". . . the million tiny stitches"

“ . . .  the million tiny stitches, the friction of the scrubbing brush, the scouring cloth, the iron across the shirt, the rubbing of cloth against itself to exorcise the stain, the renewal of the scorched pot, the rusted knifeblade, the invisible weaving of a frayed and threadbare family life, the cleaning up of soil and waste left behind by men and children . . . unacknowledged by the political philosophers . . . [that is the] activity of world-protection, world-preservation, world-repair.”      - Adrienne Rich

In the evenings, my mother would darn socks. I’d watch, intrigued by the way she’d insert the darning egg, and with her needle weave the threads back and forth, turn, then back and forth again, until the holes were filled and the sock was made whole.  She always had her pile of mending – a rip needing repair, buttons needing to be sewn back on, a skirt needing to be hemmed.  Whether cooking, cleaning, tending, or mending, much of her life was devoted to the protection, preservation, and repair of our little world.

During World War II, she made a life for her two small children.  My brother was about five and my sister just a toddler when our dad was drafted and sent to the Philippines. My mother’s job, as has so often been said and sung[i], was “to keep the home fires burning.”  But what of those whose homes have been burned? As thousands and millions of women and children flee Ukraine, as well as Afghanistan, Syria, and other places of conflict and persecution, I think of the women, the mothers, weaving together a frayed life, creating home from so little, protecting their children as much as possible from the ravages of war, continuing to feed, clothe, shelter and educate them, consoling and cheering them in the midst of their own grief and loss.

Most of the history we were taught in grade school consisted of memorizing names and dates of battles and wars, as well as the names of the warriors.  These were the actions and actors deemed worthy for us to remember decades and centuries later.  It was indeed his story.  It was not until my own forays into seeking out the letters, diaries, and unpublished essays of nineteenth century feminists that I discovered a whole world of her story – the stories of all those who protected, sustained, and nurtured life over the millennia – the understory of humanity.  In her essay, “The Power of Anger in the Work of Love,” theologian Beverly Wildung Harrison disclaimed the notion that “  . . . political or military conquest [are] the noblest expressions of the human power to act,” claiming instead that the most honorable and uplifting actions are those of  women -- “ . . . the doers of life-sustaining things, the ‘copers,’ those who have understood that the reception of the gift of life is no inert thing, that to receive this gift is to be engaged in its tending, constantly” (215 -216).

Her words bring to mind not only the refugee women, but all those who daily do the work of tending life.  The indispensable nature of this work has been highlighted during the pandemic, as more than two million women in the US left paid employment in order to care for, tend, homeschool, play with, and nurture their children.  So many of those considered “essential workers” -- food service workers, nurses, nursing home care workers, teachers -- are those whose work is primarily what would be considered “women’s work” – providing food, educating the youth, caring for the young and the old, the sick and the dying.

In other critical issues of these times, women have been at the forefront of the work of protecting and preserving life.  Three women -- Patrice Cullers, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi – together formed Black Lives Matter, whose work to preserve and protect the lives of those they love and to ensure that those lives matter, has been especially crucial in these times of racial reckoning since the murder of George Floyd.  Indigenous women water protectors -- those who began the protest and encampment at Standing Rock and at Line 3, as well as the water walkers who preceded and followed them,[ii] preserve and protect life for all beings on this planet. In these sacred tasks of women, tending this gift of life, constantly.

Yet, in her The Second Sex, feminist philosopher Simone de Beauvoir railed against this life of constant tending to which women were, in her word, “doomed.” “She is occupied without doing anything. . . . Her life is not directed towards ends; she is absorbed in producing or caring for things that are never more than means, such as food, clothing, shelter . . . “(604). [iii]  Even after living in occupied France during WW II, she still regarded these tasks to be “inessential” (604). 

 Feminist bell hooks, on the other hand, considered them “all that truly mattered.”  In her essay, “Homeplace,” she wrote: “In our young minds houses belonged to women, were their special domain, . . . places where all that truly mattered in life took place – the warmth and comfort of shelter, the feeding of bodies, the nurturing of our souls” (41). Writing of the origins and goals of Black Lives Matter, co-founder Patrice Khan-Cullers echoed the same, saying: “We deserve, we say, what so many others take for granted: decent food. . . . And shelter . . . homes that are safe and non-toxic and well-lit and warm” (199-200). More than these basics of existence is what they enable. As Khan-Cullers continued, “A shelter where our gifts our watered, where they have a place to grow, a greenhouse for all that we pull from our dreaming and are allowed to plant” (200).  

Rejecting de Beauvoir’s statement that “woman is not called upon to build a better world. . . ” (451-452), Harrison argued instead that it is women in particular who make a better world possible.  “We dare not minimize the very real historical power of women to be architects of what is most authentically human. . . .  we have been the chief builders of whatever human dignity and community has come to expression. We have the right to speak of building human dignity and community” (217).  bell hooks as well found that among the “things that truly mattered,” the building of human dignity was key. “There we learned dignity, integrity of being; . . . Black women resisted by making homes where all black people could strive to be subjects, not objects . . . where we could restore to ourselves the dignity denied us on the outside” (41-42).

What more important work is there in the world, than as Harrison said, “to build up and deepen personhood itself” (217)? Each word of affirmation, each proffer of respect forms a tiny stitch, which when woven together create the warp and weft of relationship, of community, of true care for the well-being of others and the collective.

However, as Harrison noted, just as we have the capacity to build up, so do we have the capability to tear down. The latter was on full display in the recent Senate confirmation hearings on the nomination of Ketanji Brown Jackson to the U.S. Supreme Court.  Enduring three days of insults and demeaning questions and comments from Senate Republicans, Judge Jackson all the while maintained her dignity and grace.  In her introduction of Judge Jackson, long-time friend Prof. Lisa Fairfax spoke of how Jackson has consistently been the one to build up and deepen the personhood of others.  I suspect in her so doing, Jackson created a community of mutual respect that has been that homeplace for her in the maintenance and sustenance of her dignity.

Harrison presaged this precarious moment in the history of our nation and world when she wrote: “I believe that our world is on the verge of self-destruction and death because the society as a whole has so deeply neglected that which is most human and most valuable and the most basic of all the works of love – the work of human communication, of caring and nurturance, of tending the personal bonds of community” (217).  The importance of Harrison’s argument cannot be overstated. The time to value this work is long overdue. The tending of relationship is fundamental to the work of building community, to the work of love, justice, and peace. Let us use the power of our love to build each other up, not tear each other down.

As we approach the end of Women’s History Month, may we remember herstory, celebrating the mostly unseen and unrecognized vital work of women around the world sewing the fabric of community, one tiny stitch at a time, as they engage in the activities of “world-protection, world-preservation, and world-repair.” 

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Notes

Beauvoir, Simone de. The Second Sex. Ed. and trans. H.M. Parshley. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1953.

Harrison, Beverly Wildung. “The Power of Anger in the Work of Love,” in Plaskow, Judith and Carol P. Christ, eds. Weaving the Visions: New Patterns in Feminist Spirituality. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1989. 

hooks, bell.  Yearning: race, gender, and cultural politics.  Boston: South End Press, 1990.

Khan-Cullers, Patrisse and Asha Bandele. When They Call You a Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2017.

Rich, Adrienne. On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose: 1966-1978. New York: W.W. Norton, 1976.

Watch Ketanji Brown Jackson's BFF Exemplify The True Definition Of Sisterhood (msn.com)

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[ i] “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” written by Lena Gilbert Ford and composed by Ivor Novello during World War I, was considered to be World War I’s greatest anthem.  Ford died in air raid two years after writing the song. [The story behind World War I’s greatest anthem, 100 years on (theconversation.com)]

[ii] In April 2003, Nokomis Josephine Mandamin -ba from the Fond du Lac band of Ojibwe, and others with her, began their first walk for water, circling first Lake Superior, then all of the Great Lakes.  In Anishinaabe culture, women are the keepers of the water, and they walked for the protection and health of the water for all future generations.  Their walk has inspired many other walks along rivers and lake shores that continue to this day. Every step is a prayer.  [Water Walkers | Indigenizing Education (ubc.ca),  NibiWalk – Every Step is a Prayer]

 [iii] Steeped in the Western paradigm of mind/body value dualism, de Beauvoir considered any work of the body to be the “lower” work of necessity as opposed to the “elevated” work of creativity – the work of the mind and of men. Mind/body value dualism divides certain categories and qualities into arbitrary opposites – mind/ body, men/. women, nature/ culture, human/ animal, freedom/necessity, transcendence/immanence, etc. – in which those things associated with the mind are accorded greater value.

On Greed, and other related topics

In class last week, we were discussing the chapter on greed in bell hooks’ All About Love.  Toward the end of class, I put forward a question posed earlier by one of the students – “How has our greedy society impacted you?”  Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or the discomfort of examining our own complicity in the culture of greed, or simply that greed has become so normalized that we don’t even recognize it, but the question was met with a stunning silence.

 So, I offered some thoughts on ways in which greed impacts our lives, beginning with the cost of their education. Once nearly free, now, lacking public support, tuition at this state university costs thousands of dollars, sending generations into spiraling student debt.  I went on to chronicle the increasingly unaffordable cost of housing, rent, health care — which in other countries is supported as a public good, and the ongoing racial injustices born of greed-driven genocide, land theft, and enslavement. And then there is climate change, fueled by our gluttonous consumption of coal, gas, oil.  Even as we are reaching a tipping point, US oil and gas corporate executives and their allies in state and federal government continue to obstruct global efforts to decrease our reliance on fossil fuels, putting profit above the very life of the planet. And now, war is raging in Europe, Putin’s invasion of Ukraine an act of imperialism and greed impacting everyone in the world. In the US, much has been made of the resultant increased cost of gas, fueling soaring inflation, but we also ache for those directly in harm’s way suffering destruction, dislocation, and death. We mourn as well the wasted earth  -- the destruction of precious resources, the needless burning of fossil fuels in jets and tanks and troop movements, the threat of nuclear irradiation. Perhaps the more appropriate question is, how has greed not impacted us?

 Adam Smith, the 18th century Scottish philosopher considered to be “the father of economics,” believed greed to be a quality inherent in human nature which, despite its considered evils, ultimately can benefit the public good.  He argued that people pursuing their own self-interest, in competition with each other, through the beneficent “invisible hand” of the free market would result in increased prosperity for all.  I imagine he would be dismayed by the current stark division of wealth in this country and the world, with 1% of the world’s population holding half of the world’s wealth, and three people alone holding more wealth than the bottom half of the US population,[i] while millions die every year of hunger alone.

17th century philosopher Thomas Hobbes, whose thought still informs ours, based his justification of greed on two assumptions: 1) the scarcity assumption -- that there is not enough to go around, and 2) the insatiability assumption – that our appetites are unquenchable.[ii]  Thus, it only makes sense that we acquire and hoard as much as we possibly can to garner some sense of material security, and even then, it will never be enough. Bred in the Hobbesian world of life as “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (Leviathan, 107), this fear-ridden paradigm continues to fuel the grab for power and goods in Western society.  Strange, or perhaps not, that we call them “goods” – from the Old English “god.” Our worship of material possessions suggests they have indeed become our gods.  

Mindless consumption has become our way of life, to which we seemingly feel entitled. In a recent interview with Krista Tippett, climate and racial justice activist Collette Pichon Battle commented, “We don’t even know what we’re doing. We’re so unconscious. We just do it unconsciously. We’re so wealthy — just go buy it. Just go take it. It’s yours to take.” She went on to say, “It takes a lot of courage to examine that, right, because we would have to examine our comfort.” Her words reminded me of something Sr. Joan Chittister said in a speech at the Conference on Ethics and Meaning in 1996. She recounted how US delegates to the 1995 UN Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing -- in the company of thousands of women from nations without potable water supplies, electricity, sufficient food resources -- complained about the quality of the more-than-adequate accomodations provided by the conference. Chittister chided us all, “Americans are addicted to comfort!” As bell hooks wrote, “It did not take long for this generation [of 60s radicals] to find out that they loved material comfort more than justice” (All About Love, 121). As I sit here on my comfortable couch, in my comfortably heated home, with my (mostly) reliable internet and my cup of chai, it begs the question -- what comforts are we, am I, willing to go without in order to secure a more just and livable future?

Yet, this issue has deeper roots than our desire for creature comforts. In a speech to a local Pax Christi conference years ago, peace activist Liz McAllister noted that in our ravenous consumption we are trying to fill a void that can never be satisfied with material things, because the emptiness we are experiencing is spiritual. All the riches in the world cannot fill this deeper need for meaning and connection. Bell hooks as well wrote that “intense spiritual and emotional lack in our lives is the perfect breeding ground for material greed and overconsumption. In a world without love the passion to connect can be replaced by the passion to possess” (All About Love, 105-106).

Ecofeminist Susan Griffin locates the source of this emptiness in our disconnection from nature, the body and everything associated with it -- a disconnection deeply embedded in what she called our Western “habit of mind.”  “[An] alienated approach to knowledge, the spoiling of nature, the building of empires, warfare . . . there is a thread that connects all these . . . There is a resemblance in the look and feel of a field that has been polluted with chemical waste, a neighborhood devastated by poverty and injustice, a battlefield. . . . The alienation of human society from nature has led to many different kinds of destruction“ (Eros, 6, 8).

Among these is the destruction of our humanity -- our inability to feel compassion for others and the earth. Griffin linked this in part to the shaping of the Western ideal of masculinity to fit the necessities of war.[iii] Designed to habituate soldiers to override their own bodies and emotions to enable them to kill and maim their fellow humans, this militarized psyche is not limited to soldiers, nor to those biologically or gendered male.  Rather, she claims, it has infused our entire society. “The foreshortening of emotional response. . ., the aggression necessary to survive, these are all characteristics of civic masculinity, qualities required for business, politics, law, even medicine” (Eros, 121).  The attendant “separation of all that is called feminine from meaning, creates in turn another kind of void and its own longings” (Eros, 122), leading to greed for power and conquest of nature. And so, we come full circle.

Similarly, Battle, in describing her work for climate justice bemoaned “the inability to value the feminine, and the power of it, and acknowledge that it is the other half of this circle.” Even among those seeking to blur this arbitrary gender divide I have witnessed a proclivity toward civic masculinity and a minimizing of the pre-patriarchal feminine. Battle continued, “If we do not respect it through women, through a care economy and through taking care of each other . . . , things that we have learned to devalue because we’ve put this masculine thing on high. . . .” She did not conclude the “if,” but I suspect she was seeing the end of life on earth as we know it.

 “We’re all responsible,” she acknowledged. “If we’re maintaining this system, we are all responsible for the inequities, and therefore we are all responsible for solutions that are equitable.  . . . We have enough resources to help everybody.” Scarcity, it turns out, is a false assumption. We have enough.  What will now motivate and guide us to distribute the gifts of the earth equitably, and use them wisely? 

Other models exist. A care economy. A reverence for the earth. Living simply. In her Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer imparted her indigenous wisdom of a way of life based in gratitude, reciprocity, and connection, and an ethic not of greed, but of “honorable harvest.”  She warned that we can no longer live in the illusion that what we consume is not taken directly from the earth, asking, “How do we consume in a way that does justice to the lives that we take?” (Braiding, 177). In response, she enumerated the rules of the honorable harvest: Be accountable. Ask permission before taking, and abide by the answer. Never take the first or the last or more than half. Leave some for others. Take only what you need, and what is given, and never waste. Use it respectfully. Share. Give thanks, and give a gift out of reciprocity. Sustain the ones who sustain you (Braiding, 183). And, we must always take care “that our purpose be worthy of the harvest” (Braiding, 187).

Gratitude fills us with a sense of abundance. Reciprocity acknowledges our connections with the earth, with the cosmos, with meaning, with the divine however we may experience that, with each other.  Honoring these connections enables us to step outside the cycle of greed.  So, in the words of Collette Battle, “Let’s take the time to connect through love,” and may our purpose be worthy of the harvest.

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Notes

Colette Pichon Battle — “Placed Here, In This Calling” | The On Being Project

Griffin, Susan. The Eros of Everyday Life: Essays on Ecology, Gender and Society. New York: Anchor Books, 1995.

Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan: Parts One and Two. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co., Inc., 1958. Originally published in 1651.

hooks, bell. All About Love: New Visions.  New York: William Morrow & Co., 2000.

Smith, Adam. An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976. Originally published in 1776.

This Simple Chart Reveals the Distribution Of Global Wealth (visualcapitalist.com)

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 [i] Bill Gates, Warren Buffett and Jeff Bezos. The 3 Richest Americans Hold More Wealth Than Bottom 50% Of The Country, Study Finds (forbes.com).

[ii] I am grateful to my college professor, Ken Hoover, for these insights.

[iii] Angela Merkel, the former chancellor of Germany, recounted a time when during one of her interactions with Putin, he brought his dog to a meeting with her and, knowing she was frightened by dogs, took it off the leash. She said, “I understand why he has to do this, to prove he’s a man. He’s afraid of his own weakness.” Vladimir Putin, Right-Wing American Masculinity and the Russian Attack on Ukraine - Ms. Magazine (msmagazine.com).

Interbeing

“Every life bears in some way on every other.”

                                                   - Susan Griffin, A Chorus of Stones

This line from Susan Griffin’s profound investigation into the ways our lives are interwoven through war has been echoing in my mind frequently in recent days.  Perhaps this has been prompted by the upcoming anniversary of my heart transplant – that day on which another’s life, and death, bore so intimately on mine, and continues to.  Living with my life so intertwined with another’s has brought an expanded awareness of how my life, my choices, my actions bear on the lives of others.

This truth echoes throughout ancient wisdom traditions -- in the indigenous recognition that all our relations -- animals, plants, water, earth, stone -- are kin; in the African concept of Ubuntu -- “I am because we are;” in the Buddhist precept of interdependent co-arising. We know this in our every breath through the reciprocal exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide between all plant and animal life on this planet. It is in the very nature of the universe – in the immediate effect of one particle upon another; in the way that being observed changes an electron wave into a particle; and in the way the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can create a cyclone to arise on the other side of the earth.[i]  It is in the symbiotic relation of trees and mycorrhizal fungi, and of trees to each other – in the ways fir and birch grow together, reliant on the fungi to facilitate the mutual exchange of nutrients, of carbon and water through the network of roots, and of how the mother tree nurtures the young saplings at her feet.[ii] These truths of the interrelatedness of everything on earth, in the universe, in the cosmos, I know in a very embodied way.

Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh (affectionately known as “Thay,” meaning “teacher”) beautifully described this Buddhist principle of interdependent co-arising, which he called simply “interbeing”:

“If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. . . .

We cannot point out one thing that is not here—time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper.  . . . ‘To be’ is to inter-be. We cannot just be by ourselves alone. We have to inter-be with every other thing” (Peace, 95-96) .

What a wondrous world this is, that we dwell in everything and all things dwell in us.  Our lives, our thoughts, our actions manifest in the lives of all beings. This comes with great blessings, and great responsibilities.  As Thay went on to observe, the affluence of some is made of the poverty of others, the foods grown for Western markets are made of the malnutrition of those whose gardens were plowed under for cash crops, the power and security of First World Nations is made of the death and displacement of thousands. His is a reminder that, “we are responsible for everything that happens around us” (Peace, 98).

Every time I drive my car, I am responsible for the burning of more fossil fuels, contributing to climate change, polluting the air and the soil. It weighs on me. Even as I testified and wrote letters and marched and contributed to stopping the Line 3 pipeline that would bring tar sands oil through pristine wild rice lakes, in my driving my car I am also the one profiting in corporate offices, siting the pipeline, violating treaty rights, fracking the earth, destroying the boreal forests and all the beings who dwell within it.  We inter-are. 

By the same token, every time I plant a tree, I help to take more carbon out of the atmosphere and increase oxygenation; every time I pick up litter on the beach, I reduce a bit of microplastic pollution, perhaps save the life of a bird or a fish. I’d like to think that when I treat another with kindness, it ripples onto others. In the years I was teaching, I would take the students in my Women and Spirituality class to visit our local Benedictine retreat center, where the director, Sister Lois, would engage us all in the Buddhist practice of lovingkindness.  Each time she would introduce this practice by saying, “We are sending out energy with our thoughts all of the time, so let it be positive, loving energy.”  At the very least, practicing metta meditations may go a ways towards creating a kinder, more loving world. Even our thoughts bear in some way on every other.

Anyone who has ever carried a child within her body knows intimately the nature of interbeing, as everything we eat and drink becomes the body and blood of our growing child. The air we breathe, the music we listen to, our anxieties and our calm all affect them. These choices are not ours alone. The quality of that air and water and the very ground beneath our feet are impacted by decisions of governments and corporate executives of decades ago and today -- such as choices to allow or prohibit lead in paint and water pipelines or the dispersion of mercury from coal-burning smokestacks, or deciding the locations of toxic waste dumps.[iii] Would that we all acted with keen awareness that we inter-are.

Those who work the land in small scale ways, in intimate touch with the land itself, know well the way soil, water, sun, animals, seeds, plants, microbes, labor, and food inter-be. As bell hooks wrote when reflecting growing up in rural Kentucky, “Living in the agrarian South, working on the land, growing food . . . I was ever mindful of an alternative to the capitalist system that destroyed nature’s abundance. In that world I learned experientially the concept of interbeing” (Belonging, 118-119). On a visit to a local organic farm, I was moved by the reverence with which the farmer held the sacred soil in his hands as he recounted the years of love and labor that had gone into creating the ideal soil structure in which to grow his crops. The first CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) in this region, this farm exemplifies the ways the community of people and land and crops together co-create and inter-are.

The pandemic has heightened our awareness of our interbeing, of how quickly the air I exhale becomes the air you inhale, perhaps carrying with it the minute organism that may steal that very breath from us.  It may only take a few seconds of air exchange to change our lives forever. Yet, the very thing that has made us so acutely aware of the intertwining of our very breath has also isolated us from each other – keeping families apart; precluding weddings, funerals, and graduation ceremonies; closing schools, churches, concert halls, theatres, restaurants, workplaces, community centers – places where we once gathered together.

The keen awareness of interbeing that is one of the many gifts of my transplant increased the importance for me to show up – to be there for others – whether to comfort or console; to celebrate or mourn; to be with others in their birthing and their dying, their struggles and their triumphs; to dance, to march, to be in ceremony, to support, listen, learn, testify, witness, accompany, create community. Yet because of the immunosuppressant medications I must take to prevent my body from rejecting this precious organ, the very heart that is a daily reminder to me of the interweaving of all of our lives now requires me to sequester myself.  It is too dangerous to be much out in the world. Another transplant recipient recently posted that one of the most difficult parts of the pandemic for her has been the way it has curtailed the many ways she was of service to her community. This has filled me with angst as well – not being able to show up for Line 3 protests to offer the ways of healing for which I trained, for friends in the hospital or who have lost loved ones, for my son’s concerts, for funerals and weddings, for family, for friends, and to welcome new babies born into this world.

We are eager, longing to be together again. Yet, as the rest of the world is coming out of isolation, the millions of us who are immunocompromised must of necessity withdraw even farther as the world now becomes even more dangerous for us.[iv] To be able to rejoin the world, we need the world to join us. Just as twenty-eight years ago my life was made possible by the generosity of a stranger, so now do the lives of those of us who have few defenses against the viruses and plagues of the world depend on the generosity and good will of strangers -- others with whom we share the very air we breathe, with whom our lives inter-are.

In the words of poet Marge Piercy:

 “ it starts when you care
to act, . .
it starts when you say We
and know you who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.”   - The Low Road

I am grateful beyond measure for all that the generosity of a stranger’s bereaved family has given me – the blessings of this life, the years with family and friends, the beauty of the world, and this wisdom of inter-being.  Yet, we are not “strangers.”  Bound together heart to heart, we are deeply kin, as we always have been, as we are with all beings.

The beginning. . .

My heart donor, Jodi.

20+ years later

Ultimately, the wisdom of interbeing is that “our being is not limited to what is inside the boundary of our skin. It is much more immense . . . There is no phenomenon on earth that does not concern us. . .. We have to look deeply at things in order to see” (Peace, 104.)

May we learn to look deeply.  

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Notes

Griffin, Susan. A Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War.  New York: Anchor Books, 1992.

Hanh, Thich Nhat. Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life. New York: Bantam, 1992.

hooks, bell. Belonging: A Culture of Place. New York: Routledge, 2009.

Piercy, Marge. The Moon Is Always Female. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1981.

Simard, Suzanne. Finding the Mother Tree: Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest. New York: Knopf, 2021.

Steingraber, Sandra. Having Faith: An Ecologist’s Journey to Motherhood. New York: Berkeley Books, 2001.

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[i] Bohm’s theorem; the observer effect; chaos theory.

[ii] Botanist Suzanne Simard’s work on this, demonstrating what indigenous peoples have always known, has finally found recognition in the scientific community.  See her Finding the Mother Tree.

[iii] For a detailed examination of the effects of toxins on fetal development, see Sandra Steingraber’s Having Faith.

[iv] For several perspectives on this see:

Back to Normal? Many Immunocompromised People Feel Left Behind as U.S. Lifts Pandemic Measures | Democracy Now!

Covid-19: For the clinically extremely vulnerable, life hasn’t returned to normal | The BMJ

The Pandemic Isn’t Over for Immunocompromised People - The Atlantic

Vulnerable to Covid, High-Risk Americans Feel Left Behind - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

'We're doing everything we can to survive.' As US pushes to a pre-Covid reality, high-risk and disabled Americans feel forgotten - CNN

bell hooks: Feminism as the Transformational Work of Love

“Embedded in the commitment to feminist revolution is the challenge to love.”[i]

-          bell hooks

I’m not sure when I was first “hooked,” but at some point in my feminist life I began reading everything bell hooks wrote.  Over the years I’ve read a little over half of her 30+ books, and I have been grateful for the wisdom and perspective provided by each one.  I had come to count on her providing new sources of inspiration on a regular basis, and it was with great sorrow and sense of loss that I learned of her death on December 15th.  I have valued immensely the ways her work widened my partial perspective, challenged my blind sports, and gave me important viewpoints on everything from sexism, racism, classism, pedagogy, militarism, work, parenting, and more. I cannot begin to encompass all I have learned from her in a single post, so undoubtedly I will be revisiting her work often in the weeks and months to come. I write this first piece in great appreciation of her articulation of the meaning and practice of feminism as the work of love.

I began this blog in part because I wanted to be able to provide a corrective to popular misconceptions of feminism as a hatred of men, a resentful complaint, and/or a desire for equal access to power and position in the patriarchal, capitalist hierarchy. The feminism I know and love works toward the transformation of systems of domination and oppression to a world of justice, solidarity, and love.  This is the feminism bell hooks articulated so well.

hooks defined feminism simply as “a struggle to end sexist oppression” (Feminist, 24), but also recognized the interlocking of all forms of oppression. In the same year that Kimberlé Crenshaw famously coined the term “intersectionality” (1989), hooks also articulated that “feminist thought must continually emphasize the importance of sex, race, and class as factors which together determine the social construction of femaleness” (Talking, 23).  hooks recognized that feminism is not limited to gender oppression, but rather that it is “necessarily a struggle to eradicate the ideology of domination that permeates Western culture” (Feminist, 24).  None of us is immune. As Audre Lorde reflected, “What woman here is so enamored of her own oppression that she cannot see her heelprint upon another woman’s face?” (132). Recognizing that we all have the capacity to oppress and dominate, hooks challenged each of us to examine our own participation in systems of domination. This “ongoing, critical self-examination and reflection about feminist practice, about how we live in the world” (Talking, 24) is one of the hallmarks of feminism. While essential, to be of use in the transformation of domination, it must be accompanied by incumbent action. Feminist solidarity requires that we each take responsibility for recognizing and rectifying those instances in which our actions contribute to the oppression and domination of others, as well as of ourselves.  For hooks, this is the very work of love. As she wrote, “When women and men understand that working to eradicate patriarchal domination is a struggle rooted in the longing to make a world where everyone can live fully and freely, then we know our work to be a gesture of love” (Talking, 27). Conversely, as she reiterated so often, “Anytime we do the work of love, we are doing the work of ending domination” (“Lorde,” 248).

When I first read hooks’ evocation of love as a transformative force embedded in a commitment to feminism, I resonated with her words immediately. It was the message that I had found so compelling in other resistance writers – as hooks did in Paulo Freire’s, “’I am more and more convinced that true revolutionaries must perceive the revolution, because of its creative and liberating nature, as an act of love (70); and in Albert Camus’s, “Then we understand that rebellion cannot exist without a strange form of love. . . . this insane generosity. . . which unhesitatingly gives the strength of its love and without a moment’s delay refuses injustice” (304).  I recognize this force in my own deep desire for justice in the world.  Like hooks, I know such love to be a “source of empowerment, . . . a powerful force that challenges and resists domination” (Talking, 26) -- the foundation that sustains the work of creating a world without domination. hooks emphasized that every great movement for social justice has been grounded in love as a transformative force. In her years of working in social justice movements, she had found that “it was always love that created the motivation for profound inner and outer transformation. Love was the force that empowered folks to resist domination and create new ways of living and being in the world” (Writing, 194-195).

Much of hooks’ later work centered around defining and refining the meaning and practice of love in action in the world. This work culminated in her book, All About Love, in which she reflected on the implications of love in work, family, friendship, public policy, spirituality, and more.  Every chapter is worthy of long conversation and contemplation, but the one that has been in the forefront of my mind recently is her chapter on “Living by a Love Ethic.” In it hooks articulates a feminist vision of society shaped by this ethic of love, in which citizens and neighbors value and protect the common good -- a notion that seems to have disappeared from our national consciousness and will as of late, but that we sorely need in this time. How very different our society could be if we as a nation, as a world, lived by this love ethic. As hooks wrote, “If all public policy was created in the spirit of love, we would not have to worry about unemployment, homelessness, schools failing to teach children, or addiction” (All About Love, 98). And, I would add, public health, health care for all, poverty, childcare, structural racism, the school to prison pipeline, gun violence, environmental destruction, climate change. The list could go on and on. Imagine it – public policy created in the spirit of love. hooks challenged us to do more than imagine, inspiring us to do the daily hard and rewarding work of creating this society and these relationships based in love.

The love that hooks invoked is demanding.  As she said, it entails accepting “the fullness of our humanity, which then allows us to recognize the humanity of others” (Writing, 198).  That is not such an easy task.  It requires us to recognize not only the goodness in those we cast as “the enemy,” but our own shortcomings as well.  As one of her inspirations, Sam Keen, wrote, “When I know my shadow, I know that ‘they’ are like me. . . . [Those] I cast into the category of aliens are fellow humans who, like myself, are faulted, filled with contradictory impulses of love and hate, generosity, and the blind will to survive . . . ” (150). It is this recognition that galvanizes our refusal to engage in acts of domination, even against those who have oppressed and dominated us.  It enables us instead, in hooks’ words, to “engage a practice of loving kindness, forgiveness, and compassion” (Writing, 198). 

This is the work of transformational love.  This is the work of feminism.   To that end, as we head into a new year, I conclude with hooks’ charge to us all: “Let us draw upon that love to heighten our awareness, deepen our compassion, intensify our courage, and strengthen our commitment” (Talking, 27).

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Notes

Camus, Albert. The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt. Trans. Anthony Bower. New York: Vintage Books, 1956.

Freire, Paulo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed.  20th Anniversary Edition. Trans. Myra Berman Ramos. New York: Continuum, 1993.

hooks, bell, All About Love: New Visions. New York: William Morrow & Co., 2000.

______. Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center.  Boston: South End Press, 1984.

______. “Lorde: The Imagination of Justice.” in Byrd, Rudolph et. al. eds. I Am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished Writings of Audre Lorde. New York: Oxford U. Press, 2009.

______. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black. Boston: South End Press, 1989.

______. Writing Beyond Race: Living Theory and Practice. New York: Routledge, 2013.

Keen, Sam. The Passionate Life: Stages of Loving. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983.

Lorde, Audre. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde.  Trumansburg, NY: Crossing Press, 1984.

[i] Hooks, bell. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black.  Boston: South End Press, 1989, 26.

Longing for Darkness

Hale Bopp

When I moved to Minnesota from Ohio, everyone back home voiced concern about how cold the winters would be.  Nobody warned me about how dark they would be, nor how long the dark would last.  For years, I complained, but gradually I have come to embrace the dark.  The dark invites us to slow down, to rest, to sleep, to dream.  It is a time to open to our depths, and to others. There is a kind of magic in the dark. Without the harsh light of judgment, in the dark we are more likely to share our secrets and stories, our wounds and our wonderings, our hearts and hopes with each other. As the deciduous trees lose their leaves, the sky opens as well, giving birth to the night sky.  As Sara Thomsen sings in her, “Darkness Cover Me”: “Holy Maker of Moonlight, singing through starlight. . . . womb of the night.”  The dark gives us the gift of stars. In the brief nights of summer, I rarely see the stars, but in winter they blanket the sky, giving me a sense of my place in the universe. They arrive like old friends -- the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades appearing in the evening, and Orion greeting me out my window every morning. When Hale-Bopp was visible from earth, I would look for her on my late-night drives home from teaching night class, and there she would be, my constant companion on those cold winter nights.  The stars remind us that we are not alone, that we are all related, for we are all made of the stuff of stars.

Lately I’ve been longing for darkness. When I first moved to my home in the woods, the night was dark. As the city has grown, and more houses have been built, and streetlights added, the dark is eclipsed by a never-ending twilight.  In my neighborhood, more and more people keep “security” lights on all night long, leaving me feeling invaded by the perpetual light.  In our human efforts to resist the dark, we have forgotten the earthly command to rest, and we are all suffering the consequences. Light pollution affects our health, throwing off our circadian rhythms, diminishing the release of melatonin – paving the way for loss of sleep, increased anxiety, and a host of other ailments.  Other animals’ health is affected as well, as is the migration of sea turtles and birds who navigate by the stars and by moonlight. We light up the night in order not to get lost in the dark, but perhaps we all have lost our way by being too much in the light. We were born out of darkness, and like the spring bulb that needs cold and dark in order to bloom, so do we need the nourishment of the deep dark to restore our creativity and power. 

In our longing for darkness, it is not just the physical dark that we crave, but the metaphysical, the spiritual, the deep well of the ancient dark divine, the original matrix.  As China Galland mused, “The longing for darkness [is] also a longing for the womb of god” (54). In her Longing for Darkness, Galland reminds us of the persistence of this longing, and her emergence as Ishtar, Isis, Astarte, Asherah, Tara, Kali, Parvati, Durga, as well as Mary and the Christian mystics writing of the motherhood of the divine. Her iconographic representations abound throughout the world, from the temples to Tara throughout Asia to the many shrines to the Black Madonna throughout Europe. It’s no wonder that it is within this time of deep darkness that Mary is celebrated within Christianity – Mary not as passive, but as the strong, courageous, fiercely protective, earthy maternal divine.

 Lucia Birnbaum reminds us that the first African mother is everyone’s genetic inheritance, honored for millennia as Erishkegal, Isis, Lilith, Kali, Oshun, Hagar.  It was only with the rise of patriarchy that the dark feminine divine was demoted, displaced, erased, and forced underground. Yet she continues to rise in our psyches and our deepest longings.  Each year, thousands walk hundreds of miles in pilgrimage to visit these shrines, all seeking connection with dark, divine, pre-patriarchal female energies of which we are all sorely in need.

Galland writes, “To say that one is ‘longing for darkness’ is to say that one longs for transformation, for a darkness that brings balance, wholeness, integration, wisdom, insight” (152).  Certainly, if there was ever a time when we have needed to restore balance, and to gain insight and wisdom, it is now.  We are a world profoundly out of balance.  It is theorized that dark matter is what holds the stars and galaxies together -- “matter,” from the same root word as “mother” – mater. Banishing the dark mater has thrown us off balance.  I image our world thrown off its axis, wobbling through the universe.  The energies and acts of hate, violence, oppression, domination, and patriarchy that have been surging throughout the world have thrown us off kilter.  We need the qualities of the dark feminine divine -- compassion, justice, equality to restore our balance, and to transform the violent, hierarchical, patriarchy which governs too much of our lives into a peaceful, radically egalitarian democracy (Birnbaum, 147). We have been there before; we can return.

To do so requires our vision and energies. bell hooks wrote of how as a child she would make the treacherous walk through a white section of town, where she could feel the hate pouring down on her, to the safety and homecoming of her grandparents’ home.  It was in the homes of Black women that she found her spirit nurtured.  Black women resisted white oppression by creating places to heal and be affirmed, and have one’s dignity restored – places where possibility could rise again.  The matrix of the dark feminine divine is such a homeplace, fostering both our resistance and the creation of new possibilities, in defiance of systems of hate and oppression. Like the places of renewal and resistance hooks found in the homes of Black women, dwelling with the dark feminine divine was for her an encounter with “ . . . the ground of our being, the place of mystery, creativity, and possibility, for it is there that we can construct the mind that can resist, that can revision, that can create the maps that when followed will liberate us” (2009, 243).  We can begin this resistance and revisioning by, as Audre Lorde said, “re-member[ing] what is dark and ancient and divine within yourself” (69), for it is in these dark places within “. . . where hidden and growing our true spirit rises. . . (36). The dark feminine divine renews us, strengthening our capacity to resist, and inspiring our vision for a different way to be possible.  

In the far north where I now live, the winter Solstice is celebrated with bonfires and candle lighting and feasting. For many years, I attended a women-only Solstice celebration at a lesbian collective homeplace. We would gather in a circle; an invocation to the Solstice would be read; and then as anyone in the circle felt so moved, she would light one of the thirteen candles, expressing her thanks or hopes or blessing – for health, for a loved one, for the earth, and always for the four-leggeds. Then the great potluck feast began with soups and stews, tater tot and pasta hot dishes, green and fruit salads, smoked fish, vegetables of all kinds, quiches, breads, and a plethora of desserts.  At some point in the evening, the announcement would come that the fire had been lit.  We’d pile on our winter jackets and boots and head out in the night, often in below zero temperatures. Each in turn would place the wreath upon her head and then, with clear intention, jump the fire, leaving behind the ills of the previous year and leaping forward into those things we hoped for in the new year.  Three of us who made music together would link arms and leap the fire together, before making our individual jumps.  It is at cherished times like these that I have truly felt the dark, divine, ancient, pre-patriarchal feminine energy – that place of possibility. The world could be like this.

Living in a place of such a long dark, I do rejoice in the return of the light at the Solstice, but now with a great appreciation for the gifts of the long night as well. The woman who was the firekeeper of the Solstice gathering recently passed, and as I was writing the section on bell hooks, I learned that she, too, had just passed.  This year, I will jump the fire in their memory and honor, and in honor of the ancient, dark, rich, feminine divine in us all.

“bell hooks” by Kris Simonson

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Notes                                                                               

Birnbaum, Lucia Chiavola. Dark Mother: African Origins and Godmothers.  San Jose: Authors Choice Press, 2001. 

Eisler, Riane. The Chalice and the Blade: Our History, Our Future. NY: Harper One, 1988. 

Galaxies Protected by Dark Matter | Space 

Galland, China. Longing for Darkness: Tara and the Black Madonna. NY: Penguin, 1990. 

hooks, bell. “Lorde: The Imagination of Justice.” in Byrd, Rudolph et. al. eds. I Am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished Writings of Audre Lorde. New York: Oxford U. Press, 2009. 

______. Yearning: Race, Gender and Cultural Politics. Boston: South End Press, 1990. 

Lerner, Gerda. The Creation of Patriarchy. New York: Oxford University Press, 1987. 

Light Pollution | National Geographic Society 

Lorde, Audre. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde. Trumansburg, NY: The Crossing Press, 1984. 

Thomsen, Sara. “Darkness Cover Me.” Fertile Ground. 1999.