Returning

We live in a culture of violence, yearning for alternatives we cannot yet speak of, language lagging behind experience, experiencing undefined without language. Returning, I realized how much I have missed the chaotic liveliness of Chinatown. The peach tree ripened in my absence and on these cool mornings I snatch a dangling fruit as I walk to work. Everything continues, and I revolve through my roles: friend, advocate, mailman, janitor, listener, conflict manager.

Today we met to process the recent homicide on the corner of our home street. During the meeting, R.'s niece arrived to inform us R. had passed away. In these short six months, there's been two shootings on J. street and this will be the fifth death among my Chinatown community.  Life on the streets does not get easier, and I chose to return, to remain, but others don't have that luxury. The culture of violence permeates everything-- economic, structural, systemic violence, personal, emotional, physical violence. The violence that lies in my own breast and lashes out- white-hot in my own tiredness, lack of control, unmet desires, or sense of attack. Wonderful, wild, R. -- so many mornings of coaxing her, trying to remain patient while she nagged and harassed and sometimes laughed her wild delicious laugh. We were all mad about R. even though she was a handful.

Thinking of the three victims who were shot walking home from church, I wonder about their stories, how their families and communities will grieve, how they will deal with their loss, how the survivors will accept their life in the face of lost friends. Every act of violence continues. It is frustrating to see the media wrangle out more viewers from the callousness and drama of a death. Where do we begin to live into the alternatives? Steph picked roses from our bush and left them on the corner. Every act of love is a small resistance. How do we continue to hope in the face of systems and cycles that create and fuel violence? Gangs, substance abuse, racism, lack of funding for healthcare, for education... returning to the same faces on Soledad, some who have been on the streets for years. The interchange between sorrow and joy is so subtle. Millions of people kissed today, laughed today, were delighted, shared stories, shared meals, played... millions were fearful, hurt, hungry, hurting, dying. Every act of love is a small resistance.

I don't have answers for most of my questions. I do not always know how to make sense of the rage, sorrow, and joy I feel (in quick successions.) I know that I desire to live deep awake and that sometimes to remain awake, to listen to others, is costly, exhausting, and painful. But this is life.

"Look at the names carved into us
Look at the days when they were lit up
Brushing my head and I feel their rage
Years of radiance, years of rain

And the world stops spinnin’ when you stop spinnin’
Sighs when you sigh when you sigh
I’m coming home so leave the light on for me
I’m drawing over the moon on this fell
When I’ll get in I will see you all there
I’m drawing on the great exhale
I'm soaring on the great exhale."  - Great Lake Swimmers