I wake to a symphony of birds singing and tweeting, so many sounds I could be in a jungle, and wonder why we question different sizes, colors, and shapes, when multiplicity comes together in unity.

Today I’m aware of my sacrum waving like a flag, a flag of integration.  My hand reaches up supported by feet and toes.

I now keep a chair handy so I can lie on the floor with my lower legs on the seat of the chair. I rest there, hang, release.

Today I’m with this poem by Pablo Neruda: Keeping Quiet.  I think of the little bird sitting on her nest outside my bedroom.  She is keeping quiet, is a keeper of quiet as she sits on her eggs, though sometimes she tweets.

Keeping Quiet

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for a second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

• Pablo Neruda 

I‘m balancing on poetry these days like little steps.

Fresh

To move

Cleanly.

Needing to be

Nowhere else.

Wanting nothing

From any store.

To lift something

You already had

And set it down in

A new place.

Awakened eye

Seeing freshly.

What does that do to

The old blood moving through

Its channels?

– Naomi Shihab Nye

On Saturday Gloria Lerin led Sensory Awareness on a Zoom call.  You can find information about Sensory Awareness here: https://sensoryawareness.org.

Gloria shared the lyrics to this song written by Fito Paez of Argentina.  She said “he wrote this song after the guerrillas killed his auntie, grandmother and the person who took care of them in their house”. Here are his words. I note there are different translations, so choose what speaks to you.

I Come to Offer My Heart

Who said everything is lost?

I come to offer my heart

So much blood that flows in a river,

I come to offer my heart

It won’t be easy, I know what will happen,

It won’t be as simple as I thought,

Like opening the chest and taking out the soul,

A cut of love

The Moon of the poor is always shining,

I come to offer my heart

Fixed in stone

I come to offer my heart

And I will unite the ends of the same bow,

And I will go quietly, I will go slowly,

And I will give you everything, and you will give me something,

Something to ease me a little more

When no one is near or far,

I come to offer my heart

Where the satellites don’t reach,

I come to offer my heart

And I’m talking about countries and hopes,

I speak for life, I speak for nothing,

I’m talking about changing this, our home,

To change it, just to change it.

Who said everything is lost?

I come to offer my heart

Where I live, I can stand on a bridge or sit by the shore, and watch the changes as the tide turns in Richardson Bay.  It’s not a simple, polite exchange. Oh, yes, now let’s go this way and not that.  You go first.  I’ll wait.

Instead, there’s a swirl and circling I might view as confusion and uncertainty.  What, oh, the moon is pulling us this way and not that.  Okay, don’t shove; let’s turn, but not rigidly, not marching left, right; let’s pause, then, circle a bit to navigate the change.  

I sit here this morning trying to expand around all that’s going on. I’m circling, trying to navigate change and grief, anger, sorrow, fear, knowing that ultimately all is love.

Where I live there are two ways to drive to the ocean.  One is a series of curves that makes some people sick, and the other is a rather straight route through a variety of towns that become smaller and smaller as the road heads west.  

That road, a major east-west connector in the county, is called Sir Francis Drake.  

There’s now an outcry to change the name of the street.  Until recently, I didn’t know that Sir Francis Drake began his career as a slave trader. I knew he was a pirate but hadn’t considered that he traded in human lives.

In addition to the name of the road, in 1990, a huge 30-foot tall, steel sculpture of Sir Francis Drake was placed next to the Larkspur Ferry Terminal. Now, people want it gone.

At first in the overwhelm I often feel these days, I thought it was hardly the biggest issue of the time but now I see that yes, we must do everything we can to show we’re paying attention to the changes that show that Black Lives Matter.  

I just finished reading the book Troop 6000 by Nikita Stewart.  It, too, is an eye opener as it deals with the problem of homelessness in NYC.  

Reading this book, I have great respect for Mayor de Blasio and what he is doing to deal with what seems like an insurmountable problem.  

I’m also in awe of the woman who with courage, determination, and the help and support of others set up Girl Scout troops in shelters in NYC.  Her work changes lives.

One person can make a difference.  We know that but this book is an honest accounting of the work in change. 

And now for me, there is the more immediate question of social distancing.  My family and close friends are still choosing to honor it, so I wait to hug my children and grandchild. 

I’ve been through physical pain, and I want to wait a little longer before I expose myself, or those I love, or those I come in contact with, with something that still seems scientifically illusive. I also understand this is a mental health issue. When does the economy, social interaction and touch become more important than anything else?

For now, my family is in agreement, and perhaps my wider family too as my little bird friend still sits on her nest.  She brings me trust and peace.