uncomfortable

“Compassion is generally considered to be a good
thing, but I’ve seen people invoke it in a way that seems to turn their
brains to mush. “I know Bush is doing bad things, but I do bad things too,
and we need to send him love and compassion.” That’s not compassion, that’s
Stockholm syndrome, the psychological phenomenon whereby kidnap victims or
hostages or abused children come to identify with those who hold power over
them, and want to please them.” Starhawk, 2006

Last night I saw the movie “V for Vendetta”, a stunning movie in which characters like Bush are dispatched with an intelligent violent efficiency, part of the means justifying an end which is the uprising of the people and the toppling of a totalitarian regime. It’s a movie I will be thinking about for a long time, with lots to say about revolution, terrorism, the power of symbols, and the difference between ideas and people. Although based on a comic, it’s anything but simple, and found myself enjoying it immensely. I saw it on the heels of reading the strange posting which included the above words from Starhawk on the anniversary of Rachel Corrie’s death. I say strange, because compassion and love for your enemies has always been a hallmark of the teachings of the great spiritual and non-violent revolutionaries, and Starhawk aims to be among their ranks. The heads of Jesus, Martin Luther King, and Ghandi were filled with anything but mush, and my guess is that Rachel Corrie held their stirring words on loving your enemies in her heart, and this in some way, is what she died for. For Starhawk to equate having compassion for one’s enemies as a symptom of “Stockholm syndrome” boggles this witch’s brain, and points to just how hard it is to hold the compassionate viewpoint once you’ve experienced actual violence.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently, triggered by my son and his surprising uprising at his progressive school. After a group of seventh graders put up a poster urging George Bush to eat more pretzels, including some disparaging remarks about Republicans, Casey strode into the director of student’s office. He apparently gave quite an impassioned speech, saying that he’d been taught to be tolerant of other people’s beliefs, and he thought that his school valued embracing diversity, but it seemed to be only a certain kind of diversity, not diversity of belief and thought. He carried on, questioning if it was right to root for another person’s death, even if we felt their policies are wrong or evil, and (this is the line that’s given me so much trouble) saying that if he were a from a Republican family, he wouldn’t feel safe or comfortable at the school. The director was pretty shocked, especially given Casey’s background, but after some discussion and thought, the sign came down.

The discussion of this incident with my friends has provoked a variety of responses. Some feel I should be proud of Casey, that he clearly has integrated and made his own the message of tolerance and love for all beings that he has grown up with, and that he clearly has embraced employing “the questioning attitude”. Others feel he’s unclear of the level of atrocities that have been perpetuated by Bush and his ilk, and that this is indicative of an adolescent rebellion against his leftist family and community, one which puts me in danger of producing a right wing conservative son.

At one gathering, Casey held his own in a rousing discussion, with Jeff, a seasoned fifty-something left-wing political writer, and Hillary, a true “elder” of Reclaiming and co-writer of “Twelve Wild Swans”, holding the two poles. Jeff spoke to the absurdity of making those who’ve behaved like Nazis “safe and comfortable” and Hilary defended Casey’s questioning the rightness of suggesting violence to our enemies. I listened intently, finding myself bouncing back and forth between positions. I was struck by my son’s depth of thought and facility in expressing it, even as I found myself wishing he was speaking out about environmental destruction or the degradation of human rights as opposed to questioning how we spoke about those we find oppressive and even evil. How much easier and comfortable the former discussion would be!

I found “V for Vendetta” exhilarating. When the bad guys get whacked, there’s a rush of primal excitement. “An eye for an eye” is so much more immediately gratifying than “turn the other cheek”, and certainly does better at the box office. One of my favorite signs from the big march before the war broke out just happened to be “Have another pretzel, motherfucker!” Even now, thinking about it makes me laugh, the simple revengeful humanness of it, the lack of sanctimoniousness and holier than thou-ness that sometimes can characterize the left. And yet, as uncomfortable as it makes me, I have to side with my son, and with all of those who invoke compassion. My head is not full of mush, but holds the difficult paradox of deeply understanding and even taking dark pleasure in V’s vendetta, even as I envision and try to embrace another way of being, one in which I do the rigorous practice of following the law of love, of having compassion for all beings, and refusing the very idea of “enemies”. This is not Stockholm syndrome, it is damn hard work. I wish it were easier.

spring break

On winter solstice our house was filled with friends, feasting and fêting thru the long dark night. The next day we lolled around the house in our pajamas, while up in the mountains of Colorado, my skiing housemate was being broadsided by a snow boarder. She came back to us with a broken leg, a leg that had to be operated on a few weeks back. Still on crutches, she won’t be back on two feet for another month or so. Our community of friends have all provided support and succor, bringing meals, walking her dog, and driving her to the store. My fourteen year old son, Casey, has been especially attentive, always willing to bring a glass of water or carry a load of laundry down the back stairs.

Until yesterday, that is. Today is spring equinox, that strange day when light and dark are in perfect balance. I spent the morning mounting a phone campaign to find a doctor who could see my son. He broke his leg yesterday playing Lacrosse, which he was doing to, in his words “to toughen him up for football”. Yesterday his father and I spent the late afternoon and evening at the emergency room, our son’s face glazed over with pain, all of us in some kind of shock. Late this afternoon we saw a doctor who specializes in sports medicine. My skills as activist, witch, and therapist were all put into play in the winning of this appointment. My three hours on the phone paid off. I can’t imagine what it’s like for people who are on their own, in pain, and without the resources available to me. You could wait weeks to get into a doctor if you simply accepted what you were told. My son’s fibula is broken on a growth plate. A ct scan later this week will rule out surgery.

I don’t believe in coincidence. Ilyse breaking her leg on solstice and Casey breaking his leg on equinox have meaning. What that meaning is, how these events are connected, I may never know. But I’m trying to pay attention. At the moment, there’s way too many crutches in the living room at any given moment, and being the one person in the house without a disability is challenging, to say the least. My other housemate is deaf, so every doorbell, ringing phone, or call from the other room has one recipient responding to it.

I’m trying to balance the light with the dark today. All of us will survive this. There are not bombs going off around us, and the irritation at being the one to have to run down and bring up the take-out Chinese is balanced by gratitude for the ready food on hand.

What a mystery this life is!

a little bit of heaven

Last night I dreamt of an earthquake. Being a Californian, I’ve been thru many earthquakes and feel a strange familiarity with them. Every time the earth shakes, I have this “oh, there you are!” kind of feeling, combined with the anxious curiosity of how long and how hard the movement is going to be, or if it’s a jolt, if it will be followed by one much stronger. In my dream, the earthquake was the big one, coming not in one jolt, like some, but a long rolling that increased in intensity. I was at home, and although everything was topsy turvy, the house survived. The rest of the dream focused on discovering that my carriage house had been housing all the stuff from the booth I’ve been involved with for over two decades that makes eggrolls at one of the oldest alternative festivals/fairs in the nation, The Oregon Country Fair.

Our city was without electricity or running water, and there was rubble all around. I found myself with my neighbors and some of my friends who’ve been part of the eggroll booth, setting up the booth in my own home, realizing that I had everything I needed to serve eggrolls right in my own backyard. The amazing part of the dream was that this seemed to be happening on every block, people having coleman stoves and big tanks of water stored, all ready to go. Cell space, a community art space a few blocks from my house, had the same feel as the big action center in Seattle that was created during the WTO demonstration. Big information boards were put up there, and trainings were happening in everything from first aid to gardening. Being a dream, it made perfect sense that my favorite hotel in Memphis, the Peabody, was open on my block and Elvis himself was passing out mint juleps.

Years ago at Woodstock, Wavy Gravy pronounced “There’s always a little bit of heaven in a disaster zone”. This week is Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I know that as time goes on, more and more stories will emerge from the mighty disaster of Katrina of people helping each other, of kindness and compassion in the midst of chaos. One of the things that may have seeded last night’s dream was reading an article on Burners Without Borders, a movement that’s rising out of the Burning Man community. Every year at Burning Man, a city gets built up in week out on a barren playa in the desert. Like the Oregon Country Fair, those who participate get skilled in setting up camp and providing for themselves outside and off the grid of the overculture. Who better to help out the Mississipi Coast than those who’ve built a city on the desert out of nothing, and then dismantle it and leave the playa as it was! Burners Without Borders are setting up kitchens and camps which are helping the clean-up and restoration of the coast, and the article told of many who went for a week and have now been there months, adding their particular spice to the mix of the South.. It turns out being able to create a great party without benefit of electricity comes in handy in a disaster area. Many San Franciscans are avid "burners", all with closets or garages full of supplies for the annual event. My dream tells me there may be some method to the madness, that nothing could prepare our city more for a disaster than to fill it with people who's camping supplies are stored along with plenty of glitter, wigs and costumes.

I woke this morning and thought about my dream, and felt a newfound gratitude for my years at the eggroll booth, for the experience of putting up and taking down a village that sustains itself in high style, if only for a few days. My neighborhood has been organizing itself to be prepared for disaster, getting together and discussing what supplies we need and forming loose plans of how we’ll care for each other. We haven’t met in few months. This dream calls for another meeting. When Elvis shows up in my dreams, I pay attention.