreams of a life ahead, and an elderly couple sitting quietly, at ease and still holding hands.

In an airport you will witness all of human expression and experience. In ten hours I saw people happy, sad, elated, frustrated, exhausted, angry, anxious, relaxed, distressed, engaged, connected, disconnected. I witnessed people being generous, people being selfish, people in love and people enraged. Airports are epicenters of emotion, shift, and change. They are a constant gathering flow of people in the fire of transition. Going from point A to point B guarantees at least a change of location and scenery. It includes people in the midst of a multitude of different situations, emotions and transformational events. Observing people on their journeys reveals so much about the human heart, and our common ground of feeling. Under one roof we can see love, grief, celebration, loss, industry, leisure, community, and isolation. In an airport we can openly observe the things that bring us together and the things that tear us apart.

I have traveled many places, and right now I live across the world from where I began. And yet, I realize one only needs to go as far as the airport to learn all there is to know about people. We are all here to evolve, moving from where we are, towards where we need to be. We are all just human and we do have claws and fangs, but we also have warm arms to embrace each other, tears for both our joys and our sorrows, hearts that can be both delicate and courageous. Most of all, we are all capable of noble and amazing things as well as brutal and destructive things. But we are all born of love, that is the most powerful force I saw. At an airport you will see many people holding each other tenderly, for many reasons. Love lives. It is the most powerful part of us. If we have fangs and claws, then love surely gives us wings to rise above. On our seemingly separate paths we walk, or fly, going from our point As to our point Bs, whether we realize it or not, we are all in this thing called life, together, following a curvy path home.
 

Maybe

gather ’round people
make me a village
raise me now
like you couldn’t before
place your hands on me
my holy places
or any torn fragment
what you can reach

now
hoist me towards heaven
or in the general direction
i trust
that you know
which way that
may be

once i’m high
over the rainbow
i’ll get my wings
and return to you
or
stage dive
from a starry night
into your ready hands

maybe

We Remain

hate crashed the dance floor
turning revelry to slaughter
joy to despair
life to death

gone too soon
taken viciously

on a dance floor
meant for sweaty celebration
the occasional spilled drink
pouring out
expressions of ecstasy
sometimes tears
jubilant kisses
moving free
wild
breathing heavy

until breath was stopped

and blood was spilled
over sweat and drinks
now torrents of gutteral tears
pooling
rising
flooding us now

tsunami of heartbreak

today we grieve
others celebrate
but we are all broken

broken hearts every one
spilling
our powerful pitiful humanness

our best and worst
our light and shadow
is shown

on a dance floor
love met hate
guns blazing
so many fallen
stolen
early angels made

but we remain

and in the midst of our terror
our anger
in the depth of our despair
we reach out
to each other
moving forward
step by step
hand in hand
we return

to our dance floor

we will sweat and celebrate
move wildy
kiss sweetly
we will raise glasses
and each other
resurrected
and sing out

we sing out
together

love is still here

we are the face of love
we are the light not vanquished
by any darkness

we take back our dance floor
our revelry
our joy
our life

we will not forget or forsake
we still choose love not hate
and no matter what may be taken
no matter what

we will remain

A Hike

you complain of the heat
i agree
but what do you expect from a jungle?

at the bottom you sigh
how many steps is it again?
thousands
i say smiling

you start up stomping
a soldier
going into battle
stoic
committed

not pleased
not motivated
heavy like the air

i mention the stomping

you pause

a lightening

i catch a sideways glance
corner of a smile
one side
slight rise
on steep steps

one at a time
the climb

you point out the dragonflies
how there are so many here
they are your favorite
of all the insects

in the heat they are resting
at the edge of the steps
or waiting for us
perhaps
standing sentinels
sacred guides

you tell me how they fly
using different muscles
wings that rotate

i think of dancing

i tell you movement is life
absence of movement is death

you are a scientist
walled up to the mystical
but you marvel at dragonflies
and agree about movement

movement is life

we step and step

i think about how
you are moving away from me

you talk about gravity
how a larger
more dense object
draws another in

if a larger object comes into the field
everything is pulled away

i sense a bigger world
approaching
pulling you away

you mention how you
will be twenty soon
how odd it is to you

two decades
how you have doubled your age
four times
maybe

descending

you are much taller than me now
legs grown
long
over nearly two decades

you stride ahead
i can’t keep up

i hear you call out
to me

hurry up and look

i find you bent over
considering a beetle
pushing it back towards
the earth

we admire its colors
the pattern on its back
two kids for a moment
transfixed by a small thing
a wonder
a moment of grace

then you are off

i keep pace
until we collide with
a school group

small children
like you once were

all in blue shirts
laughing
like a sudden ocean
of innocence

i stand back and watch you
wade through them
carefully
diligently
until i can’t see
you anymore

Acceptance

to do things
silently
seamlessly
drop a boat of acceptance
into the water
not a ripple
not a sound
satisfied to take the journey
unseen
and leave the rest buried
on the shore
push off
drift faithful
trusting wind, currents, stars
finally understanding
place, time, purpose
nowhere and everywhere
no one yet everyone
momentary and infinite
become lost to be found

i dream of such freedom
behind my closed eyes
softly fluttering
at the ocean’s edge
the sun landing
warm on my face

night visitor

in the darkest hours
of night
peaceful rest gets stolen
suddenly
a sharp dread
heavy and wet
bulleting sweat on my skin
i am fevered with it
strokes of sickness
rolling under covers
a writhing mind
turning and turning
death roll
over the least thing
grocery shopping
a dirty floor
the meeting at school
these minutiae of life
creep in rising
pounding
magnified
until such small things
become crushing
typhoon waves
i can’t swim away
pulled under
breathless
waiting and praying
for sleep
sweet sleep
to dissolve into
to take me
under the waves
but the buzzer rings
end round
i roll out and on
i do the small things
the groceries
school meetings
i know i am strong
but in those dark hours
a monster comes calling
loyalty is not only for
the good

Motherhood my Saving Grace

I was truly terrified to be a mother. I was convinced I would mess it up, and badly.

I was sure this perfect, soft, innocent being would be crushed under the weight of the baggage I brought with me. Baggage I had been carrying for such a long time, I knew how it could break a heart in two. I could not even bear the thought of it. I cried many times during my first pregnancy, wept for what might be, grieved for horrible mistakes I felt I was destined to make.

I felt fated. I could not see myself. I was wounded, applying pressure to a ruptured heart, stumbling in the dark trying to find some light. My self image was projected through a warped fun house mirror in the deep layers of consciousness, distorted, a self seen through a dark lens, a prism of pain, a filter of fear.

How could someone like me, such a mess, possibly care for a child?

 I was married, my husband saw me through a loving lens. I had stability and security. He did his best to soothe my fear. He assured me that I would be a great mom, being the kind and loving person he knew me to be. And yes, I could sense a well of love and care, maybe even the loud roar of an ocean of it somewhere in me, like a hidden kingdom in my heart, waiting.

We had a beautiful baby boy.

Seventeen years have come and gone since then. I have four children now, they are my saving grace. Each one has come, unique and perfect. I have given my best to them, and they have no less than rescued me. They awakened that ocean of love that lives in me, they delivered me to the kingdom of my own powerful heart. I see my true self, my best self, when I look in their eyes.

It’s like in fairy tales, when a curse can only be broken by true love’s kiss. My husband and children, this tribe of family, breathed life back into me. I was only half alive, in my inner darkness, reaching out, and they crashed through dungeon walls, light came flooding in.

When I talk about my belief in the power of love, and the reality of grace, I am not just waxing poetic. I know it is true, because it happened to me.

Even now, when I get to feeling lost, with no direction, or when my spirit is bruised by the world, at the edge of breaking, I look at my children’s faces and I am restored to hope. In them I see clearly what is real and true, what stands any test, what prevails no matter the difficulty, and it is love.

We have our ups and downs. We fight, we are not always kind, we make mistakes, but there is always forgiveness in the end. We stand up and alongside each other, we stay the course, we never leave anyone behind or out in the cold. My kids brought out a fierce love in me, a strong protectress, a warrior of the heart. I see their warrior nature too. They all are willing to fight the good fight, that makes me proud. We are in this life together come hell or high water. We rescue each other when trouble comes. We celebrate together, milestones, achievements, and often just because…we have each other and that is cause for celebration.

These children, this family, are the greatest gift, and as much as I have guided, nurtured and supported their becoming, they also opened the door for my becoming. With them I am more than I ever thought I could possibly be.

I am One of “Those” People, an Immigrant Who Doesn’t Speak the Language

 I wanted to run away, far away.

 I went to Spain for the first time on a high school exchange trip. I fell head over heels in love. I drank in the warmth of the place, like a magical healing tonic. I adored the way the sun glowed across the facades of centuries old buildings, the way people kissed my cheeks on first meeting, and every meeting after that, and I delighted in strolling arm in arm down the busy sidewalks with my new friends. I thrived on the person to person touch connection of the culture. I needed to be touched. It felt like my heart home, a place I had always belonged to and had finally found. From then on, I dreamt of moving there. I returned several times in the proceeding years. I majored in Spanish in college and attended one year of university there. I had built a bridge to cross over, to take my place where I believed my future happiness waited to welcome me.

It turns out I would get away eventually, but not to Spain, and not for many years. I write this sitting in my study in Taipei, Taiwan. I live here with my husband and three children. We have been married for more than twenty years and lived most of that time in the United States. I had planned to make my break for the land that first fed my heart, and instead found a venture into a new phase of life and happiness with the man I love.

Stephen is Australian and American, but despite an international upbringing, he did not speak Spanish at all, and so the best laid plans changed directions and I embraced new beginnings of a different kind.

We got married and started our life together in my hometown of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I couldn’t find a good job using my Spanish language skills, so I spent some time as a volunteer teaching English to people in a Latino neighborhood. It was clear to me that these were men and women who earnestly wanted to learn the language of their new country. They were enthusiastic and dedicated, and it was often very difficult for them. These were people struggling to get by, and trying to make a better life for themselves and their families. Sometimes they would not show up for awhile, they would get a job or move away and no longer be able to attend. I found it an honor to get to know them, to be of service for the time we had together. I always wished them well.

 I grew up in a very white, middle class, suburban neighborhood. Diversity itself was the most foreign thing you might find there, and it offered little to no opportunity to interact with people of different backgrounds and cultures. My travels to Spain, the years of dedicated study I put in to gain fluency in the Spanish language, and my time volunteering with wonderful, bright individuals planting roots of a life without the benefit of the kind of language education I had received, filled my heart with respect and admiration for immigrants. I gained deep insight into being a foreigner in a foreign land, the courage and faith it requires. Immigrants are people just like you and me doing the best they can. I was lucky to have these experiences, at home and abroad, that strengthened my empathy muscle around language, and the challenge it is to master a foreign tongue.

It infuriates me when people denigrate immigrants who can’t speak the language. I cringe at the very thought of the recrimination, “If you are in America speak English.” America, a country founded and populated by immigrants from all over the world, whose first generation of any given family may not have been English speaking. Today people arrive here, in many, if not most cases, fleeing poverty, persecution, social or religious peril, many come with nothing but desperation and a flicker of hope, a dream. Isn’t this our great story, our collective jewel, the American dream? Or do we really wish to stomp that dream into oblivion so we don’t have to share it with others? When I hear someone say “speak English or go home”, I want to shake them into memory of what this home means, what we are supposed to stand for. This nation was formed, a land of hope and possibility for those who wanted something more, something better, those who were thirsty for freedom. ” Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” How can we forget, where we came from, who we are?

It hadn’t occurred to me, that when I least expected it, I would become the person moving to a foreign land, and not the warm sunny Spain of my dreams. My husband got an amazing job opportunity and we packed up and moved to China with three of our four children (we have an older adopted daughter who is in The Untied States).

We have been living in Mandarin speaking countries for three years and counting. I have learned very little Mandarin, just enough to be polite and get by. I know other people who have not even bothered to get that level of skill. We live in our new country and we make connections with other people like us, we don’t integrate. We are not called immigrants, we are called expats. The difference being that we generally are not planning to stay permanently, and the second being we have money and privilege. The vast majority of us are here because of a job, we are either working, or here as a “trailing spouse”. The typical expat jobs are fairly high level and high paying. We are people who come to our new country with ample resources and advantages. Many of us have drivers and domestic helpers, what seems very upper crust at home is fairly common here.

The truth of the matter is I have status, privilege, and that allows me to easily ignore my deficit of language. I took lessons the first two years and gained enough skill to function, but I find Mandarin exceedingly difficult and when we moved to Taiwan I let my studies go. It had not occurred to me that this might be a problem. However, one day I was in the car listening to the English speaking radio morning show, and the host started talking about the local Taiwanese frustration and poor regard for expats. He said there is a sentiment among quite a few Taiwanese that “if you are in Taiwan, speak Chinese”.

If you are in Taiwan speak Chinese.

It dawned on me that I am one of “those” people. I am one of those people seen by some as rude and ignorant, one of those who saunters in and takes what they need, but has not bothered to assimilate, doesn’t care enough to learn to communicate. I felt bruised and a bit guilty as I thought about this. I felt sad that there are people in the place I currently call home, who see me as an intruder, or at least an annoyance, an unwanted presence. I wanted to defend myself, but who could I tell? I don’t speak Chinese after all. And that left me in the uncomfortable territory of helplessness,  powerless to change a condition of my life. People are probably judging me, assuming to know my character, thinking badly of me, and I have no present moment avenue to change that, or to demonstrate otherwise.

 Sometimes I want to run home to America where it’s safe and familiar. But I am here for the immediate future, and all I can do is learn, adapt, and do the best I can with what I know right now.

The reality is I am here because it provides for my family, we followed opportunity. We are here because we want the best for our kids. It is such an exciting journey, full of rich eye opening experience, travel, culture, fun and expanded horizons. It is also challenging, disorienting, and scary at times to be a stranger in a strange land. Even with the many resources we have available to us we are confronted with a loss of what is safe and familiar, there are so many unknowns to contend with. We have had to adapt and learn to function within this new environment. It is important to be aware of the perceptions of the community we are living in, and to understand how we are being seen. I don’t know much Chinese but I can say hello, I can smile, I can make small gestures of kindness. Shouldn’t we all commit to that on a daily basis wherever we are?

When we step out our front doors and into the world, it would make for a much better place if we did so with an attitude of inclusion and positivity. We make an active choice after all, to go out assuming the best of people we pass on the street or in the coffee shop, wherever we go, or to assume the worst. If we walk around in life and invest in suspicion, judgment and preemptive dislike for our fellow human beings then that is the environment we will manifest. We have the ability to choose kindness, compassion and generosity as our foundation of being, and we would do well to give of those qualities freely until a person gives us a reason not to. There are bad people in the world of course, people we have every right to defend ourselves against, or at the very least establish firm boundaries. Some immigrants will be bad people, some people in any given group, or in any community or on any particular street, may not have good intentions in their hearts, but all over the world the good people far outnumber the bad. I know this is true. I have traveled many places, walked down many streets and every place I go I find good, kind, generous people. They are there, you just have to be looking. What we look for is often what we find.

In the current charged climate around immigration and the divide that is evident, the anger that is bubbling up, the hostility and increasingly violent words and actions, it is essential that narratives that increase understanding and compassion get written, spoken, demonstrated and acted upon. My experiences are my own, but I believe they hold truth. I believe what I have learned is deeply relevant. My best gesture into that uncomfortable territory of powerlessness is to maintain an open mind and heart and to speak out in the name of unity and love. These are forces that bring us together no matter our native tongue, no matter where we may travel, or where we make our home.

Greater Good

forget the lesser evil
i want the greater good
i want truth that shines so damn bright
it burns away the stale necrotic status quo
the roll over and take it
cuz what else can you do?

what else can we do?

forget the lesser evil
i want the greater good
let’s claw and cut through
layers of lies
rip the mask right off
the sinister system
stare it in the face and say
no more

no more

and that small phrase will
ring like a shot
heard round the world
and rise to the sweet note
of new freedom
that we create
together

together we stand
we will not fall

forget the lesser evil
we want the greater good

good rooted in respect
good that heals not harms
good that doesn’t sell us one thing
and hand us another
good that doesn’t steal the
life and liberty out from under us
or question any single person’s
right to be

good that doesn’t play on our
fears and frustrations
turning us on each other
good that doesn’t tolerate violent
institutional injustice
sweep it out the back door or
hide it under the rug
good that doesn’t rape, kill or enslave
our bodies, minds or spirits

good that wants to give us all
a hand up
instead of a push down
to keep us in line
and tear us apart

forget the lesser evil
demand a greater good
gather us all
everyone

separation can’t stand
in the presence of truth
bondage is broken
by the fire of family

we the people
stand in the light
eyes wide open
hand in hand
we claim
our world

 and in it we will know ourselves
 infinitely greater than good