The Racism/Patriarchy Connection And How We Work To Address Them Both

Until we face it, we can’t heal it.

Maybe it takes two months of restless confinement across a country beset by the stress of a pandemic and the manhandling of a delusional President before the national news headlines finally pay consistent attention. White violence against black people in America is, of course, nothing new. It was woven into the conditions of our country’s birth and lives in us, today, un-reconciled, as our worst legacy. The protests aren’t new, either, but the recent attention in the media, and especially, albeit incrementally, from more white Americans and American businesses might be seen as a bronze lining, at least, rising out of some of the direst months on recent record in American history.

But even amidst the promise that something positive might surface from the heart-wrenching death of George Floyd, something else that’s central to what is happening is not being talked about. Something so obvious, so visible, yet so internalized in most of us that we don’t even think to mention it: that is, that the violence enacted by police officers against black Americans is exclusively perpetrated by white men.

Like racism, which lives in our culture in insidious ways that evade mention, the kind of masculinity that feeds violence against black Americans pivots on a need to dominate and assert superiority in order to protect the underlying, fragility of patriarchal self-esteem. This factor contributing to the violence we are witnessing in America remains largely unconscious and absent from public dialogue.

We talk about violence as a human issue, but, if you look at who perpetrates most violence, all humans are far from equally prone to enact it. In the aftermath of these tragedies, networks stream talk about gun restrictions, the second amendment, Trump supporters debate Democrats on where blame lies for the violence on the front lines of policing; if we are lucky, we hear mention of mental illness, but what is consistently missing in all this framing is that the violence, itself, is bound up with something equally central and visible that’s calling for our attention.

To be clear, what follows is not an anti-male screed polarizing the moral superiority of women against men’s barbaric inferiority. For one, white privilege does not discriminate between white men and women, it infects us all equally. By virtue of growing up white, white women, like me, are raised with the million and one privileges of being white I have the privilege and luxury of taking for granted every daily. Racism is not a white man’s issue, but violent acts with racist overtones may be.

In pointing to men as the violent perpetrators here, I want to be clear that I’m also not claiming women are superior to men because the humbling reality of life and death on this planet is there is no superiority that any of us can claim over one-other. We are all equally, and imperfectly, human. So, in highlighting the role of white men in violence against black Americans, any assumptions here that what I have to say is no more than an anti-male screed would reflect the kind of defensive, insecure reaction white people have when we are told we are racist. If you are a man, or a woman bristling against ‘another feminist rant,’ then reading on now means you are willing to open your mind and heart to be part of the solution.

While white women with white privilege and racist templates, like me, are also police officers, it is the male police officers whose racist indignation and white privilege have crossed the line into violence, yet this is the issue that in reporting on this violence is never directly addressed. It is white men who dominate black men, their knees on their necks, seeking to express their so-called “power” over them. It is also these men, or, rather, sadly, boys, not women or girls, who have been wielding assault rifles on schoolyards and at community gatherings gunning down children in record numbers in the last four years. To be sure, not all men are violent, and yet somehow something we seem to be blind to is allowing us to avoid the reality that almost all the violent perpetrators reported in the news of late are men. Why is no one pointing this out? Why is no one asking what is really going on in men’s lives that’s pushing them, and not other men, in the direction of racist violence?

As a culture, we remain largely asleep to how norms of patriarchal masculinity promote the corruption of men and provide the seedbed for racism and violence.

That said, I am writing a screed against our widespread, unconscious, default, “boys will be boys, blame it on the testosterone, violence is just something that shows up in some errant men’s nature” perception of masculinity. This default is so effectively internalized in us — as men and women, of almost all races, genders, and backgrounds in our patriarchal culture — that even after over a hundred years of feminism, and centuries of white-male on black violence, and after four years of record level, senseless, homicidal assault in our headlines, we continue to debate these issues without mention of the ever-predictable sex of the perpetrators.

Why don’t we ask why? Perhaps we don’t take note of the glaring fact that it is always men precisely because we are steeped in a patriarchal culture that normalizes the violent behavior of men, that views it as a reality we must resign ourselves to, that fears the self-reflection that will be forced by such a question, that feels too helpless or too apathetic to change, as is, so often the case with white people and racism. But that resignation, that normalization, is precisely what obscures awareness of the problem, closing out the conscious and creative space for an alternative.

The Gender Revolution And How We Are Still Raising Patriarchal Boys

What do I mean by an alternative? To suggest an alternative to our unconscious defaults around masculinity is to come from a perspective that sees and lives beyond the gender binary, one that has been informed by the movements of courageous groups and individuals that have challenged patriarchal norms, now, for decades. These challenges started over a hundred years ago with the first wave of feminism and have proliferated, with ever greater momentum, in the subsequent unfoldings of gender-queer activism. They were born out of the damage done by a patriarchal culture that, depending on one’s genitals at birth, assigns us to two boxes of mutually exclusive, idealized behavior. Those boxes, and the social norms and shaming that perpetuate them, cut us off, once assigned, from swaths of human potential assigned to the opposite box. This conditioning happens at a great cost, far greater than we realize— for us all.

In a remarkably short time, our era’s post-patriarchal movements have had monumental success in supporting more people in claiming more of themselves and their humanity without shame. They have required courage, compassion, empathy, and no small amount of creativity. However, one area of gender identity that remains starkly untouched by this revolution is the (cis) gendered, heterosexual masculinity that continues to condition most boys. Relatively unchanged is the “man-box” that propagates a self-reliant, tough-man, uncommunicative standard of masculinity, harshly policed by societal shame.

Before another conclusion is drawn, here, that I’m heading towards a bid for the compassionate, condoning of white racist violence, I’m not. What I am suggesting, however, is that if we don’t look more closely at (white) men’s conditioning as a root problem of violence, we won’t succeed in our efforts to work our way out of this truly, horrible mess.

Men Aren’t Bad

It isn’t hard to find ourselves thinking that if the vast majority of violent perpetrators are men, male violence is really about something that just happens with the testosterone thing, right? Aren’t men just more prone to it? It comes with the territory, no? With the long, evolutionary arc of men learning how to stalk down mountain lions. It will always be with us, it’s just the way God designed it. Or, maybe it’s just those few, errant bad men, but not the rest of us. Really, Donald Trump is most to blame for fueling racist rhetoric, setting off already trigger-happy racists.

The trouble with all these perspectives is not so much that they are wrong, but that they all allow us to sidestep a closer look at men and the causes of violence. They all allow us to shirk questions and responsibly as a society for how our culture trains many men through patriarchal masculinity into becoming ticking time bombs, highly susceptible to these, and other influences.

And if that masculine conditioning does play a role, how can we progressives who are advocates of feminism, LGBTQ rights, and living beyond the gender binary continue remaining quiet about the lynch-pin masculinity that holds the whole patriarchal machinery together with such tragic cost?

Men become violent, maliciously violent, when raised in a family or culture that glorifies or hails certain attributes with manliness, hailing them at the expense of a boy’s access to his humanity. When self-reliance, dominance, authority, winning, power, superiority, control, physical invulnerability, and the denial of our all-too-human emotional and physical needs are disciplined into a child — especially when discipline with the use of force and public shaming — a dangerous and volatile machine is built. It is not just the ascription of value to these fixed attributes and to men/boys, but the hiving off of others attributes of human experience that has such traumatic impact. Human qualities including emotions, (other than anger), our inherent inter-dependence, the intrinsic value of our bodies, hearts, partnership, care, need and vulnerability, are all associated in the patriarchal gender binary with women and, tragically, also, with un-manliness. That is where the damage happens.

When boys are raised — as was our President — to believe they should be all-man and, come hell or high water, disavow anything “feminine” in themselves, they learn that to have any worth at all they must disown much of their daily experience.

This learning happens in micro-events overtime where tears are blocked by shame, arms learn not to reach out for help, bodies tighten into impenetrable toughness, and islands of withdrawn silence get created, holing men away, increasingly out of touch, even with themselves.

Yet while it is easier to see something wrong with our President’s braggadocious masculinity, or with men’s violence in news headlines, when we write this kind of behavior off as the action of errant men, we create what in family therapy is referred to as an ‘identified patient’. We isolate out in one individual a problem that is systemic, and that, on some level, touches the lives of all men. In this way, with patriarchal masculinity, all boys and men are taught they should not have feelings, their bodies should not have any non-sexual needs, and they must never, ever, should never let their self-doubt and vulnerability show.

Especially in highly alpha-patriarchal-male cultural contexts, this arrangement primes the pump for men to project the “un-manly” parts of their all too human experience out onto what then gets deemed as lesser “others.” Hiving off and ejecting parts of their experience creates not only an unstable, disembodied, unconnected, less than human, man. That man is then constantly under threat from his own experience or feels under threat from the “other” he projected it onto. Brittle and prone to cracking, men raised to assume this kind of manhood will avoid the threat of un-manliness and the shame that goes with it at any cost. Patriarchally Conditioned Men + Shame/Humiliation = Violence. We see it in male perpetrators of domestic violence as we do in violence against Black Americans. Verbally, of course, this violence takes the form of bullying and abuse. Physically, it takes the form of … putting a knee on the neck of a defenseless black man.

Until he suffocates.

[pause.

grief.

breath.

…]

The Inhumanity of Patriarchal Masculinity

These are some of the very feelings – grief, sadness, helplessness, overwhelm, wanting, despair, that many of us are feeling in America today, that patriarchal men are taught to disavow in order to secure their self-worth. When the stress arising from their own losses and failures rises up in these men’s lives, they feel they have nowhere to go other than emasculation, a total loss of self-worth. Instead, they turn to the reactivity that appears to help them avoid these experiences. In the assertion of physical strength or verbal violence, they are resurrecting the sought-after superiority of “real manhood.”

For black men who have carried the brunt (along with black women) of the projections of so much of what white men and women can’t tolerate in themselves, the problems forged by patriarchal masculinity are even more insidious. This is especially the case since violence against white men carries far greater risk for black men than the reverse risk for white men. Black men are carrying a disproportionate amount of our societal stress and trauma, often making black on black male violence a heart-rending consequence of the crushing burden of both racism and patriarchy experienced by black men.

But because the levers of cultural power still rest in the hands of white people, much of the harm perpetuated in patriarchy is leveraged from that source. When a white, patriarchally-conditioned man feels self-contempt for not living up to the tough, strong, masculine bar set for him, the consequences for others are greater. This, of course, is the situation our country has been in under Trump’s presidency.

It’s no coincidence that Trump is both a racist and the poster-child (yes, he’s largely a child in a man’s body) of narcissistic patriarchal masculinity. Trump likely lost access to his own humanity in the first five years of his life.

Raised by a father, (and later, with violence, in a military academy), who taught him through word and deed never to fail and never to show a lick of vulnerability, and by a mother who taught him he could do no wrong, Trump is the template of the kind of white man preoccupied, incessantly, with projecting out his all-too-human vulnerabilities, identifying “failure” and “weakness” in others. For the righteous, white man to live supreme, then, for him to remain “a man,” someone, either women, immigrants, Democrats, journalists or black and brown people must be forged into the inferior “other” they can dominate. In this way, the patriarchal white man’s own self-hatred gets projected out in his effort to preserve an image of himself as “good” or “righteous,” “a man” worthy of his own existence. Caught between hatred of others and hatred of himself, he is a wrecking ball and it is that kind of masculinity, especially in the White House, that is quite a price of “real manhood” that all of us pay.

Patriarchal Racism

Enter racism, or at least, as I see it, patriarchal masculinity as one of its key tributaries. What better way to reassert superiority than to craft a group of people into the shape of badness, criminality, and inferiority, to reduce them to unintelligent, diminished ‘bodies’ marked with color so that goodness, righteousness, superiority, intelligence and the power to mark others can be self-secured. And, yes, add hormones, pre-existing templates of racism, and stress to the cultural shame and humiliation a man might feel and this cultural conditioning acts like the gasoline on a pre-existing fire.

And it is this gasoline, this easily flammable substance in our midst, that no so few are talking about, the invisible, toxic substrate of patriarchal, so-called “real” masculinity that continues to shape the lives of too many boys and which we still, all too often, take for granted as a given in, and for, men. It is the single greatest factor driving the dominating imperative in Trump’s behavior, seen by many yet rarely mentioned on news panels, (along with his pathological narcissism). This highly volatile substance with such high cultural cost remains sidelined to the discussions of aging feminist academics, rarely addressed in public discourse. We wring our hands about the violence, hoping for legislation or the courts to address it, wondering why it has become so bad… and we overlook what is right in front of us.

To address the continual hurt of racist violence against black people in this country, then, I am arguing that we must address patriarchal standards of masculinity. Conversely, we also can’t champion a world beyond the gender binary and leave this territory of patriarchal masculinity un-touched. And, again, this in not about pity and a forgiving coddling of the white men who perpetrate violence. It is about exposing something that keeps these men in a cage they don’t know how to get out of because our culture, through its very definition of masculinity, throws away the key.

Racism Needs Attention On Its Own Terms

To be clear, in pointing the finger at patriarchal masculinity, I’m not saying it trumps our concerns about racism. Nor am I saying that if we address patriarchal masculinity, it would naturally solve our nation’s racism problem. White privilege and racism make up a twisted, cultural knot weaving ‘white’ and ‘black’ people together in a dysfunctional, inter-dependent, traumatically informed matrix that needs to be recognized and dismantled on its own terms, with all the feeling and healing that involves. For our country to heal its foundational racism, we need to address racism in its blatant and the more insidious forms. All of us who care about this need to risks ways of declaring “THIS MUST STOP!” and we must keep declaring it, as we never have before. We also need to step back and support those we, as white people, have failed to listen to, those we have silenced, or responded to defensively when WE have been asked to stop. We must find ways to tolerate our own shame and refuse to forget that this country’s security, health, integrity, and wellbeing will always be in question if the trauma that separates us from one another in racism is not addressed. If we do not make changes, not simply in our laws and institutions and where we invest our money, but also in our white obliviousness, there will be no change. And yet, I am suggesting here that even this work will only be partial in helping to loosen the grip of inequity, racism, and white on black violence, if we do not also address the root role played by patriarchal masculinity.

Women Aren’t Any More ‘Good’ Than Men

So, as the intersectionalists well know, the situation is complex. I’m not saying it all boils down to racism or to patriarchy, and importantly, I’m also not saying men are more prone to racism or even patriarchy than women. Women, too, can do plenty of harm and white women are hardly immune from racist and sexist cultural conditioning. As white people, after all, whether male or female, we grow up enjoying the spoils of white privilege, spoils greater still for economically privileged white women. Spoils that hinge on, and perpetuate racism. But also, as women, the vast majority of us internalize many troubling patriarchal, cultural norms. We are raised into a distorted dependency on men, men whom we then protect and protect ourselves from, subtly validating the patriarchal myth of masculine, self-reliant strength and invulnerability.

Women who internalize patriarchy enable patriarchy’s “man-box”, often cowing to their sense of privilege, fragility and superiority, too often, also, enabling their emotional arrest.

For many of us, trying to protect men’s self-esteem in some unconscious is the equivalent of protecting ourselves. Plenty of patriarchally-conditioned women, then, weave ourselves into the racist-patriarchal knot alongside our men — an insidious, complex, and troubling reality we must begin by facing squarely.

Much of What Is Now On Offer For Change Won’t Work

In short, we cannot address the issues of violence, and racist violence, without addressing the cultural norms for masculinity that create the need to dominate. Towards this end, ironically, we may need to turn towards the impact of those masculine norms with some spirit, or will, to understand them, yes, empathically, but, at the same time, not for the purpose of dismissing accountability.

Beyond blame and shame as a culture, we need to understand more about patriarchal masculinity so we can work to create alternative paths that allow more men to be more human, less volatile, less dependent on making someone else bad, less prone to preserve for themselves an unrealizable category of “manhood.”

Men need to do this work themselves, yes, but those who want it to happen need to believe in it and support it where it exists. And for those who may erroneously think that dismantling patriarchal masculinity is about ‘turning men into women’ or feminizing them, it is not. It is about having a vision for our culture and society for a more robust, purposeful masculinity that provides more opportunities for (cis)men to develop into confident, generous humans in ways that help them love and respect more — and hurt less.

David Tacey, a New Zealander academic and lecturer who has reflected deeply on the journey of forging a post-patriarchal masculinity writes in his book Remaking Men: “We live in a complex time where we (men) have to come to terms with the paradox of men’s power and men’s pain. The ability to sustain this paradox, (the ability for men to be able to become conscious of) the tension between their power and pain, is what constitutes full psychological health in a post-patriarchal world.” Towards this end, I would argue that most of the current solutions our culture holds up in response to racial violence and violence against women, are, in fact, not going to provide an adequate solution:

  • The defensive, conservative ‘solution’ that makes excuses for unacceptable behavior, casting blame elsewhere, sidestepping accountability for racism and racist violence — sidesteps the misuse of power. It clearly does not solve the problem because it fails to acknowledge it.
  • Inversely, the hope that criminal justice and the incarceration of men (white or black), blaming or shaming, will teach them a lesson and solve the problem, is also misguided. Incarceration may be a necessary consequence, but a violent or shaming response to violence only tightens the levers for men, hiving off their pain in ways that promote the violence or self-hatred in the first place.

While real-life consequences for criminal, racist activity are essential, then, they do not solve the problem; they just put it behind bars. And in terms of other punitive solutions like firing people from their jobs or publically vilifying them or calling them racist, this will also not solve the problem. It may name something, declare it appropriately unacceptable in public view, “outing” what has for too long been hidden, but it will fail to be generative without including some viable path in the aftermath for (un)learning, healing and reconciliation.

How We Can Promote Change

Foregrounding Alternatives — Raising Boys Differently — Challenging Norms — Recognizing Role Models

There are ways our culture at large can mobilize the kind of change we need to make fundamental shifts in addressing racial and sexual violence. All of these initiatives, however, require that we first directly name and acknowledge the patriarchy problem — just as we need to acknowledge more thoroughly the racism that exists ubiquitously in our white privilege.

We need the courage and strength of heart to hold in mind that it is not the person, but what that person has been taught, that is killing us, that the crime lies in how they have been tragically led to believe their value depends on defending an ill-construed, shame induced, fragile identity at any cost.

It will then take great courage and stamina, insistance, resilience and creativity, strong faith and conviction, and a huge national push, to start the hard work of acknowledging and dismantling a worldview that lives insidiously in us and that has caused such great distortions around who we are, and can be, as humans for hundreds of thousands of years.

It is no small task, but the good news is that this work is already well on its way. It is our time in human history for it to happen and we not only have momentum, but we are increasingly being shown we have no choice. Towards that end, our actions to address the patriarchy-racism complex might focus on the following:

  1. Challenging norms of patriarchal masculinity with the same dedication that feminist and the LGBTQI movements have brought to those same problematic norms for women and nonbinary persons. We need the kind of cultural challenge — the discussion, debates and activism— that creates space for alternative ways of being a (cis) gendered man, alternatives that allow for more authentically confident, engaged, compassionate, empathic and collaborative men who are able to listen and act with wisdom, maturity, thoughtfulness and a sense of their own goodness as leaders and partners. Similarly, we need to recognize the utter insufficiency of only one masculinity studies graduate program in the United States. Support for the transformation of patriarchal masculinity needs research on where it is and is not happening, and public attention, where it is. Finally, in the media, that means continuing to report on male violence recognizing that it is just that, male violence. We must not erase the masculinity problem in the same ways that both blatant and subtle racism are ignored, dismissed and rendered invisible in our public dialogue.
  2. Beyond incarcerating, we need to create real, inner change and understanding in people who commit racist (and sexist) crimes. We need a movement that seeks to require perpetrators as part of their sentence to engage in sustained, experiential learning about racism and its history. White perpetrators should be required to work with other white people to unpack their white privilege, learning to listen to, and witness, the feelings and words of people of color. They need to be able to see what the alternative looks like. If white perpetrators undergo this training and find themselves willing to become teachers and leaders, themselves, their sentence could be reduced and, on parole, they could serve as role models, receiving supported in taking what they have learned out into community-based education.
  3. Building awareness in men of the human cost of patriarchal masculinity. Educating white perpetrating men about racism, will likely not work — as I have been arguing in this article — unless male perpetrators are supported in learning about the history of patriarchal oppression, most specifically about the ways they have been raised in the straightjacket of patriarchal masculinity. This is not just head-centered learning — it is experiential, it is inter-personal, it is a process and one that, surprisingly, when men are given a safe container to engage, they are much relieved to enter. (See Peggy Orenstein’s latest book, Boys and Sex.) Unpacking the lynch pin of patriarchal masculinity ultimately allows men to have feelings without being told they are weak, it opens the door for empathy, allowing them to recognize their needs and begin to take responsibility for the hurt and scared younger parts of them. Only when that healing journey begins can a man emerge who can take responsibility for the harm he has done, or the harm done in his name. Only the birthing of empathy for their own and, by extension, another’s full humanity, will the tension be occupied between “power and pain,” the heart of a racist perpetrator opened, waking up the will to change.
  4. On a preventative level, we need more initiatives that support the development of healthier masculinity.
  • As a society, we need to foreground a discussion about the way we raise and educate boys. Educational practices that are well underway in many schools today exposing stereotypes of women, LGBTQI’s and people of various racial and ethnic backgrounds should include stereotypes of masculinity. Cis-gendered, white boys need to know there is an alternative, healthier, more robust, resilient, socially engaged and compassionate self-esteem they can experience as boys. More parents of sons need to educate themselves about gender stereotypes, finding ways to themselves not shame and perpetuate the ‘man-box.’ We need to find ways to provide more boys with opportunities that expose them to healthier role modes, rites of passage and healthy mentoring and guidance around their sexuality, their relationship to the natural world, and their physical strength and anger. These cultural forms would allow them to develop a sense of purpose, value and self-responsibility providing a more authentic sense of pride, compassion and access to the fuller range of their human experience.
  • Progressives and LGBTQI/feminist movements must risk an affirmative stand on what we need for partnership with (cis)men. Feminism cannot afford to polarize negatively against men but must start engaging in a positive, collaborative vision for a post-patriarchal masculinity. We who want change must see beyond our anger and use our leadership and newfound power to articulate a vision for what we, affirmatively want, and need. Furthermore, the judgment that cultural initiatives supporting the healthier development of (cis)gendered boys simply promote more heteronormative, boy-scoutish or conservative reifications of the gender binary is short-sighted. The LGBTQI/feminist movements will ultimately suffer from vilifying cis-gendered, heterosexual men without earnestly asking themselves what a healthier, acceptable alternative would look like in those boys and men who gravitate towards that end of the gender/sexuality spectrum. That means making the distinction between men who harm and men who help, men who perpetuate a culture of violence and men who create support, recognition and partnership. It means thinking, constructively, about the health of men, for the purpose of supporting the health of us all. What role do feminists play in partnering with pro-feminist, post-patriarchal men to support better initiatives for boys? Healthy, cultural spaces and opportunities for self-identified (cis)boys to learn how to become better men, after all, support us all.
  • We need to support existing avenues, like the Mankind Project, Gender Equity and Reconciliation International, the Good Men Project, Voice Male Magazine where men are already working on their own post-patriarchal transformation. We need to recognize existing pro-feminist male leaders who have been on their own post-patriarchal growth trajectory. The work of Terry Real is one such example, or of groups like COR, and others, that provide rites of passage experiences for men in their growth towards a more authentic masculinity? There is good work underway, but as a culture, we do not tend to look in its direction.
  • Ironically, it means giving some men more of a voice. Sixty years into feminism, there are more men coming forward who have deepened into a broader understanding of themselves and the legacy of patriarchy. There are more men learning what it is to be in collaborative partnerships with women. We, as feminists, need to recognize that our need as women to foreground our own voices can inadvertently silence these men and their stories. Frequently feeling it is their job now to step back to enable women’s leadership, they do not speak. It is important for women to have space for leadership, yes, but we need to support these men in sharing their stories, men who can speak out courageously against their shame, reaching out this way to other men so the whole mechanism can move. For change to happen, these men need our recognition, our partnership, because we need theirs.
  • Finally, women need to do more of our own work seeing how we get embroiled in patriarchal masculinity in ourselves and in our relationships with the men in our lives in the same subtle ways white privilege embroils us white women in racism. This is complex, deep work, often unraveled as women reconnect with their power through healing their own patriarchal wounds. But, this is work, with all our years of feminism, that we have still not adequately tackled. Our complicity with patriarchy leads us to first place a burden on men by expecting the patriarchal ideal from them, then it often leads us to engage in the emotional labor for men that arrests their growth and maturity. Our mothers learned this from their mothers, and they taught it to us. A multi-generational legacy exists in us that will take attention and focus and healing to change. When we play a role in our families and intimate relationships as men’s exclusive emotional caretakers, mothering them as we are often taught to do, we discourage them from taking the initiative to address their wounds themselves; we short-circuiting their own journey of growth. They will not take the risk to get help from supportive peer-groups or a therapist to find the way own way out of the man-box. For this, they need, themselves, to search for the key our culture stole from them.

Tacey writes in Remaking Men that “before we remake masculinity, we must unmake it, and understand why it has to fall apart.” I have suggested that part of that understanding has to do with the terrible price we pay as a culture for a model of manhood that is killing us, which is entwined with racism and taking black lives. “In our remaking efforts,” Tacey continues, “we (men) must become self-critical and be careful to distinguish between new and old masculinities, to differentiate the new self-esteem from the old masculinist arrogance, to separate the new happiness from the old complacency, and to tell the difference between human rights and patriarchal privileges.”(Remaking Men) For white men, of course, the charge Tacey lays out is even more essential.

If we want to hope that the wheel of history will turn in these turbulent times in the direction, not of devolution, but of evolution, we will need to acknowledge that a primary cause for the current hurts, heartaches, disruptions and corruptions in our culture, including in the lives of our men, requires facing the way we raise boys and continue to reify patriarchal masculinity. While more headlines and hearts need to tend to the deep wounds of racism in our country, it is also time to raise the bar for men, to believe in, and recognize, alternatives to a failing masculinity, and to call for a more conscious and self-responsible path moving forward.

Pandemic Diary: Easter Sunday

Mourning is love with nowhere to go (…but everywhere).

It has been less than twenty-four hours since we buried our dog. It is Easter Sunday. I am sitting in our bedroom with the windows and doors open, listening to a channel of chamber music I found on iTunes. I find myself in the chancel of a European cathedral where the echo of a heavenly choir coils around buttresses on its way up to the filtered, multi-colored light. I am grateful for the time to reflect. On death. And rebirth.

Lulu, our dog, was really only part dog. The rest of her was gazelle, I think, and perhaps another part was bird. For seventeen years she was integral to our life here in Boonville, the location of our retreat center in Northern California where my husband and I and our two sons are sheltering in place during the Caronavirus. Lulu, nicknamed “nana-lu” by our twin boys, has been with us throughout my marriage to Jon and my marriage to this land. When we walked the trails on hikes, up here, she’d cover a good four times our distance as she sailed, as if on the wind, down the hill away from the trail, disappearing for a good stretch of time then bounding up again, crossing before us, only to briefly touch down before leaping up in the opposite direction in pursuit of a real or imagined rustle of wildlife in the tall grasses.

Back at the cabin, she would settle down to focus on a patch of lawn where her snout was nuzzled in the grass tracking lizards or launching into gopher holes in diligent pursuit. In all those years, I don’t think she ever caught a lizard or gopher, but I also don’t think she was in it for the killing. It was the play of the hunt she appeared to love, scanning for gopher whiskers, waiting all afternoon until ‘pop!, one came up a hair too far and she’d launch down towards the terrifying — yet, in its honesty, somehow holy — inter-species confrontation. Slipping away as the gophers always did, Lulu would rise up again to sniff at the air, then, shaking her head, snorting the soil from her nose, she’d return to focus, anew, in pursuit.

When she wasn’t leaping through the hills or hunting gophers, there were also the times when she simply sat facing the view in front of our cabin, looking out at we-never-knew-what. As the wind flicked her ears back, she scanned pointlessly yet somehow, also, purposefully, watching for all the kinds of things we humans forget, or have lost the ability, to see in a landscape. Watching her, on these occasions, she was teaching us how to see again.

Lulu didn’t ever worry if she was good enough at being the dog she was. She never got concerned that people would resent her for being so agile, graceful, and talented as she leapt with instinctual abandon through the hills. She didn’t second guess if she jumped well enough, if she was being too lazy looking out towards the view, and never worried she would be teased or thought stupid for her fruitless efforts hunting gophers. She did the best job possible, at one thing, alone: Being herself.

An alert young dog stands in dry grass agaisnt a backdrop of forested hills.
Young Lulu in Boonville

Being herself also meant being the perfect mutt: a gorgeously generic caramel colored dog. I wonder if it was freedom in her DNA from all the breeding that accounted for her old age, because seventeen is a hearty number of years to live for a dog. Since we’d left our home in Berkeley and arrived in Boonville, though, it was clear that her decline was immanent and in these last few weeks, while she still had an appetite and enough alertness to let us know when she needed to get outside, her legs had started going out, one by one. As of Thursday, only one front left leg had any reliability holding her up, the back two collapsing with uncertain regularity.

I had once heard that pelicans die of blindness. The impact of their rapid, bullet like descent into the ocean throughout their lives in order to feed themselves, causes a build up of damage that compromises their ability in old age to see the fish they need to catch for survival. For Lulu it was the legs that had given her flight that brought her down. In all bodies, the clock of life ticks in only one direction, and as I wrestled with my denial around losing her, I found myself slowly accepting that Lulu’s clock was winding down in a direction I had to face.

In spite of exploring alternatives, we realized when it came to having a plan that we would have to drive Lulu to the vet in Ukiah to put her down. Lulu had always hated driving in cars. We’d even begun leaving her at home in Berkeley when we came the retreat center on weekends to avoid having her in the car. It wrangled her nerves, terribly. I’d hoped we’d never have her in a car again, that she might die on her own in the cabin. On more than one occasion, I looked over at her, sleeping in her bed, to see if her rib cage was still rising, half hoping she might have just quietly left us. But when we got the signs we were waiting for and saw her sense of helplessness as her legs collapsed beneath her, we ‘knew’, in that always unwelcome, terrible way humans know, that it’s time to use that power we have to end our pets lives.

Letting Go

With the boys in the back seat, Jon and I loaded up all the dog beds and settled Lulu in to the back of the car for what we wished might somehow be the most comfortable drive of her life. Giving her an extra dose of pain killers to calm her down, I curled up against her lying down in the back of the minivan for the ride. It seemed to work for the most part. Lulu was settled enough, for the first part of the ride, able to give me a couple of licks along the way, but, as we turned off the valley road into town where more cars sped by us and our own speed picked up, she began shaking and panting. “How much longer,” I said to Jon. “Five minutes,” he answered. “That’s good,” I said, though daunted by our purpose on arrival.

We turned the corner into the Mendocino Veteranarian Hospital parking lot and Jon pulled around to a spot in the shade. The assistant came out for the ‘pandemic, parking lot check in’ and while Jon talked to her, I took Lulu for her last walk. She was disoriented, but she settled down from the drive long enough to sniff around a bit, unsteady on her legs. I picked her back up after a while and settled her into her donut dog bed in the back of the car and after a few moments, Jon and I nodded in agreement and he called the front desk to say we were ready for the doctor to come out.

Given that our regular life was spent in Berkeley, Dr. Burns was the vet recommended to us by our ranch manager in Boonville. We had never met Dr. Burns before, but she was about to play an intimate role in our family’s history. Wearing a mask with a colorful dog pattern, she approached us, respectfully, her kind face and contactful eyes framed by soft, white hair. Walking across the parking lot with her, were the years, likely decades, of her experience of pastoral care for pets and their humans.

We went over the details of the process as we stroked Lulu’s ears and nuzzled her face with kisses. When it was time and Dr. Burns gave Lulu the first injection, it settled her muscles down very quickly, and within seconds her body had relaxed to a deep sleep. I knew it was coming, but it shocked and saddened me, nonetheless, how quickly, while still alive, she slipped into an un-responsive state. She could not register our presence any more, there was no hope she might hear our goodbyes or feel our kisses. Staying by her side, I stroked her head while Dr. Burns administered the second shot, midwifing her soul to its next frontier. Lulu expired so gently after that, it was as if she left as quietly, delicately and effortlessly as she had lived.

The moment Dr. Burns confirmed she had passed, Jon and I broke into tears. The boys who had not wanted to leave their seats, but who were turned around and kneeling looking back at us, watched as their parents sobbed. Wanting to give over the wholeness of my grief to the moment, to Lulu, to myself, without censor, I just let myself cry. It was natural enough for the boys to see this. As natural for me as Lulu’s instinct to launch into gopher holes, to fear fast driving cars, or to bound across the Boonville hills in delight. This was my heart’s instinct. To grieve.

I felt the gentle, reassuring touch of Dr. Burns hand on my shoulder. As my tears fell, I welcomed the warmth of her touch, the years of experience it carried, how it communicated all that was needed. Without turning back to thank her, I received the kindness, somehow trusting she would understand. The calm loving contact of a stranger’s touch spoke to her years of service to animals and the humans who love them. Later, when I turned around, she was gone.

Lulu’s legs now, finally resting, fell limp and supple in her bed, her body laid there, cast in the afternoon sunlight that was now reaching past the shade into the open trunk of the minivan. With my knees lowered down on the concrete parking lot, elbows resting on the dusty bumper, I prayed. No words, simply letting my clasped hands carry my love.

When we had arrived, Jon had spoken to the vet tech about a cremation, including picking out the engraving for the box and handing over our credit card to the tech who took it into the clinic, returning with the receipt to sign. But as I knelt down by Lulu’s body, sensing in for any guidance on when to have them take her away, I found myself trusting that I didn’t want her body to leave us, to leave the car and be transported by van to a freezer to an incinerary somewhere -who knows where- cold, mechanical, efficient. Between Jon and I, we had always cremated our animals in the past, never thinking of burying their bodies, but kneeling there with my hand now resting on Lulu’s still, warm body, nothing about cremation felt right.

Within minutes the next steps became clear to both of us. As we walked through the options, we saw the obviousness of it. Why had we not thought about it before? Arturo, our landscaper, had been working with his tractor at the cabin before we left that morning. We could ask him to dig a grave for Lulu. It would take him no time at all. I told Jon I’d like to drive this time, and as I pulled away from the parking lot, with the boys settled back in their seats and Lulu’s body in tow, Jon called to cancel the cremation service.

Leaving the main streets of Ukiah and making our way towards the twists and turns of Highway 253, the boys, Jon and I were quiet in the car. As the road took us deeper into the heart of the valley, I noticed I wasn’t worrying about Lulu’s car-anxiety, but in the absence of concern a certain presence took its place. I felt a strange and welcome calm settling in my body, warm, in my chest, as I slowly took each turn. It was as if the car and I were both gliding, gracefully across the hills, the way Lulu would, as if effortlessly riding the wind.

“Remember this,” I said to myself. “Remember this feeling of peace and rightness, so soft in your body, so unmistakable, so precise to the experiences you’ve had of death.” I was struck by the still, velvety black quality of it, like a sad emptiness that felt equally full with tenderness and love. I knew ‘peace’ as the word to describe this feeling, but somehow even that right word fell short of capturing it. Mourning is love with nowhere to go a friend of mine once told me. Maybe that was it. A love that was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Remember this,” I said again to myself, “this was the same way you felt when you visited your father in the funeral home after he died. How you were surprised then, as now, by how settled and full of love you were being with his body. How it wasn’t what you expected, being with death. How you felt not a lick fear when you sat with him. It’s also how you felt when grandma died. The loss and grief and the utter finality of life all somehow coalesced in a way that seemed to still time, itself, into precious oblivion. Remember this, Karin. Remember it next time death is near, and for your boys, too. It is the assurance you may be able to give to them, if given the chance, in your touch maybe, if not in words, in the days or hours before your last breath.”

As the drive continued, Jon and I remained silent, knowing, somehow, that the silence together was its own communication. As we approached the last stretch before the cabin, Jon called the gardener, Eden, who, as part of the boys’ shelter in place curruciulum had been helping them (at a healthy 6ft distance) plant a vegetable garden. She was coming over to check on the irrigation and we wanted to let her know we might be burying Lulu when she arrived. Knowing these sorts of things, as a rural gardeners often do, she suggested a 4 feet depth would be good for the grave and offered to pick up a burlap sack from the local coffee roastery on her way to the cabin.

The Burial

Within an hour, we found the place we wanted the grave, a small hill away from the cabin, perfectly situated by the view of the valley Lulu had gazed upon for so many hours, herself. Arturo had taken the backhoe there, successfully digging a four foot grave. We had the burlap sack in hand, strangely soft, warm and weighty, like a comforter for Lulu’s final bed. Jon and I walked to the min-van, each of us grabbed hold with both hands of the sides of the donut bed, wrestling to hold up Lulu’s raggedy limp body steady as we walked up towards the hill where the boys were waiting. Once at the graveside, we lowered her body to the grass, slowly maneuvering it into the sack, first her rump, then, up to her shoulders. The boys stood by, watching quietly. I lowered myself into the ditch and Jon passed her body into my arms.

As I received the weight of her, still warm, just holding her body in my arms felt sublime. I stood there, leaning up against the side of the grave, loving every last moment of contact with her finally relaxed body. The precious weight, the goodness, her shape, its distinctness. I didn’t want to let go… Slowly transitioning, however, I lowered her down to the bottom of the grave, revealing her face for the last time for all of us to see. I reached my hands down into the sack to run them over her body one last time, down to her warm tummy, the soft space under her arm pits, the velvety fur under her chin. My hands found her paws, which, in the year before her death, always nervously twitched when touched, my fingers massaged the bones. Lulu was gone, but the love in my hands poured over what remained of her.

I looked for the moment when I’d be ready to leave her down there; I was open to any sign of readiness, but it didn’t come. Are the Tibetans right to wait for days? Would it be better if we left for a while and came back in hour or two before transferring the mound of soil Arturo dug up back over her body? Perhaps there never is a perfect moment of readiness to leave the body of someone you love. Perhaps it’s absurd to think there would ever be a moment of feeling ‘ready’ for such a thing.

I covered the sack over her head and leveraged myself out of the grave, reaching for Jon’s reassuring hand to lift me up. The boys who had remained quiet and attentive throughout, were restless to return to play, this, their first full day of ‘spring break’. “Would you like to take a handful of the soil to begin the burial before you leave?” I asked. They each nodded, grabbing a fist full and sprinkling down on the lower part of the sack. Then, as they left us, Jon and I, begrudgingly at first, picked up two large shovels.

It took us the better part of two hours to move the large mound of soil first over her body then filling the grave. Half way through we thought of asking Arturo to finish the job; it would be easy enough to do so in minutes. But we couldn’t. Both of us kept at it with our 50+ year old bodies, not in the best of shape, huffing and puffing as we lowered one pile to fill the other. This, then, was our tribute, our funeral, our sermon in the dirt, our alternative to the refrigerator and the incinerator. Basking grave-side, our faces and bodies flush with the effort and the sun, we took in the view, down by our feet, in the earth, and up across the valley sky.

After Jon left to check in on the boys, I took the larger stones Arturo had excavated in the digging and arranged them around the perimeter of the mound. I walked back to the cabin and carried back an extra bag of the soil we used for our new garden and after sprinkling it over the mound and mixing it in with rougher soil, I added some wildflower seeds I’d been looking for an opportunity to plant. Returning one last time with our newly purchased tin watering can, I watered the grave.

Jesus Christ Superstar

That night, the night before Easter, we sat down together on the couch and watched Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Jesus Christ Superstar on Jon’s computer. I was 10 years old the first time I saw it in England. It was perhaps the year it came out, the year before we immigrated to America. Now, Charlie and Ben, that same age, were seeing it for the first time during a rare, free broadcast in these sheltering days over Easter.

It was an intense watching it that night, especially. It was a particularly raucous production, our boys learning this powerful chapter at the end of Jesus’ life in a pretty hard rock, gory kind of way. They were witnessing this staged and bloody crucifiction the same day we had euthanized and buried our beloved dog. It didn’t seem to trouble them, though we checked in with them about it; they were quite spellbound by the performance as I had been at their age.

I couldn’t help but feel that something about watching it made the day feel even more holy. Among other things, it’s a story that chronicles our human relationship to death, to the loss of a loved one, how we seek to bargain against it, how we wish, when we hear the bad news, that we could do it all over, how we fight it, and long for contact with the the body of the one we lose, wrestling with the ways we do and don’t make sense of the loss once they are gone.

As the boys brushed their teeth before bed, I stood in the doorway and shared how it strange it felt to me, though also good, to know Lulu was still somehow with us, just a short distance away under the large oak tree that looked out over the valley. “I bet her body’s cold out there, now,” I added. “Probably,” said Ben, “but I also think it’s kind of a cozy bed she’s in, dark in there with all that brown soil around her, tucking her in.”

How does he know this in his 10 year old body? How does he trust this? I marvel at his comfort, faith and tenderness. How he, too, was not troubled by the ‘deadness’ of her body, as I hadn’t been either. “That’s a lovely thought,” I said to him, stroking my hand over his hair one last time before pulling the door closed, and motioning a kiss good-night.

Easter: A New Day

Easter Sunday. I wake and open the windows and doors to a warm breeze and a beautiful, California spring sun in the sky. When I walk outside to check on the boys, Ben greets me and pulls me over to the garden he and his brother have planted with Eden. “Look at the flowers we put in at the ends of the beds,” he says, delightedly, “they’re attracting bees!” He knows it is a good sign we have pollinators.

I return to the cabin, sit down with my coffee and scan my facebook feed. I emerge too long later, maybe 45 minutes to an hour, absorbed for that time in one beautiful piece of music after another. People across the world are coming together in song, virtually, lifting up spirits in hope, with such talent and beauty! This is humanity at its best, I think to myself, tears welling up in my eyes as each recording draws me in to the next. I find the channel in iTunes for the chamber music and settle down in my bedroom with my computer on my lap top. Lulu is here and I begin to write…

Somehow it is feeling as if this is an Easter like no other across America. At least it’s feeling that way to me this morning. Lulu died one day after Good Friday, one day after we gathered with Jon’s family on zoom for a Passover seder, that was somehow also more precious because it would not have happened without COVID. On lockdown something is happening within and between pockets of sheltering across the country, something greater than the sum of its parts. Amidst the fear, I can feel around me among friends and family, a deepening awareness of the gifts of life, the gifts in our loved ones, in the fresh air we breathe at an open window, or on a walk around the block.

For most of my life, I have not been a practicing Christian, but I am becoming one on this beautiful day after our family’s loss, when I am reminded how very much there is to worship in life.

Lulu Returns

Amidst all the glory of the morning, though, Jon and I register Lulu’s absence. For the past few weeks, she’s been here when we’ve woken up, leggy and collapsed on her bed, eyes tracking us as we walk between rooms. It was quiet, hollow, and strange without her. She is the last of the four dogs we’ve had together; it’s our first morning since we met without a canine companion in tow.

If God gave us Jesus as a son to serve as a human bridge to connect with the divine, (s)he gave us dogs as a bridge to the natural world that far too many of us have lost touch with. The dogs we love give us the eyes and ears and bodies to help us remember. Our dogs have taught me, by example, how to simply be myself, how to love what I love and cherish things as they are.

This Sunday morning of Easter, Lulu’s body lies four feet under the ground a short distance from our cabin. It is surely no longer limber and warm now, having chilled, overnight, in the dark soil. The insects are likely exploring her skin and fur, ants and rollypollies navigating the new arrival. She will return, this way, to the land she loved, to the soil she buried her nose in hunting for gophers, her body slowly decaying over the seasons we encounter here. And I find myself wondering why I ever would have chosen to cremate a dog before. Because doing it this way, I don’t need to say goodbye to Lulu’s body, I only need to reimagine it.

In short order, with a little luck, spring wildflowers will sprout on her grave. The nitrogen of her body will feed the soil and the grasses will grow back where we dug them up around her grave. Bees will make there way over, perhaps navigating their way from our vegetable garden. Lizards will scuttle between the rocks around her grave. Slowly with the seasons we will visit her grave and remember Lulu here.

And I will seek, in those seasons to bring to my own life some of the unbridaled joy, and delight Lulu brought to her years here jaunting, part gazelle, part bird, across the hillsides. I will aim to bring some of the attention, relaxed yet alert, that she brought to looking out at the view across the hills. And as the earth circles the sun each year, we will return to her grave on Easter morning with gratitude and prayer.

Two grinning boys wearing t-shirts and shorts, squatting at the edge of an oval patch of freshly turned earth surrounded by a border of stones and gravel, display their Easter eggs to the camera.
Charlie and Ben at Lulu’s Grave where the twilight Easter bunny left some eggs.

On March 13th, after our children’s school announced a ‘two-week’ closure, my family of four (plus one dog) packed two cars full to ‘shelter in place’ at our retreat center on 600 acres in Anderson Valley. Privileged, isolated, my husband and I will learn how to become the ‘village’ that once helped raise our children. Along with the rest of the world, we don’t know how long we will be here. Facing that uncertainty, as time permits, I will write this pandemic diary.

Pandemic Diaries — Bodies in Motion, Pandemic Diaries / 2 — The Great Invitation

Pandemic Diaries / 2

The Great Invitation: On Learning to Listen to Bats and Pangolins

It is a full eleven days since we arrived at our sanctuary ‘shelter’ in the California hills. In eleven days our business — a nature-based retreat center serving non-profits, yogis and nuptials — has nosedived. The first wave of cancellations was followed by a second, then the third. Within four days, almost a third of our annual revenue had disappeared and my husband, Jon, after no small amount of hand-wringing, shuttered the business. In a matter of days, reality as we knew it had come to a grinding halt.

Over the last eleven years, my husband Jon and I have slowly developed Bell Valley, a retreat center near Boonville in Anderson Valley, California. Receiving invaluable support along the way from the team of people working with us, we’ve largely run the business remotely, commuting here on weekends from our home-base in Berkeley two and half hours away. Our twin 10-year-old boys, Charlie and Ben, have anchored us in the Bay Area where we’ve felt the centrifugal pull of schools and summer camps, but Bell Valley has been a workplace we travel to on weekends they’ve grown up with, allowing us to raise our children as much as possible outdoors, away from screens.

View looking through the front door, past a dog lying on the floor, and out the back door of an old wood0-sided building
The Toll House

There are too many stories to tell about the journey developing a rural retreat center. It started with the renovation of a historic toll house on highway 253 the year the boys were born. From those humble beginnings, (until a few weeks ago, at least), our team’s efforts over a decade helped to create a thriving rural hub for meaningful gatherings and reflection, accommodating groups of sixty in glamping tents, barn meeting spaces, along miles of woodland trails leading to a freshwater, swimming pond.

However, of all the stories to be told, one thread runs through them all – the thread that carries my love for the land here. As each season has passed over eleven years, (a dot in time compared to what the ancient oaks here have seen), my affections have felt returned to me in spades in a love affair that only seems to deepen with time. Over the years, no matter how busy I’ve been, (some days driving up and back on the same day), a spectacular canvas of clouds, ever-changing, like a vast, dynamic watercolor painting meets me where I park my car at the hilltop cabin. Each spring, wildflowers cast their symphony of color along the sides of the roads leading up there. Each dry august, the grasses crunch under our feet on our hikes, their prickles getting stuck in our socks as we witness the hills transform from a patchwork of green to gold. And each brisk October, the tired trees undress their many leaves one more time for the bare, prayer of winter.

Sun Rise

There were years when the stress of trying to build from scratch a place for humans to gather here in this rural landscape made me want to walk away. There were years when I couldn’t see the beauty because my marriage was faltering, the demands of the project overtaking every corner of my husband’s life. But we survived and looking back, it almost felt as if the seasons carried us through. The last three years in particular, since that fateful November day in 2016, we have thrived.

I don’t think it was Trump’s election itself that triggered the change. It was bigger than that. Trump was simply a symptom of something happening in the world that began to feel like the beginning of a Great Invitation. When America and the planet started tilting off its ‘comfortable’ axis, exposing the many shadows created by a late-capitalist, white, elite ‘alternate reality’ long preceding Trump, that which has been long kept in the dark can begin to have a chance to see the light of day. Hidden deep in the disillusionment and chaos, in the heart of the despair and confusion, the outrage and grief is an invitation to re-discover oneself and one’s life, anew.

Shortly into Trump’s first term, I started to feel my love for this landscape as an ache in my chest, a pressure beckoning to me, like a new story waiting to unfurl, searching for the human words to tell it. On our weekends up here, my harried glance towards the hillsides and views spoke to me of home in a new way. Not in the traditional sense, but rather like I was home in a precious sanctuary, a church, replete with sermons, but the pastors were the tall, ancient oak trees, the prayers were the birdsong of the sparrows and robins, the sound of rain, its irregular symphony echoing through our tin-roofed cabin at night, was the choir. This landscape I had loved over eleven seasons, in short, was beginning to speak to me.

Where it started — whether the trees were speaking to me with an insistence, or whether my body itself signaled the urgency, I don’t know. I know only that I couldn’t resist the desire to listen any more than than I might the rousing invitation of a baptist choir or the solemn and sublime meditation of a Yo-Yo Ma performance. I was being invited into a conversation, that would require I learn a new language, and to learn it, I would need to slow down and listen. Listen as I’d never needed to listen before. Listen with the apertures of my ears, but also my heart and body-wide open in tenderness. I couldn’t bear being a foreigner in my own country any longer. Alongside the trees, the birds and the rain, I wanted to belong.

Looking upward into the canopy along the trunk of an old tree, whose smooth bare trunk is bisected by a rough-textured vertical wound from a healed-over lightning strike.
Old Madrone

Since Trump took office, I’ve watched the smoke from the spate of wildfires that swept over California the following year engulf the sky across the valley. I’ve driven the two-hour drive back to Berkeley, past pylons in Santa Rosa on the side of the freeway still burning alongside big box stores and hotels, whipping in flames. Two years ago, a fine retreat center, much like ours, in a neighboring town was engulfed in these fall flames. Moving forward, there is no autumn that will pass without my daily prayers, no season when I will not notice the unsteadiness of unseasonable weather patterns here, the unreasonable heat of Januaries, the atypical hail and snow too late in springtime.

The white fluff of a dry thistle flower going to seed in dry grass.
Thistle

Most of all, through these past four years, I’ve relished a beauty, that, as yet, still reveals itself so generously without being asked and without demanding anything in return. A stunning homeland given, season after season, for free. And in this past year, especially, each time I have come here, I’ve just wanted to stay. Each drive back to the bay area, my chest would tighten in the car like an ambivalent child leaving home for school. I started counting down the years until my own children would graduate from their bay area lives so my husband and I could finally move here.

And then, of course — is it really just 11 days ago? — California schools were the first in the country to announce they would close for ‘two weeks.’ The day we heard, I scrapped my day’s plans in Berkeley and began to pack. I told the boys to set aside clothes for more than the customary weekend. Get socks, shirts and plenty of books. Alongside clothes, I packed the boys’ instruments, a guitar, a saxophone and, in lieu of our real one, an electric piano. I emptied out the fridge, packed up drawers of dried goods and moved on to extra shoes, two dog beds and several weeks of dog food. With two car-loads filled we arrived here late in the evening, surviving the guilt of our old dog Lulu’s initial foray into the dark wilderness on arrival. The next morning we woke to a blanket of snow. It was a dream come true. Except, it was built on a nightmare.

Three days later we got word of the ordinance to shelter in place. It could be up to 18 months, Trump said. Some eight years earlier than I expected, then, this sanctuary I had been yearning to move to would be our new home for the foreseeable future. Yet what a pyrrhic victory. Alongside our business, all around us, the world as we know was falling to its knees. Those far less privileged than we are, facing evictions, no money for food, and un-told complicated circumstances we may only learn about in the pandemic’s wake. As easy as it might be to take in the pristine contours of this sanctuary escape here, riding on the coattails of denial, we are here because of a global crisis. Our life, up-ended, has sent us to heaven but we got here on the hinges of hell.

There is no gift that does not behold the receiver in obligation. In the best circumstances, the obligation is couched in gratitude and love. This is my condition then. We are here not simply to escape an “enemy virus.” Nor are we here to ride out a “war” in privileged exile. Rather, we have been relocated to a landscape beckoning us to let go of what we have known so that we can finally begin to learn its tongue, finally learn to listen.

Because as devastating as this virus is, I cannot help but see it in the same category as Trump’s election, as part of the Great Invitation. In this form, it is not the enemy, rather, it is the body of the earth speaking to us. The urgency of our times, beyond the androcentrism with which we customarily meet the world, is not only for facemasks and ventilators — the things that will keep humans, and our kin alive. This urgency is a call to reflect on the world we have known, the world we have created, and all the worlds that are possible that we have forfeited in this unsustainable world we are living in at such an unsustainable pace.

News reaches me from Berkeley friends and beyond that, the invitation is reaching others, too, in cities. People are rediscovering their parks, waterfronts and hillside trails. They are tending to their health, noticing themselves, their own bodies, perhaps in ways, they haven’t for decades, racing past them to complete the tasks at hand. They are finding the space in their lives, away from what they have grown accustomed to, to meet the fresh air while we still have it. Off freeways we are clearing up the skies, getting a taste of what could be possible. Many of us are taking time in solitude sensing into our all-too-human vulnerability, acutely aware of global inter-connection on this earth. Could the invitation, even to those who are not eager to speak nature’s tongue, to learn her language, be any more clear? Like Tolkein’s great Ents, the gestures and corralling of our actions are guiding us towards an understanding of the message being ‘spoken’ from the earth.

Isn’t it beyond time to listen, after all? To begin unlearning something so we can learn to listen again within the matrix of mutuality our species knew until the amnesia created by the industrial revolution. Is this not the time we need to reconsider what we think we need to begin to see what we really need. Is this not a call to un-do ourselves, like the trees in winter, laying ourselves bare while the contours of our lives starkly change?

What if the urgency we feel really is the orchestration of a call from the earth to simply stop. To slow down. To suffer the anxiety we might feel in this sudden stillness and reach out from that awareness towards where we find support. Beyond the din of news headlines, spiking numbers in Italy, and the spin over Trump’s latest tweet, we can always open the window and listen. A virus of unknown origin is speaking, its words heard in the stress of a bat, snake, or a Pangolin sold at a wet market in China. An animal removed from its habitat and sold for the passing delight or appetite of a human’s pleasure is speaking, like the planet speaking through its own fevers and wildfires. The earth does not, itself, know how to hold back from rising temperatures to strike out the virus in its own midst — one which, if we listen more deeply, of course, we can only know as ourselves.

In the coming weeks, my husband and I will learn how to plant a garden here with the boys. We will learn to recognize the calls of the various birds, songs that in the past we have appreciated but never stopped to decipher during our work-filled weekends away from city life. We will get our food from Burt’s Boontberry Market, a lovable, small redwood shack in town with locally farmed food and handmade ointments and elixirs. We will live off less. We will learn how to clear trails, thin fir trees, and mix compost. We will nurse our old dog Lulu through her final days. We will play and fight. We will be scared, we will pray for others with far more to fear. Along with others, we will face the great creative void of the unknown. We will open ourselves up for the teaching.

When I have time, I will search for the human words that meet the new language we are learning here. In this way, the new story, at least as it unfurls in this space of shelter, will be written. We will listen, and together we will surely come un-done, learning how to live a different life.

A pink sunset over hilly country with bare trees along the ridges and green grass in the foreground.
Twilight

On March 13th, after our children’s school announced a ‘two week’ closure, my family of four (plus one dog) packed two cars full to ‘shelter in place’ at our retreat center, on 600 acres in Anderson Valley. Privileged, isolated, my husband and I will learn how to become the ‘village’ that once helped raise our children. Along with the rest of the world, we don’t know how long we will be here. Facing that uncertain future, as time permits, I will write this pandemic diary.

Pandemic Diaries – Bodies in Motion, Pandemic Diary: Easter Sunday

Pandemic Diaries

Bodies In Motion

At some point, Jon woke me up. “You need to figure out what’s up with Lulu,” he said. “I took her out two hours ago and she’s up again.” I rolled over, looking out the window to assess the likelihood of falling back to sleep again after the task. Judging from the darkness of the sky, the first thought of sunrise hadn’t reached the horizon. We were still in the thick of night.

Lulu is our seventeen and a half-year-old ridgeback mix. Two months ago, she collapsed after the two-hour drive back home to Berkeley from Boonville, CA where my husband and I own a retreat center. It took Lulu two days to recover to her feet after the drive and we decided, with no small degree of sadness, we would not subject her to the car again. Lulu would not return to the hills she’d known for most of her life where she‘d bounded and raced across tall grasses, half deer, half-bird and returned to hunt lizards on the lawn for hours. Life would be simpler for her in Berkeley, less stressful at least.

For all of Lulu’s seventeen years, she’s been allergic to driving in cars. She seems to sense what Rudolf Steiner knew about the disequilibrium our bodies experience when they move at speeds beyond anything imaginably natural. Anything faster than what she could elegantly master herself leaping across the hills in Boonville threw her into terror. Panting relentlessly in the car throughout each trip, saliva would roll off her tongue, disgusting us all as she gummed up the seats, doors, and consoles of each car we owned. We learned to live with it in time and she’d always recover quickly once she bounded out of the car on arrival, reconstituting on stable ground.

But not at this age. Not with perhaps half her eyesight gone and since she’d lost all her hearing for nearly a year now. Not after we took her and her back legs gave out and we decided it was her last time.

“You realize we need to take her,” Jon said while he surveyed the bags and boxes piled up by the front door. “Who?” I said. “Lulu,” he responded looking towards her on the dog bed, her ribcage visible with the faintest rise and fall as she slept. “She needs to come with us, we can’t leave her with anyone this time and we don’t know when we’ll be back.” So, we stacked up both cars with as much of the raw materials of our lives as we could and left in the back seat of the Bolt a broad space for Lulu. Jon offered to drive her while I drove the boys in the minivan.

On the freeway, halfway to Boonville, I got a call. “She’s freaking out,” Jon said anxiously. “She barely made it from her bed to the front seat and knocked the car into neutral on the way.” “ Pull over,” I suggested, “create a barricade we’ll get her there.” For the rest of the ride, Jon did his best to keep her settled and an hour later he pulled into a parking space at the cabin. Having arrived first, I’d already settled our twin 10-year-old boys, Ben and Charlie into bed.

It was well after dark when he opened the door leaving the barricade in place while he brought in one load of the bags to tell me he’d arrived. We connected briefly in the kitchen to acknowledge the achievement of making it there and I asked where Lulu was. “I left her in the car,” he responded, but by the time we got there, our geriatric, and intensely stressed dog had tumbled her way past the barricade.

Lulu was excellent at recall in her day, but, minus her hearing and in the dark of night, a whistle or calling her name was no recourse. Jon and I quickly searched for headlamps in the house and headed out into the dark, drizzly night, scanning the area in front of, behind, and beyond the cabin. Slowly rotating our heads like light-houses we looked for a familiar silhouette. We split up, at first within earshot of each other and then as the distance between us spread, not able to hear one another any better than Lulu could hear us.

I walked to the front of the cabin where a stretch of level ground made up our family’s much loved outdoor playground given the postage-stamp back yard we had back in Berkeley. At the edge of the leveled grass, the hillside dropped about a thousand feet down to a gulley, beyond which the views in the daytime spread across rolling hillsides dotted with oaks, firs, and the occasion vineyard latched into the patchwork. Tonight, that immense view was a black cold vacuum of space, pitch dark. I dreaded the thought, not wanting this, amidst all the other changes, to be her end. Not another tragedy, a dog, broken in too many places at the bottom of a hill that we would somehow need to find a way to bury. I scanned the steep hillside slowly with my headlamp. Would she have yelped if she was hurt? She couldn’t even hear herself. She‘d barely made a sound for years.

Slowly scanning, Jon too far away in another direction to call out to, I moved over to where the solar panels are mounted on the steep hillside when suddenly, my head stopped. There, paws flat out on top of the panels, her back legs collapsed under her, Lulu was propped against the solar board like she was sitting down at a dinner table. Silent. Still. Her body covered in the sheen of the wet night fog lighting up in floating particles by the ray of my headlamp.

Surrendered. Resigned. Inexplicably Patient. Had she the ears to hear us calling her, she would have known Jon and I were searching, but instead, she stayed there in the silent, dark, cold wet night, without the capacity to save herself. Such vulnerability and powerlessness, my heart felt like it sank ten feet down the earth with tenderness. I stepped sideways down the steep hill towards her, wrapped one arm under her frail legs, the other around her bony ribcage and stumbled back up, gripping at the mud with my boots. Her body tensed, quiet as a mouse, yet still, not fighting me, as we made it to the hilltop. I kept her in my arms, briskly walking across the wet dark grass towards the cabin where I laid her down in front of the fire.

I called Jon on my cell phone. “I found her.” “Where was she?” “ I’ll tell you later. Let’s just keep unpacking the car.”

Lulu slept for much of the following day. She took a few, slow walks outside, struggling to find her back legs as she rose. We’d brought her the fanciest dog food we could find before leaving town just to keep her eating for the designated two weeks that our children’s school had closed. Relieved to find she loved it and, against our expectations, she appeared to transition to recovery after the drive we feared would take her down. I set up her dog bed with a pillow for her head and a warm blanket to settle under. Looking down at her sleeping, nuzzled into the arrangement, I was grateful to have her sweet feminine canine body here with me, this dog whose primary language was always intuition, this dog who was the only other ‘girl’ in the house. Here, in our small cabin, I could almost always take a few steps and see her, now nestled into her silent world, appearing, as much as such an old dog can, appeased and content. We might have easily named her Grace.

When Jon woke up me in the pitch dark of night up saying she was up again, I knew it was my turn. I heard him taking her out (on a leash this time!) several hours earlier. Our cabin has a tin roof with corrugated plastic skylights and rainy nights here have always felt like being inside a tympany drum struck with tiny, metal instruments. This night was no different. The steady symphony of taps, sometimes like loud creaks in the wall or cracks opening in the ceiling, rose to a crescendo in waves when the wind swept through the oak tree above us, releasing a waterfall from its shivering leaves. I hoped I wouldn’t need to take Lulu out again. Perhaps she just needed to shift to another bed or have a drink of water.

I got up and walked into the main room of the cabin, turning some lights on as I went. With half her eyesight gone, Lulu was bound to walk into everything without light. I got her to the water bowl, but that wasn’t it. She kept walking back and forth between the two main rooms, circling the coffee table, then figure-eighting around the kitchen island, back to the water bowl, sniffing, walking by, then around to the couch again, then the bedroom, then taking the slow turn around again, back to the coffee table. I couldn’t figure it out. Maybe she does need to go outside. I put on rubber boots, attached the leash to her collar and walked her slowly out into the rain. She navigated the steps, circled unsteadily and then turned back towards the door. I helped her up from the grass to the deck and we went back inside.

Lying on the couch now as she walked through the cabin, I watched her. Circling, Circling. Was it senility or sentience that drove her in such circles? Tracking her path again around the island, I remembered back to the night I gave birth to the twins. That was another time, in the black of night, when I was woken up by dogs. Two of them because, that time, Baltie, our aussie, (aka Balthazar) was still with us. The barking at the front door didn’t register as odd at first. Eight and a half months pregnant with twins, I only knew my task was to somehow make it up off the bed to the bathroom – a regular necessity at that point several times a night. As I leveraged myself up, rolling forward towards the edge of the bed, I dropped my legs and hoisting myself up, hips and tailbone tightening in the effort. Shuffling around the bed, I turned the corner, slowly. Only halfway to the bathroom did I realize I couldn’t explain why the dogs were still barking and why they were barking at the front door, as the side door was their lookout of choice, given it was hard to see anything out the front. That night, though, it was something they were doing with an inexplicable urgency.

By the time I made it to the bathroom — no quick passage — the barking had not stopped. My mind shifted briefly to the challenge of lowering myself to the toilet seat, wiping and rising again. I toddled over to the countertop and rested my hands for a pause. The barking continued and I imagined Jon — who was sleeping downstairs that night given my pregnancy snoring had driven him out of bed — would surely be up soon to see what was happening.

It was somewhere in there, while resting my weight on the sink countertop, that my water broke. Such a strange sensation for any women the first time. I didn’t just pee on myself, right, I thought? That’s too much water. It took a moment to occur to me. This is it. I’m going into labor. At the same moment, another thought came to me. The dogs had been alerting me.

So it was this memory that came to me as I lay on the couch, eyes half-open, watching Lulu walk-in figure-eights around our cabin, bumping into the butterfly chair, angling her way back around towards the kitchen island and around again. This memory, and the feeling Jon and I both had after the birth that they must have known. We found ways to deny it, to explain it away, but our dismissals somehow paled against a strangely resurfacing respect that looped back each time we recounted the oddness of their behavior. They were speaking and, as we let ourselves become unseated from reason, we listened.

Watching her circle that night, I asked myself again, was this just Lulu’s dementia, or was her unsettledness a reflection of mine, of ours, upended, our routines removed as we drove away from home towards two weeks of exile from Berkeley, shedding a uniform we didn’t realize how much we relied on. Or, if it was her dementia, perhaps it was making transparent our unsettledness in ways we were, as yet, resisting?

Later that night, the symphony of rain on our roof quieted down to a soft silence and the following morning we awoke to a blanket of snow all around the cabin. I found Lulu asleep. She was still, but as I looked closely, still breathing on the carpet by the front door. I don’t know when or how she decided to stop her circuit. At a certain point, I chose to return to bed, leaving some lights on for her, trusting, or hoping at least, that if she bumped into something and fell it would wake me up. Lying there as her more usual sedentary self, I hoped the boys would be gracious and walk past her carefully when they entered from their sleeping cabin next door.

I got my coffee and returned to bed to find Jon listening to the Sunday morning news shows. Obama’s former CDC director reflected that the death count could range from the hundreds to the millions, a range that, itself, as a directive, or ‘estimate,’ left us disoriented, speechless. Perhaps it was the word ‘millions’ that brought to mind bodies, many of them, human, fleshy, hot, headaches, pain, these bodies, like Lulu’s, like Lulu, our vulnerable companions on the journey we take together each year around the sun.

Lulu stumbled into our room, scraping her long nails against the floorboards, her eyes searching through her nose as she passed into the room. Shakily, she walked to the dog bowl and lowered her head, paused and licked at the water’s surface, two or three times. She stopped. Settled herself, testing to see how the water went down, waiting for the feedback. Watching her, it was like her mind moved down slowly through her body as she tracked the water’s movement through it — the kind of mindfulness we humans have when we are sick, noticing the slightest impact of movement, water, the food we ingest. Lulu, sick bodies, me, acutely attuned.

Lulu’s feedback channel confirmed more water was OK and she lowered her head again for a few more laps. This mindful embodied, distributed intelligence was the intelligent embodiment I’d long since abandoned in my head-centered orientation to life. Her self care, so transparent, instinctual, so profoundly noble and tender.

Does the nose Lulu has for pending births, for the passage of water passing through her body, extend to a nose for pending deaths? Is her midnight circling around the cabin her dementia, or does she feel our collective disorientation, reflecting it back for those whose eyes open to see it? These dogs we call our pets… they are our teachers. Elders. Guardians. Ourselves.

How different it would be if we had left her at home, if we had needed to run faster still, like the families in Wuhan, who left pets by the thousands cooped up in apartments with no recourse but to starve. And how many other animals, across California, have become the sole companions and teachers of those home, alone, sheltering in place. Even with my two sons and husband in tow, how grateful I am for our old, fragile friend, for her grace, her patience, and equanimity. Animal spirit in the final chapters of life, she carries the secrets with her that we humans seem so easily to forget somewhere between our own births and our deaths.

On March 13th, after our children’s school announced a ‘two week closure,’ my family of four (plus one dog) packed two cars full to ‘shelter in place’ at our retreat center, on 600 acres in Anderson Valley. Privileged, isolated, my husband and I will learn how to become the ‘village’ that once helped raise our children. Along with the rest of the world, we don’t know how long we will be here. Facing that uncertain future, as time permits, I will write this pandemic journal.

A sleeping dog, covered by a blanket, rests her head on a soft surface.

Pandemic Diaries / 2 – The Great Invitation

What If Presidents Were Elected in Pairs — One Democrat, One Republican?

For the benefit of all, an outside the “Man Box” approach would temper self-serving ambitions in those seeking the “highest office.”

There’s really no other way to slice it. Listening to the impeachment hearings is downright depressing. While brief thrills may be had, aghast or indignant, staking out the right-ness of your side, stepping back from it all as an American these days has been plain, old flattening, for everyone I’ve talked to, at least.

I was in this flattening-effect pretty deep when I came across a wild idea that, had the framers somehow baked the Constitutional cake differently, might have helped avert this polarized, impasse. It’s wild, so bear with me — after all, wild can start to look normal in today’s climate… This was it: What would America look like if instead of electing one president, we elected two — the two front runners of opposing parties — in our current case, a Republican and a Democrat. The pair would be evaluated after four years based on what they had accomplished together by way of compromise and collaboration during their term.

Wow. Sounds nuts, doesn’t it? It’s hard to even picture in today’s climate, but trying it on just for fun, it challenged me to start thinking about how different our politics could be if our system had been built on a foundation that buttressed the value of relationship. What if politicians ran for election not just on their platforms, in other words, but also as exemplars of the ability to partner, listen, be creative in solving complex problems according to the needs and wishes of different constituencies. How would we need to adjust as citizens, if we knew that the election would result in ‘our side’ having to work with ‘their side’ for anything to truly get done? How would we, as citizens, relate to the country differently? How would it motivate us to get to know, or befriend, one another? How might we be soberer in our aspirations, seeking more knowledge in thinking about the needs of the whole, not just of ourselves? And what characteristics would we look for in the candidate?

Consider the following:

  1. We’d shift from a model that forces information on voters, convincing them of the absolute rightness of our position, (sometimes, uh, at the cost of lying), to a model where competition happens around the ability to listen, learn, respect and negotiate.
  2. In a polarized electorate, the delusional, (narcissistic) denial of the other side’s existence would get punctured, forcing us to face the reality of the whole country more squarely.
  3. We’d have to move from a dominator/submitter, winner/loser model to one where for anything to get done, differences would need to be respected — we’d have to SEE each other, not disregard, dismiss, belittle or defeat the other’s position.

As a thought experiment, it starts to reveal what an Executive Office could look like if the framers valued something in our human nature other than the ego, individual charisma and self-serving ambitions that often exist in individual politicians who ‘rise to those heights.’

Two street signs are mounted on the same pole, pointing in opposite directions. One says "Trust" and the other says "Mistrust"
Image by Gerd Altmann (Pixabay)

Superiority vs. Partnership

Of course, this idea didn’t rise out of a vacuum. I write about post-patriarchal culture and citizenship and, along with many others, see Donald Trump not as a rogue phenomenon, but as the culmination of a rising polarization in this country fed by the growing threat of progressive change to a white patriarchal status quo. Trump, dubbed by some as the last gasp of patriarchy and by others, with less optimism, as evidence that the “American Experiment” has failed, is perhaps, we can agree, textbook patriarchy at its worst: A model of relating — if you can call it that — bent on domination, superiority, self-reliance and a might-makes-right unquestioned authority.

In her exhaustive research on patriarchy, feminist writer Riane Eisler arrived at one primary shift that would go a long distance in our culture as an antidote to the damaging, inbalance that patriarchal value systems wield in the world: Partnership.

Partnership isn’t just a concept, or a nice idea with a feminist ring to it, its something that exists throughout nature and is ubiquitous in its systems that support life. We think of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” supporting the rights of individuals because…well, it was set up that way. But what if our founders had understood, as many a mother does, that life just as much depends on relation, on inter-relation, on giving, sacrificing, and on recognizing needs. Life depends on mutually beneficial relationships as much as it does on learning to stand on our own two feet. This isn’t just “women’s wisdom,” though, or, as I said, a nice feminist idea, it’s the all-too-often untold story of what makes life, life. Of what makes life livable.

Tiny slim stems with new green leaves rise out of mossy patches in blue water
Image by Emmanuel Mbala (Unsplash)
I recently traveled to the Galapagos Islands — a truly incredible place to see where (and how) Darwin developed the theory of natural selection that would later buttress worldviews founded on the principle that the most competitive individuals, the “fittest” survive. However, on those islands, there’s an equally remarkable lesson to be learned about not just competing finches, iguanas and sea lions, but how much no individual, living being could exist without relying on others — within their own species and beyond. Even the iguanas – cold-blooded reptiles – can’t survive without piling on top of each other to keep warm! If a baby sea lion survives, it is at least partly because of its location within a network of supportive others in the ‘rookery.’ There is no survival of the fittest without the equally valuable survival of the group. The ecology of the group, in short, and all that supports it needs to be taken into account, not just the strength and toughness of the pack’s alpha male.

Similarly, relationship, how successfully we connect, is a human capacity, a human necessity, just as much as self-assertion, competition and becoming one’s own person is. In fact, you really can’t do one without the other. A winning sports team must work together for that NBA title, you need a community to find footing after a disastrous fire, working together. When our attention goes to just the winning, we take our focus off all the partnering relations that made any of being alive and succeeding at life possible in the first place.

Oil seeping across sand.
Image by Mario Caruso (Unsplash)

Polarities: Public/Private, Male/Female, Black/White, Democrat/Republican

Raised as we all are in a patriarchal worldview that separates autonomy/individual rights/politics from relationship/family/personal— we privatize this quality of (inter)relationship, relegating it, through the gender binary, to its ‘place’ on the home front, to women. This is arguably because the framers framed their Constitution in a time and place when this separation was heartily entrenched in the culture. Competition was for men, partnership for women. After all, working together in collaboration is what women do in the kitchen. Men, by contrast, compete to win, they fight to separate from the ‘mother’ country! When separate, they must battle against each other, then, in order to win and govern.

The framers developed a brilliant system for checking patriarchal men’s competitive worst instincts, (except, importantly, as they were enacted against women and slaves). In doing so, they set up a system with the goal of protecting themselves from one another. But they left behind some of the key principles they needed to include to represent more than just themselves. They left behind in their design the parts of life they relegated to the mysterious, a-political realm called the ‘private’ sphere — they place where women, servants and slaves supported the whole shebang in Washington. There, in that so-called ‘private sphere’ was the key not just to what’s necessary for white men not to not kill each other, but what’s necessary to support life.

What, then, if what was valued in our Constitution was different, or rather, if the net was cast wider. What if the framer’s vision wasn’t born from the division into the public and private sphere so prevalent in patriarchy, but if compromise, collaboration, and our inter-connection were held up as the greater good we needed to protect and enable in our governing institutions? What if the goods of the so-called private sphere were truly valued in the foundations of our public institutions?

The Patriarchal… “But!”

I can hear the objections flying: “This making women better than men is full of *hit. Let me tell you about the women I know who don’t know how to partner!”

“Partnership is a bunch of mamby-pamby leading to analysis paralysis. Tell me what happens when your so-called partnering leaders can’t agree when N.Korea has a missile pointed at California!”

“Yea, right. That’s an invitation to civil war. I think we’ll pass on that, stupid.”

The trouble is, we are SO steeped in the particular worldview that privileges a certain orientation to life, it’s hard for us to even imagine what a world would look like that prioritized the value of making the best decisions from the point of view of our inherent interconnection. I have no doubt there are enough brilliant minds in our mix to imagine solutions to things like the North Korea scenario. I have plenty of responses to share to all these objections. But minds just don’t get put to work creatively engaging new solutions in the service of a newly upheld ‘good’ or ‘value’ in governance if we’re too scared or defensive to open to that possibility. When these perspectives are tossed out at the doorstep with cynicism we’re stuck with a worldview that privileges cynicism over love, individuals against one another, now endowing corporations with these same ‘competitive’ rights. The irony is that what feeds these defiant rebuttals at their base is not the strength or the “Truth” of them, but fear. Fear of the very vulnerability in our inter-connectedness that we need our governments more than ever to respect and protect.

Polarization is a funny thing in this way. It builds and builds, reinforcing the belief that we must dominate the other, striking them out of existence, in order to survive. Our existing governmental system, in fact, is founded on polarization — that between the private/public, female/male and black/white. (Yes, the separation of powers was intended to off-set polarization, but as we see, it hasn’t worked. Yet, at least.) Our system is set up to privilege and value certain human aptitudes and capacities, prizing charismatic leadership and, in the case of Donald Trump and his newly forged GOP, to win over the lesser, inferior others’ (women/racial minorities) at any cost.

On a shrinking globe, however, where, in America, in one year we consume what it takes the planet four years to reproduce, the humbling impact of climate change is making our interconnectedness increasingly apparent. The security of our economy, our borders, of capitalism as we know it, is wholly at stake. We can’t afford the delusions fostered in polarization. We can’t afford the illusion that our side can do it alone. We have to figure it out together. Time is up. There is no ‘out’ we get from winning one over the other.

On a rocky mountain top at dusk or dawn, one boy helps another climb the last steps to the top
Image by Mohamed Hassan (Pixabay)

A Partnering Presidency

If nothing could get done in the Presidency unless a winning pair of a Democrat and Republican jointly agreed on the action, well….the dial would be turned up on the need to compromise for life. Suddenly fair play becomes valuable because the consequences of the lack of it stymie anything from happening, including one’s re-election. Earning each other’s trust becomes something important to cultivate and value once earned. We would be forced to see each other as equals, subject to subject, not winner to loser, not superior and more valuable than the other. Similarly, learning to listen would become paramount, serving to remind us we are one human body on one planet.

The problem with our governing systems may well be, then, that they were founded on basic principles about what it is to be human born from the minds of white, patriarchal men in a very different era. These white men created remarkable systems to temper their worst instincts against each other, (but not against the darker skinned, of course) coming to the table to defend their individual right to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Founded on the tales from the Enlightenment about “man” in the “state of nature,” we are, of course, more today than just men and we face a very different state of nature.

I don’t want men to step aside for others can take over. We need them. To want them out so we can take over is to reverse the polarization, perpetuating our problems in all the un-natural ways this has already happened. I want white men to be in real partnership with the rest of us and for that, they need to see beyond themselves. They need to see first into the ‘private sphere’ and then out to the larger ‘country’ —to include all humans, our planet and the systems of collaboration and inter-connection that give us all life. Maybe a Partnering Presidency could help support that.

So…Perhaps these flattening impeachment hearings are the mother of invention! It’s a stretch, but a worthy one to make us think outside the “man” box. If Democrats, Republicans and Independents knew that whoever they elected would need to partner with the other side to get anything done they would probably be looking out for candidates skilled in the art of collaboration, men and women, (or from across the gender spectrum), best able to bring their hearts and minds to the table with the opposing side to address the complex problems in our country and world. If we all knew the presidency was about this in 2016, would anyone have elected Donald Trump? And if we knew now, in 2020, that a partnership presidency was the plan moving forward, how would it change the kinds of conversations happening in our impeachment stymied Senate, today?

Words At Their Best In The Worst of Times

I’ve been tackling some pretty complex topics in my writing lately… our historical moment, patriarchal masculinity, Trump, the (d)evolution of citizenship and the climate crisis. They’re all facets of the ‘whole catastrophe’ our country and planet face these days. Epic times we’re in really, right?

Last night, I put my twin boys to bed, leaving them to the twenty minutes of reading they do before the night delivers them to their 10 year old’s dreams. Both of them buried their noses in their respective, fantasy fiction books, Charlie opening up the massively heavy, tiny-fonted Lord of the Rings trilogy. To my astonishment, given today’s video-game obsessed culture, he is forging forward, mid-way, now, through this 1200 page tome. Continue reading “Words At Their Best In The Worst of Times”