The Re-Entry Toolkit

When human-made objects are hurled into space - crews of engineers do intentional work - in advance - to be sure that the objects can withstand the fire, and the friction of re-entry. But somehow, we humans, or at least this one, hurls hirself into situations without anything like adequate consideration of / preparations for "and then what."

This is something I need to work on with intention, but I don't know... how to go about it. I do not want to build my exterior so thick with armour plating that watching otters at play, or feeling the vibrations of ancient trees doesn't move me to tears.  I don't want to be so "safe" that the wonderment of amazing and profound experiences has no chance to permeate into my core. Hell no... I don't aspire to be "safe." Rather, I need a re-entry toolkit.  I need to be equipped, so that when I am faced with re-entering what is in most ways a much narrower world, the friction of that passage doesn't smash me to smithereens... and leave bits of me hurtling through space only to burn up or just disappear. 

I recently spent 5 days at the Philadelphia Trans Health Conference. I was immersed in a culture where regardless of how one identifies in the gender universe... regardless of how a person might express gender... in action, in speech, in carriage, in dress, couture and accouterments, or any other way in which gender might be carried by your person... that your identification and expression is not only okay, it is a cause for excitement and celebration!  In this culture, your identity is seen as a brilliant point of connection to other beautiful souls - a point of contact. Even the briefest moments of eye contact in crowded hallways routinely are moments of "YES, I see you!" 

Beyond expressions and articulations of gender being points of celebration - no matter HOW complex those might be... expressions of Spirit are treated the same way, at what I will just affectionately refer to from here on out as "Philly."  Sitting in a circle literally and figuratively with folks who identified as Muslim, Buddhist, Pagan, Christian, Native American Traditionalist, Jewish, Humanist, and on and on and on... was so exquisitely beautiful. In one specific event - when we were literally together... we sat, and had complex and authentic conversation, about what it is like to be in community with others whose Spiritual experience,  expression, and practice is different than our own, sometimes profoundly so. There are moments of raw and singular beauty in that, but there are also big hairy challenges. We talked about that openly, and held the tension together as a community. We talked about the beauty and we talked about the challenges, we named them, and we held them... together.  We entered into this experience as community, and we emerged as community. This is not the first time this spiritual community has gathered intentionally for this event... but due to a different vision in the planning, and some brilliant facilitation, there was a fire that was created in the realness of the conversations, that had not existed before.  Relationships within this community were strengthened, and others forged anew in that fire. People saw... and experienced each other differently.

Gender certainly weaves through everything at Philly - its a Transgender conference for crying out loud, but spirituality is one strand of many.  There is so MUCH programming at Philly, multiple tracks, hundreds of workshop offerings, too much to address in one writing, so I will follow the strand of Spirit because that is where I am led... that is fire around which I dance.

To be in this community, where sharing space with one another in lovingkindness was the default setting, and the exploration of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual wholeness was what we were all about was so nurturing to my Spirit.  Whether I was in the role of a workshop facilitator, or participating in other ways... we explored so much together! We learned from each other, we laughed a LOT, we cried together, we drummed, we were outrageous, we sang, we shared amazing meals, we danced, we read, we waxed poetic, and experienced brilliant moments of transformation with one another.  I saw it... unfold right in front of me... someone sitting on the ground wounded - lifted up by total strangers in unexpected ways. I saw people experience the Sacred in ways that were startling to them - and humbling & affirming to me. 

Each of my 5 days in Philly was made of, tears, laughter, fun, conversation, insights, engagement, and realness interwoven. For me personally... more brilliant strands were  woven into my Spiritual tapestry... not just some more strands, but the locking threads.

This tapestry is woven of Earthy fibers, and sweetgrass, there are brilliant sparks woven in there too - the spark of relationship - to other folks, and to the Holy Love in the Center of All That Is, and bits of turtle shell.  This year's Philly saw a change in me - from one who might carry this beautiful weaving and when the time was right, hand it up to others to use is some amazing way - to someone who knows... that this weaving belongs to them. This fine weaving supports me - like a hammock, it allows me to relax, lean in, and stretch out. It will support me. While I am supported... I can DO THE WORK! Beyond that, this powerful piece is OF me. The interplay between my Isness, and Spirit - creates an amazing potential that is more than I could be or do on my own, because... Spirit... hammock... and I are braided together. Follow me here... the three strands that I see  woven together are... me, Spirit, and that which is the combined nature of Spirit and I which enabled the hammock to BE. So as I braid, Spirit, me, us... and so it goes under.. over... back.

That would be amazing enough, right... to have this and realize it is yours.  But... I also got myself INTO that spiritual hammock... like seriously crawled my happy-ass in there! I now KNOW that I am, by my nature... a hammock dweller.  Thanks to CP and TD for creating the space that unfolded that allowed that to happen.  The experience was breathtaking in its simplicity, this automatic thing - just happened - in the words of my dear friend "you surprised your OWN damn self!"

Yes... yes, I did and that surprise... was like - wowness!  The wowiest part of all, was that as I got into the hammock, I was not like a person who was in a hammock for the first time - violently rocking and flipping myself out on the ground with a graceless thump, I was comfortable. I just stretched out, put my hands behind my head so to speak, and it was as though, I was born to be there.... gently swaying with the other hammock-folk.

One very hard thing about amazing experiences like Philly... is the leaving... physically leaving those dear friends is one part of it, yes, but one part I have struggled with each year... is Re-entry - the topic I started this post out with.  It is disorienting, and agonizing, to go from this place of community, this place where a broad spectrum of expression, and identity, and walking, and of breathing... being supported... and seen as a source of wonder...  to being abruptly shoved back into the wider (in geography) but narrower (in almost every other way), and quite often dangerous and hateful world. It takes me probably two weeks to be able to deal with any kind of Grace. This year - it may take longer due to the profound nature of how Philly was a becoming for me.  I have recently likened this process, to birth... in the womb.. we are fed, nurtured, protected, rocked and comforted, and then all of the sudden... holy hell we are violently constricted and shoved into a place that is like a different universe, it is bright, and noisy, the rules have changed, and people are constantly poking and prodding at you, and seeing you... as they would have you BE. 

I hope that this year's experience can help me identify some useful tools that may become a re-entry tool kit. The first tool that must be included - is self-awareness.  As I have worked on my re-entry this year and tried to figure this shit out... I have tried to be fierce about self-care and self - protection, and even though the Universe threw me a big curve ball of meanness, as soon as I began, I have been largely successful I think.  I have been mindful to seek out what nurtures and feeds me, and tried to sidestep old patterns of worry about being who, what, or where others expect while I am going about that work. I stumbled, scraped my knees a time or two, but I was aware enough to reach out for a hand, and I got up.

And with that, I think I am fresh out - of words.
~ Peace and Kindness ~

Whitewashed

When I was writing for OBG (Our Big Gayborhood) this was my  inaugural post - that blog is no longer online, and a few folks have asked for link, so I am putting it here to preserve it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Lakota creation story has the People springing forth from a hole in the ground somewhere in the black hills. I like that idea a lot.  Maybe it is because there’s a lot I don’t know about where I come from.  A hole in the ground is as good a place as any; I’m very connected to the Earth, so yeah it works.  Maybe it is because my Mother’s origins are in the Oglala Lakota people.  The Lakota are part of a confederation of seven related tribes commonly referred to as the Sioux (except by people who are… that is). The Lakota were Mom’s people, but she never knew that.  Mom was adopted.  She was born in the early 1930’s a time of challenge, a time of great change in our country. For the Lakota, the challenges of the Great Depression were compounded by multiple cultural factors. At the time of my Mother’s birth, the Lakota were only 50 years removed from their life as a free roaming people of the plains. Indian boarding schools were still in operation.  Some of the most blatant expressions of racism in the history of our country occurred in Indian schools.  The Indian boarding school experience was characterized by the wholesale taking of Indian children from their families and tribal nations and thrusting them into an environment, where they were abruptly, systematically and totally deprived of their Indianness.  The notion was to “kill the Indian to save the man.”  In other words, slap on a coat of whitewash.  If Indians spoke, dressed and acted like white people, the “Indian problem” would be solved.  One of the most tragic aspects of this disastrous experience is that when a child would return to their home they were often estranged from the members of their tribe.  These children were often perceived as no longer truly Indian by their tribal societies and they were certainly not accepted as members of white society either.  So much for the whitewashing.   

With pressures such as these bearing down on Indian communities, it is not surprising that people often faced hard choices.   When a mixed-blood man raped my Grandmother and she discovered she was pregnant, rather than subject herself to shame, and her child to the possibility of being shipped off to an Indian school…she ran.  Grandma was “a child of approximately 16 years” when she arrived in Chicago and gave her daughter up for adoption… according to the paperwork.  She gave a false name, surrendered the child and disappeared. 

As a result, Mom was whitewashed.  This was not malicious on the part of my adoptive grandparents, but that dripping whitewash brush was in their hands just the same. Whitewashing served to rob Mom of the subtle earthtones of her culture.  It’s the esoteric things… the patterns of speech, the body language, the oral traditions and the worldview that were lost. These were not only Mom’s losses, but her children’s, and her grandchildren’s losses as well.  With the adoption by people of another culture, a coat of whitewash was slapped over the cultural gifts that were her birthright. 

Every now and again, we’d catch a glimpse. We even teased her about it!  I can look back to when I was a kid and see Mom, hunkered over a campfire cooking some freshly caught fish, looking so Indian it was startling. “Hey Mom, maybe you’re really Indian!” I’d say.  Her reply, “Ha, ha, ha, very funny… now quit messing around and bring me a plate for the fish!”

Everything happens as part of a larger pattern or cycle. Cycles of pain, cycles of violence, cycles of deprivation and despair twist together like a braid, weaving through the fabric of my People. Cycles robbed me of my Grandmother, made her bolt in shame and rage, leaving Mom to be raised by white people who didn’t get what it means to be Indian, what it means to be connected… to Earth… to sky… what the winds mean.  Mom grew… lived… aged and passed through the Western Door with no knowledge of the cycle that begat her, or the identity of her People. 

It’s rather ironic… Oglala means to scatter one's own, and Mom was sure flung far from her own people.  There is a lot that I don’t know about my heritage, but what I do know… has proven to be enough.  It motivates me.  I am driven to learn everything I can about my culture, it has provided a sense of connection that I’ve sought all of my life… it has equipped me with the tools to strip off the whitewash and dip in to the ceremonial paint of my People.

As I stand back to admire the result… I see a person… whose figure and essence are adorned with subtle earthtones… of Spirituality… of ancient teachings and traditions that once seemed lost… but were there all along… beneath the whitewash.

Free Associations...

Happy Birthday to me... seriously! Today was good... and I swear I have this weird thing going on with rhyme - and free associations all OVER the place. For example, when I wrote "today was good..." what followed in my head was "today was fun... tomorrow is another one, every day from here to there, funny things are everywhere!" (from One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss). 

My Brother called to continue our years-long tradition of singing poorly to each other over the phone on our birthdays. We exchanged some small talk, that's about it. He called yesterday to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving, and gave me some passive-agressive shit about something our Sister told him that I guess he thought I should have self reported about my health. He doesn't like it much that our relationship and communications are strained since his boycott of my wedding. Well ya know what? I don't like it either... but who put the strain on it Sparky?? If the suit isn't fitting so comfortable these days, consult the tailor - or lay off the cannoli (in your case the self-righteousness that is puffing you up - and making things tight) - either way - not my doing - not owning it!

My Son Josh, and Daughter-in-law Ashley brought a birthday fiesta to the house from our favorite Mexican restaurant - (Hooray for food from Yolanda's)... since my "lotsa voices maka me crazy" and Black Friday didn't sound like a good mix.  We had a nice time... and they gave me the Gift of Chai! SCORE one for the Mermaid! A little later my Son James came over with a nice pressie... lovely turtle necklace from a dear friend and local artist. Nice!Nice!Nice!

My lovely wife is busily working on her part of a team project for an upcoming ceremony - its gunna rock out loud! I need to kick my part into gear pretty-soon-quick!

I was touched and uplifted and more, for which there is no words... to be asked to take pictures for a VERY special ritual/celebration for my dearest friend =Chii Megwetch=

There was lots of down time, I lounged around and read, drank copious amounts of tea.  I am reading a book called "Lamb" by Christopher Moore - and there's so MUCH good stuff there... but one phrase really touched me in the wordless center this evening: "... for he is thee, and thou are he, and everything that is ever worth loving ... is everything." Beautiful... right?  It is... and it doth vibrate along the string - don't it Babycakes?!  But also... it really sounded to me like part of "I am the Walrus!" How ridiculous and funny is that? Though I could be troubled by how tricksy my mind is... it makes me giggle! Seems like there are several possible explanations:

- Maybe some mental muscles are flexing...

- I have contracted either Venetian Verbal Virus, or Secondary Vocabularyitis (from the TV series "Bewitched") if that's the case "Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay! Emergency - come right away!"

- I really AM the Walrus - coo coo cachoo motherfucker!

But... on a day I have been dreading... to go to bed with a lighter head (OMG it IS Secondary Vocabularyitis!) - ya know... I'll take it!

On the Brink...

The tree in the image, looks like a two spirit person to me, both male and female... zhe has one hand on hip... pointing down the hill.Tomorrow... I turn 55.This is terrifying. If I were all actively engaged with life, if I were healthy... maybe it wouldn't be terrifying. But this has been a hell of a past 6 months, beginning with the cavalcade of concussions, and marching through the valley of the shadow of MS. I am carrying a lot of pain - in all spheres, and uncertainly, and more than a little anger (due in part, but not entire to the steroids). My mother passed through the Western Door nearly 24 years ago. She was 55. I know in the cognitive workings that I am not my Mother and my health story is not hers. But... but... but. When it comes my turn to celebrate 56, I think I will feel differently about this alignment... but not today. In the words of my friend. 

"We are not our Mothers... but we are."

Volcanic...

Like Mount Fucking Vesuvius - it feels like somethin's gunna blow!  Pressure mounting... pain fear pain anger pain uncertainty pain frustration pain fury pain. I am in big-biig pain today, the older the day gets, the more the pain is building. the fear, the isolation and the rage is crankin' up the heat. Starting round 2 of steroids today, is turning the burner up to volcanic levels. Fists balled up at my temples crying and screaming, scaring the hell out of the cats - fury! I hate the way I feel. i.fuckin.hate.it! An unfinished project - is giving me some focus and diversion at least momentarily. Focused-diverted all at the same time. A scary place.

Its a very joined day. Each having unique identity and experiences, but somehow having an all access pass to some shared space, shared energies. My "side of the shell" is not the same as the other... but, it is one shell. When that much "stuff" is washing around inside the shell... it affects the shell entire. See how they look at each other?  Brings a whole new dimension to being a "rider along-sider."

When Roseann asked me last night how I was dealing emotionally with my diagnosis... I guess I haven't been doing much work on that front now... have I? I have opened myself up to those considerations today and boyoboy!  Although I have been affected by symptoms and working on the details of getting a second and all of that... in a way that has been a distraction.  It hit me between the eyes... when I was put on steroids for this damned exacerbation and then we started talking actual MS meds.  I guess my most present emotions today are unreality, anxiety and worry... with a fear and anger chaser... make it a double! The rational person would be correct to point out that those things will add to my stress, and make this exacerbation more troublesome. There's a storm of energies swirling around inside the shell.  

Whatever the sound of rage is... insert that here!

Pouring it Out...

Tonight my legs feel like bundles of live wires... more like each leg is a nylon stocking with about 5 electric eels crammed in there that are WAY pissed off at each other. I tried to go to bed, but just hurt too much not to be way restless. So I thought I'd take some meds and blog a bit while they kick in. Earlier in the day, while visiting my cousins grave... I felt like a collapse was imminent. Not just physically, but emotionally/spiritually as well. I was on one knee in front of her stone, with my hand on top of it... and felt this unhinging beginning to happen. I felt myself swaying... swooning to be precise. I felt Cindy grabbed me by the elbow and say "no Lindy, NO... go to Jen... let her take care of you."  About that time my Jen was just there... and when I got up - she did grab my elbow, and walked me to the car.  Jen asked if my feet hurt she said I was walking funny.  At dinner with 2 other cousins before that, I had some speech issues... it is troubling to hear that happen, to be aware that it is, and not be able to stop it. Troubling also to see the cloud pass over their faces when it did. I've always been at least articulate. On the way home... I had some stammers also. I dunno if that is MS talking - or if that is a throwback stress thing. When I get way stressed... sometimes that happens. 

Pain and fear and anger and frustration... uncertainty and grief and fury and sadness... rage and embarrassment and futility and helplessness... physical pain and emotional pain, spiritual pain and mental pain... I pour those out tonight... within the safety of these banks... knowing that you are out there guarding my riverbanks. You let me rage and keep me safe while I pour myself out... releasing some of the pressure... and cleansing my spirit. You each know who you are... and I love you beyond measure.