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

in the realm of hungry ghosts

 My small act of insurrection this month is getting food stamps, which I qualify for, but is also a means of there being less government money for the insanity of the US military complex. And! Roy and I did our grocery shopping at Trader Joe's... (Brookster, in your honor I am devouring a box of Barbara's shredded oats which I'd forgotten about since HA.) Delicious nutritious Food Not bombs!

Community life is really hard. Some days I want to escape from being around everyone. When my superiority/ego/ideals rise to the surface... which is more often then I'd like... I am reminded of how a true community is not easy work. In order to create beauty in Chinatown we have to cultivate an atmosphere of contagious love (something like what must've been happening among 1st century Christians) but that love comes at a very high price-- all of us working on ourselves, building friendships where we learn to truly trust and sacrifice for each other. It requires incredible patience, and willingness to see people without holding on to my idea of them (or their motivations)-- allowing people to change not binding them to a version of their self. It requires noticing the constricting of my heart, the narrowing, enduring together, sharing (the material and immaterial things of life.) Love reaches past the tit-for-tat of reciprocity and asks for a life of dying to the self so love can be reborn over and over. How much am I actually committed to that? How invested in honesty, in learning to walk uncomfortably until the way becomes clearer am I? How willing am I to admit to failures, to take responsibility for my action, to not delegate the difficulties of communicating uneasy things off on others?

Today I went with Rick & Roy to the Buddhist Temple for Buddha's birthday.  The dharma talk was thought-provoking.  He talked about how difficult it is to be born in human form, but how the celebration of the birth reminds us how miraculous our own life is, that we are here to become human. There are six or seven realms in their cosmology (though its metaphorical)... something like hell, then the realm of the hungry ghosts, and animals, and titans/warriors, then humans, and heavenly... (the titans or warriors are people who by being obsessed with power are lacking full humanity or something like that) and the heavenly can also be negative in the sense of being so spirit-minded we sit in a content bliss while others suffer... but the uniqueness of being human, of a realm where is suffering and birthing-- is a beautiful thing-- the only realm where we can learn to be conscious and awakened. To often we live in the other realms, live hellishly, live as wandering, hungry ghosts, searching, live as warriors consumed with lust for power.  

Rick wrote a poem that I've been dwelling on that contains these lines... "You smile at me and say: Love is the sweetest of all paths! I turn on you a stern glance and ask: how much pain are you prepared to endure? ... we would rather crucify Love than walk this world under Love's burden of pain." Many days I do not desire Love at all. To follow Jesus is more difficult than any endeavor. Recently I have been asking myself how I can survive the stories I carry... how to be faithful to the vulnerability of others-- to remain open, to keep baring my heart to the moment... when that looks like talking to a 20-yr old pregnant heroin addict about parenting, or helping an ill and drunk woman clean shit off her shoes and scrubbing the bathroom floor while she tells me how she was molested for years of her childhood, or a woman showing me the scar that runs down her neck where a jealous boyfriend cut her? Love is a tricky thing-- accompanying myself and others through the different realms.

 There is a 'dharma gate' called "the intuitive tolerance of the complete incomprehensibility of all things." Yes. Yes.

"Where you invest your love is where you invest your life."

Life here is very full and there is always more to do. I've decided to make Thursdays blogging day because I usually start to write and then feel overwhelmed at all the things I'd like to talk about. Today, sitting in a community meeting with the Surviving Sisters of Soledad, the watch-commander, Franciscan workers, property holders, and other stakeholders in Chinatown I felt a twinge of ownership. Two months have passed here already and this place is sneakily entwining itself in my heart. 

I wrote to Larisa recently, "I think there is something unique about our situations of work as living in a community-- a quality of inseparability, wholeness, and exhaustiveness-- work feeding into living, living feeding into work. I've been going to zazen meditation most weekdays... there is this concept of 'practice' and whether you are meditating, eating, walking, etc. all form different aspects of your practice. That is how I feel about work here-- whether I am technically at work at  Dorothy's or on weekend, the people of Chinatown are my community."  Sometimes the inseparability is straining, but I think it's also exciting. I am not working for people, I am sharing my whole self. I celebrate and mourn with this community, I laugh and I hold people while they cry, I talk about relationships and de-escalation and violence and dreams and zodiac signs and prayer and histories. Today was the 2nd week of the newly formed Writers Group, we wrote about where we'd been and where we're going and a time we were afraid. "I am afraid every day of being vulnerable... but I believe its the only way to be fully human." 

The House of Peace is an incredible experiment. The Surviving Sisters of Soledad refills me (with hope and caffeine.) The women are organizing themselves, La Perla is the manifestation of their voices, their power-- and it is exciting. The beauty and pain lie so closely together. There are so many days I feel angry here-- especially at the system (but just as often at people and at myself for my expectations and short-sightedness.) Since I have been here there have been at least six cases of elderly people being released from the hospital and "dumped" at Dorothy's (via taxi from the hospital usually)-- there's no money for senior care/housing yet we can spend billions on 'national defense offense'. (But that is a rant for another day.) I've begun to do more advocacy and have been surprised by the situationally homeless (vs. the chronically homeless who often have experienced intense trauma and might have substance abuse or mental health issues.) A lot of people in this economy have lost their job, their car, their house and simply didn't have a network to fall back on. I am shocked by how some of these people are just like me, as I said to a friend, "I guess that just proves how I am still stepping out of my stereotypes of homelessness."

So many days I feel frustrated, confused, tired, happy, close to tears, isolated, part of something, stressed, peaceful, joyful, energized. The street community cares for each other and preys upon each other. The alley is full of people shooting up, arguing, fighting, sharing, watching out for each other. (I'm learning about non-dualities.) I went to hear Dolores Huerta (Co-Founder of the United Farm Workers) and wow-- what a life she has lived, the struggle of it-- "We will win if we do not quit." And the fight is long. And dark. And the end is unsure. Perhaps the greatest struggle of all is to retain hope. 

Tonight Natalie said, "Meg is a community organizer." And I felt excited for that to become true. I'm just beginning to learn for sure. 

Community & Love

Living in community is never easy. "As long as we are on the earth the love that unites us will bring us suffering by our very contact with one another, because love is the resetting of a body of broken bones" (Merton). Chinatown is the current residency of my heart and energy, but I am also part of this interfaith community and wondering what that means in our daily living together. What practices can bind us together while strengthening our personal traditions? Lately, I have been doing zazen (seated meditation) and for now it is the most natural and nurturing ritual for my faith.

The other day Kate said to me, "People are always saying Jesus loves you. Why don't they just say I love you?" and in that way begin to embody the radical love of Jesus, instead of projecting the difficulty of loving away from the self? Love as a word has lost nearly all its meaning in our language. Love isn't simply pleasant, love is a crown of thorns. It requires the work of opening up to vulnerability (including negative emotions) and learning to face our shadow sides, to sit with the deep, deep still, to speak honestly and bravely, to remain humble. As David Foster Wallace said, “The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.” 


We are all unskilled, messy lovers and I am finding that living in this community is bringing to surface my own lack of understanding of what it means to love others and challenging me to struggle, to live by my own small-deaths. I am asking myself again and again, "what does it mean to love?" (to love my community on Soledad street, to love the people I live with, to love my scattered-lovers, to love God, myself, my environment.) Mm. 

(Reflections on Love: "Love, Reality, and the Time of Transition.")

Contrast / Sight.

Most days when the earth begins to spin my horizon away from the sun, I sit drinking tea or debriefing the day with Jimmy and Roy at our table beneath the cherry and palm trees. Our neighbors have a lemon tree (that always makes me think of Palestine and the MRI gang) they often sit outside too, music and Spanish spilling across the street. Yesterday I  played tag with the neighbor kids until dark when we stumbled through a spanglish game of charades and another neighbor leaned on the fence watching in amusement till their mothers called them home. I like my neighborhood. 


And these piercing moments of beauty and life sustain me because my heart is blurred by the vastness of evils and goods. Sometimes the news (our posturing towards Iran, Syria..., SOPA) or memory, or stories (of migrants dying in the desert- and even there, women raped, of isolation, betrayals, of relapses into drugs)-- it can ache so deeply I feel like abandoning all faith. Darkness rushing in (with all the agonies and personal tragedies and brokenness of Soledad Street that seem to seep into the tiniest cracks of light and absorb them, the reminders of all the seeds of monstrosity I carry inside myself, the complexity of how we don't set out to hurt each other and yet we so often do, over and over-- in obscure and infinitesimal, obvious and subtle ways-- and heal each other the same way.)  


There are so many people in my community that I admire and am surprised by. Yesterday, I sat next to Sandra outside La Perla and she told me about how her favorite job was running a body shop, particularly the process of stripping down a car all the way to its bare metal frame (the death of it, its skeleton laying in the lot) then rebuilding it piece by piece, bringing it back to life. I was struck by how redemptive-toned the language she used was, perhaps there is something inside us that it drawn by those metaphors. Remy taught Tony and I some watercolors today and he played us a harmonica song. Later we took a walk down to the community garden and Javier gave us a tour. Watching people on the street take care of each gives me hope.


But the situation is still complex, there are politics and fights and scuffles and rudeness and exasperation and failures. Beauty. Terror. These things don't balance each other, they merely provide contrast. Perhaps that is how life shapes a landscape inside us-- chiseling through a million winds, storms, floods, flashes of light. Perhaps that is the feeling of being alive, to constantly hold the tension of the sorrow and the beating, strength of joy, of our desire to live.


One of Larisa's friends commented on her most recent post (which is something I want to reflect on and relate to my own work-Read Her Thoughts): The most important person I am with is the person I am with now. And the most important task for me in this moment is to do good to this person."  This is the philosophy of personalism that the Catholic Worker encourages.  I am trying to challenge myself to be reflective in my practice, to see both the individual person and the long haul. It's difficult... the complexity of the street, the slowness of change, the excitement of seeing the women organize. I feel overwhelmed by all I have to learn (by all that is leftover or could be done), but then there are simple interactions: I remembered someone's name, sought her out to let her know she had mail (a small thing), yet twice later she brought up how I had remembered, how I'd even remembered her last name, how she'd told her boyfriend how I remembered. -- so often, the deepest desire is just to be seen. 


Sipaj.