Thoughts on Haiti

Last week we demolished a massive brick & concrete block fireplace in our living room and dumped the rubble on our front lawn. The pile is about 3 feet high, 30 feet long, and 10 feet across. It weighs several tons and it gives off a strong, concretey sooty smell when it’s wet from the rain…which we’ve been having virtually non-stop for over a week now. All that remains where the original fireplace stood is under the living room floor…a long trough filled with broken bricks and blocks. On Monday night, I looked at that trough and turned to Jonathan. “That’s the beginning of what I imagine when I think of earthquake rubble,” I commented.

Then Tuesday happened.

Driving to work Wednesday my eyes spontaneously filled with tears as I listened to news reports of damage and death and destruction in Haiti. It was early…despair didn’t seem to be setting in but desperation seemed palpable, even across a radio broadcast. As I listened while driving home later in the day, I became aware that I was shaking my head…back and forth…no, no, no…how long had I been shaking my head? Tears streamed down my face…involuntary, effortless, unstoppable.

Ten years ago that morning (January 13) I flew to Manila with 9 friends for 10 days. The first day we were packed into a jeep and driven through the sweltering city. It was my first glimpse of people living in cardboard boxes, the overwhelming smell saturating the humid air, kids blocking the road begging for anything you’d give them. The sunsets were amazing but children’s lungs look like they’ve been life-long smokers due to the smog. Poverty and street life in a devastating collision. On January 24 I went back to work and one of my colleagues asked how it had been. I looked at her and replied my honest reality. “I would be willing to change everything in my life.”

I had no idea. Six months later, I left the family law firm I’d worked for since before I finished college. I took a position with a financial services firm that I held for a few months. Mom died before Thanksgiving. A year later I moved to the Czech Republic and less than a month after arriving I found myself one weekend in Cheb, on the western border with Germany. The area was first settled around 800 AD. Population today is around 30,000. And it is a hub for child prostitution and human trafficking through Europe. Babies are sold to pedophiles. I’m not kidding.

I arrived home and looked at that pile on the front lawn. My house is ripped up and compared to my regular life it’s highly inconvenient. But in comparison, it’s not. Not really. My rubble is organized. It’s creative. I planned for it and paid for it. It’s even government sanctioned…I have a permit for it. I have a truck coming to take it away. And there’s no one under there, dead or dying, reaching out with an empty hand or a gasping plea for help.

Haiti. Death, injury, disease, trauma, government, shock, displacement, refugees, exploitation. And that was off the top of my head. For nearly 15 years now my life and work have linked with people in difficult and sometimes dire situations. I would never presume to “get it”…to relate, understand…especially in this situation. That might be the height of arrogance. But in my humanity I have been caught differently with this one…the intersection of reality and my heart and things brewing right now. The inclination is strong to find a way to “do something”…“to go.” And for some people, that is entirely appropriate and needed. For all kinds of reasons, that’s not really what I should do right now. But one thing I do know is that moments create movements. Some moments live in their own kind of time…they are part of and they are different from…and they need to be honored as such. And even when they are part of something else it can all be so imperceptible. But in their coagulating they create something. I have been here before. Each time it’s different but hazily familiar, and somehow that sense is instantly recognizable. I know this place. I’ve been knowing it for some time. And I suspect that, in your own life, you do too.

I don’t often carry Bible verses in my mind, but I do carry images I see when I read them. Among the most vivid is the Old Testament story of when the Israelites crossed the Jordan River. After they were safely on the other side, they gathered stones and created memorials. These stones represented reminders for them. I can see them, walking, deciding which to put down and leave behind, which one to carry…gathering them together and telling the story. I have released and collected some stones over the years…some literal, some figurative…some I’ve selected, some were given to me. Some of them carry meaning, but mostly the meaning is in the story. I’m not sure yet what I will “do” around Haiti and what is happening there. But one thing I do know…I will save some of those stones in my front yard. It is part of my movement right now. It’s part of Haiti in my life. And those stones and broken bricks in Haiti…they’re not going away any time soon.

©2010 Mindy Danylak

Relationship Disaster: "Twilight" or "Sadomasochistic Teenage Erotica" ?

There is a lot going on in this recent blog entry from Kimberly George and some of you may be drawn to other parts of it, but I wanted to share the following section about the violence at work in the "Twilight" stories. While I admit to not having read the series, I very much share Kimberly's concern about models for relationships -- and this is not the first time I've heard the word "heroin" in a description of Bella & Edward's relationship. For those of you who have read these, what do you think?

What Twilight Has to Teach: Today’s Normative Gender Restrictions and the Marriage of Sex and Violence

As we talk about normative gender restrictions, I think it’s important to highlight one extremely popular script currently in vogue, particularly for teenagers: the bestselling Twilight books and movies. The second book in the series, New Moon, just came out this fall as a movie. The gender stereotypes in these stories are as damaging as any of the religious beliefs around gender we have so often analyzed on our blog. Here, I will restrict my comments to the original book in the series, Twilight, which is the only one I have read, but reading summaries of the others in the series has assured me the problematic gender scripts only get worse.

The drama of this original, bestseller revolves around the awkward Bella and the “god-like” Edward falling tragically in love. She is the new girl in town who wins the attention of the aloof, mysterious sex symbol. He is a 108-year-old vampire in teenage form who is disturbingly volatile and controlling, but only because he “loves her” and is trying to “protect” her. Our vampire-hero is so intensely moody—the reader late finds out— because he is edgy from fighting his vintage patriarchal battle: Bella’s so darn attractive to him, that he is in immediate danger of losing all control, dominating her, and leaving her dead. And so we read on—never quite sure if Bella will end up being a bloody mess should the teenagers decide to consummate their relationship. The intimacy in this book is like heroin—thrilling, dangerous, and flirting with death—and the drama of it makes Twilight a page-turner.

I am horrified, to say the least, by the 498-pages of dysfunction that passes as romantic entertainment in Twilight. Just when did “sadomasochistic teenage erotica” (as my colleague Kj Swanson terms it over at her brilliant blog) become so overwhelmingly popular? Twilight is unabashed in its reflection of some of the worst elements of our culture’s patriarchal dysfunctions: domestic violence patterns, eroticized violence deemed “romance,” and harmful power differentials between men and women that are either not noticed or are mindlessly condoned. In fact, the power differentials in this book are the very foundation of its plot. Bella is constantly being saved and infantilized by Edward; his moods continually switch from angry to intimate like a typical perpetrator; and the reader awaits whether the sexual tension between the characters will lead to Edward enacting violence toward Bella. It is her sexual attractiveness that arouses his desire to suck her blood and kill her. Because of how attractive she is to him, she is forbidden to initiate any physical relationship. It all must be led by him, and she must risk her life during any moment of intimacy.

And this is what teenagers (and many adults) are imbibing?

Remember

Last Saturday, Seattle Police Officer Timothy Brenton was shot & killed as he sat in his patrol car on the side of a neighborhood street. His funeral procession was yesterday morning. The two-hour procession covered several miles & involved over 1000 vehicles and law enforcement officers from across the continent. Images from along the procession route are very moving...saulting boy scouts, grieving citizens, honor guards, drums and bagpipes, dark vehicles moving slowly through the morning drizzle.

I always feel a momentary pause well up from my deepest heart when I see funeral processions. The ritual and tradition of acknowledging death has been a powerful thing for me, ever since early childhood. I honestly do not remember the first funerals I attended - I was probably still a baby. In the religious group I grew up in (which my family left in May 1995 when I was 20), we went to lots of them. There were a lot of old people in the group, plus that's one of the things the people in that group just do a lot of (funeral-going). There was plenty about the content of those funerals that was lacking, preachy, and frustratingly impersonal; and there were plenty of funerals we went to simply because culturally in the group that was what you did; but all the same, funerals became very normal and non-frightening for me. In the year or two before we left the group and since then, funeral-going has become a very different thing for me.

My mom's name is Marion Diane Dahlin Abenroth. Everyone called her Diane since Marion was my gandmother's name too. She was born November 20, 1948. Next week marks the day my she died, November 13, 2000. Ten months after her death, I checked into a small hotel in a little town a couple hours north of Seattle and proceeded to write down every detail I could recall of Mom's death and the days surrounding it. The writing process I went through was highly intentional, ultimately good, very relieving, and wrenchingly excrutiating; and remembering it all...those days around her death & those days when I wrote...is painful. There are books to write about all those days, and each day leading up to & following them. But for purposes of this writing, I'll simply share pictures I carry from the day of her funeral. Her funeral was November 18, two days before her 52nd birthday, at the Presbyterian church my parents had been attending for a few years. My sister & I watched through the windows as car after car drove into the lot. Over 500 people attended the service. I bodily remember walking down the center aisle to the front pew of the church...Dewight, Melody, Me, Dad, Ned. I distinctly remember the five of us standing up in that pew at the end of the service while each person filed past Mom's rose-covered casket. In the midst of our own grief, I think my family were the comfort-providers, simply in standing there, acknowledging reality, looking each mourner in the eye and holding their hand momentarily as they walked past.

Although the two are intertwined, I think sometimes I feel more myself in moments of mourning than I do in celebration. I could stand being better at celebrating - that's one of the things the group I grew up in was not good at. But I'm grateful that marking death & grief feels organic for me because in our culture it seems the harder part. I remember the day we picked out Mom's casket...it was a Wednesday morning & I had a raging headache...standing in that room in the funeral home, feeling utter disbelief at what we were doing...I remember telling Dad, "We should NOT be doing this." We had to but everything in me resists having had to. The week seemed blurry...sort of on auto-pilot, but the day of the funeral I felt grounded until the end when I just wanted everyone to leave my family home and go away. But after that... I felt like the world should stop. My very mother had died and everyone was just going on with life. There were a blessed handful who remembered, who mentioned, who waited, who spoke...who still do that.

I didn't want to wear black for a year but I understand something of that tradition. It's difficult for Americans to be present in mourning. It is granted such a brief allotment of time in the rhythm of our days, and it's relegated to the realm of privacy. I can relate to people's confusion around what to do, what to say. But the failure to even simply say that to one who is grieving bothers me because more often than not the default then is silence. Not expressing uncertainty, not acknowledgment, but silence.

Last month I attended my uncle's funeral in Spokane. The funeral home is next to the cemetery where my maternal grandparents and other family members are buried so before the service Jonathan & I drove into the cemetery and made our way quietly to their section. I got out of the car and walked to Grandma's grave. I stood there in the barren, freezing morning and felt profoundly grateful that, even with the inadequacy of our efforts, we humans do this kind of thing. Every culture has its way...varying of course from people to people...but we humans do not fully just ignore death and the dead, and when it does happen that way we feel like something is very wrong. Life matters. Death is real. Pausing helps. Traditions can be supportive & healthy. These kinds of rituals and observances always make me feel the fundamental beauty and sacredness of mourning & remembrance.

©2009 Mindy Danylak

Flying & Blogging

My flight from Denver was delayed an hour and a half and way oversold. When the gate agent finally handed me a boarding pass, I took a deep breath and walked out to the waiting plane. Row 14. Seat B. Right in the middle. Our 10:30 take-off was smooth. I slept for a bit, watched the end of "Lyrics and Words" and read the in-flight magazine. We arrived in Seattle to light drizzle and mid 40s. The train wound around underground to the main terminal and I made my way to baggage claim. I walked out into the cold air to wait for my husband. It's illegal to smoke so close to public buildings in Washington, but cigarette butts littered the sidewalk and the damp air was permeated with the scent of stale smoke. For all its unhealthfulness, there is something oddly homey about it. I watched cars dance their way through traffic on the arrivals drive, the flashing lights and occasional sirens from Port of Seattle police cars impatiently commanding drivers to keep moving, no parking allowed. I was asleep moments after hitting the pillow.

I hate flying and travel stresses me but I love it & cannot live life without it. Something about flying reminds me of blogging. Millions of people move through common space in relative anonymity. Polite nods to the people in Seats A and C, maybe a bit of chit chat, the flight attendant moves the details to the overhead bin. Each passenger with their own life and story, possibly talked about but rarely for the sake of forming real relationships. Anonymity with a name - maybe real, maybe not. It's a curious thing.

©2009 Mindy Danylak

Borderlands

there is a place
beyond the border
where love grows
and where peace
is not the frozen silence . . .

to get to that place you have to
go or be pushed out
beyond the borders,
to where it is lonely, fearful,
threatening, unknown.

only after you have wandered
for a long time in the dark
do you begin to bump into others
also branded, exiled,
border crossers,
and find you walk on
common ground.

it is not an easy place to be,
this place beyond the borders.
but it is a good place to be.

Kathy Galloway
(the above is an extraction - see first comment below for the full piece)

I and You

Yes, I come from another country,
To your world I can never belong.
Tinkling guitars cannot please me,
I want a wild desolate song.

I do not read my verses in drawing-rooms
To black-coats and dresses like shrouds.
I read my verses to dragons,
To the waterfalls and to the clouds.

I love like an Arab in the desert
Who flings himself on water and drinks,
Not like a knight in a picture
Who looks at the stars and thinks.

I shall not die in a bedroom
With a priest and a lawyer beside me.
I shall perish in a terrible ravine
With a mass of wild ivy to hide me.

I shall not go to a Protestant heaven,
Open to all in tidy blue skies,
But to a place where thief and publican
And harlot will cry: 'Friend, arise!'

Nikolai Gumilev
(Translated by V. De S. Pinto)

The Invitation

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

© Oriah Mountain Dreamer, from the book The Invitation published by HarperSanFrancisco, 1999