Crow's Prayer

May we sleep

In the comfort

Of crows’ wings

To be held by soft blackness

To be touched by dark feathers

May we wake up

To the song of the crows

Some say it is not beautiful

But we know better.

Morning Reflections

Is it the light

That is flickering

Or is it

My perception of the light

Is it me

Who is moving

Or is it

My perception of movement

Is this my shadow

Or someone else’s

Where does the light come from

And the movement

And the shadow

Now the flickering has stopped

Instead, a solid beam of light

Where am I

In the absence of movement

In the absence of shadow

In the absence of light

Old loss.

How it is encased in your heart like an ancient seed. How your life grows around it, soft tissue and scars and delicate skin. How it still glows and burns silently in the dark. How it patiently waits for the right moment to resurface. Old loss never lets you down. It will always be there. It keeps your heart soft and pulsing and tender. It holds your hand quietly when you cry. It rocks you slowly to sleep in its heavy lap. Old loss knows you better than you know yourself. It fills you with a pain so deep and so sweet that you won't ever want to be without it. Old loss is the ocean that forms the shores of your soul. Old loss washes away the sharp edges of yourself as you slowly disintegrate into billions of tiny grains. Old loss is the kernel from which all true love sprouts, nourished by the salty water of your tears. True love is rooted in old loss.

In 2020 my world got bigger

 In 2020 my world got bigger. 

That seems counterintuitive, I know. 2020 was all about shrinkage: for many of us, our human connections shrunk down to little squares on computer screens. Our radius of operation got reduced to walks around the block and cautious trips to the grocery store. The old Alcoholics Anonymous mantra “one day at a time” took on a whole lot of significance, even for stone-cold sober folks, as we struggled to accept the reality of not having a clue whatsoever is coming next. We developed a new appreciation, or loathing, for those who share our quarters on a daily basis. We cultivated sourdough and paranoia. We engaged in Zoom yoga (my favorite! love!) and day-drinking.

And yet.

2020 was a year to be reckoned with. It knocked me on my ass. COVID was only part of it. On May 25, 2020, the police killing of George Floyd unleashed a tidal wave of outrage and resistance against long-standing racial injustices that is only (finally) beginning to erode the rotten pillars of our fucked up society. It is incredibly painful and scary, and for a privileged white woman like me, utterly humiliating. I realized that the only way I could honestly call for change was to change myself. A cliche, perhaps; true nonetheless. But how? I had no clue. I started by looking for ways to push myself out of my comfort zone. I began educating myself. I began reading articles and books by people of color who challenged my status quo. I took to the streets of my hometown and marched with our youth and our BIPOC community. I started attending city council and board of supervisors meetings where equity issues and police violence were being discussed. I phone-banked to pass a measure for increased civilian oversight of local policing. I ventured out (mostly virtual, and sometimes in the third dimension) into communities within our community that, embarrassingly, were barely even on my radar before. I collected backpacks for Latinx children in Roseland. I packed boxes for the Sonoma County Black Forum’s food distribution. I delivered warm coats to people on the street through Sonoma County Acts of Kindness. And, earlier in the year, I left the company that employed me for the past 25 years to start over at another organization—one that is coincidentally affording me the opportunity to challenge myself to stand up very publicly for racial justice.

I’m not talking about this to make myself look good. Or maybe I am. That’s another thing: I seem to always be looking over my own shoulder now, questioning my motives and the integrity of my actions. Humility is key. And service. How can I be of service?

I’m talking about this to illustrate how my world got bigger in 2020. This wretched year forced me out of my comfort zone. And I am grateful. I am connecting with people who I probably would never have connected with before. I am engaging in conversations I never even thought I would be a part of. I am using my voice to speak out for something other than my own self interest. I am reading, watching, listening, learning things that shatter my core assumptions about my daily reality and myself. I am learning that I don’t have to be right; I don't have to know it all; I don’t even have to agree with everything. I am challenging myself to shut up and listen. I am challenging myself to use my voice to amplify the voices of others who haven’t been afforded the same platforms as I have.

In the beginning of 2021, my social interactions are still mostly confined to little squares on a computer screen. But in some of those squares, and in conversations online through various channels previously unknown to me, I am talking to people who are blasting my doors of perception wide open. And when I go outside, still prepped with a mask and hand sanitizer, I meet fellow humans with vastly different experiences from mine. And I ask myself every day: how can I be of service?

My world has gotten bigger in 2020. Thank you.