42

The whole theater applauded loudly at the end of "42."  Can't remember the last time that happened.  Sure didn't happen after "Olympus Has Fallen" or "Moonrise Kingdom."  I know we are suckers for shoot-em-up films and award winning dramatic fiction, but what we really crave is real life valor, someone who embodies righteousness.

Now, I don't really know how accurate "42" is as it was prefaced with the statement "Based on true facts" but in this film many people emerge as heroes.  Jackie Robinson, Rachel Robinson, Branch Rickey, Pee Wee Reese and even some little kid who chases a train. 

Big heroes need small heroes.  Big heroes need some "I got your back."

There was only one time in my life I was directly affected with prejudice.  I was a golfer at the Chardon Lakes Golf Club.  The best on the team, at the time, and had -- the previous year -- lead the group to the #1 spot in league rankings.  Also, my second club championship.  A runaway victory. 

I always started the season 5-6 weeks late because of school, so, one Tuesday in June, I walked into the locker room and saw a photo of me on the eighteenth green holding the trophy from the previous August.  "Women's Club Champ, Jean Reinhold,"  It made me happy. Proud. 

Then, just as quickly as those feelings popped up, they were squashed when I saw written next to the caption this one word: dyke.  All caps, in pen, small but surely noticeable.  Crazy thing too: to that point I had never kissed a girl, had never been on a date.  I just looked the part, I guess.

I yanked the picture down, went to the desk and asked the worker how long the picture hanging.  She said, "A couple months."  Then I demanded my money back, walked out of the clubhouse, and never went back.

I was not and am not mad at the person who wrote that word beside my picture; that's just dumb ignorance.  What did me in was the fact that all of my teammates had seen that picture -- all of the people who had seemed to like me for years -- and no one took it down.  They let hang there for 60 days...40 days...maybe only 3 days.  Who knows.  Had it only been that day, that still was one day too many.

And no one called when I never came back.  No one asked me why I had left.   No one contacted me for league play.  I was just completely dismissed.

So, damn, I'm impressed with Jackie Robinson.  His resolve in the face of hatred and ignorance.  And I'm also so impressed with Rachel Robinson, Branch Rickey and Pee Wee Reece, Ralph Braca, and the writer, Wendell Smith.  They did what we are all called to do in the face of radical bravery.  If we cannot stand in front of the charge, we must stand right behind and, with our solid stance, show our heroes that they are not alone.  That they have our sympathy, that we are suffering beside them and streaming them with strength to help gird their own. 

The pothole that swallowed me

4.17

My annual Big Fall happened today. Turned my ankle, tried to get my legs back under me, but -- after a 20 foot drunken stumble -- I succumbed and splatted against the blacktop, smacking my hands and knees and face.  I am fine, no worries except for a pretty bad headache and the general aches one would expect from this kind of incident.  

After Karmi helped me up and we laughed, recounting the slow-motion cartwheeling of my body out of control, my first thought was, 'Damn it, these are my favorite pants! The ones that always fit and make my butt look cute.  That tar stain better come out.'

My second thought was a much more important a cogent one, thank god. For weeks in Buddhism class we have been asking our teacher about guilt.  It's hard to wrap Judeo-christian minds around a schema that does not have guilt. I have been swimming in guilt my whole life. I bathe in it. I freeze it for future use.  I paint it on my walls.  Swallow it whole including the seeds.  Every week, Palmo tries to explain how karma works and how guilt is NOT part of that process, and my brain could only muster flashes of knowing.  Today, I got it.  I understand.  

I fell.  Something bad happened, but I had no inclination to blame or berate myself.  I simply looked at the causes: the edge differential in the blacktop and my lack of attention. I noted them and I thought about corrective action: making sure that I glance down knowing my proclivity to fall. I did not attach guilt or self-anger to the event, for it would serve no purpose.  I simply noted the fruition of a harmful action and thought about how to prevent its reoccurrence. 

That is what Palmo has been trying to explain.  

We will do bad things.  I will eat too large a hunk of cheese in the near future probably -- and, sure I could wallow in self-hatred, but it would serve no helpful purpose.  I need to seek the root action, see the harmful fruition of that action, and try to think of ways to do things differently.  

I will hurt someone -- who knows who or when or why -- and, yes, I could feel guilty or I can reflect, choose and act differently.  

Guilt does not help the healing process -- as I have always thought it did --  it halts it.  Guilt slows the process of growth and compassion. 

I get it, I really do.  And for that I thank this little pothole.  What is a little scrape on my knee compared to a whole new way of thinking? 

Saving my own life

4.16

I had dinner with a friend who started running again after a lapse of time, and in the following years, lost weight and regained a fitness level that surpasses everyone I know.  She's disciplined about her running and eating, and has now started to add yoga and reiki to her routine.  I know many people, including me, who pledge to change something and within weeks abandon that vow.  It takes a huge amount of fortitude to do what my friend's done; it's hard to break habitual patterns.  But there is something else that it takes -- and this, I suspect, is what I am lacking.  For my friend to have done what she has done takes a certain level of love.  Change is a loving choice.  

Whenever I vow to do _______ (fill in the blank with anything: walk more, eat less, start swimming again, play golf, yada yada), I do so from a hating stance.  From a place of anger and, dare I say, disgust with myself.   I know what my lack of fitness is doing to my current life and I can easily envision future consequences.  So, more often than not, when I start to think about making life changes I do so as a school marm might, wagging her finger in my face.  We do that all of the time -- wag our own fingers in our own faces. 

And maybe that's why it has not worked.  It hard to do something for someone who is expressing loathing, even if it is yourself.  

None of my great teachers and mentors have been so because of a harsh stance they took with me (Except for Coach Stull who always yelled at me a little bit when he saw me taking the shortcut when I did tennis laps).

Every single person who got me to work hard did so because of three things: 1) they liked me, 2) respected me, and 3) saw great potential in me and pushed me to my greater self.  Coach Stull did that too, besides the yelling.  So did Coach Huey.  Anna Crider.  Nancy Zafris.  George Cannon.  Carrie Conrad.  Clover Beal.  Even my buddhism teacher, now, even though she wouldn't admit it to me.  

And you know what?  I can't even remember the names of the people that tried to force or belittle me into growth.  They simply had no impact. 

So, how do I save my own life?  I gotta like me.  I have to respect me.  I have to see great potential in me.  Just like all of my great teachers.  

I know this may seem obvious to you.  Or maybe you heard it ten years ago on Oprah.  But me?  I just figured it out. 

So knowing this, I could make a vow to eat better tomorrow, which I certainly need to do, or I could pledge to start to take spring walks.  But instead, I think I will just promise to be gentle and loving with myself.  Watch myself from a more distant vantage...maybe hear Ryan Gosling's voice in my head.  "Hey girl, you gonna eat that salad or do you want me to feed it to you?" Yeah, that'll work.  That'll work for sure. 

Boston Marathon Explosions

 4.15

Once again, the day’s bright light,

and each speck of spring’s good rising,

clouded by intentional harm.

Children on the front lawn,

wiffle golf and lemon popsicles, 
listening to a distant church's chime. 

Diversion from seeing the news, 

finding out the truth about us. 

How we must confuse 
and disappoint them.

When they ask me about war, 

I never know what to say.

Magee Marsh

4.14 

One thing is certain: I am not a birder.  Nope.  But, boy, was it fun to watch the birders.  Their uniform greeting - "Seen anything?"  The way they stop, pause, stare at the ground or deep through the branches.  The tilt of the head.  The enormity of their scopes and cameras, the expensive binoculars.  The words they use, the things they know.   How they stop to chat or share information with everyone, so congenial.  

One of my favorites was a woman. The coolest garb I have ever seen.  A huge tripod.  The longest camera lens I have ever seen - maybe 24 inches.  Short hair, deep voice.  Alone.  I wanted to follow her around to see what she was seeing. Ask her, in a good way,  "What has made you so committed to this?" 

Another was a very short forty year old man.  Maybe 4'10" wearing camo pants and jacket.  He had a full-on 1970's ZZ Top beard and a boyish smile.  He winked at me as I walked by and, sweet jesus, my jagged heart skipped a beat.   

I know I was supposed to be looking for and at the birds, but I like listened to the bird clatter.  Exciting, excited, excitable.  I wanted to find things to photograph.  A ladybug, a lightening bug.  The beginning of pink buds.  The wear on the graying boardwalk. The letter "R" carved into the marrow of a tree.  A stump covered by fungus. It was all so fucking lovely to me.  No birds, but beauty in this beholder's eyes. 

At first I felt less-than and undeserving.  What the heck was I doing at Magee Marsh with the birders as the largest migration season begins? Then I got it, I was there to see what I saw.  I was there to hear what I heard.  

To me, the mated swan pair was worth it.  The smoke billowing out of the nuclear power plant was worth it.  The eagle sighting.  The strum of Lake Erie waving in.  Talking with Nikki.  A rock I picked up on the shore.  Crossing the Sandusky bridge, water on both sides as far as I could see.  The cheery cottages at Lakeside.  Stopping at Chipotle in Amherst, reading about karma. The meditative thrum of highway driving.  The windburn on my cheeks.  All of it, worth it. 

Leonard Krieger CanalWay Center

4.13

I'm watching the birds zoom in and out of the feeders at the Ohio and Erie Canal Visitor Center.  I know my friends Nik and Deb would say, "Oh there's a yellow winged zingbat."  or "It's rare to see male boolingers so early in the season."  I know nothing about birds, but man, I like them.  The darts and swoops of the small ones.  The slow glide of falcons.  I could sit on my front porch for hours trying to decode the chatter and song.

It's like a movie at the nature center today -- the windows a screen to this beautiful feeding frenzy. 

In Buddhism class a few weeks ago, we were talking about the animal realm of samsura and how unsatisfying animal life must be.  It's a persistent search for food.  Eat, mate, shit, sleep.  Eat, eat, mate, shit, sleep.  That's about it for animals in the wild.  

I won't speak to the other elements, but persistently seeking food?  I do that all of the time -- and I am not talking about nutrients, the tangible attainment of protein and fat.  For me, it's an all-day hunt for nourishment.  The desire for conversation might be insatiable.  Then quiet.  Then the need for information.  Music.  Food, real food.  Wind.  Scooter.  Quiet.  Exercise.  Rest.  Touch.  Quiet.  Laughter.  I'm always hungry for something. 

Lots of people are birdwatching at Canalway.  Lots of little kids roaming around too.  I stop a boy, Louie, from going into the waterfall.  He was at the center for a pre-school turtle class.  I talk to Louie's mom.  I talk with Louie.  

A man walks in with his dog, a big herding shepherd.  He sits down by the windows; I'm behind him typing this at a table.  I ask him a few questions, and soon, I'm drawn to leave this post and sit in a rocker beside him.  "Jim," he extends a hand, "My name is Jim."

My new friend says it's a ragtag group of common spring woodlands birds.  Blackbirds.  Downy woodpeckers. Sparrows, juncos.  I know they're nothing special, but I can't take my eyes off the flutter and attack.  They all want whatever is being served in the long column feeder. Stillness, caution, approach, feeding, zooming away, zooming back, flutter, swap, linger, dart, flock and fluster.  Dashes of red, chartreuse, white, salmon against the gray sky, the brown trees.  

Jim teaches me how to use the binoculars.  Focus with the left eye, closing the right.  Then reverse.  I can see now.  The tufts on the tufted titmouse.  The sleet on the cardinal's head. He points, talks, explains.  

I like Jim.  His blue eyes, Marine haircut.  His is a Bay Village face.  Shaker Heights.  There's something familiar about him.  

He talks while I listen.  He tells me about his friend, the naturalist, who could name every inch of the flora and fauna we see before us.  How this man slowly went deaf then received cochlear implants.  How he cried when he was able to hear the seven calls of the red winged blackbird. 

He tells me about his dog, Shannon.  How he'd had another dog for eighteen years, then had a year of mourning, how he prayed to his old dog to help him find a walking companion.  How he went to the pound and spied the then-emaciated Shannon.  Every time he says her name, she wags. 

We sit, quietly, look at the birds.  

I tell him about the rookery.  The way male herons bring sticks to a female as a courting ritual.  He tells me about the eagles on the westside.  How a mated pair was protecting their egg, then the male was killed on I-480.  The naturalists didn't think the egg would hatch without the support of the father.  But it did, and now a second male is wooing the mother, trying to help raise the eaglet. 

We talk about left eye dominance.  How it increases the batting averages of right handed batters.  He tells me his baseball average, his softball slugging percentage.  I tell him I was always around 700.  He smiles, we laugh, trade high fives.  

More quiet.  More rocking.  This is an easy man to be with.  

He points to a particular bright yellow finch.  Says that they are brownish in the winter, then plume into this amazing color each spring.  I ask if it's for mating.  He teaches me that it's for self-preservation in the winter, to avoid being spotted by predators.  

We talk about biking.  Lasik surgery.  Smoking pot at Squire's Castle. We share his protein bar.  We talk about Lance Armstrong, Chuck Yeager, Tiger Woods.  Two stroke penalties.  Lung capacity.  Migration patterns.  Magee Marsh.  Good walking shoes.  Bad knees.  And, then, when Shannon stands and stretches, he says it's time to go.  We shake good-bye.  

I return to this screen and see what I was writing: the desires that I am starving for.  It doesn't take a whack on the head to realize how much I have been fed by the last hour with Jim.  Talk, information, sadness, food, quiet, rocking, sharing, storytelling, listening, eye contact, petting, wagging, more stories. It's like I made placed an order on a menu and a delicious meal was put before me for free.  

Driving to my next destination, I kept thinking about Magee Marsh.  How great it would be to see this world famous spring migration in person, especially after the thrill I got from watching 3 puny feeders this morning.  I pull over into a parking lot and google the location and tomorrow's weather.  I think about NIkki and Deb, their new trailer on the shore of Lake Erie.  I check my gas, plenty to get to Sandusky and back.  And just as I am locking in tomorrow's adventure to western Ohio,  a car drives past me.  A Romney Ryan bumpersticker.  And, right beside it, something I have never seen in my life: another saying Magee Marsh. 

There's something in the air today, people.  Something in the water.  Something flying round the sky.  Coincidence, some people might say.  Me?  I'm not going to call it anything, but I'm sure going to pay attention.  Yes, attention is being paid. 

What if, for one day

4.12

I remember Mr. Zacur explaining

the different between kinetic and potential energy.

What is in us is so much more than what is of us.

If you could see inside me:

dreams mortared with pliant hope,

and thousands of thin whirling spindles.

At night I dream in song, quote ancient texts.

I run through forests at high speeds.

Sometimes I wake up thinking

I could build sanctuaries out of airplane fins

and spider silk, serve a communion meal

of fig juice and bird seed on tin can platters.

It’s not hard to imagine everything worthy

of blessing and consecration,

even on this rainy evening, all I see is white.

What if, for one day, we could meet

our full selves, press our fingers against

stone and make song, drum our fists

to create radiant light, open out mouths

and transmit fissionable wisdom.

My skin is tense, my brain itching,

so much is stored up, perched.   

Life may be half over, but I am

still humming with natal faith.