The Waves of Questions: Colonization

I am not here to colonize. I am not here to live luxuriously while you suffer or to promote English Only. Listen to me: I'm not. 

But you can't just listen to my words and believe me, you have to listen to my story: my history. I am my own person, yes. But more than that, I am a part of a history and a culture and this is alive and active in who I am. To separate myself from that would be giving in to one of the biggest lies white culture tells.

My skin color and Christian faith is enough of a historical red flag. Add on my US citizenship and native language and I'm a recipe rich in imperialistic history that needs to be examined before I step foot onto a plane and off into some developing country with all my foreign money or good intentions.

"To hell with good intentions," Ivan Illich declared.

Generations have come before me. The land I live on is "mine" because of blood shed, people coerced, and proselytization. The education system I learn in and will soon teach for is white washed and not pretty; text books excluding whole peoples and realities.

I cannot ignore the systems and history that shape who I am and how others see me.

Does this mean staying? Not necessarily, because too often staying "home" means staying stagnant. And, no, because I have to believe that systems change. That power can be transformed. Not in and of myself or with my white friends. But in realistic communities which reflect the life around us. In asking questions and listening for understanding.

The waves of reality come in and I let them wash away any facades I have of my good intentions overriding my racial, ethnic, and religious history. My intention is not to colonize, but my history lends me towards subconsciously acting out of a colonizing mindset.

I keep walking, next to my brothers and sisters from different countries, races, native languages, sexualities, and religions. And I push through my paperwork for the new school I will teach at: A Christian school in Buddhist Thailand. Here I go.

Water and Buds and Lightning Across the Sky

For an hour (maybe it was more or maybe it was less)
I had sat, captivated by the lightning I saw right when I blinked my eye. So I stayed and I watched the branches of the trees become silhouettes while the still-brown leaves of the oak trees rustled in their goodness. Wind through the leaves and the tufts belonging to the geese who just returned home.

Then there was that time, the wind paused and it was silent. A holy silence filled with the many thanks from the trees and the blades of grass still under the soil and the now-calm water on the lake. Thanks given in a million different ways from the millions of different creations around me and I, there, in the midst of it
a witness to this gratitude.
A gratitude filled with trust. Trust that life is being redeemed, it is being made new;
the rain will come.

And when it did come, I, the last of all,
gave my thanks.

The Invitation

In these last few weeks, I can't help but return to the same image again and again. In it, sometimes the sun is shining bright so I have to squint, and other times the sky is a palette of greys, blending with the frozen lake. No matter what, there's the tree. Bare of leaves except at the tippy top. There, on the small branch coming from the larger one, coming from the trunk, there's a leaf. One leaf, just hanging there.

When I first saw this, I sat, puzzled and feeling contemplative with my cup of Earl Grey in hand.

Then I heard, so clearly from somewhere inside of me or maybe whispered from the tree: 
"you weren't created for this."

But what, exactly, is this? Does this refer to the place I'm at right now? Or the place I'm preparing to go? Or maybe it's more of a spiritual state I'm in? Or a way of operating? Is it the friends I have or maybe the ones who have left me? 

There's no answer. So, I continue returning to this image and continue asking this question.

I wrote a poem about the leaf (what a tree-hugging Romantic, I know...bear with me). And as I re-read it, I realize that maybe it's addressed more to myself and to you than to a leaf. 

The Invitation 

When the southern winds move northerly, there comes the invitation you were created for, though maybe you didn't know it until the winds themself sung:

"Come learn the dance which begins

with letting go of what you know

until something greater can grow.

But first you must leave.

It's in your name, you see.

Come,"

she laughs and dances on.

But you stay, somewhere between being a faithful companion and a stubborn coward, and ask questions on the details of matters you can't yet comprehend.

So you see seasons you were never prepared for, full of joys and tears and trials just as life always is. And when you finally pause you hear, again, the never-ending chorus of the winds:

come, let go of what you know, and join in the journey.

Again and Again

After your soft heart has been ripped through

by Suffering Unexpected

and it seems nothing will grow here again,

Grace remains

patient to hold you tight when you pound and pound,

begging questions with no answers.

Held tighter still.

Grace that never stops, always present

and chasing after you as you

scurry about,

retracing memories and promises and always

needing just one more piece,

looking under rocks through the woods

and sometimes the houses too.

Which began when first words were uttered, now,

it sits with you, on this tree stump

and tears help flowers grow

where life was taken.

A Dance

During my short, 

and bone-chilling walks 

through the snow I often 

admire the bold Evergreen. 

He stands tall and rarely 

bows to the wind; 

reminding me that 

life and hope prevail. 

Then, today, I looked 

to the great Oak. 

She, too, stands out amongst the others 

with her old brown crunchy leaves clinging 

closely to the branches. 

"I'd prefer the Evergreen," 

I thought. 

Then, I heard her leaves rustle. 

And I realized, the great Oak knows, 

more than any other, 

to dance with each whisper 

of music the wind provides.