I Heard the Bells....

I snuck over to the office this morning—a holiday, but I thought I’d get a few things done.

Everything OK?  Check.
E-mail answered?  Check.

Apparently I didn’t need to sneak.

On the way home the organ was playing Music for a Merry Christmas.  Ding-dong, Hark, Oh Come, Joy...you know.  As I drove down the Boulevard I Heard the Bells...and then I looked up...and there she was.  I don’t need to describe her for you.  These days we all know her.

As I drove on I wondered if the conversation could for once move beyond, “there but for the grace...” and “the poor you will always have...”. But then I realized that in order for that to happen, I’m going to need to change.  Not just everyone else.  Me.

I’m going to need to change, and many of the things I hold dear—the trappings (yes, trappings) of a capitalist culture rooted in the nostalgia of Euro-perfection (“nostalgia ain’t what it used to be”)—are going to need to go away, to be replaced by that new/old idea: that love of neighbor is the only guiding energy that will ever bring about that long hoped-for change and save us from ourselves.

If the hungry are going to be fed, I need to feed them.
If the naked are going to be clothed, I need to clothe them.
If the people without homes are going to find their way home, I need to help them.
If the planet is going to be saved from destruction, I need to stop the cycle of buying and dumping.
And if the walls are going to come down, I need to take them down.

If all that sounds radical, consider the tradition that makes the outrageous claim that the Divine can somehow be embodied in our own love of neighbor.

Sounds pretty radical to me...and kind of rings a bell.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Healthy New Year

I Am James

At first it all seemed fairly innocuous.  But then I wondered.

He was nice enough, even sincere.  And he even brought a gift.  But when the stranger named James left, I was left wondering...

The other night around eight I heard a voice at our door.  There stood a young man with some wind-chimes in his hands.

“I’ve walked by your place a bunch of times, and this may seem a little weird, but I have these wind chimes and I can’t put them up where I live, and I thought this was the kind of place where they would go.”

See what I mean?  After we chatted, after he gave me the wind chimes, after I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and after he left, I wondered:

Was he checking things out?  Was he casing the joint?  Would he return later on with nefarious intent?

I mean, he seemed nice enough.  His name was James...from Vermont...doesn’t live too far from here.

I was extra careful to lock the door that night, and have to admit I didn’t sleep all too well.  But the next morning everything was fine.  Even so, at work that next day I wondered if maybe I’d come home to a ransacked house.  But when I got home, everything was fine.

This evening I went out for a walk.  As I was traipsing around up in the hills I passed a woman: a stranger.  She smiled at me and said “hello,” but I could tell she was a little leery of this stranger walking down her quiet street.  And then it hit me.

I am James.

I’m a stranger to most everyone in this world, a stranger with no ill intent, maybe even with a smile or a gift.  But people don’t know me, and these days, more than ever, we’re all a bit suspicious.  With all we hear about and read about, it’s almost hard for us to imagine that a stranger would NOT wish us harm, let alone wish us well or give us a gift.

Which makes me wonder how many gifts are out there waiting for us, and how many strangers are out there waiting for—even NEEDING—our gifts, but we all seem to have forgotten who our neighbors really are.

Face It.

Face It!

Before we understand words, before we can put words to our thoughts, we can read.  But it’s not words on a page that we’re reading—it’s faces!

We don’t need the research to tell us this.  All we have to do is look at our babies. See how they are watching?  They are watching and they are reading very carefully—without a single word, they are reading all about our love, our joy, our anger, our sadness, our hope. 

Did you know that of all the living creatures on earth, human beings are among only five species that recognize our own faces?  Besides us, great apes, Asian elephants, Eurasian magpies, and bottlenose dolphins recognize their faces in a mirror. (Source: National Geographic...please see link below). But human beings are alone in the range of emotions we feel when gazing at our own reflections, and reading the faces of others.

I wonder, sometimes, how it must feel to be so completely rejected by society that people won’t even look—they only turn their faces away so they don’t have to expose themselves and read the pain, the hunger, the desperation on the faces of those they walk by.  I wonder, but the people we are helping at PATH (the agency where I work with some pretty amazing people to help end homelessness in Los Angeles) don’t have to—they experience that pain of rejection every single day. 

Every. Single. Day.

We often hear talk about the different ways people communicate.  With phones ringing and computers buzzing all around us, most of the time we think of communication in terms of words.  It’s verbal.  But there are other ways we communicate, ways often more powerful than with words—the so-called “non-verbals” like body posture, and facial expression. 

And so I ask, friends, what sort of message are you sending today?  What are people reading on your face?  Is it care?  Concern?  Hope?  Is it frustration, or impatience?  And what are you reading on the faces of those who have been rejected simply because they haven’t yet made it home?

It might just be a look—YOUR powerful look TODAY—that finally gets a message through—that someone really cares—turning the page and opening the door for healing to happen.

The Signs are Everywhere

In our little neighborhood we are celebrating the addition of a single stop sign.

For years now, crossing Fountain Avenue at Cherokee in Hollywood has been a source of wonder (as in, I wonder if we’re going to make it across?) and an adventure in trust (Does that driver see us?  Will they stop?).  The design of our frequent neighborhood walks has been patterned on the level of risk we have been willing to take, with optional routes considered taking into account factors like the time of day, the day of the week, and how much we happen to be enjoying life at the moment.

But no more!  Not long ago I was yet again contemplating the risk factors of a Fountain crossing when I was delighted to see that contemplation was no longer necessary.  The intersection that had so controlled us for decades was now under control, sporting a handy-dandy stop sign (a four-way, to boot!).  

Which got me thinking...

It’s just a stop sign, but without it, we’ve had to plan our lives differently than we do now.  We no longer need to wonder about our safety in the same way (True, just because there’s a sign there doesn’t mean they will stop for it!).  Our plans have changed.  The pattern of our lives has, even if only in a small way, changed.

There are, of course, bigger signs on the horizon.  The signs of the times have troubled many of us, and we are not alone in wondering if the pattern of life as we know it will be forever changed—and certainly not for the better.  Some of us may have read earlier signs and interpreted them to mean that the arc of history was indeed bending toward justice—but now we’re starting to wonder.  Are we at a dead end?

And there’s the actual climate, not just the political one.  Heat, fires, floods, droughts, oh my!  Have the signs been there all along...that our rampant consumption and self-centered and wasteful destruction would one day come crashing home and leave the whole biome crippled forever?  What new patterns of behavior are we willing to walk to help heal the planet?  What can each of us, and all of us, do?  

Maybe start by reading the signs.

When people are marching because they truly believe that they are superior to, or threatened by people who look a little different or pray a little differently or celebrate a different culture, that’s a sign.

When so much wealth is so concentrated in the hands of so few that it pushes people out of affordable housing and doesn’t provide them the support they need to live—when more and more people are not even a paycheck away from destitution, that’s a sign.

When we are stepping over human beings on the sidewalk without thinking (except maybe to pinch our noses and make that judgmental little “Tsk” noise we make), but get truly angry when the health department tells us that Foo Foo the Poodle shouldn’t have free reign in Trader Joe’s, that’s a sign.

When ice caps are melting and ash is falling from the skies, that’s a sign.

Stop.

Think.

Maybe it’s time for a re-design, based on an altogether new pattern for your life.

An Old Broom

I’m not even sure where it came from.  I think I found it in the gutter somewhere, or maybe on a trash heap.  Seems someone had pitched it because it seemed to them no longer useful.

Truth be told, it was no longer useful—at least not in the way it had once been.  The bristles were worn and many were just missing.  It kind of reminded me of the Wicked Witch’s broom AFTER she’d used it for a torch on that poor Scarecrow.  And you know, I’m sure I would have thrown it away too if I were only relying on it to serve its original purpose.

But purpose can change, can’t it?  That old broom that had been tossed aside is now the perfect tool for getting into those tight spots that a fully-bristled younger version might miss.

Which is all to say that as it turns out, there was nothing wrong with that old broom after all. It was only a lack of vision that tossed it on the trash heap.

I hope, one day, someone finds a use for this old broom too—even after it looks like the fire’s gone out.  

I Suppose...

Years ago I had a friend who I've since come to realize was a text-book narcissist.  If gas-lighting* were an Olympic event, he'd have been a contender, I kid you not.  He was masterful. 

One of his tried and true techniques was to end any disagreement you were having with the words, "Well, I suppose you could convince yourself of anything", thus ending any possibility that you could be correct in your thinking (or that he might be wrong!) and leaving you questioning your sanity.

These days I've been recalling those words and wondering--not about my sanity--but about how it could be that our national conversation has become so polarized and contentious.  Left, right, middle, everyone has "convinced themselves of anything."  Anything that supports one's argument is now a "fact" and anything that challenges it simply "fake news" or "lies." 

The reality, of course, is that each of us comes to the conversation with our own preconceptions based on a host of factors.  We all live on the same planet, yet we see the world differently because our realities are different (really!).  Thus, we all come to the conversation with biases, and whether those are called "good" or "bad" depends on the circles we run in and the thoughts that circle through our minds.   You see, truth and fact are not synonyms--they never have been.  Truth, one would hope, is based on verifiable conditions, but it incorporates one's personal experience and interpretations as well. Or, as an accomplished author and friend once reponded when someone asked if the stories he wrote were "true" quipped, "All of it is true, and some of it actually happened." 

Facts are facts, like them or not.  The truth is something else.

So what is it?  What is the truth?  Are my feelings, my thoughts, my opinions the truth?  And if so, what if they are different than someone else's feelings, thoughts and opinions?  Does that make their's wrong or false?  Is there a truth that is greater than my truth or your truth?  It all gets rather muddy, if you see my point, and leaves us vulnerable to the gas-lighters among us who would have us question our own validity and then take advantage of the ensuing chaos for personal gain. 

We wouldn't be the first to ask about truth, of course.  History provides.  And whether one is particularly bolstered or repelled by examples from the Christian tradition, one cannot ignore that the question about truth was once famously posed by the Roman occupation's Governor of Palestine in the story of Jesus of Nazareth (John 18). 

"What is truth?" Pilate asked.

It was gas-lighting elevated to an art-form, designed to cast doubt on the story and remove any threat to power.  It was gas-lighting intent upon burning down the house that Jesus was working to build, destroying the voices that were calling for compassion, justice, fairness, and equality (all of which might be wrapped up in that even more-famous phrase of Jesus, the one about loving your neighbor as you love yourself) in order to maintain CONTROL.

Friends, these are troubling times, and while my own bias leans toward "can't we all just get along?" I have to be truthful with myself today and answer "No, we cannot."  But perhaps we can all convince ourselves of one thing --that even if we never agree, we can still love.

For faith, hope, and love abide....and the greatest of these is (still and always will be) love.

It may not be a fact--but it's true.

*For those unfamiliar with the term, gas-lighting refers to the manipulation of someone by psychological means into questioning their own sanity.

'Tis the Season

Call it the holiday blues, the winter doldrums, a seasonally affected disorder--this time of year is a challenge for many.  In the Northern Hemisphere, shorter days and colder cloudier weather can prove too much for the mere charm of chestnuts roasting on an open fire.  Layer on holidays that conjure up feelings that we thought had permanently dissolved in the summer sun and it's a recipe for blah...

But here are a few thoughts and practical ideas that may help: 

It's natural.  Shorter days, longer nights, less available food...our bodies naturally want to slow down and bulk up.  These natural tendencies run head-on into the amped-up demands of the season, the all-you-can-eat holiday feast--so we're stuck in the crunch between "I want to eat a big, rich meal, curl up and take a nap" and "I have to hurry up and get it all done--and maintain my diet, too."  Modern conveniences may help get it all done (and even add to the busy-ness) but do the math: millions of years of evolution won't be changed with an Apple software update. 

Set aside the cellphone and take a nap. 

It's natural, pt. 2.  Much of what is touted as the warm glow of the holiday season ("The most wonderful time of the year!") is nostalgia.  In terms of brain function, nostalgia is part of the natural human way of rewriting the past so that the balance is shifted toward the positive.  But an honest appraisal of the past will lead to the conclusion that, in aggregate, it had its ups and downs.  There was good and there was bad.  And an honest appraisal IN the present tells us that we can't change the past or return to it.  So even if things were better "back in the good old days", it doesn't make a lot of sense to spend time wishing we could go back.  It's a waste of time.  Keep in mind that one of the driving energies behind nostalgic thinking is an aversion to considering our own mortality.  If we dwell in the past, we don't have to consider that we may not be here tomorrow.  Nostalgia is selfish.  And the sad irony of living in the past is that we then miss out on the present--and to heap even greater irony onto that pile, consider that one day, TODAY will be looked upon by someone else as the past for which they long.

Celebrate the past for what was good.  Mourn the past for what was tragic and evil.  Look to the future for what can be--for you and for the world.

You see, there's a reason why we celebrate when the days are short and the nights seem endless--a reason that goes beyond any historic analysis of the evolution of religion: to remember what once was and hope for what can be.

It's already begun, of course, the future!  Hope dawned this morning.  Did you miss it?

Cold Hands, Flat Tire

It dawned on me, in the dawning light, that I'd left for my bike ride ill-prepared for the morning chill.  Not that a 50-degree morning is anything but "bitterly cool," still it makes for some uncomfortable riding, especially without gloves.  For a moment I thought of turning back, but my early-morning brain said otherwise, "Go on, you'll survive without them." And so I did.

About half-way up the hill on which my sites were set I noticed another all-too-familiar feeling: a flat tire.  Ugh!  There's something about getting a flat tire that forces a new perspective.  Suddenly there is no choice in life: stop and fix it.  In this case, no big deal--it was less than 15 minutes and I was on my way again (reminder to self: replace that spare). 

When I made it to the top of the hill I remembered.

See, I'd forgotten all about my cold hands.  The redirect of a more urgent problem took my attention away from the potential of discomfort.  And my hands weren't cold at all, just a little greasy from the tire change.

As I flew down the hill it occurred to me--how very much of my life I spend worrying about things that will never happen, making contingency plans for troubles that will never come to pass, and hardly ever noticing how little control I have or the glorious view I'm missing while I'm wringing my greasy hands over nothing.

"Consider the lilies.  They neither toil nor do they sow, yet..."

 

Well, Duh!

It wasn't one of those great "aha" moments--more like, "well, duh."

This morning I was walking home from "Consumer Cental" (aka, Target) with the symbol of corporate dominance of American life in one hand (my Starbucks coffee) and a turkey in the other (they were on SALE!!).  As I navigated the sidewalks toward home I passed by an all-too-familiar scene: while I was waking up to corporate-sponsored caffeine others were waking up to a very different reality--life on the street.

It's not that I haven't seen it before--heaven knows.  Those experiencing homelessness are as common as the many other symbols of our indifference, as common as the discards from our self-centered lives, our "I've got mine what's wrong with you?" response to the troubles we witness.  We see these people  like we see the trash that litters our streets, only occasionally wondering why some imaginary someone doesn't do something about them, as if they are a problem to be swept away.

But this morning it was a little different; a "well, duh" moment.  This morning as I walked on by, I wondered what I would do if I were to suddenly find myself without a roof over my head.  I wondered how I would answer the question that many are asked, "Don't you have anywhere else to go?"

I do!  I have a family.  I have friends.  I am connected to community.  I have resources.  My skin reflects the color of privilege--so does my gender.  If I were somehow to find myself without a place called "home" it would only be a phone call, wired cash, an invitation from family or friends, a connection to community, and all would be well again.

But what if...

And that's the "well-duh."  Because if I thought for a moment that the majority of people experiencing homelessness had any ONE of the resources I have--family, friends, community, privilege, power--I would just tell them to get up and go. 

Which can mean only one thing: the solution, the hope, the change, must come from somewhere else.  And on my early morning walk, with coffee in one hand and Thanksgiving turkey in the other, the only person I saw who was there to make a difference was me.

Duh.

It's Not Golden Any More

You know that old saying, Silence is Golden.

Well, it's not "golden" any more...in fact, our silence is rusted and tarnished, full of holes and useless.

Our silence isn't golden when people of supposed good will say nothing in the wake of murder.

Our silence isn't golden when people of privilege fail to stand up and recognize their advantage and just drive on by while others are being persecuted.

Our silence isn't golden when people who have skin that is a different tone, or who love people of the same sex, or don't conform to imaginary binary social codes are murdered in cold blood because of who they ARE and we just cross our fingers and hope for a better world, but say nothing.

Our silence is deadly--DEADLY--when we work for compromise and slow progress while life after life lies bleeding.  Our silence is deadly when our goal is to exist together in peace under one big tent and we invite the DEVIL in by never saying "STOP--NOW!"  We are the Devil when we say nothing.  We are.

And it's not enough to say "enough."  "Enough" erases each precious life that has been lost--as if there was ever a tipping point before which it was OK and after which it was not.  It has NEVER BEEN OK. 

Enslavement has NEVER been OK.

Bigotry has NEVER been OK.

Murder has NEVER been OK.

Evil has ALWAYS been wrong.

So say it, goddammit.  Shout out, Howard!  Sing out, Louise! 

And quit asking God, "how long?"  God doesn't have the answer to that question.

We do.

Not Far

We joked that he was never far from his dish.  Even if he was out of sight, whenever there was the slightest hint that food was coming he would appear.  His 'bowl attachment' was so strong he'd taken on a rather bowl-like shape himself.  That was Thomas.  We called him Fat Boy.

Who knows what adventures he'd had before he came to us?  Cats don't tell stories.  What we knew is that he'd settled here.  We didn't find him, he found us.  This was his chosen home...or so we'd thought.

I'd say it was about a month ago that things started to change with him.  Maybe it was longer.  But we really knew something was up when he sniffed at a snack and walked away.  And then, one day, he walked away--from us. 

We weren't sure what happened.  We'd been his family of choice, maybe he'd changed his mind.  We tried not to think about all the ugly possibilities and just hoped for his return.  What else can you do?  But it was an unsettled peace.

And then, just as we were getting used to his absence, he was present again.  It was not long after Easter, and suddenly I was Mary Magdalene in the garden--and Thomas appeared to me.  For a moment I couldn't believe my eyes, but there was no doubt.  He really was back, and I could hardly wait to share the news.

Our joy at his return, however, was soon tempered by the realization that he was, indeed, different.  A trip to the vet and a chunk of change didn't tell us much.  Medicine and TLC seemed to help here and there, but his decline became inevitable. 

Thomas died yesterday.

Before he died he taught me a lesson, though: it's going to be OK.  There will be times when we think it's over but it's not--there's still more to come, perhaps the best part, or maybe the worst.  There will be days when we don't want to venture far from the bowl, and that's alright.  And one day it will be over, and that's going to be OK too.  Even though our hearts are hurting, it's going to be OK.

Because he's home now, and the bowl's not far.

Why I Am Not Homeless

This morning I went for an early morning jog in downtown Santa Barbara.  The bucolic streets of this beautiful city were whisper quiet at 5 am, the only lights glowing were inside the bars where some still labored at cleaning up reveries now complete.  Somewhere between the strain of my run and the solitude of the morning another awareness dawned: people were sitting up in doorways, rags piled on benches began to stir.  Suddenly I was awash in the realization that the differences between us were few, if any.  I held a hotel key card that was my temporary reprieve from homelessness--but what else?

And I began to wonder:  why am I not homeless? 

I could only think of one reason.

You see, I'm "white" and descended from Europeans.  I was born in America into a family that was middle-class and well-established.  My family, though at times quirky and challenging and certainly not without problems, loved me, fed me, clothed me, educated me.  They made sacrifices, yes--because they could--and those sacrifices resulted in the things in which middle class sacrifice results:  higher education, experience, opportunity.  My brain came along for the ride and for the most part works pretty well (thank you, genetics)--and so I believe it to be true of myself that I can do what I set out to do.

In other words, the reason--the ONLY reason--I am not homeless is simply accident of birth.

OK, maybe there's another reason--I've not experienced trauma, at least not to the point where it has debilitated me. 

That's probably luck.

If my ancestors had been enslaved, if my skin were a different color, if my family didn't have the resources or ability or desire, if I'd been subjected to trauma and my brain were not able to comprehend a different reality (let alone work toward it) that would be me on that bench, in that doorway, sucking on that crack pipe just to make it through another miserable day.  You?

It's been said that the homeless crisis in America is "complicated," and that, my friends, is true--the reasons are as many as the people who have no shelter, no family, no home--the people who need someone to love, something to do, and someplace to be--just like we all do.

But it also may be said that the cause of the crisis is simple and singular.  Some have, others do not.

And that, I'm afraid, is no accident.

(c) Steve Fiechter, 2016

Everything

I had a bagel "with everything" this morning.  Toasted.  With cream cheese.

Turns out it wasn't everything, though, which left me wondering.  What would a bagel "with everything" actually look like?  Physically impossible, or course, and beyond imagination.  Like life.  You can't have it all, can you?

But I ordered a life "with everything," you see.  That's what I wanted!  I asked for a life of joy, of happiness, of perfection, with all of the sides...EVERYTHING...that goes along with it.  Apparently they screwed up my order. 

How is yours?

I mean, seriously, when I said "everything" what I MEANT was all the good stuff: not the torn ligament, the dripping faucet, the dead flowers.  Not the unjust system, the ranting politician, the suicide bomber, the endless war.  Not the sick child, the homeless family, the broken heart. 

But I did say "everything," didn't I?

Maybe I'm getting exactly what I ordered after all. 

And that's life.  Everything.

Someone's Baby Once....

If you're of a certain generation you may remember a line from the classic cartoon, Broom-Stick Bunny.  Hotly pursued by a hideous and scary witch, and about to become part of her brew, the usually wise-cracking Bugs Bunny is suddenly reflective about his pursuer:

"She may not be very pretty now, but she was someone's baby once."

I think about that line every once in a while.  Everyone...no matter how grumpy or dirty or beautiful or thin or strong or mean or ugly or wrinkled or rude or happy or hurtful...everyone was "someone's baby once."  Remembering that helps me to love better--even those who may seem particularly unlovable to me at the moment.  Because, you see, while it's true that we all started out the same--small and naked and helpless--from there it didn't work out the same for all of us.  Some of us entered into worlds of abundant love, privilege and care, but many did not.  Sure, we were all "someone's baby once," but we weren't all loved.  Some of us were abandoned.  Some of us were abused.  Some of us were bullied.  Some of us were rejected because of the color of our skin or the kink in our hair or the people we loved or the things we were good at doing.  Some of us were starved--for food, for affection, for love. 

Many still are. 

Friends, we all make choices based on the opportunities that exist for us in our world, from the foundations on which our lives began.  But what of those who have no foundation, whose lives are built on the shaky ground of rejection and starvation?  We may all have been worthy of love but we have not all been recipients of it.  It may be hard for some of us to imagine, but there are many in this world who have simply never experienced that loving gaze that tells us, no matter what, we are loved and all will be well.

Maybe it's time we tell them.

(c) Fiechter, 2016

Thanks for reading.  Please feel free to share--ask permission for reprinting please.  And remember, love is both a noun and a verb...and sometimes actions speak louder than words.

Overload <3

Not long ago I heard something that about knocked my socks off:  five hundred years ago, the average person would have received the same amount of new information in their entire lifetime as a person today receives in a single day.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Five hundred years ago, you would have had your entire lifetime to absorb and process the amount of new information you now receive in a single day.

Have you ever felt like your brain was going to explode?  Have you ever felt that if you had to learn one new password, figure out how to use one new gizmo or gadget, learn one new THING, that you might just go bonkers?  Have you ever looked around and wondered how it's possible that you've suddenly entered an episode of The Jetsons?  Do you remember back when you would call someone on the telephone--it was called "dialing" for a reason, BTW--and you didn't have to ask them where they were?  E-mail, texting, Facetime...OMG...we used to speak using WORDS...LOL!. 

Have you ever thought that the only constant in life is change...and by the time you were done thinking about it everything seemed to changed AGAIN?

For generation after generation life didn't seem to change much.  If things did change, you usually had some time to catch up.  But now there's no time for catching up--if you blink you're behind.

It can be overwhelming.  Whether you're trying to wrap your brain around new ideas like "gay marriage" or remember that "google" has long-since become a verb, it can be a challenge to keep up.  That's not surprising; emerging brain science reminds us that the human brain is still catching up with the amount of information that crosses our screens in this age of technology.  And they say we ain't seen nothin' yet!

But believe it or not, one thing hasn't changed: the greatest force known to humanity.  It is the power to bring about change and deal with it, the power to heal, the power to grow, the power to transcend every challenge.  We call it love.

Always have, always will.

"Faith, hope, and love abide.  And the greatest of these is love."

(Happy Valentine's Day to all!)

All of a Sudden....

It was another one of those weeks.  It seemed to start out slowly and then, all of a sudden, it was Friday!  Funny how that is.

Come to think of it, January was another one of those months.  The holidays were over and then, all of a sudden, Punxatawny Phil was hunting for his shadow.  Funny how that is.

Come to think of it, last year was another one of those years...the last decade another of those...

Funny, how it is.  Or maybe you're thinking it's not so funny any more, just too fast.

It's something about how our brains are wired, or maybe it's that time is relative.  When we're younger it seems as if we have forever--only when we're looking back does it all seem to have gone by so quickly. 

Which is only to say "enjoy today" because, before you know it, today will be over.  And there won't be anything funny about that.  

Ready? Swing!

The other day my body reminded me of the truth of the phrase, I'm not as young as I used to be: not a big deal, but painful enough that I got the message.

Along with that reminder came the fear that, one day, I may lose the ability to participate in life the way I've enjoyed for so long.  It was that nagging fear, more than the sharp pain in my knee, that stung the most. 

Oh, it wasn't really a fear--not at first--just a thought.  But then it grew and grew, buzzing around in my head like an annoying fly stuck inside, trying to fly through a closed kitchen window.  Pretty soon I was swatting at it almost constantly, to the point where it had my full attention. 

Then I noticed something.  When I talked about it, the fear went away.  When I heard my own words, when I spoke my fear, it was as if the window opened and that annoying fly flew.

Thoughts buzz around in our heads all the time.  They bounce off the walls of our brains like flies trying to get to the light through a closed kitchen window.  Voicing our fears--talking about them--is opening that window.  It releases our fears into the community, where those who care are waiting and listening--

And holding a giant fly-swatter.

What are you afraid of today?  Is there someone who will listen?  Or is today your day to swat?

"There is no fear in love."

Pardon, The Interruption

Hi!  Pardon the interruption.  I'm sure you're busy celebrating.  Me too.  'Tis the season, after all. 

Pardon the interruption.  But you see, yesterday I was out in the neighborhood, wading through the holiday hustle, when I came across a man--a real human--an in-the-flesh human being--in a dumpster.  The Silver Bells were ringing as the shoppers rushed home with their treasures--no one seemed to notice as this real, flesh and blood human being stood, foraging, in a garbage dumpster--no cradle for his bed. 

Pardon the interruption, but something tells me that's what Christmas really is--an interruption--a disruption--a break-in.  Not merely an opportunity to rush home with our treasures, to glow with nostalgia, to bask in the familiar and over indulge, Christmas is a wake-up call to a repeating story: that the Divine is entering every day...maybe this time not in Royal David's City. 

Maybe wherever there is no room.

Pardon, the interruption.

(c) Fiechter, 2015

What Are You Waiting For?

Just three weeks ago our neighbor died.  It was sudden, though not entirely unexpected, and our lives without him are sorely diminished.  We miss him.  And in the aftermath of his passing we are all discovering how unprepared he was--how unprepared we were.  But why?

"The days are surely coming." 

They are here.  Look around!  Listen!  The signs are everywhere: the clarion gunfire, the whining siren, the grievous aftermath, the shocking rhetoric we'd hoped had died with the tyrants of the last century--complete with goose-stepping lemmings fanning the flames of fear--and our own neighbors spewing hatred.

How is it that we have never learned?

'Tis the season of waiting--waiting and longing--for celebrations yet to come, for shortening days to lengthen again, for the promised El Niño.  But that baby is already born, you see, because you are here.  And the world is waiting with bated breath--

What are you waiting for?

(c) Fiechter, 2015

May your celebrations be filled with joy and peace and purpose.  In the year to come let us all find ways to speak the truth and stand against the darkness and fear that dwell within.  You can change the world--it is already better because you are here.

Then How They Loved Him

So let me see if I've got this right-- 

He's rejected from his social group because he has what others perceive to be a disability.  He's ridiculed for being different and banned from participating in community activities.  But then, and only because of an unexpected change in circumstances, what they had once seen as a disability suddenly becomes beneficial for them.  Where he had previously been rejected he is now celebrated.  Those who once mocked and rejected him now "love" him and proclaim that from now on he will be celebrated in perpetuity.

And this is supposed to be a GOOD thing?  Seriously?

The other day I was singing along to the song when, rather suddenly, a light bulb came on over my head.  You might even say, "It glowed"  We do a lot of celebrating for the wrong reasons.  We celebrate narrowly defined 'beauty' and 'ability' and do a lot of rejecting of those who are even only slightly different from the norm, the mainstream.  We reject and we bully and we intimidate--and then we proclaim ourselves to be the victims.  We insist on assimilation--and only when those we reject can somehow prove themselves to be useful do we then proclaim our acceptance and 'love.'

Heck, we even sing about it.

This Christmas I'm going to try something new--I hope you will too!  Rather than accepting the norm as good and right, I'm going to question it.  Maybe the things we've been celebrating shouldn't be celebrated after all.  Maybe the people we've been rejecting should be included--and not only because they are useful to us, but because they are as good and wonderful as you and me and everyone else.

Who knows?  Maybe if we do, someday people will celebrate US for remembering that "love does not insist on its own way." 

Then we'll go down in history.

(c) Fiechter, 2015.  If you enjoy, please share!  If you want to reprint, please ask!  

Happiest of holidays to all...(and to all, a good night!)