One Deep Breath: vision

Hopes to visit in peace a farm,
somewhere in Iraq,
on the porch
talking
of
crops.

A year ago, I wrote about climbing the steps to the Lincoln Memorial with my dad and hearing him tell how Dr. King's famous speech affected him. This year, I'm writing about hearing a vision that is not so famous, but is an extremely powerful one. As I have frequently written about here, my father is a National Guardsman who has served twice in Iraq. When I first sat down to write this week's poem, I wasn't sure what I would write. I thought of my dad and of Dr. King.

I think our rememberance of Dr. King has a tendency to oversimplify his message, which was one of justice for *all* people - he spoke not only of the injustice of judging people by the colors of their skin, but also of the injustice of war, the injustice of taking from the Many to further enrich the few, of the ways that violence harms everyone - the person committing violence, the victim, even the person "on the sidelines" is harmed - each has a piece of their humanity taken by the act of violence. And Dr. King said that the way to counter this is not to engage in more violence, but to reclaim our humanity, to act as human beings with compassion and strength, the strength that rises above violence.

And I thought of my dad's return from war each time. I thought of his interpreter in Iraq, who had been a doctor until the war, when he and his family were threatened if he continued to treat people. My dad told me that he hoped to bring his interpreter and the interpreter's family here to the United States. He hopes to take S. to see my grandfather's farm and to meet the family, and he hopes one day to travel again to Iraq, so that he can see S.'s family's farm, sit out on the porch, and talk about something really important - how crops are grown on that land.

Just Plain Furious

As if it weren't bad enough that we are abusing our military through more and more frequent deployments, now we discover that funds raised for veterans are being frittered away. This really makes me angry. Hasn't this war stolen enough?

Over the weekend, someone asked me what my dad thinks of the war. I trotted out my standard response that I really can't be his spokesman, for fear of oversimplifying his thoughts - but I also pointed out that one of the things he's talked about since getting back is the level of profiteering off the misery of this war.

And I felt odd, out of place, cold. The table was full of holiday cheer - Holy Day cheer - candles, special foods, made this one season in the year, cookies and even my candies were there, festive tableware, a special centerpiece, everyone dressed colorfully. Everyone looking forward to the gifts that would come out after dessert. The room was full of joy and fellowship, but I was talking about death and misery and the pathetic mindset that looks at that and sees opportunities for profit.

I said afterwards to my husband that I wasn't sure whether they'd wanted the answer they got, but how could I say anything else? He pointed out to me that I was alone in that room in being related to a soldier, that it's important for others to hear the real story, because it's not being told in the places it should be told.

One of my favorite stories is the one about a worthless item that turns out to be a precious gift: the hospitality of Baucis and Philemon, the fool of Notre Dame (part of the inspiration for my blog's name), the clockmaker who brings only a sandwich to the offeratory, having sold the beautiful clock he had intended to give in order to support his neighbor. I agree with O. Henry. These are the gifts of the Magi, the gift of love. Often, it's a hard gift to give. We can't know how it will be received, or what the result will be. All we can do is give in hope and trust.

A thank you note

I got a thank you note from Iraq last week and frankly didn't know what to do with it. I certainly hadn't expected one. But there, in my hands, was a letter written by someone who had received the carefully packed snacks, diversions, and toiletries we sent. I cried. Then I forwarded the contents of the note to my friends who had also worked on the care packages.

It hurt to be thanked for caring about someone, and thanked effusively, at that. Reading a note that called blessings down on my head felt as though he should be thanking someone else, someone who could do more, someone who could make the people in power stop hurting others.

And then this afternoon, I heard the song Hero in Harlan by Tom T. and Dixie Hall. And found myself thinking of that note that thanked me for caring about a group of soldiers who had posted a request for food or anything that someone could send to AnySoldier.com. Sadly, I'm not giving away the identity of the group in question, as there are many soldiers requesting pretty much that. He says they're doing well, haven't lost anyone, though it can be hard to carry on. I found myself praying that we wouldn't get any more heroes - American, Iraqi, or otherwise. No more folded flags in exchange for sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, friends. No more.

He thanked me for thinking of them and praying for them, and I do. I pray for them all - for the end of this madness. I pray for the day when we will turn from this destructive path and work together in constructive ways. And I pray that these soldiers may find some peace.

Religion and the military

One other thing bothered me about the laundry list of calumny that I responded to yesterday. It contrasted a hypothetical "you" clutching a cell phone, with an equally hypothetical "he" clutching the cross next to his dog tags. Back on the winter solstice, I wrote:

I hate this feeling that the war sits on my shoulders in a way that it doesn't sit on most of our lawmakers' shoulders. I wonder in what world of delusion some of them are sitting to imagine we can take the additional burden of an expanded presence. I wonder how many will sit this season, half hearing Christmas carols and sermons invoking peace on Earth and goodwill to man, and keep them in a completely separate compartment from the war that is being waged in our names, and in the name of the "Prince of Peace". And do not mistake: it is. I think the speech that made me the most angry at my father's homecoming was the minister who blessed the returning troops, making it very clear that Jesus was blessing their fight against the Foe. My mom, who is Christian, said afterwards that she had been very uncomfortable herself and couldn't imagine what it had been like for my husband and myself. I wondered what it must have been like for the young woman in hijab, holding her young child (obviously born during the early part of the deployment) in her lap.

Not every soldier is Christian. Some are Jews, athiests, agnostics, Pagans, Hindus, Buddhists, and yes, Muslims. And even some of those who are Christian do not buy the propaganda. My dad also expressed some discomfort with the sermon preached that day.

I've been there for swearing in ceremonies. I remember my dad swearing in a chaplain (who, yes, was Christian). Both stood there, in a bare parlor, standing to attention, right hands upraised, reciting the oath to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic. There was no Bible involved, though there certainly were several available. This, you see, was not about religious study. It was about promising to serve. And while his decision to do that was informed by his faith, the chaplain would have been the first to tell you that others serve, too.

So stop insulting and marginalizing the service members who don't think or believe the way you do. It is unworthy of the sacrifice they make in agreeing to serve at the will of the nation. And realize that one can criticize those who thwart the will of the nation and abuse our soldiers, because that is the way we can serve them.

Some observations

Over at Shipwrecked in South Carolina, there was a series of observations. I made some observations of my own, which I think need to be made in response.

I can't speak for anyone else. I can only speak for me.

I stayed up many nights, praying for my dad's safety, praying that he wouldn't have to use the gun I saw him practicing with. I woke up in the middle of the night, knowing something was wrong, but with no chance of finding out what. I crocheted on a blanket for him through sleepless nights until my fingers were numb.

I wake up in the morning and thank God that my dad is here again, in body at least. I write to my representatives, knowing that my parents taught me the responsibility of citizens to be part of the governance of this country.

I go to work with a splitting headache because my leave was exhausted 2 months ago, with constant travel to visit with my mother who has been doing her work plus keeping my dad's business going while he was deployed.

I don't wear a t-shirt, unless I found it secondhand because I have no idea under what conditions that shirt was made - what child was kept at work 18 hours to make it. Besides, my tax refund went to care packages, so I'm not going to spend money on a shirt I can only wear 2 days a week.

I, like most Americans, do not have a maid, nor am I likely to get one any day soon. After I get home, I'll have to find the energy to pick up the living room, make dinner, wash my hair, and suck up and soldier on.

My cell phone is a treasured connection, full of possibility. Perhaps today, I'll hear from him, or maybe he'll answer an email.

I hear that soldiers are being "extended" and rage at the radio until my husband turns it off.

I worry when a friend writes that his ship will be leaving soon, and they expect to be sent later in the year to the sandbox.

I am angry because my dad's loyalty and service are being abused.

I criticize my government when the wounded are housed with rats and other vermin after they've come home. I criticize my government when my dad is given the wrong body armor. I criticize my government when billions disappear with no accounting while soldiers are sent unsafe equipment. Damned right, I criticize my government.

I criticize my government when it ignores the commission it created and puts even more lives at risk. I criticize my government because my dad put his life on the line for me not to live in a tyranny, and because there is more than one way to live bravely. My dad helped to teach me that words tend to solve more than fists.

I criticize my government when I learn that they are employing torture. Guilty? Innocent? The waterboard doesn't know the difference.

I do not and will not joke about the war. I said goodbye to my father, the taste of bile still in my mouth, because there was no time to brush my teeth after I vomited from worry.

I hear his voice from half the world away, and can't feel at peace, even in a bustling farmer's market - right between jars of apple butter and handsewn aprons.

Despite my heartbreak, I smile bravely, knowing he takes strength from his family.

I am on call. No matter what I am doing, it stops if the cell phone rings. And I smile, because he can hear the difference.

I know the world is a better place because of him. I know that when he is here, he treats people, often people who have little money. I have known him to treat people for nothing. I pray that my government will leave enough of him to allow him to continue to improve the world.

And feel free to link, email, or whatever. I don't want the lies to stand unanswered.

Freedom and Consequences

I've been thinking a lot about freedom, responsibility, and consequences recently. I recall a time in high school that a teacher in my high school jokingly said to me, "Come on, kid, you don't have a choice" as I dragged myself into my first class of the morning. Now, the first thing to understand is that I am never at my best in the morning. Even as a student athlete when I would swim a morning practice, shower off, and run to homeroom before school began, there was no guarantee that I would be awake even after a few thousand meter swim. But, sleepy as I was, this woke me up. I stopped, looked into his face, and replied, "Oh yes, I do have a choice. I just have to face the consequences of whatever choice I make."

And ultimately, freedom entails the freedom to accept that one's actions have consequences. My decision to learn the banjo has meant spending money and time that could have been spent, I suppose, in another way. But it also means that I can play "Skip to My Lou" on the banjo. My decision to keep up a blog has opened opportunities for me to meet all kinds of neat people and to improve my writing.

And sometimes other people make decisions that have far-reaching consequences. Years ago, Mr. Bush made a decision that is still having consequences for my family, but Mr. Bush was not the only person to make decisions regarding the violence of war. Each member of Congress, each voter in this country made decisions that are still reverbrating today. The current Congress recently passed a bill to continue funding the current war, but to place limits on that funding, and Mr. Bush says that he will choose to veto that bill.

Perhaps Mr. Bush believes that his decisions will no longer have personal consequences because he will not be standing for election at the end of this term, and because he does not have anyone close to him who stands to face the consequences of his decision. But he is wrong. Each of us makes decisions every day and those decision help to make us who we are. I would urge Mr. Bush to bear in mind that even at this late date, the gates of repentence stand open and it is possible to avert some of the consequences of earlier decisions.

Where are the victory gardens?

This morning, as I got ready for work, I heard a commercial on the radio that still has me upset. It features two characters, a child and a "mommy". The mother character was speaking in that voice that adults use when they want to patronizingly instruct children. That voice has long been one of my pet peeves. (Apparantly at least from the age of 3 when I informed my mom that I didn't want to watch television because "they talk down to me.") In any event, the discussion revolves around which suburban development they should move into, with the child declaring "We should move into X, Mommy, because everything is included in one price there." and the "mommy" approvingly replying, "You're going to be such a good shopper one day!"

Aside from the problem of this pricing structure encouraging monster houses because essentially, everyone pays for the biggest house they build, so you might as well get all the "options", since you're paying for them anyway, I am appalled by the implication that the job of adults is to raise the next generation of consumers.

Let us presume that most people have never watched An Inconvenient Truth, as I confess I have not. Let us further acknowlege that our "leadership" has done its level best to insulate Americans from the consequences of our choices. The cost of war has been put on credit, and the bodies for that war have come from a minority of American families. Further, while complaining about the cost of public transit and energy research, our love affair with petroleum has been subsidized heavily.

Even so, I want to know where the victory gardens are. Where is the encouragement for average Americans to reduce our dependent relationship with oil producing countries by reducing our reliance on oil? One reduction could easily come from encouraging families to consider growing some of our own food. This does not require that we all move to the midwest and set up full farms, but how hard would it be to encourage folks to, say, grow a mint border next to the walk up to the porch, or allow apartment residents to have small container gardens on the roof, or a community garden on public land? Mesclun mix makes a gorgeous decorative element, and throwing some garlic in with it makes for some height and visual interest. Plus, you can pick your salad for dinner while thinning out the border.

I am reminded also of the crisis that has been going on for the last 15 years with bee hives all over the country. In the area where I live, beekeeping has been frequently NIMBYed, not just in the nearer-in suburbs, but in those which have taken over farmland for the monster houses mentioned above. (Do families really need over 1,000 square feet per person of enclosed space?) I am, however, seriously enjoying vicariously reading about the beekeeping endeavors of an author whose works I very much enjoy.

I believe true leadership right now would be asking for change. We would be encouraging people to conserve energy, consolidate trips, carpool, grow food or buy local, bring their own shopping bags (paper or plastic? How about canvas?), etc.

Hey, George, don't you know there's a war on?

Folks, go check out Seeking Chivalry. Today, she has a post on the meaning of a surcoat - the garment that went over a knight's armor, and the significance that this can have for us today. There's a lot there about comfort, and about reaching beyond our comfort levels to do what is right. It's well worth reading.

Yesterday, as I walked from work to the train station, it was cold. My poor legs were stiff from it by the time I got to the station, and my hands were cold, cold cold by the time I got to the restaurant for dinner after walking from the station close to my neighborhood. Brrrr. And yet... As I walked, I enjoyed the return of the sunshine. Even a couple weeks ago, I'd have been walking in darkness, but yesterday, the sun was clear, if not enough to melt the little dots of snow that occasionally dropped from the scattered clouds in the sky. And since I was alone on the sidewalk, I sang. It was good, a moment of brightness and joy in what has come to feel like a time of darkness and tears.

To anyone who wants to say that those of us who oppose the war are giving in too easily, I want to know what *you've* actually faced, what you've actually done. Will you sit with a returning soldier, searching for the remnants of the person you once knew? Will you call up a spouse and invite them to just talk? Will you stay up at night, praying with your whole being for the wellbeing of the soldiers? Will you cry? I have.

My granny recently wrote me a note about how we at home are doing our best to carry on, worrying and feeling the pain of this deployment, yet trying to help each other as best we can. When I read that note, I cried. Not little tears that slip down the face silently, but sobs, wracking my whole body as I fought for breath, until there was nothing left in me to cry. And that's something that won't go into my letter to Dad. I'll tell him about the snow, and the singing, and the hoping he's okay, but not the crying. He's got a heavy enough burden on his shoulders.

At no point have I believed our soldiers lacked courage or the willingness to make sacrifices. They do that every day. Nor do I believe the American people as a whole lack courage. I happen to think we also have that famous Yankee levelheadedness coming back, which is causing us to ask why we've bought a pig in a poke, and what we intend to do about it now that it's turned out to be a mess of skunks in that bag. And boy, are they spraying.

It's time and more than time to turn our ingenuity, courage, and hearts to the task of cleaning up. And this one will take more than a bath in tomato juice. (For those who don't know, tomato juice is a traditional remedy to skunk spray.)

Still sick

So I've got some cranberry rose spice herbal tea in the pot, and my hands wrapped around a steaming mug when I'm not typing. And there are animal crackers, too.

Off and on, I've crocheted on the blanket, and now, it's even big enough to cover my lap as I work on edging more squares. It seems every day I hear from someone else who has finished a square. When my mother-in-law heard about the project, she offered to work one. I have some on their way from Colorado, and one being made in Kentucky.

And I think about the place that this project touches. We have the booklets from the world wars, and the civil war, and so on that tell us "Our Boys Need Socks!" along with a knitting pattern. We have the description at the start of Little Women of four sisters sitting together and talking about the simpler Christmas they will celebrate while their father is at war. We have civil defense pamphets on every subject under the sun. And now, we have a war, a terrible war that has left thousands of American families to mourn, and Iraq in tattered ruins. And still very few Americans have been asked to sacrifice. Buy War Bonds? Nope. Put this war on plastic, thanks all the same. Grow Victory Gardens? Nah, that'd interfere with Archer Daniels Midland's profit margins. If you drive alone, you drive with the Enemy? Nope. Pull your Hummer out of the driveway and drive alone wherever you want. We'll drill more. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle? Nope.

So when the opportunity to do something, anything comes along, people have jumped at it. And most of these people have objected strenuously and loudly to the war from the start.

By their fruits shall you know them

Whether or not this phrase was ever spoken by a radical rabbi from Nazareth during the Roman occupation of his land, it's good advice. You don't go to one kind of tree expecting another kind of fruit. Pokeberries and blackcurrants may superficially resemble each other, but one makes a tasty jam and the other is a poisonous dyestuff. I don't go to pokeweed expecting to harvest blackcurrents, and somehow, with all the blackcurrant stuff I've eaten, I've escaped pokeweed poisoning.

So many people today claim to speak for God, and they claim to do so under so many different names. Jesus, Allah, HaShem, etc. Each claims that they are the only legitimate voice, and yet... what has been the fruit? Violence, hatred, murder, rape, war, rockets, spying, lack of liberty, hunger, privation, fear. Sorrow, oh sorrow. Concentration of wealth in the hands of a very few while the vast majority taste lack. Grief, anger, violence...

This doesn't taste like blackcurrant wine to me.

When a person claims to speak for God while calling for murder and violence, you know you've got pokeberry sitting there, in all its shiny purple glory. When a person claims to speak for God while calling up hatred, reflect on the beauty of poisonous fruit.

Blackcurrant isn't always the easiest fruit to eat - it can be astringent and mouth-puckering. It's much harder to harvest than pokeberry, which grows in abundence and lifts its unprotected berries up to the first incautious hand. But it is nutritious - lots of vitamins, and plenty of goodness. I think it's time to tend the blackcurrants, lest they be choked out.

Father's day

Sunday is Father's day, and I just sent him the card I made: a pop-up airplane with a spin-able prop. We used to fly small craft together when I was in 2nd grade, and he gave me for my 18th birthday my first actual lesson in piloting, where I got to do the takeoff and landing with a licensed instructor. In fact, the wind was higher that day than the instructor usually would have permitted a total newbie to go up in, but since I'd been flying so many years, I was just fine. I think he'll like the plane.

It's wierd facing this holiday this year, knowing that later this year, he'll be going again. I got home from work to find that he'd left a message on the phone, to see if my husband and I could come out to their place next weekend. I'm going to be calling some friends to see if I can reschedule with them so that I can go out to my parents' home then. But hearing the message just set me off. I cried. While I don't want this war for *anybody*, I feel extra super selfish - I want *my dad* to stay here.

I want a sign to hang in the air over his head: this is a nice guy, really, a doctor. He works to get healthcare for people who can't afford it easily. If only there weren't this stupid war, he'd be the kind of guy to get decent services going here. Please be nice. But then, wouldn't everyone get a sign? You know, everyone's got that light to share. Which is why folks have got to stop it with the playing politics and get the world back onto the route of solving our problems with our words.

As one of my comforts, the last time Dad went, I read both of the Terry Pratchett Discworld novels dealing explicitly with war, and I still like how he ended _Jingo_. Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, puts both armies under arrest for "'Conspiracy to cause an affray,' he started to count on his fingers, 'going equipped to commit a crime, obstruction, threatening behavior, loitering with intent, loitering within tent, hah, travelling and carrying concealed weapons.'" and the whole mess is then solved when the city's leader steps in to carry on with diplomacy. That's what I love so much about the books - what solves things in the end is people talking to each other. (In fact, the author has said that he hopes that people might come to believe that we might actually solve our problems with words.)

And to all the macho posturers crying "cut and run" to any suggestion that perhaps we might put down our guns, I say, no. We helped to break it. We are now responsible for cleaning up our act and helping the people of Iraq. That doesn't mean shooting them. It means improving lives - with things like access to healthcare, roads, bridges, etc. It means asking folks with practical on-the-ground experience of peacework how to set about trying to rebuild. It means getting Haliburton the heck out out of there, and looking at actually *helping* people to rebuild their own lives, so they are invested in it and feel that they have some power in their own life, rather than whatever influence the US wants to visit next on them. It means walking humbly and saying we're sorry.

And yes, I'd even let my dad go.