Currently I am writing this post from Fond du Lac, WI (which reminds me I need to give people the official notice of my move) and the week has been good. Did I mention that I would be living with one of my community members and her 23 y/o niece (who has two dogs)? The awkwardness of moving-in is still a little present. You know people never offer you a blue print of their lives when you share community (like it would help if they did). So, over the years I have learned is the best thing to do is live into the experience and pay attention to schedules, patterns and ask questions. Part of my angst before coming was that I would not no how to do this. The reality is that I have an advantage in this situation because I know them at varying levels. I do feel much more confident about this than I did last Sunday evening while finishing packing. So, in this new situation it is likely time to reflect on possibilities and change while entering a new routine. There is something adventurous about it really.
I am very aware of the massacre that happened in Colorado last week and offer prayers to those who were impacted by this act of violence. There are times when I think we really live in twilight and are confused about whether we are entering day or night. This is how I experience the massacre as I watch the media interviewing people who were there and getting the scoop. I wonder why we want to know all these details and whether they would be better off having an opportunity to put their lives together without being scrutinized? There is a poem by Adrienne Rich that is coming up right now as I write and although it does not apply directly to the massacre or the media response it offers what I find to be an astute perspective on humanity, yours and mine. And, I must admit there is something dark about the poem that fits in with my current reflection on living in the twilight:
What Kind of Times Are These
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.