Yesterday, 12/30/2010 was a huge day. Not for me in particular, but for the world. My guess is that this day was like any other day, ordinary and yet extraordinary all at the same time. A secret was let loose to the United States of America, a message unraveling extensive unity for the world, its establishment of refreshing peace, and by God, hope brothers and sisters, HOPE. I have my unending issues and trials to mire the ignorance within me almost constantly. It hurts me to see the way we live, so haphazardly, so unconsciously, without realizing our ordinary, daily, simple choices deeply, deeply matter and infinitely affect the world around us. So when a secret of such is made known, ripened to the ears and hearts of those around, knowing in the solace and yet joining of our souls, that the celebration of life is, actually, resounding.
In April 2009, President Obama daringly projected a proposal to not only attain a treaty with Russia concealing nuclear weaponry, but to secure all vulnerable nuclear material within four years. Let me repeat this with a bit more clarity, Obama is aiming at taking every created and established form of nuclear material TO BE SECURED, MAINTAINED AND LOCKED DOWN WITH SECURITY. (Using all caps just to reemphasize the balls-iness of this proposal). On December 30, 2010, over 100+ lbs of uranium was removed from the territory of Ukraine and brought securely to a maintained location. This material is enough to detonate two large nuclear bombs. Now why would a nation who put endless remarkable time and energy in obtaining this material be willing to oblige to its removal? Yes, there is recognition that this material is harmful. Derr. Ukraine committed itself to the international committee last year. Really, though, what's at the heart of their willingness? Don't they want the power and control of national protection? Quite possibly, as part of the international committee, an understanding that the fewer places this material is located, the better off the world is. Too simple? Too ideal? Obama helped to initiate the bringing together of 46 countries to address this global issue at the Nuclear Security Summit awhile back this year. The majority of nuclear material is dispersed in 35 countries around the world. 19 countries have been secured. 16 more countries to go. The goal at hand to bring it back to the United States and Russia where it began and secure, protect this material. This is all held in secret, due to the intense potency of such material.
This is huge. Even when I went to bed that night, my crazy 50 yr old roommate came home at 3 am to wake me up, make sure I had heard the news. She hugged me, we high-fived, and then she said, "The shit is happening, Beth!" The shit is happening. And it is some paramount, awesome shit.
There is just one word I can sense in a way that some how streams forth the essence of this great achievement: COMMITMENT--not as an obstinate trait to persevere towards a goal. But this is bigger, largely encompassing in a greater capacity. This is commitment to collaboration. Bipartisan feelings and opinions are put aside. Nationalistic pride at ease. General dialogue arises, and globally, our minds are activated. We see each other, our nations, our world, on a larger scale. In the United States, I think there has been a impending reminder that a representative democracy implies that our government is a vessel to reflect the values of its people, the values hidden at the heart of its people. Obama happened to bring about beginning of this proposal to conceal vulnerable nuclear material. But who really was responsible for this initiation, this coming of time and ultimately, peace?
Maybe it was the widow down the street who had fostered 46 children from various areas of the U.S. Maybe it was the young couple who welcomed people onto their farm to learn to live sustainably in mindful actions of the Earth and its future. Maybe it was the prayer group that met for five hours every week to pray for the needs of its community. Maybe it was the nontraditional student who awakened at 3 am to study six languages, so dialogue and understanding between cultures could be created. Maybe it was the Peace Corps volunteer in Russia whose heart was to live amidst the youth of this culture, encourage their hearts and build relations. Maybe it was the guitar player whose lyrics brought messages of justice, messages reiterating the importance of human rights. Maybe it was the writer who challenged the people to awaken to consciousness. Maybe it was the young, wild at heart girl who built an interactive community of kids from all different socioeconomic classes to play and learn together. Maybe it was the math teacher at an high school who went to each of his kid's football games, encouraging and mentoring them through their journeys of life.
At the heart of these people, it all began. The commitment of ordinary, global citizens all over the world to see with open eyes. To seek justice in the community. To invest life in another. To see past the self. To commit to a life that exceeds one bottled up of little comforts and luxuries. Our communities make up our world. The local and national governments are continually changing, erupting new policies to further aid the changing times. I say with great earnesty: the responsibility is ours. Let me say again, THE RESPONSIBILITY IS OURS. And I say to you with great encouragement, participate collectively in the experience. Think and act mindfully. Engage in the world wholeheartedly. The ordinary is where the future of the common good of man exists. May this be our gift to the future.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
No Name Blog Entry.
Snow. Beautiful glistening snow here in Appalachia. I don't know how or why, but every time I step out from my front porch into it's softly flowing serenity, I sniff the air only to hear in my mind the smooth, suave voice of Michael Jackson speaking to me, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." I giggle a bit, questioning why I hear Michael Jackson's voice so vivid, so audible. I find that I don't really even like that word, SNOW. Too bland. I think I'd rather like to call it "Feather dust." Much more fitting as to its actual substance, rather than what it appears to be.
That bastard of procrastination has crept up on me these past few months. And with the weather as it is, nasty habits of having me rush everywhere seem inevitably dangerous. Just the other day, I was running late to dinner, and just as I approached the driveway, I wiped out on a mighty large piece of ice. Busted it. I went into work the next day with a torturous ache. I was explaining my fall to a fellow staff member, how I laid in the ground after slipping and just enjoyed trying to eat the feather dust ("snow") with no hands, and how tasty it was. She stopped her fidgeting with an oxygen mask, suddenly narrowed her look at me and breathed that "sigh" breath. I got nervous. Was I rambling? Was I telling one of those dumb stories that she doesn't care about when she is trying to look and act like she does? Her pause as she looked at me seemed to transcend time and elapse through me an entire lifetime. "Let me ask you something, Beth," she framed. Still, though feeling vulnerable, no detection was made whether an unsuspected wrath was coming or a crude shriek of humor. "Yeah?" I hesitated. "You're fresh out aren't you?" Baffled, I had no clue. "Fresh out of what?" I replied. She retorted, "I could smell you from a mile away. You're fresh out of school. Newbie to life." What the crap was this lady talking about? Quickly, still in her presence, I tried to recap our short-lived interaction to see what in the world would give her leeway that I was "fresh out." Should I be offended? Pissed? Laugh as if it was funny? She began to exit to leave the room when I grabbed her arm and said, "I'm sorry but what do mean 'newbie to life?'" She cracked a side smile, one that was cocked with half-ass sincerity, "Oh, you'll get it when you're my age." No offense to her, but I didn't feel like waiting 30 years to figure out why falling on a piece of ice and eating snow somehow generalized me as a "newbie to life." I'm 23 years old, and by God, if something has not throbbed my soul and heartbeat, I need to check my pulse. Over and over and over again. I tried to brush off my irritation with the whole engagement, but I was left hauntingly ailed within. Number one, I hate being generalized, but number two, what kind of characteristics did she think being "fresh out" entails? Ignorance? Arrogance? Naivety? Lack of experience? All of the above? Pissed. Yes pissed I became.
So, at first, thought wreaked havoc on my mind. Yes, school gave me unequivocal amounts of knowledge, all enabling memorization and accumulation of facts. I knew things. Great. Grand. Exciting things to know. Doesn't mean jack squat though if not somehow put to life. But the outward journeys to Oregon, New Mexico and now West Virginia, paralleled with new discoveries inwardly, was, subconsciously, an attempt to let the real education happen. No preconceptions to life--however it was suppose to happen. Meet people, love people, give to these people, respect and cherish the God in these people, live life with these people amidst all our differences. To let creative streams flow with the most enchanting form of creativity:learning, and to do so together. Experience. Knowledge with experience breeds wisdom. From all this experience, I had to come to an honest grip and understanding of the nature of my hungers. I remember one night in Oregon I wrote down in closing to my journal-- in question of my time there-- open-ended, unanswered. "Do I have a hunger to love? Or just a love to hunger?" Maybe this is what the conversation with the respiratory therapist was to bring out, to assess my thoughts and experience, or rather my lack thereof.
Human hunger. In all its forms. These driving appetites surface all the time. But what to do with them? The physical hunger-- the need to survive with sweet nourishment. Social hunger in deepest desire of community, of understanding, care, love. Emotional hunger-- to be known. Affirmed. Accepted as designed. Mental hunger-- to be intellectually stimulated. Sexual hunger-- suppressed or not-- to know someone intimately as humanly possible. And then I think why do any of these hungers even have to be categorized? One simple hunger pervades all: the hunger of the soul.
And then I go back to the dreams embedded in the memory. Longing for adventure. The unknown. To explore without inhibition. The dreams always wanting themselves to somehow be "attained." Attain. Attain. Attain. Go. Go. Go. Strive. Strive. Strive. We're too concrete-minded as a society. Something does not have to be felt to be real. What I think I really hunger is not just attaining the dream, but in essence, we hope that the dream will somehow deliver its ultimate fulfillment. What was that hunger of the soul yearning for? Intangible, but recognizable. Felt, though indefinable. Verbalized and narrowed, though inexact. With the radio music on, an old Christmas carol of long ago sang soft melodies into my heart as I listened, "I wander as I wonder out under the sky..." Yes, yes of course. WONDER. The enchanting reality of wonder to take us over. and over, and over, again. As human beings open to God: To wonder, to behold, to forget the self and offer it up, this, yes this, is WORSHIP.
There is no conceptual mind to wonder. In the perpetual rest of the human heart, it fully and wholly exists. As the permanence of changing takes hold, I don't care if I am a newbie to life forever as the wonder permeates my soul as stages and experiences of life build on and from one another.
Think about this time of year. Next Saturday, beloved Christmas, the movie that has been playing for over decades will shine itself again on the television screen. Many, like my dad, will eagerly await its showing. It'll probably be his 100+ time seeing it. Doesn't matter. It's a chance to remember, to behold, to see, to watch, and to never, never forget. Cheers to life. Cheers to "It's a Wonderful Life."
That bastard of procrastination has crept up on me these past few months. And with the weather as it is, nasty habits of having me rush everywhere seem inevitably dangerous. Just the other day, I was running late to dinner, and just as I approached the driveway, I wiped out on a mighty large piece of ice. Busted it. I went into work the next day with a torturous ache. I was explaining my fall to a fellow staff member, how I laid in the ground after slipping and just enjoyed trying to eat the feather dust ("snow") with no hands, and how tasty it was. She stopped her fidgeting with an oxygen mask, suddenly narrowed her look at me and breathed that "sigh" breath. I got nervous. Was I rambling? Was I telling one of those dumb stories that she doesn't care about when she is trying to look and act like she does? Her pause as she looked at me seemed to transcend time and elapse through me an entire lifetime. "Let me ask you something, Beth," she framed. Still, though feeling vulnerable, no detection was made whether an unsuspected wrath was coming or a crude shriek of humor. "Yeah?" I hesitated. "You're fresh out aren't you?" Baffled, I had no clue. "Fresh out of what?" I replied. She retorted, "I could smell you from a mile away. You're fresh out of school. Newbie to life." What the crap was this lady talking about? Quickly, still in her presence, I tried to recap our short-lived interaction to see what in the world would give her leeway that I was "fresh out." Should I be offended? Pissed? Laugh as if it was funny? She began to exit to leave the room when I grabbed her arm and said, "I'm sorry but what do mean 'newbie to life?'" She cracked a side smile, one that was cocked with half-ass sincerity, "Oh, you'll get it when you're my age." No offense to her, but I didn't feel like waiting 30 years to figure out why falling on a piece of ice and eating snow somehow generalized me as a "newbie to life." I'm 23 years old, and by God, if something has not throbbed my soul and heartbeat, I need to check my pulse. Over and over and over again. I tried to brush off my irritation with the whole engagement, but I was left hauntingly ailed within. Number one, I hate being generalized, but number two, what kind of characteristics did she think being "fresh out" entails? Ignorance? Arrogance? Naivety? Lack of experience? All of the above? Pissed. Yes pissed I became.
So, at first, thought wreaked havoc on my mind. Yes, school gave me unequivocal amounts of knowledge, all enabling memorization and accumulation of facts. I knew things. Great. Grand. Exciting things to know. Doesn't mean jack squat though if not somehow put to life. But the outward journeys to Oregon, New Mexico and now West Virginia, paralleled with new discoveries inwardly, was, subconsciously, an attempt to let the real education happen. No preconceptions to life--however it was suppose to happen. Meet people, love people, give to these people, respect and cherish the God in these people, live life with these people amidst all our differences. To let creative streams flow with the most enchanting form of creativity:learning, and to do so together. Experience. Knowledge with experience breeds wisdom. From all this experience, I had to come to an honest grip and understanding of the nature of my hungers. I remember one night in Oregon I wrote down in closing to my journal-- in question of my time there-- open-ended, unanswered. "Do I have a hunger to love? Or just a love to hunger?" Maybe this is what the conversation with the respiratory therapist was to bring out, to assess my thoughts and experience, or rather my lack thereof.
Human hunger. In all its forms. These driving appetites surface all the time. But what to do with them? The physical hunger-- the need to survive with sweet nourishment. Social hunger in deepest desire of community, of understanding, care, love. Emotional hunger-- to be known. Affirmed. Accepted as designed. Mental hunger-- to be intellectually stimulated. Sexual hunger-- suppressed or not-- to know someone intimately as humanly possible. And then I think why do any of these hungers even have to be categorized? One simple hunger pervades all: the hunger of the soul.
And then I go back to the dreams embedded in the memory. Longing for adventure. The unknown. To explore without inhibition. The dreams always wanting themselves to somehow be "attained." Attain. Attain. Attain. Go. Go. Go. Strive. Strive. Strive. We're too concrete-minded as a society. Something does not have to be felt to be real. What I think I really hunger is not just attaining the dream, but in essence, we hope that the dream will somehow deliver its ultimate fulfillment. What was that hunger of the soul yearning for? Intangible, but recognizable. Felt, though indefinable. Verbalized and narrowed, though inexact. With the radio music on, an old Christmas carol of long ago sang soft melodies into my heart as I listened, "I wander as I wonder out under the sky..." Yes, yes of course. WONDER. The enchanting reality of wonder to take us over. and over, and over, again. As human beings open to God: To wonder, to behold, to forget the self and offer it up, this, yes this, is WORSHIP.
There is no conceptual mind to wonder. In the perpetual rest of the human heart, it fully and wholly exists. As the permanence of changing takes hold, I don't care if I am a newbie to life forever as the wonder permeates my soul as stages and experiences of life build on and from one another.
Think about this time of year. Next Saturday, beloved Christmas, the movie that has been playing for over decades will shine itself again on the television screen. Many, like my dad, will eagerly await its showing. It'll probably be his 100+ time seeing it. Doesn't matter. It's a chance to remember, to behold, to see, to watch, and to never, never forget. Cheers to life. Cheers to "It's a Wonderful Life."
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