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Posts Tagged ‘unity’



In each other, let us see ourselves.
            —Alberto Ríos, “Who Has Need, I Stand with You”


Sometimes when I look in the mirror,
my eyes see only my own reflection.

I forget to see the eyes of my mother,
and her mother, and her mother.

I forget to see the eyes of my sisters
who live in other towns, other countries.

I forget to see the eyes of my brothers
who teach, who fight, who rule, who beg.

I forget how my heart is fueled
by the same electric impulse

that drives every other beating heart.
I forget how my skin is made and remade

from the same carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and oxygen
that comprises every other human’s skin.  

Oh, to remember. Not just when I look in the mirror,
but when I walk down the street.

Not just when I feel drawn to another,
but also when I feel defensive, averse.

Oh, to remember the strange and certain math
that seven point seven five three billion people

equal one cohesive expression
of what it means to be alive.

Your hands, my hands. Your breath, my breath.
Your eyes in my eyes. My eyes in your eyes.

This life, ours.

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Sometimes, when I fear
the small light I bring
isn’t big enough or bright
enough, I think of that night
on the beach years ago
when every step I took
in the cool wet sand turned
a glowing, iridescent blue—
and the waves themselves
were a flashing greenish hue—
imagine we could do
what 7.9 billion
one-celled plankton can do—
can shine when it’s dark,
can shine when agitated,
can shine with our own
inner light and trust when we all
bring the tiny light we have,
it’s enough to illumine the next step
in the long stretch of night.
 
 
 
 

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I don’t want us to be
like Jupiter and Saturn,
slowly moving toward each other
only to find ourselves
slowly moving further away.
When we conjoin,
let it be that we find
our paths not crossing
but merging, moving
us forever in the same direction,
our light uniting so brightly
others might imagine
it signifies a miracle—
and they will, of course,
be right.

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We turn off the music. Practice left turns

onto the highway. Park on the bias.

Park on the street. We get gas.

Drive backwards. Use the median.

Change lanes. Use the blinker.

Slow down. Full stop.

There’s a rule for everything

and a comfort in knowing the rules.

“And you can practice everywhere,”

notes our DMV guidelines, “so have at it!”

Imagine if we all practiced everywhere.

If we all signaled before every turn—

turn of heart, turn of mind, turn of plans.

Imagine if we all agreed, no matter where

we’re going and no matter where we’ve been,

that we are all travelers on the same side,

knowing we’re on this road together.

Imagine if we agreed to stop in an orderly way—

no drama, no shaming, no blame,

so that someone else might take their turn to go.

Imagine, getting along with others,

no matter what they believe,

could be as simple as keeping it steady,

looking over your shoulder,

making eye contact in a crossing,

giving each other some space.

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Simple Tools

 

 

 

for Christie

 

I am so grateful for the rubber spatula,

the way it sits quietly in the drawer

yet is always ready for action—

is game to scrape the walls of the blender

or to fold chocolate chips into cookie dough.

It evens and swirls the frosting on cake

and welcomes the tongue

of a child. In a sharp world,

it knows the value of being blunt;

it knows that to smooth is a gift to the world.

Some people are knives, and

I thank them. Me, I want to belong

to the order of spatulas—those

who blend, who mix, who co-mingle

dissimilars to create a cohesive whole.

I want to spread sweetness, to be a workhorse

for beauty, to stir things up,

to clean things out. I want to be useful,

an instrument of unity, a means, a lever for life.

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It’s hardwired, says the instructor,

explaining that all of us tend to identify

more with people who are more like us.

It’s a survival tool from ancient times,

she says, to put people like us in an in group,

and to label the others other.

I take notes. Raise my hand. Participate.

Do exercises that show that although

I say I have no preferences, my limbic brain

has its own opinion. And so

I dedicate myself to finding

the ways we are all alike, uncovering

the ways we all mirror each other—

vulnerable, strong, curious, cautious,

I pledge myself to our common humanity,

to notice my bias and question it.

It’s a survival tool for the present time,

I tell myself. Every one of us, a sliver

of divinity.

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Dear __________,

 

 

 

You are warmly invited to join our conspiracy of joy,

a growing cabal of strangers and friends who collude

to create delight, who initiate random acts of bliss, who

scheme of ways to help all others find authentic jubilance,

who tear down walls that would separate us and them.

If you enjoy such subterfuge, there certainly is room

for you. To be clear, you may be charged with pleasure,

ecstasy, and truth. Next meeting, now. And now. And now

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So beautiful,

this tiny red and white spider

I forget to shudder

and for a moment,

the war between want

and don’t want

is silenced.

It continues its journey

along the car door.

I walk away, slightly

more spider

than I was before.

 

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Invitation

 

I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

            —The New Seekers

 

 

The earth, say the scientists,

is more bell than we thought,

imperceptibly ringing beneath

 

our feet. Just because we can’t

hear it doesn’t mean it’s not

being played ceaselessly,

 

an ultralow hum thousands

of times below what the human ear

can hear. And the hum, they say,

 

is everywhere, uniting the globe

in a common tone. Perhaps,

they say, it’s ocean waves

 

that bang on the sea floor

or waves that crash into each other.

Perhaps, they say, the sound

 

goes all the way to the core.

Just because we don’t know why it rings

doesn’t mean we can’t sing along.

 

 

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-science/wp/2017/12/08/scientists-are-slowly-unlocking-the-secrets-of-the-earths-mysterious-hum/?utm_term=.93f97c1ef02f&wpisrc=nl_rainbow&wpmm=1

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Follow the Lead

 

 

a

single

pencil

can

make

a

line

thirty-

five

miles

long,

and

I

wonder

how

many

miles

of

poems

per

pencil—

and

wouldn’t

it

be

amazing

to

have

poems

scrawled

all

across

America—

323.1

million

pencils

worth—

all

of

them

sharpened

not

to

point

at

each

other

but

to

write

the

words

that

must

be

said,

telling

our

stories

and

leading

us

in

looping

lines

ever

closer

to

each

other

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