stone

We demand assimilation. We demand this of them.  And I confess, that left to my own understandings, I fall into living out the dichotomy. Today, this is what I mourn. 

My daily practice of empathy is just that: a practice. A practice that goes against my long-laden history of "English only", proselytization, and the labeling of others to keep ours safe. To keep myself safe. 

If they speak their language and I don't understand, where will my power be? (and if it has been lost, then mustn't I acknowledge that my power is merely a privilege?)

If they share their theology and it contracts what I know, will mine fall apart? (and if it does, would that not be evidence that our understandings are so deeply intertwined?)

If their label doesn't actually separate us, does the label have a say anymore? (and if it doesn't, from whom or what will our belonging come from?)

If these ifs transform out of questions and into realities, will my life be safe? Will it ever be the same? [No! Praise God, no!]

More and more I'm allowing questions to become realities so that truth can be the answer instead of fear-driven predictions. 

I open my heart and I live the truth that hearts of stone can be changed. 

And as I open my heart, I also watch borders close, stones be thrown, and walls built up.

And I mourn. 

But, perhaps these tears are a part of the work. They quicken the process. 

Stones turned into life. 

movement

With each plane that flies overhead I giggle a little: "I'm just the luckiest girl!" A plane. Pretending to be a bird. Carrying people. People! Movement. 

This is how my days begin, with the roar of an engine. I keep my eyes closed and imagine children returning to sleep, businessmen turning off mobile devices, and perhaps one or two giddy souls with their eyes locked to the window, prepared to see the sun rise and new lands. I try to time it so my eyes open right to the plane as it crosses the sky out my balcony door. I've practiced this for two years, wherever I'm lucky enough to live near an airport. Another one of my little games that makes boredom nearly impossible. 

Washing of the face. Feeding the dog. Teaching clothes packed. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal.

The salutes of security guards superfluous. It's another guessing game: which language will they greet me in, how long will their eyes follow me, and whatever do they do all day? My white skin is what men and women here labor for. In America, I'm pasty. But here I'm beautiful. Coupled with blue eyes? Sometimes I wonder if it is this combination that has gotten me so many friends. 

Eyes quickly return back to phones. Always back to the phones. Let's add filters to this time we have together. Let's enter into a more expansive world called "Online". Meanwhile, another airplane's engine roars and the joys of life-- the joys of now--pass over the heads of those around me.