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Hampered. Short of breath. Meek in actions. We live in a society full of presets. Even at our finest, a tiny voice may still intrude, like the annoying, passive aggressive lady at the grocery store, “I don’t mean to be rude but….” OK, if that prepositional phrase ever needs to be uttered from your two lips, Grocery Store Lady, please be certain that your conscience is flagging you down: you are about to be rude.
But, day-to-day, here we stand with our tiny inner critics being constantly rude to us, and we let them do it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you are a good father/mother?” “I don’t mean to be rude, but… is your pride in your work/worth/self really, truly justified?” “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you don’t suck at the endeavor that initially you were certain was a glorious dream you could really turn into a perfect reality?”
The worst of ironies and tragedies is when this reluctance affects our spirituality and belief system, our expressions of greater ideals, which should be our most protected jewel of a core.
What makes individuals cower in the corner instead of flying their flags freely?
Whether it is peer, or mob, or societal, or inner-self-esteem pressures, it is NOT OK. Of late, I am gathering more and more items each week in my “It is NOT OK” file. This is the anthem of all of us that are fully fed up with – in the large scheme – issues of war, or children starving, or ravages to the environment, and on the local set: carcinogens being allowed in our drinking water, or the man that decides to exploit 5 puppies in a back-alley underground fight.
Faith • Love • Hope.
If those are at the root of your religion or your spiritual connection with the Universe, you will be fine. You will be fine for yourself and others.
Even if you find that nexus in a so-called ‘unconventional’ way – whether it's in a tiny shack that you happened upon on the beach in the Dominican Republic with 5 congregants that decided a decade ago to drench themselves in orange paint before their morning rituals, and who fish for haddock after prayers and cook for the entire village in the dusk-hued hours, or whether you are inspired by Jeff Bridges' The Dude character and find healing in a 5am meditation atop the exact rug replica from The Big Lebowski – and “Gosh, darnet, It DOES tie the room together!” and it keeps your best of thoughts for yourself and others together too. You go! There is no rhyme or reason for what speaks to one and not another.
You could stand in front of a minimalist Rothko all day at the Guggenheim, self-appointing yourself as "world's greatest docent" assured that the painting is one full expanse of Caribbean turquoise but you will not be able to strong-arm other museum visitors into seeing what you see, or feeling what you feel. Those are intimate and between you and the work of art. A teacher from Queens, a 6-year old from Taiwan, and a fancy lady with a furry Shih Tzu peeking out of her well-appointed Prada bag will all see periwinkle blue….another 33 hundred visitors a year will see Nile green.
So, please be kind, respectful, and let people come to their own conclusions.
I inherited my spirituality from my mother. This came in the form of sheer sweetness – afternoons at the little chapel a few blocks from our house, her hair covered in an ecru-colored, ivy-patterned lace mantilla – sweetness in her reverence for God, for the Virgin Mary, and for Jesus. It sounds really foreign and archaic in some circles, but this was her truth. I saw her generosity toward others, and how she would not just pray and throw her hands up in the air waiting for God to sort things out. She would work hard to help and to solve. She was a great problem-solver. And amidst her real, analytical methodologies for tackling the things of this world, she would hold her rosary close and pray, pray, pray – for all of us.
I ponder on that now that I am an adult. I used to think that prayer had to be perfect, and formal, and dignified, and a little – let’s face it – stiff. I used to say El Padre Nuestro (The Lord’s Prayer) so fast when I was little, because I was so afraid of screwing it up, that I could only remember the sequence of thoughts if I did it in one breath. Like a poem that you learned in a mad dash before having to recite it in class. If I slowed it down, I would, for a fraction of a second, worry if it was ‘el pan de cada día’ before ‘nuestras ofensas’ or the other way around – just out of the exhausting ambivalence that I might be botching up something sacred.
Then one day I realized that I had been praying more than I knew. My prayers were not the textbook Ave Marías but were constantly being lobbed up to the Universe in a photograph, or a handmade card, or a hug. These are prayers too, dummy. They are endeavors with intent to send someone full Love – holding the person in your mind and heart for the entirety of the missive’s creation and execution. That is a prayer.
It has been hard to navigate Catholic. It is not an easy word to say out loud. It is as if someone dropped the word 'Republican' at a kale and Kombucha drum circle. Catholic is controversial. I want to explain that oppressive ideologies are not me, that shrouded homophobic agendas and controls that are cowardly masked in religion are definitely not me, but it is such a long conversation. Do I really want to put the sweet person in front of me through that? My flag temporarily loses its wind and droops downward with the effects of gravity. But it is going to be all right. Our shared spirituality is not about any one religion.
The Peruvian flag is composed of three vertical bands of equal width, two red sandwiching a center white band, which is donned by our coat of arms. The iconography is very important. On the lower segment of the 3-sectioned coat of arms is an overflowing cornucopia for the mineral riches of the country – the gold we held for millennia, on the upper right is the Quina tree signifying the natural wealth, and on the left top is the Vicuña – homage to our fauna. And yes, it is a Vicuña, wild cousin to the Alpaca, and no, LA Times crossword puzzle, it is NOT a llama.
I love my flag. Peruvians love their flag. We understand that our homeland is as much about the earth that grows the potatoes that we cherish as it is about the flag, or the Pacific beaches.
People in power will come and go, social injustice will flow, but more hopefully ebb, and even most-hopefully recede into the horizon forever, but you are allowed to love your flag always, if you want to. Your flag is the strongest graphic/iconic/historic representation of your country, and your country is where you come from.
Just like the gorgeous casted shadow of black, upon red, upon yellow, in balanced and orderly banded formation of the German flag does not signify the occupation and demise of Poland and other countries, or the rise of a despot that, unchecked, could have authored the annihilation of our entire world. German to me today signifies thoughts of my friend who lives in Berlin and works with a magazine that explores human connectivity. It signifies the second language I ever learned and loved.
Some days I feel bad for the US flag – over in the dusty corner of most American psyches. Democrats are too inhibited by decorum, associative history, and handicapped in a huge Andre-The-Giant-would-fit-in, clunky wheelchair-without-wheels of political correctness. They have lost control of their flag to the conservatives, and now associate flag displays with something they are not: the gun-toting, the back country. It's your own flag. It is not related to any temporary mismanagement of power.
You wouldn't hate your body, just because it broke out in the shingles at a "hey-you should calm down and have this life figured out by now" ripe age of 70. It is temporary. Or maybe you are 64lbs above and three sizes away from perfection; would you abandon your body then? Would you camouflage and pad it with scarves and winter jackets beyond recognition so that no one could tell where the fleece ended and you began? You might. I have felt that urge and understand. We cannot all Zen our way out of times like those: of hating temporarily something/someone that you cannot live without. Like the drunk guy at a party, whom you try to avoid. He is plowing his way through the room, just got done stumbling on a tribal vase and is now well into offending the hostess with a slobbery rant about how exotic cinnamon-skinned Latinas are and that if it weren't for his racist father, life could have been so different, and you cringe, hoping no one notices that you actually drove in with him, and that he is actually your cousin, and a pretty good guy when his burgeoning alcoholism stays at bay. You will cringe, but you won't abandon him. His temporary, marinated in freaking bourbon persona is not the whole of him.
Just like your soul should not detach its love from your body and leave it hollow, but unavoidably, sometimes it does.... Mine did. Because catastrophic trauma has the dark power do that. And it came back because Faith Love and Hope are even more powerful still. Like the beautiful queen in a game of chess, against an opponent’s cluster of annoying can-only-move-one-square-at-a-time pawns. There are many of them, they are preying en masse, but the queen gracefully sweeps through the board: more directional possibilities, more range, just plainly said... more badass!
That is my trinity, my belief system.
So fly your flag if you want to, but don't try to use it as a javelin to skewer anyone, or as a pole to stand above others for a misguidedly righteous vantage point that only you find advantageous, but others may read as condescending.
It is OK to feel beholden without being pedantic. It is OK to say you 'feel blessed' once in a while, because it expresses ultimate gratitude. Not I am blessed as in “I am the only one” or even more egregiously, I am blessed as in “God sees me above you.” One Lacrosse team does not win a match over another because its beautiful young women prayed more or prayed better than the other. There is no Universal favoritism. And saying one feels blessed is not a comparative or a judgmental point of view. It is a personal expression of true respect to that which is not of this world – all historical, stigma-ladled names, classifications, and religious denominations aside – and which you feel in your heart with joy.
Today’s dedication:
Y se llama PERÚ – by Arturo "Zambo" Cavero and Óscar Avilés
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieSyI9yu00M
But, day-to-day, here we stand with our tiny inner critics being constantly rude to us, and we let them do it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you are a good father/mother?” “I don’t mean to be rude, but… is your pride in your work/worth/self really, truly justified?” “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you don’t suck at the endeavor that initially you were certain was a glorious dream you could really turn into a perfect reality?”
The worst of ironies and tragedies is when this reluctance affects our spirituality and belief system, our expressions of greater ideals, which should be our most protected jewel of a core.
What makes individuals cower in the corner instead of flying their flags freely?
Whether it is peer, or mob, or societal, or inner-self-esteem pressures, it is NOT OK. Of late, I am gathering more and more items each week in my “It is NOT OK” file. This is the anthem of all of us that are fully fed up with – in the large scheme – issues of war, or children starving, or ravages to the environment, and on the local set: carcinogens being allowed in our drinking water, or the man that decides to exploit 5 puppies in a back-alley underground fight.
Faith • Love • Hope.
If those are at the root of your religion or your spiritual connection with the Universe, you will be fine. You will be fine for yourself and others.
Even if you find that nexus in a so-called ‘unconventional’ way – whether it's in a tiny shack that you happened upon on the beach in the Dominican Republic with 5 congregants that decided a decade ago to drench themselves in orange paint before their morning rituals, and who fish for haddock after prayers and cook for the entire village in the dusk-hued hours, or whether you are inspired by Jeff Bridges' The Dude character and find healing in a 5am meditation atop the exact rug replica from The Big Lebowski – and “Gosh, darnet, It DOES tie the room together!” and it keeps your best of thoughts for yourself and others together too. You go! There is no rhyme or reason for what speaks to one and not another.
You could stand in front of a minimalist Rothko all day at the Guggenheim, self-appointing yourself as "world's greatest docent" assured that the painting is one full expanse of Caribbean turquoise but you will not be able to strong-arm other museum visitors into seeing what you see, or feeling what you feel. Those are intimate and between you and the work of art. A teacher from Queens, a 6-year old from Taiwan, and a fancy lady with a furry Shih Tzu peeking out of her well-appointed Prada bag will all see periwinkle blue….another 33 hundred visitors a year will see Nile green.
So, please be kind, respectful, and let people come to their own conclusions.
I inherited my spirituality from my mother. This came in the form of sheer sweetness – afternoons at the little chapel a few blocks from our house, her hair covered in an ecru-colored, ivy-patterned lace mantilla – sweetness in her reverence for God, for the Virgin Mary, and for Jesus. It sounds really foreign and archaic in some circles, but this was her truth. I saw her generosity toward others, and how she would not just pray and throw her hands up in the air waiting for God to sort things out. She would work hard to help and to solve. She was a great problem-solver. And amidst her real, analytical methodologies for tackling the things of this world, she would hold her rosary close and pray, pray, pray – for all of us.
I ponder on that now that I am an adult. I used to think that prayer had to be perfect, and formal, and dignified, and a little – let’s face it – stiff. I used to say El Padre Nuestro (The Lord’s Prayer) so fast when I was little, because I was so afraid of screwing it up, that I could only remember the sequence of thoughts if I did it in one breath. Like a poem that you learned in a mad dash before having to recite it in class. If I slowed it down, I would, for a fraction of a second, worry if it was ‘el pan de cada día’ before ‘nuestras ofensas’ or the other way around – just out of the exhausting ambivalence that I might be botching up something sacred.
Then one day I realized that I had been praying more than I knew. My prayers were not the textbook Ave Marías but were constantly being lobbed up to the Universe in a photograph, or a handmade card, or a hug. These are prayers too, dummy. They are endeavors with intent to send someone full Love – holding the person in your mind and heart for the entirety of the missive’s creation and execution. That is a prayer.
It has been hard to navigate Catholic. It is not an easy word to say out loud. It is as if someone dropped the word 'Republican' at a kale and Kombucha drum circle. Catholic is controversial. I want to explain that oppressive ideologies are not me, that shrouded homophobic agendas and controls that are cowardly masked in religion are definitely not me, but it is such a long conversation. Do I really want to put the sweet person in front of me through that? My flag temporarily loses its wind and droops downward with the effects of gravity. But it is going to be all right. Our shared spirituality is not about any one religion.
The Peruvian flag is composed of three vertical bands of equal width, two red sandwiching a center white band, which is donned by our coat of arms. The iconography is very important. On the lower segment of the 3-sectioned coat of arms is an overflowing cornucopia for the mineral riches of the country – the gold we held for millennia, on the upper right is the Quina tree signifying the natural wealth, and on the left top is the Vicuña – homage to our fauna. And yes, it is a Vicuña, wild cousin to the Alpaca, and no, LA Times crossword puzzle, it is NOT a llama.
I love my flag. Peruvians love their flag. We understand that our homeland is as much about the earth that grows the potatoes that we cherish as it is about the flag, or the Pacific beaches.
People in power will come and go, social injustice will flow, but more hopefully ebb, and even most-hopefully recede into the horizon forever, but you are allowed to love your flag always, if you want to. Your flag is the strongest graphic/iconic/historic representation of your country, and your country is where you come from.
Just like the gorgeous casted shadow of black, upon red, upon yellow, in balanced and orderly banded formation of the German flag does not signify the occupation and demise of Poland and other countries, or the rise of a despot that, unchecked, could have authored the annihilation of our entire world. German to me today signifies thoughts of my friend who lives in Berlin and works with a magazine that explores human connectivity. It signifies the second language I ever learned and loved.
Some days I feel bad for the US flag – over in the dusty corner of most American psyches. Democrats are too inhibited by decorum, associative history, and handicapped in a huge Andre-The-Giant-would-fit-in, clunky wheelchair-without-wheels of political correctness. They have lost control of their flag to the conservatives, and now associate flag displays with something they are not: the gun-toting, the back country. It's your own flag. It is not related to any temporary mismanagement of power.
You wouldn't hate your body, just because it broke out in the shingles at a "hey-you should calm down and have this life figured out by now" ripe age of 70. It is temporary. Or maybe you are 64lbs above and three sizes away from perfection; would you abandon your body then? Would you camouflage and pad it with scarves and winter jackets beyond recognition so that no one could tell where the fleece ended and you began? You might. I have felt that urge and understand. We cannot all Zen our way out of times like those: of hating temporarily something/someone that you cannot live without. Like the drunk guy at a party, whom you try to avoid. He is plowing his way through the room, just got done stumbling on a tribal vase and is now well into offending the hostess with a slobbery rant about how exotic cinnamon-skinned Latinas are and that if it weren't for his racist father, life could have been so different, and you cringe, hoping no one notices that you actually drove in with him, and that he is actually your cousin, and a pretty good guy when his burgeoning alcoholism stays at bay. You will cringe, but you won't abandon him. His temporary, marinated in freaking bourbon persona is not the whole of him.
Just like your soul should not detach its love from your body and leave it hollow, but unavoidably, sometimes it does.... Mine did. Because catastrophic trauma has the dark power do that. And it came back because Faith Love and Hope are even more powerful still. Like the beautiful queen in a game of chess, against an opponent’s cluster of annoying can-only-move-one-square-at-a-time pawns. There are many of them, they are preying en masse, but the queen gracefully sweeps through the board: more directional possibilities, more range, just plainly said... more badass!
That is my trinity, my belief system.
So fly your flag if you want to, but don't try to use it as a javelin to skewer anyone, or as a pole to stand above others for a misguidedly righteous vantage point that only you find advantageous, but others may read as condescending.
It is OK to feel beholden without being pedantic. It is OK to say you 'feel blessed' once in a while, because it expresses ultimate gratitude. Not I am blessed as in “I am the only one” or even more egregiously, I am blessed as in “God sees me above you.” One Lacrosse team does not win a match over another because its beautiful young women prayed more or prayed better than the other. There is no Universal favoritism. And saying one feels blessed is not a comparative or a judgmental point of view. It is a personal expression of true respect to that which is not of this world – all historical, stigma-ladled names, classifications, and religious denominations aside – and which you feel in your heart with joy.
Today’s dedication:
Y se llama PERÚ – by Arturo "Zambo" Cavero and Óscar Avilés
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieSyI9yu00M