Willing to Listen: Peacebuilding after the Berkeley Clash

Arriving at MLK Civic Center Park in Berkeley minutes after violent clashes are over and most folks have moved on, my first impression is silence. A war zone following the battle. A spacious green field surrounded in orange mesh. Signs of what was enclosing what is. What remains? Part shock, part anger, part confusion, part sorrow. Why am I here, the action seemingly over? Today, Holy Saturday, a day of vigil and of rest, falling this year on the Shabbat during Passover. The Song of Songs is chanted in synagogues worldwide, the story of Exodus retold, a story which also informs a movement, this park named for the vision of Dr. King. I hear him echoing that ancient refrain, "Free at last." I remember his legacy and that of the Free Speech movement. 

Feet and heart lead me forward. I see a lone sign sprawled out on a tree on my left, "Pro-USA, Proud. Strong. Unafraid in Berkeley." I walk past a huge wall on my right proclaiming, "Jesus Christ Superstar" and below this, "Do you think you're what they say you are?" Beside it, on the next wall, angry scrawls. Words popping out: fascism, anti-fascism (takes a while to make this one out as it is crossed out). After reading beside these, "Go Home" "No War. No Nazis." I step out into the street, stepping back long enough to get a wider view of the scene. What is being said here really, I wonder. Just then, I hear a young man shout, "hey." I cross the street and stand beside him and four other fellows, all anglo, white skin contrasting with the black T shirts, hoodies, and jeans. 

The fellow who called out to me is wearing a hipster wool cap. His forehead and nose reveal caked and drying blood, remains from a fist fight by the looks of it. He says in an impassioned voice, "So what do you make of that sign? What do you think of how they feel?" I look at him quizically, assessing why he is asking me this. I pause for a breath and say, "Raw heart, I feel pain, torment. How about you?" He sets in, "You know what's crossed out there? 'Anti-fascism. Fascism will come disguised as anti-fascism. I'm here to protect free speech, first amendment rights. 

He adds, "I came up here from LA." Mindful of a slogan ringing in my inner ear, "Hate speech is not free speech," I want to keep cool while aware of my own views and allegiances while not yet clear what is going on. I thought the Antifa would be wearing black. Is he alt right? white supremacist? What is his angle? I remember the urgency of wanting to understand and wanting to connect. I ask, "what do you see? how do you feel?" He says, "you think this is about Trump? Nah, let me ask you. If I say something and you don't like it, what do you do?" I say, "what?" He continues, "Three things you don't do. Three things not covered by the first amendment: 1. Shouting "fire" in a crowded theater, shouting, 2. "I'm gonna kill you," and,  3...." He clenches his hand into a fist. I tense up as he moves it in a quick sweeping arc towards his friend's face and holds still right there. "My fist stops at your face." His friend doesn't move. All that comes to me quickly is, "Yeah" then a pause and, "I'm noticing your face. That looks like it really hurts." He unclenches his fist, brushes his open hand by his nose and goes, "this, no big deal. Comes with the territory." "Well, just the same, I'm sorry it's happening." He says, "We have to fight for our rights." As I stand here, I am vigilant. Am I safe? Why are they still here? 

His friends are urging him on as he continues, "The first amendment...." and goes into what feels like something out of a class on constitutional law, except for the tone and what feels to be his hyper-vigilant body motion. 

As I'm attuning to that, I notice an overturned garbage can across the street. I hear him say, "Look, this is about fascism. See how anti-fascism was crossed out?" I say, "I see. I see pain, a whole lot of rage and pain. I see that here with you and it makes me sad, really sad." The tension in his face releases for a moment as he holds out a hand to shake mine. I reach out both my hands and hold his as our eyes meet. I nod my head, "yeah..." I say, "get home safe." He nods and each of them then shakes my hand. I turn and head into the park beside what looks to be a dried up fountain. I go from there to the tree with the big sign and move to the left looking closely at the ceramic tiles on the Peace Wall. 

I walk back to the fountain my eyes slightly downcast and notice two handmade signs, which read, "Radical Willing to Listen" and "A Lefty who Listens." I look up and see a man and woman, their weathered white faces showing an openness, a compassionate presence. I listen as they listen and occasionally respond to those needing to be heard.

Still, I wonder, why mostly white faces here? 

A young man with a full brown beard wearing a MAGA cap and pro Trump T shirt, his tattooed arms crossed, listens also and then laughs. I read his nervousness and talk with him as a few young white men and one older man sporting a worn western hat in the colors and design of an American flag, gather round. They are unsure where I stand. I introduce myself and say I'm wondering how they are doing. I say heard what is going on and came down to see if could help." I ask them why they came and why they are still here." One after another, each offers a different spin. 

A tall and slender fellow sporting a baseball cap that says, "Ben Carson 2016" and a hipsterish beard says, "I'm Canadian and we don't have free speech. We have blasphemy laws. My wife is Indian and my kids were born here. I'm here because I want them to be able to say what they want." I look at him somewhat confused and repeat, "What they want? What do you want? What do you want to be able to say?" He stops and considers. Another young man jumps in, "Listen, I was here on March 4 and I saw what went down. I was punched. And you know what? You have the right to offend me. I have the right to offend you. Like Gay Pride. I've been to Gay Pride and it is about pride, yeah, and it offends a lot of people and you know what, it's part of how it goes. It is supposed to offend to draw attention to the cause and I'll tell you what else. I'm part of the Pink Pistols. Have you heard of that? I nod no. He says, "If you're gay, if you're LGBTQ, you can get a gun and defend yourself. That is your second amendment right." 

As he finishes, I notice a young man, African American, wearing a flashy red and black superhero-looking suit, with some kind of spiderman design, facial piercing studs, and a long narrow beard. He is looking at his IWatch and remarking about the latest Twitter feeds, and how "we pushed out the Antifa." I am markedly shaken, wondering what is really going on here. 

What is the cause? What are the stakes for these men? He says, "we just have to keep fighting for our rights." I ask him what he means by fighting and he hedges. Suddenly, the tall man with the flag hat who looks oddly out of place in this group, says, "you know what I'd like to see. You know what the problem is? You guys should invite three speakers and they don't speak for long, maybe 10min. You go to the other guys and tell them, invite them and invite them to invite their three speakers and everyone knows about it ahead of time. There are rules." I say, "sounds like you're wanting some kind of dialogue without all the violence." He nods yeah. 

The young men seem to hear the words but don't go there. Instead, they welcome in a young man who just enters the circle, his left forehead showing a fresh and bloodied gash recently stitched up and a smaller one on the top of his head as long straight black hair drapes down his upper back. He clearly is agitated as says, "hey" in greeting. He says just back from the ER.

I ask if he got anything for the pain. I ask how he's doing. He says, "hey, it's all part of it." I say, "It's hard to take all this in but it's good to talk with you. I'm with a group called, Mindful Peacebuilding." I give them the website address. They ask me what that is. I say, "mindfulness is paying attention in a way that shows how to speak and especially listen from the heart, open minded. And peacebuilding comes from that. Brick by brick we build a bridge, we plant a seed, we find a way to grow together, to care for each other. That is what we're doing now, I hope. Trying to understand what happened here today. Take good care and get home safe."

I walk over to another corner of this plaza where a young white woman with long straight brown hair and a crisp blouse and skirt is sitting beside a young man who appears to be Korean-American with blond-dyed hair and wearing some sparkly jewelry and shades. He's looking at his smartphone. I introduce myself and she goes into a lengthy exposition on how she had voted for Trump but now is disappointed in him. She tells me that used to be part of something like Antifa while growing up in Washington D.C. because was anti-globalization. She says she believes in free speech. Then she tells me about a methodist church in San Francisco that is planning to offer a moderated dialogue soon. I wonder what she means by free speech. I wonder again what is going on. I wonder what draws the young man sitting beside her. Even so, I also feel a need to move on. I say that the church's efforts sound well intentioned and let's see. I tell her about Mindful Peacebuilding. She thanks me.

Finally, I walk over to a gathering of two men and one woman, all white. Two are brother and sister, she with long straight blond hair and shades and he with a beard looking a bit hipster-ish. She tells me about the women's march and how good as it was, "it was very white." As she's speaking, as she assumes which "side" I'm on, clearly against "these fascists," as she speaks about a longing to diversify a movement of social change and what serves its best interest; I watch as her brother suddenly says, "I'm going over there to flirt with them, see how they like that." I say I'm concerned for his safety but he continues and walks away as she says, "I've learned to let go of trying to keep him from doing what he does." Just then, a young woman, Latina, who looks shaken, moves a bit closer. I get up and move towards her. She tells me, "I was here" when the violence began. She tells me, "yeah, I saw knives." She pauses, looking off into the distance. She says, "I've been waiting here until all the teens, the youth of color have gone. I want to make sure they don't get hassled." I say, "doesn't look like any one's still here." 

I ask if she is planning to go home. She says with a weary sigh, "I tried but I can't. I'm still so angry." I meet her gaze and nod my head, "yeah." We talk, mostly I listen, and then I introduce her to the man and woman nearby. As I do, I see in the distance two of the men from the group I was talking with on the other side of the plaza approaching. It is the fellow with the western hat and a younger man, who had been standing silently beside me. As they approach, I reach into my bag and say, "I have something to show you all." I tell them about being a new Empowering Clerk with the Center for Supportive Bureaucracy. They all look curious. I say, let's stay in touch so I can issue you all one of these and pull out a Joy Permit. They smile. The flag-hat fellow reads the fine print and laughs. Then, I show them the "Adults Must be Accompanied by Inner Child" poster. 

The formerly silent fellow laughs and says, "yes! We need that. Thanks so much. What you say inspires me." I reply, "what we're doing now is so important. Let's stay in touch." We exchange contact info. We speak of the possibility of hosting some way of engaging folks in this park in coming days. I share a confidence in playfulness as a way of reaching out with courage. "As we are doing right now," I say. And then something remarkable happens. One by one, we hug each other. Even in the midst of embrace, I still am not sure what is happening but I feel a warmth and a quality of joy I cannot quite name. Still, I feel raw. I feel shaken. I feel mildly nauseous and at the same time, open to a flurry of emotion including sorrow and longing. 

I walk away from the park and head to Asha Teahouse nearby for a matcha latte and refuge, space to breathe into all of this. About an hour later, I return to the park, walking on its outskirts. Most everyone has left. I move past skateboarders and look back from a distance. The orange mesh surrounding the grass is now gone. A sign says, "!Attention!" noting that the Farmers Market is closed today while adding, "please support our vendors next Saturday." I cross the street and taking my time, move slowly the remaining blocks to my car. Driving away, I notice that the world seems to be moving a bit slower, a bit brighter with a quality of vibrancy that cannot be attributed to caffeine alone. It is a quickening of a seed watered and slowly but surely growing.

Pray for Our People

I am deeply moved as listen to voicemail of the first caller to ChaplainsOnHand from NYC in distress over what he describes as the, "outcome and resolutions in the Justice dept. over our race, our young, our men being shot and slain... My spirit is troubled." He goes on to use the word, "unanswered" and then "no real solution." I stop the recording to breathe in and attune to what is real, what did he mean by an answer?

I still can hear the haunting echo from the streets of NYC as protesters chant, "I can't breathe."

I breathe into that troubled space in my body and repeat the words, "open, open, open" and sense some spaciousness and feel this man close, feel my friend Jeff Thompson, who has served as Community Outreach liason for the NYPD and also is a dad and student of Thich Nhat Hahn. I breathe with them.

I remember a phrase in the intro to his book, "Keeping the Peace: Mindfulness and Public Service" where police officer Sheri Maples speaks of the imperative of transforming training to include mindful peacebuilding so can be a peace officer.

I feel that responsibility uniting us as feel them close. Then, I press "play" and hear this man, my brother now, say slowly and solidly, "If you could pray for our people, for our departments. May God bless you and make His face to shine upon you and give you peace."In that moment, I feel all of us holding hands breathing that blessing alive.

#ferguson2nyc #ICantBreathe #‎opensourcechaplaincy‬ ‪#‎peacebmindful‬

Girls Day

I step into the small spa gift shop at The Claremont. I am here for an imagination vacation, something inspired by my mom. When my older sisters and I were kids and broke, she fearlessly led us to fancy hotels in Manhattan for lobby and restroom tours. I would marvel at the beauty and vibrancy of these magical spaces. To this day, a women's restroom (powder room, as one used to say) done in style is a thing of wonder.

As I step in, the only other woman in the shop smiles. It's clear she works here. I notice her feet positioned at a well articulated angle to each other. I smile and say, "if don't me asking, do you dance?" Her eyes widen and she pauses then replies, "no..." like there is more she needs to say. I add, "it's just that your feet are in a perfect third position." 

She looks with a layered curiosity towards me. "Ballet," I say. "I studied it as a kid. Your upright posture, your feet... You stand like a dancer." She smiles. As I come closer, am seeing tears in her eyes. She says, "my father said he would teach me to dance. I was six years old." I hear her accent. Sounds familiar with a softness and simultaneous achingly quivering quality. Vietnamese.

She tells me, "my father taught me to ride a bicycle. He told me I could do it. He walked quickly beside me and let one hand go then the other. I just pedaled so fast and..." She smiles, thousands of miles away right here. I nod my head up and down with a slow and steady pace. 

She turns away then back towards me, "What you said... My father gave me chocolate for the first time, told me, "here eat this. It is the best food. I loved it." I told her mine did too. She asks if I am visiting. I tell her I live nearby and came for my birthday to see the beauty. She wishes me happy birthday. I add with delight, "today is also Girls Day in Japan, a day celebrating little girls."

She lifts up her hand with a sudden vibrancy and and turns to get her purse. She pulls out a small wooden figure of a girl and offers it to me, "Happy birthday!" I thank her, "Oh, she is lovely." She continues with a measure of lightness, "My father would make birthday flan instead of cake. I loved it." My eyes widen as we both savor that imagined taste.

She reaches out and touches my hand as tears fill her eyes. "Sometimes I just don't know if I can go on for all the years I have been here." I breathe with her, then affirm softly, "He loved you." Tears spill out. We breathe. She continues, "One night, my father sat beside me. He said he had to go away. He told me, "when I come back, I will teach you to dance."

I feel my body shaking slightly like a tiny tremor is running between us. I focus on my belly and breath flowing there. I say, "what happened?" She says, "The war in my country..." I keep my gaze steady, meeting hers. "He never came home. Even now... And you... How did you know?" Tears spill out.

I open my hand wide, the one she is touching. I place the other hand on my heart and breathe with her. I sway side to side. I tell her how my dad had me step on his toes when I was little and that's how we danced.

I say, . "he wanted you to dance." She squeezes my open hand. I say, "you are not alone." We breathe like that, eye to eye and gently swaying, until I feel us both settling into an even cool rhythm. I ask if she has heard of Thich Nhat Hahn. I tell her about Mindful Peacebuilding. Her eyes sparkle through the tears as she recognizes the name as if a distant glimmer of hope. 

She corrects my pronunciation then tells me of her uncle and writes his name, saying he sent Thay (TNH) a poem, which Thay loved. She shows me her father's dogtag and photo, which she carries with her. I give her my lovinglive card. As we hug, I feel us gently swaying from side to side. A warmth and rhythm fill the whole space. I feel a release while gazing once more into her eyes. 

We sway slower and slower until the movement is imperceptibly subtle, as if these feet are beating in time with the whole space shifting. I cannot tell what or who is moving. My hands let go and I step back. I see her father in her eyes. I see Thay and my parents. I see myself. We are all smiling while crying with joy.

Unexpected Wonder

Walking through the door of a "Board and Care" (re-resourced home) facility, I see a podiatriast completing care for an elegantly while simply dressed Chinese-American woman in her late 90's. She smiles towards me and raises her eyebrows in shared recognition.

After he leaves, she calls out to the facility manager, "hey, he left his glasses and that bag." We laugh. She says matter of factly, "absent minded."

As we talk, she laughs and says, "I quipped with him that when I die, I will be the best groomed corpse!" This leads to her telling me, "I've lived a long life and am not as strong as I used to be. I sleep most of the time and now I dream. Memories from my childhood..." 

I say, "sometimes I wonder if life is like a dream." She smiles and says, "oh yes, because we wish for things but in a dream, things don't turn out as you expect." 

I see a bright sparkle in her eyes.

I ask, "knowing that, what's important now?" She says, "to live one day at a time." I ask, "and as you do that, what then?" "Oh," she says in a softer tone, "I am thankful."

Just then, I see a round cake with candles lit. Everyone is singing, "happy birthday to you..." The cake is for a fellow resident. 

We all stop and enjoy a piece of unexpected wonder.

At Arm's Length

Admiring his parrot pal, this fellow says to me, "hey, you wanna hold him?" He sees surprise and cautious delight on my face. Without hesitation, he places the bird on my arm.

I hold him, indeed, at arm's length as that coined-phrase takes on viscerally clear new significance. The colorful creature open his mouth and lunges (or so it seems from my vantage point) at my face. I instinctively pull my head back. Just then, the fellow laughs and says as if congratulating me, "That's good! You pulled your head back and not your arm."


The feisty bird offers no commentary. He remains to all appearances contentedly silent. I wonder if he is smiling.

Red Rocks Legacy

"I like your Tshirt," I say as this fellow walks by with friends. "My friend designed it," he replies, and introduces me to the man and woman beside him. And so begins a delightful interchange and a brief dance by these red rocks beyond Las Vegas.

"It's my legacy... Love."

Shared Embrace

Visiting with a 90-something woman brightens today. As we talk, she shifts from grieving loss of identity cuz her body functioning is declining. What shows up is an amazing smile, tears in her eyes, as she recognizes that who she is comes down to whom she has embraced. 

When I get up to leave, she says, "I'm sorry I can't walk you to the door." I reply, "you're with me every step of the way right here," as I place my hand over my heart. I see the tears and her smile once more. "Thank you," she says softly. I feel the simple, full beauty of shared embrace.

Free!

"Free!" says a bright yellow paper hanging off a wooden set of drawers as I wander beside this driveway on Potrero Hill. 

Hours later, returning with my car, I also see some potted plants. Just then, a 30-something couple with their six-something son get out of a car. Man says, "oh great! I'll help you carry whatever you want."

I thank him and explain having just moved and wonderful to discover their gift! His wife says, "oh yes, I see your NY plates!" Spotting again the pots in the corner, I ask, "the plants stay, I'm guessing?" He says, "yeah, they stay." 

Minutes later,  as I'm adjusting placement of the drawers in the car, I look up and see a bright-green, potted jade-like plant in his hands. He smiles and says, "welcome to California!" Then he adds, "If you pinch off these large outer leaves and stick them in the ground, they will grow." All at once, I am home.

Wandering on Potrero Hill

Wandering on Potrero Hill, I become fascinated with juxtapositions of this world in transition. One side of the Hill is pure pleasure: beautiful, smart, serene. It attracts me from the first moment arriving here last week as I meet likeminded and upbeat folks. Then someone tells me of the other side of the Hill, the one housing the projects where gets unsafe. 

Today, up top by the park, I see a young couple wearing grey sweats with a baby held in the woman's arms. They enter a ramshackle one-story apartment building. I look downhill and see what must be the projects. I turn and exit the park.

Added to the mix in this neighborhood are signs of its history, the wealthier side anyway, having been a working class neighborhood. Traces of this remain as if time traveling, subtle in spots while noticeable. 

I am reminded of Heinlein's "Stranger in a Strange Land." Then something remarkable happens. I'm walking downhill, a steep hill, in bright while crisply cool sunshine. I hear an old woman's voice cry out, "Can someone help me?" As I turn around to assess where it is coming from, I hear her cry out again and again.

I walk back uphill a few steps and look into her open doorway, a Victorian home several steps up from the sidewalk. A woman with long, unbrushed, grey hair is sitting in a wheelchair holding what appears to be some kind of housecleaning spray bottle. The interior seems ancient and neglected. In the distance, faded light grey carpeting in what looks to be a messy bedroom stands out behind the worn wooden floor in the front hall. Hanging on the bannister leading upstairs are clothes drying. The musty smell is palpable as I walk up the few steps to meet her.

I ask what she needs. She asks me to unscrew the bottle top. Takes a few tries yet I manage to do so. She thanks me. I introduce myself and ask her name. She tells me. I tell her just moved and am exploring the neighborhood. She says, "yeah, I don't know why people want to move here." I reply, "sounds like you've been here a long time." She says, drawing out the words, "oh yeah." I ask, "what do you like about it here?" She pauses, sighs as she smiles then says with a trace of melancholy, "Oh, I'd be lost anywhere else."

We chat for a minute more and I turn to go. She thanks me again, I reply, "my pleasure" and head down the steps. As I turn downhill, I hear her door close and see a 49ers flag flying from someone's rooftop with the stunning cityscape shimmering below. I see a couple of boys throwing a ball back and forth. I take a deep breath, cool and clean. Not knowing what street I'm on, I do the only thing that seems natural. I keep moving.

Seeing Shelter

Sitting quietly tonight, this nearly overwhelming tightness in my chest keeps me awake and intensely uncomfortable. It's hard to stay with this. I want to run as the pressure builds. 

Images appear. The client at an HIV treatment center who overdosed and died. I see him. Can't stop him. I see myself as a child, helpless and terrified. Can't stop her either. Can't stop what is happening to her.

The scene shifts. I see a weathered photograph in a fragile metal frame standing on my grandmother's bureau. I am age eight or nine. In that photo, a little girl a few years younger than my child self is staring out. She is naked to the waist, standing barefoot, wearing shorts in a forest somewhere in Poland. Wavy brownish hair down to her chin, her expression neutral yet piercing in its innocence. Her eyes say everything that matters.

My grandmother does not say much, just a long, disgusted sigh followed by, "she was killed by the nazis." She quickly turns away and heads for her favorite room, the kitchen. I hear the sounds of cookware in motion. But those eyes keep me locked in place.

Now I see my girl self with this forest girl out of time. No longer frozen, two become one. I'm crying, my tears falling in that forest. Grown up me wants to hold this forest girl close, now able to face the horror and see what pierces it. Autumn rain is falling on the branches through layers of canopy down to her hair and naked chest.

The tightness releases in my chest as tears continue to fall. My breath opens. We are safe. I know what I must do - keep facing this fear, this pain, facing while standing in that forest beside her.

I am determined to turn towards those I have hurt. Determined to stop though have failed many times. Now I see the trees all around, feel the bodies sitting upright beside me. We are awake. We will not fail.

I adjust my posture, leaning forward.

"A" True Story

This morning stepping into our apartment building elevator, I spot a little red-haired boy and his strawberry blonde sister beside their mom. He's wearing an SF Giants cap and his sister a Yankees cap.

I say to him, "You're a Giants fan?" and his mom says, "actually, he has a collection from lots of teams." Just then, the boy shining a bright smile looks at me and says confidently, "actually, I'm an A's fan."

Without hesitation, his sister chimes in, "me too!" Mom is chuckling silently. "OK!" I say, "Go A's!" and the kids now go, "A's!" The door opens and the three of them step off. 

The boy quickly turns back to me and we stand there smiling as the door slowly closes.

Heart of You, Heart of Me

I'm walking towards the South Ferry subway station down in Battery Park when I hear guitar strumming. I stop, turn back and see a guy wearing a sky-blue sweatshirt and softly faded blue jeans. He smiles as our eyes meet. The melody is soothing while invigorating. I stop and listen. My eyes are drawn also to an older fellow with a scraggly grey-white beard sitting at the other end of the park bench. He's wearing a baseball cap that says in bold yellow, "Vietnam Veteran." 

When the song ends, I introduce myself and sit down between them. "I'm Jesse," says the guitar player. Jesse tells me he's been walking and hitching around the country for a year now carrying only a guitar and some clothes. Originally from Ohio, he arrived in NYC a few days ago.

Writing and singing songs as he goes. Says they are "prayer movin' through me." When he plays, people stop, people smile, can feel the good vibe. The other fellow on the bench says, "Hey, I'm Jimmy. Man, I like your songs, makes me feel good." Then he tells us he's a Vietnam Vet. Tells us about working down here on 9/11/01. He says, "There were ladies high heels everywhere. They were from the ladies who kicked 'em off, running barefoot." He sighs and pauses, then looks away in the direction of tall buildings for a moment. 

Just then, Jesse starts strumming his guitar softly. Jimmy turns back towards us and tells a few more stories of a more hopeful note, about his wife and son, about moving on from hard times including the Vietnam War and Iraq and Afghanistan where he says his son has served. He says, "nobody knows how it hurts unless they've been there." Jesse and I nod our heads, "yeah." 

When Jimmy leaves, Jesse and I talk about travelling, about getting lost in a good way, about walking in the mountains. He asked if I'd ever been to Nederland, CO. "Ha!" I said, "Been closeby, Boulder last month." And so we talk some more. I say I write songs also.

He smiles and hands me the guitar. I play a song and tell him wrote it when in a Cancer Center "playroom" with a boy in pain sitting in a wheelchair who wouldn't speak. I say, "I looked out the window up many stories and saw all these windows. And the song came through me, called it, 'Look Out the Window.' And as I played it, that boy came to life." Jesse smiles and nods his head like he gets it. When the song's over, I hand him back the guitar. He says, "you have a real sweet voice." That inspires me to sing harmony as he plays a song. 

After a few rounds of this, as we're singing, the wind picks up. Rain drops started to fall. I ask, "what's the name of that one?" He said, "dunno." I say, "I like the refrain: 'Heart of you, Heart of Me'." He smiles.

I hand him a wondercard and invited him to stay in touch saying, "wanna hear where you land next." He laughs and said, "OK!" 

Chazak!

I'm visiting with an elderly Jewish woman wearing a sparkly blue Yankees cap with purple peace signs painted on it. She's sitting up in her hospital bed, about to be discharged after a very extended stay resulting from multiple complications. Our conversations over these weeks keep a simple Hebrew word going, "Chazak!" ("Strength!)"

Today, offering her my hand as I have each visit, I say quietly while firmly, "From strength to strength." She grips my hand, as she has each time. She has shared how hard it is to keep going and what gets her through. She has told me often how absurd life can be, "all the meshugas."

Now, squeezing my hand with hers, she laughs and says, "Strange to Strange. Yes." Now we're both laughing, a laugh that fills the room and my whole body.

Grace

Visiting a middle-aged woman in emotional distress following her surgery, I hear her tell me she feels “desperately alone.” She says that after years in alcohol recovery, this sense of aloneness “triggered my relapse.” As we go deeper, her eyes squeeze shut then tears spill out. She chokes out,“God. I want to...feel God. But I can't."

We say the Serenity Prayer together. She shares more about God of her understanding and her desire to reconnect. She acknowledges that her primary need right now is "serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

She bursts into tears. I guide her in breathing in “God” (silently saying it to herself) and breathing out “Serenity.” This is a method called Attuned Breath Centering, which I developed. Her breath eases. I leave and say will visit her the next day.

The next morning, I visit and we say the Serenity Prayer together. Then, unexpectedly, she bursts into tears saying her sense of aloneness is excruciating, and the Attuned Breath Centering difficult to continue. Something sparks in me, remembering how the palliative team approaches pain management. I ask her, “This part of you that thinks she is desperately alone, rate how alone on a scale of 0-10?” She says, “8.” Then I ask her, “Now imagining this part of you that feels God’s presence, how strongly does she feel this on a scale of 0-10?” She replies, “7.” For a moment, I am uncertain what to do. Then, an image comes to me. I ask her to imagine a wire fence with lots of open space between the wires. On one side stands the alone part of her. On one side stands the part who feels God’s presence.

I say, “Now the one who feels presence offers her hand through the fence, palm facing up. She offers it to the one who thinks she is alone. Tell me what you notice. Please refer to each part of you as “she.” Then you can witness all of you.” She nods her head, “ok.” I encourage, “Tell me, what’s happening?” She breathes a few times and replies, “I” then corrects herself, “She accepts the hand. They are holding hands.” I invite her to breathe into this sensation of holding hands.

Then I say, "Now imagine that as these two are holding each other's hand, the one who feels God's presence, holding clippers in her other hand begins to cut through the fence. Take your time and tell me what is happening." She pauses then says, "they are still holding hands." "OK," I say, "now the hole is growing in this fence and now there is just open space between them, joining them. Let's breathe into this sensation of open space."

After a few minutes, I ask her to rate her aloneness. She smiles with wonderment, her body visibly relazed and her breath slow and deep. She says, “Zero.” Next I ask her, “would you like to name the part of you that feels God's presence?” She pauses for a few breaths and then smiling once more looks up and says softly, “Grace.”

I hold out my hand. She meets me halfway. Our hands rest together on the bar at the edge of her hospital bed. We breathe silently, the room brightens and I feel a tingling sensation in my body. As I release my hand, she says with tears in her eyes, "thank you. I never knew..." I smile and nod my head to acknowledge her words. I echo hers, saying softly, "Grace."

You Must Fight

Visiting a man in his early 80’s who is recovering from hip surgery, I ask, “what keeps you going?” He looks me dead in the eye and says with fierce convicton, “You must fight.” I pause as he does. He adds, “even if it hurts.” He continues, “I had surgery yesterday and I am walking today. They don’t want you to be in bed. If you stay in bed you will sink into the bed and never get up.” He pauses again. I meet his gaze.

Then his tone shifts and he says, “I was married 56 years. My wife died three years ago.” His voice cracks. I say, “it hurts?” He nods his head silently. After a long pause, he says, “Preparation."

I give him a quizzical look. He continues, “Did you know that in that one word are contained over one hundred words?” I reply, “no I didn’t.” He says, “You know how I know?” "How?” I reply. He says, “I took out a dictionary. There is no b,c,d. I started with a. Then e, i..." I resist the urge to question the veracity of what he is suggesting and pay attention to the one word he named. I say, “So many words in that one. Just look for the ones that are there.”

His calmly determined gaze is impossible to ignore. He says, “You tell people. Tell them.” I reply, “I will.” He relaxes his gaze and thanks me. I acknowledge this, turn, and head for the open door.

Be Well

Visiting with an elderly, Jewish, female patient; I say to her, "zay gezunt." The words mean "be well," or "may you be well."

She asks, "When I said that to my father, he said, 'zay mir gezunt.' What does that mean?" I reply, "May we be well."

Her eyes fill with tears as she nods her head in recognition. We are both smiling.

Cake Like

Sitting on a tall stool beside the "bar" at Ten Ren Tea, I spot a tall man to my left being served a large, amber-colored bubble-tea. Beside it I see two single-serving mini-cakes, each wrapped beautifully as is typical of the goodies made by this Taiwan-based chain.

I take a sip of an earthy tea named Puer from a tiny papercup, then ask him what he is drinking. He says, "King's Tea." I recognize this blend of green Oolong and ginseng, known to be energizing while soothingly uplifting. I smile saying, "never saw anyone drink that cold." He replies, "actually, it's warm." I reply, "not hot, not cold. Like the weather today." He laughs and says, "yup, I guess so."

Then I say, "have you tried either of those cakes before?" He says, "no, have you?" I reply, "I've tried the smaller cake but not the larger one." Without a moment's hesitation, he picks up the larger "green tea cake," which is shaped like a heart, and places it beside me on the smooth white counter. Taken by surprise, with eyes wide, I say, "Wow, thank you! I didn't mean to..." He interjects, "hey, two cakes is too much for me, too decadent."

I nod my head slowly in a vulnerable "I guess so" sort of gesture, then offer my hand saying, "hey, I'm Judy." He shakes my hand and says, "Kenneth." We each enjoy a few sips of tea. Then he stands. He turns to go then turns back and asks, "hey, what's the other cake like?" I linger for a breath, remembering the taste of its candied kumquat center. Then I reply, "I like it. It's got bite." He smiles with a touch of mischievous recognition, slowly waves goodbye, then turns and heads for the door.

Move It

Passing through the the Peds (pediatrics) hallway at Hospital for Special Surgery, I hear a little boy say to his dad over and over, "move it move it..." Dad's typing into his smartphone. He says nothing.

Recognizing the boy's refrain, I turn to face him and with a big grin say, "move it, move it" as I shift my hips, dancing like the wacky lemur from kid-flick "Madagascar."

The boy smiles and joins in. Now both of us are dancing and going, "move it move it..."


Dad suddenly looks up and boy, he sure is smiling!

Beautiful

With fewer patients in-house today, some of the nurses are chatting, comparing manicure tips. This sparks a warm tingling in my body. I feel my grandmother's hands holding mine.

Years earlier, I am sitting as a little girl beside my maternal grandmother or Bubby, as we call her. Minutes earlier, this woman who speaks six languages puts out two folding metal "tv dinner tray" tables, one for her and one for me. We sit facing a big TV to watch her favorite soap, "As the World Turns."

On each tray are supplies including: a small bowl of green Palmolive (yes, really), a small moist washcloth, nailfile and other tools, and pinkish-creme-colored nailpolish. We sit in silence and do our nails as drama unfolds before us.

The images and sounds on the screen do not distract me. I am focussed on the ordered sequence of activity and captivated by the wonderful colors, textures, and movements. After polishing each nail, I bend my knuckles down then quickly flick the long fingers up and towards the sky. My fingers are dancing.

When I'm done, I stand and walk over to where she is sitting. Bubby holds my hands to see my handiwork. I feel my whole body tingling and a warmth spreading throughout my chest and hands.

Here, for this instant, all drama slips away and the world is preciously beautiful.

Silent Scream

My pager goes off. I call in and get a referral for a pre-surgery visit with a middle-aged woman. She is reported to be screaming in pain at the slightest touch. I'm told that she is severely underweight and her prognosis is serious and complex.

Entering the pre-surgical "holding area," I hear voices of moderate volume all around, which blur into a churning hum. Moving past one bed, I see a curtain, which opens just enough to glimpse a nurse standing several feet in front and to my left. Bedside with the referred patient, the nurse asks about her medical history.

Directly in front of me is an older woman. After introducing myself, she tells me, "I'm her mom" and appears relieved for my presence. Her face, which showed tension as I approached, now eases a bit. Seeing my badge, she says with enthusiasm and surprise, "a new friend of mine has the same name as you." We laugh. I ask her how she met her friend. She tells me they are in an "opera appreciation" class.

She adds, "the popular operas are easy but the other ones, you have to get into the story and the undertone to really appreciate them. It's not easy but it's worth it."

Just then, the nurse walks past me.  I approach the patient's bed and introduce myself. She looks exhausted. Her eyes seem to have sunken into their sockets. She tells me that a few friends have sent her well wishes, yet her tone of voice suggests disappointment and hurt. I respond in a neutral tone, "a few..." and pause. She turns away for an instant then back to face me, and says with palpable, hushed rage, "yes."

We pause, eyes locking. Then she says, "look, I'm in pain. That's it." My eyes widen in recognition. I affirm, "yeah." She slowly nods her head up and down. She says, "I can't talk now." I say, "ok" and stand up. As I turn, her mother is looking towards me with a hollow expression that conveys helplessness, sorrow, and confusion. I meet the mother's gaze and move closer, approaching the edge of the curtain. I turn to face them both and say, "I was just thinking, the thing I love about opera is the passion, how when you listen, it feels like you get to scream."

Both women look at me with dismay, which quickly shifts to curious interest. The mother begins to smile as I continue, "Once I visited a woman in the hospital who was in intense pain. She says to me, 'I just want to scream but how can I, here?" I suggest, "how about a silent scream?" She asks with enthusiasm, 'how?' I say, 'Close your eyes.' She does. 'Now picture where you need to be when you scream.' Without hesitation, she says to me, "I know exactly where. In the middle of the street, tons of traffic. But when I go there, everything stops.' I affirm, "Ok, now slowly open your eyes." She does and looks directly at me."

I pause. Mother and daughter are looking right at me with the same fierce determination as the woman standing in the midst of traffic. I continue, "As she opens her eyes, this is what I do." Without a sound, I close my eyes and tighten every muscle in my face. Then, I open my mouth as wide as possible and my whole face shakes with intense release.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Both women's eyes are open wide and locked on to me. Their mouths are hanging open. I notice the subtle nuances in each woman's quietly fierce gaze. In the bed, I see the patient's head moving up and down with an understated while powerfully enunciated vibrancy. My whole body hears her.

"YES!"

I stand still. After a few silent breaths, the mother says softly, "thank you." I nod to acknowledge this, then turn to go.