I feel like I got my country back. I am far to the left of Obama, and I know he’s not going to live up to my hopes, or my wants. But still, I feel such hope.
I’ve never felt about my government, the way I feel right now. I feel empowered to help make change.
Today, for perhaps the first time, I feel proud to be an American.
"You've entered a vibrant playground for kind warriors who believe it's HIP to get healthy, SEXY to be spiritual, and NOBLE to protect hot mama Earth."
Caminante suggested, when I was first diagnosed, that I check out the community at My Crazy Sexy Life. I finally went there, last night. I found their page through a Facebook group where a friend had posted, and it felt like time.
It was. I’m ready. I didn’t, and still don’t, want a support group full of people who are as scared and rattled and new at this as I am. I’ve been in too deep of a funk, for way too long. I needed to be bounced out of it.
I don't know that they did, but they'll be helpful when I'm struggling. There’s an “electronic altar” on the sidebar, where you can post prayers for yourself or anyone. I did that, and I read some of the threads. They are so positive. I went looking for groups, just to see if I’d match anywhere. I found a Bay Area group, and a melanoma group, and one called “Crazy Sexy… what the hell are we doing?” It’s all about how to eat really healthy, I think, and have fun while you’re doing it.
The friend I’d followed from Facebook is already there. Other people answered my prayer posting, almost immediately, assuring me that I would find joy again. Another melanoma survivor friended me; I don’t know him, but it felt warm, not creepy. He said something like, “Hey, I’ve been there, you can do this.” What my real-life survivor friends have been telling me for weeks—but he and I have the same diagnosis.
It isn’t what I was afraid that a cancer survivors’ community would be. The group is incredibly positive, loving, and resourceful. There’s also a group for friends of survivors.
Most of my traffic are friends of mine, who aren’t in health crises themselves. If you are, and you’ve never been this scared in your whole entire life, check them out.
Out of pure curiosity, I asked the Ranch how summer was shaping up. One of my best summers ever was last year, up there. I got a note back, asking me to do first aid during BREAD camp again.
It’s the third and fourth weeks of July. I’ll be fresh off the IV, and starting self-injections. I don’t know if I’m up for this. But I really want to do it. The kids are creative, crazy, and fun; the staff are deeply good people, and the place is beautiful.
I told them I can’t commit yet. But if I’m able, at all, I will.
...and thy God shall be my God.
I am in love, and in hope, with this city. I’ve never been so exhausted, and so energized, at one time in all my life.
Yes, there is devastation. I walked yesterday from the end of the Canal streetcar line (at the cemeteries), about two miles to the homecoming center at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, in the Lakeview neighborhood. I passed houses that still had floodlines on them, higher than my head. Empty houses, and empty lots. Torn screens. Weathered wood, and rusted metal. Spray-paint codes, fading with time.
There was also new construction. Signs in windows, reading, “We’re Home.” Fresh paint. Scrubbed brick. New framing, bones of houses, not gutted and weary but rising from the mud.
There is hope here. I heard it yesterday in the voice of a woman who had organized a neighborhood renewal, since spread throughout the city, based on cooperation and sharing resources. I saw her love for her home, and this city, shining in her eyes, as she talked about how she has been blessed in the gifts she’s been able to give.
I hear it over and over, in the stories people tell me of their lives in this city since the storm. They tell me why they love it here, why they came home, why they stayed. They stayed because it is their home. Because Houston or Mobile or wherever, just wasn’t. Because this is New Orleans. There is a vivacity here that is unique to this place. So much in the culture is about relationships, and about acceptance. You can be whoever you are—not only in the Mardi Gras, crazy way portrayed in the media (though there is that), but in your dailiness as well. The violence, and crime, are of course awful. But life is celebrated here, too.
I am in love with the spirit of resurrection I see and feel all around me. I’d give anything to be able to stay, longer than I can. I’m hoping and praying to come back. The spiritual rebirth is as apparent as the physical, and everything in me wants to be part of it.
I’ve been given so many gifts here. Of course there are the stories. The trust people place in me, while I’m listening to them tell about the most difficult time in their lives, is sacred. It floors me, not only that they’ve been so willing, but that they say that the telling is a gift also to them. I’ve gotten better at listening, and at asking, and I’ve seen my own skills grow. I wish, with all my soul, that I could keep doing this.
I’ve also been well cared for. Two people in particular have taken me under their wings, helped me get going, taught me something, mentored me—they know who they are, and I thank them. These relationships, I won’t have to work to hold onto—they are connections that will abide. And a few days after my car accident, the bishop of Louisiana dropped in on me at the Urban Ministry Center. He just wanted to be sure I was okay, and to join the chorus of people (playfully) chiding me for walking all the way from here to St. Anna’s. (What? It’s only about four or five miles.) And then he went outside, to talk to a community organizer in the street. It’s all just part of the day for him.
I can’t say enough about St. Anna’s. It has been, and will be, an anchor for me—both on Wednesdays when I’m here, and into the soul and spirit of this city, wherever I am. I only know the Wednesday community, which changes because that’s when volunteers go. But the mix of people that show up there, and the free, competent health care, and the music—which sometimes is great, and sometimes is the weirdest damn stuff in the world—you just need to experience it. You never know who you’re going to eat with, or what you’re going to listen to, or what conversations you’re going to strike up. This is more than church. This is life, in this city. It’s resurrection, in the middle of the week.
There’s also the healing aspect of the Eucharist. In San Francisco, I go to the healing station whenever I feel like it, either to ask for healing or to say thank you. It’s always available. But it’s about me, my need, my desire. Here, the connection between holy oil on each of our heads, and the healing of this city, is so strong it doesn’t need to be discussed. It’s just… obvious. We are rising with this city, as we come to witness or rebuild. We are living in the resurrection.
And the need for resurrection is so great. I talk about hope, and I feel it. I see reasons for rejoicing, everywhere. But there is also such anger, still. People were forgotten—and they don’t just suspect or feel it, they know it. The national and local response has come from faith-based groups, not from government. The rebuild is being done by residents and volunteers. This city is being remade by the people who live in it, who love it, who will go through fire and flood to call it home. They need help and support—one told me, “We don’t expect it (in the sense of hand-outs)—but we need it.” Please come. Bear witness. Get your hands dirty. Come and love these people.
I had a conversation with a priest the other day; it was the first time I’d met him. We talked about mission, and he asked if I see myself working long-term in DioCal. I had to answer him, my process is there but I’d be shocked if I stay there. It’s such a wealthy area. There is poverty everywhere in this world. Violence, everywhere. Need, everywhere. Inside every soul, there is suffering; there is need for God. I know that everywhere I go, I will find the people who need to find me. I also know that my place is with the exiled, the forgotten, the struggling. My skills may be nascent, at best, but I am learning. This is who I am. These are the people God is calling me to serve. Being here, doing this work, has confirmed that a thousand times over.
I keep having to remind myself, I’m not a New Orleanian. I lived most of my life in the Northwest. I live in Berkeley; I worship in San Francisco. I’m from a different world. But I feel a kinship here, that I’ve not felt in other places. Whether or not I live here again, a piece of me will call this home.
There’s something else that makes it hard to think about re-entry into California. I have loved the work here, so much. Friends elsewhere have called me a saint for doing it, and for witnessing on behalf of New Orleans. I don’t feel that way at all. This is the work I asked for; the work I choose, the work that's in front of me. I’m not special because I’m doing this; I’m privileged because I’m getting to discover the depth of my passion for mission, for this work, for these people. The work has grown me, as I’ve done it, and as I’ve discovered how much I love it. I know I’m living into my call. And I also know that the first thing I have to do when I get back to Berkeley, is get out of trouble with my advisor. Then I have to finish my academics. And that is absolutely not where my head is. I want to be in the world, getting dirty with the people of God.
I don’t know how to take the self that has grown so much in NOLA, and live into that growth in California, in an environment in which I struggle, and where I have more work to do just to hold my head up and look people in the eyes. I feel bigger—not in the sense of no longer a child, but like enough of a human being. I’m wearing the clothes of a competent soul, and they fit me.
I stand in solidarity with the people of this city. It is so clear to me that my work is here--though I also know that this is a learning ground for me, to work competently with and for all of God's exiled and forgotten children. I'm going, as I am, back to California. I will learn how to take this integrity with me.
I have to go and eat; I'm still on monster Motrin for the whiplash, and it's past time to take it. And right now I'm close to crying, I love this city so much.
I am, absolutely, Christian. And I have some fairly strong pagan leanings. I believe in the Christ-child born in each of us. And I know that after the darkest day, the light returns. It has never fully left us, and it never will.
We are living in a dark time. But each of our lives is a reason for hope, whether or not you believe in the Incarnation. I have far too many friends who are up to their elbows in working for good, to ever doubt that. Some call it the kindom of God; some call it healing our Mother. Either way, the work gets done.
Neither of these offerings is exactly poetry. One is Scripture; the other is a chant that I used to sing every winter at Solstice gatherings and in my interfaith community. Let the truth in each, settle into your hearts. Take strength and energy from that which feeds you. And sing along with what you know.
Happy Solstice, everyone!
***
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. --John 1:1-5, NRSV
Light is returning,
Even though this is the darkest hour
No one can hold
Back the dawn
Let's keep it burning,
Let's keep the light of hope alive
Make safe our journey
Through the storm
One planet is turning,
Circle on her path around the sun
Earth mother is calling
Her children home.
--Charlie Murphy
