a blog about waking up, staying present, and taking action

Doing the Work, Part 1

You can’t get there from here. That’s what I think about this academic stuff.

It only goes so far, and then it runs out, like an asphalt road built along the surf line. The ocean does not work with asphalt roads. You need a boat, a tree or something that will float. You need your body, your arms and the motion they make against the waves, pushing you along, a little speck in a great sea. Don’t be afraid. All things that are wild have your heart at the core. 

I began this work because I wanted to heal myself and my people. My people (white people, German people) created this system of injustice and I need to do my part to destroy what we built, what we keep on building.

But how do I destroy this system, the house that I’m living in, the one that shelters and protects me? I must be a lunatic.

I fight with my ancestors at night when I’m lying in bed not sleeping. “Be quiet,” they say. Then louder: “SHUT UP. HOR AUF.” But I can’t stop. How can I?

I’ve seen the pictures: people, parents and children, their bodies stacked like firewood, naked and ashen. This is mine to fix. (It is yours, too.)

“Not our problem,” some of my ancestors hiss. They left their country. When war changed the borders, they moved on.

What kind of fiction do we have to invent to make this history okay?

A big BIG story. An underbrush, a thicket, each lie overlapping lie.

My ancestors came to this continent, carried inside my father, but they didn’t know about me yet. I am what came next. I feel it here in this country, in the forest by the ocean that looks like our old home. All the people whose land this is, they talk to me.

Maybe I wouldn’t be able to hear them if the forests weren’t clear cut. But I do hear them, at night when I am arguing with my ancestors. They whisper: “You don’t belong here. Be useful or go away.” Some of them are angry. Some are gentle. Some look at me like they know who I am.

Where does it come from, this need to make it right?

I have to make it better for myself.

I can’t live here anymore, in this house I’m trying to destroy. I know it has stout, wide-timbered walls, but it is not my home. Yet it is SO big. Where can I live where I am not under its roof?

I go small and I gather friends. I am part of the resistance.

And there is a bigger part of our life, one I know…even though no one has told me it’s true:

Our Mama God, Mother of the Cosmos, is bigger than this house, this roof we’re living under. Nothing the germans (or english or french or spanish or dutch…), nothing any of us could make, even hundreds of years old, is bigger than the

BODY OF OUR MOTHER.

You can’t contain her.

She will hold us all, she will shelter us, when the house finally comes down.

Look…a hole in the roof! I can see the stars. LOOK! There’s proof.

None of it is hopeless.

All of it is worthwhile.

Don’t stop.

Don’t be quiet.

Step up, speak out, keep moving.

This is the first half of a meditation I wrote recently while struggling through my thesis on white religious racism. I am trying to find a vision for what sustains me to do my work for racial justice.

2 Responses to “Doing the Work, Part 1”

  1. None of the steps we take is hopeless. Every grain of sand we move has an effect.

    Please put a link to your site on the OFOR Blog page. Thanks.

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