Culture

May 4, 2015December 18, 2019

Inside and Outside

Working for justice in the world begins on the inside.

We live in a culture addicted to power, growth and control. While these elements affect each of us differently, depending on our race, class or gender (among other things), they ultimately influence us all. In order to step outside of injustice and into the Kingdom of God, we need to wake up to the full spectrum of reality around and within us.

For instance, it was easy for me to assume that my life experience and knowledge, alongside good intentions and spirit-led values, were enough to build a strong inner foundation for my work in the world. This was not true. I had to learn to recognize systemic abuses of money and power. Likewise, I needed to look deeply inside to notice my own assumptions and to clearly see when my behaviors (subtle or obvious) were not in alignment with my values.

Diverse, in-depth community was the context in which I was able to do this kind of waking up to and unhooking from the distress of our culture’s oppression. In that community, I discovered the truth that we are all part of a much greater fabric, one that includes the voices of our ancestors, the hopes of our descendants and the messy and miraculous humanity of our contemporaries around the globe.

Honestly sharing stories of our experiences, perspectives and assumptions across our differences has the power to break down the walls that divide us.

These are words I’d like to shout from the mountain tops, announcing the message I’d like to share and the path I’d like to walk. What would your message to the world sound like?

April 24, 2015December 18, 2019

White Supremacist

A viewer answered my YouTube video’s title“What it Means to be White” with a direct answer: “It means to be a white supremacist (racist)!”

In the past, his words would have cut me to the core. As it was, I merely gasped for a moment. Well aware of individual and systemic racism, my emotions would once have boiled at the assumption that I, one who has worked so hard for justice, was a “white supremacist.” Back then, in my offended state, fruitful exploration of his analysis would have been impossible.

I am grateful that I’ve done enough work with racism, mine and the culture’s, to be able to step back and carefully read what he had to say.

There is some truth in his accusation. As a Euro-American, I was born, raised and now live in a culture where white skin is considered normative. The vast majority of those with historical and current power in our culture are white skinned. Therefore, collective societal experience and perception is inevitably biased toward whiteness.

In short, ours is a culture where white is considered supreme, even though few would articulate it so bluntly. This bias has been part of the American and European fabric of life for so long that the belief in the superiority of the white race, especially in matters of intelligence and culture, is woven into the unconsciousness of individuals and institutions.

I’ve had my own journey waking up to racism. Sitting in a diverse group of participants in a Be Present, Inc. Training on the Issues of Race, Gender Power & Class, I listened intently as Cynthia told the story of her mother, Pat.* In 1965, shortly after moving from the west coast to Dallas, Texas, Pat was confused by a “Whites Only” sign in the laundromat window. Not sure why they wanted her to wash only white clothes, she’d entered and proceeded to finish all of her laundry, whites and colors. Later, at home, she’d realized that “white” had referred to her skin color, not her laundry. Listening to Pat’s story forty years later, I realized that I’d never seen signs such as these in any Texas business of my childhood. Blinded by a racism I didn’t even know existed at nine years of age, I’d not seen what was all around me. Waking up to racism happened in stages beginning in my teen years. Since then, every new insight has propelled me to wake up and change.

I am a white supremacist by default, because the culture’s shards of racism are lodged within me deeply as they are within any child of this society. Likewise, I work and live in the midst of diversity where collaboratively we seek justice and equity. We humans are paradoxical by nature. Denial merely pushes the parts deemed shameful into our shadow where they can do the most harm.

I am, however, uninterested in keeping silent about race nor about constraining racial conversations within the dualities of oppressor and oppressed, white supremacist and victim.

Instead, I want radical, root-level transformation. To do that we must build partnerships across our differences: Black and white. Red and yellow. Young and old. Rich and poor. Women and men. We must be able to listen to each other outside of our own personal experiences and our cherished social analysis.

Waking up to the presence of the culture’s injustice within and around us is a demanding process. Our deeply divided world cries out for justice, and the spirit of our response matters in spite of our differences.

How do we best support each other to see and shift behaviors that are out of alignment with our longing for justice and equity? We can no longer ignore disrespectful and unjust behavior. We must take the risk and step into the middle of difficult conversations.

Labels such as “white supremacist” may be short hand and direct, but I prefer the longer road of initiating conversations that open the possibility for long-term personal and social change.

*Story told in my social change memoir Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself

December 17, 2014

White Like Me in Times Like These

The news reports are always lurking at the edges of my mind; another white policeman kills an unarmed black man and no charges are filed.

What does that have to do with me? I am a good person. Kind. Big hearted. My intent, even as a child, was to treat everyone equally. I don’t know anything about the white policemen who have killed unarmed black men. Some, no doubt, are openly racist. But many, I presume, may be just like me—filled with good intent and thoughts of equanimity.

Unfortunately, none of us was born in a vacuum. The racial values and assumptions of centuries of U.S. and European culture were fed to us with our mother’s milk and our ABCs: White-skinned people are better/smarter/less dangerous/more deserving than black-skinned people.

Growing up in my moderate Texas household in the 1950s and 1960s, the black/white divide was never stated that bluntly nor articulated with such obvious prejudice. Yet my world was filled with upstanding white people—professionals, teachers, authors, neighbors and church members—and unknown black people—often either working in our homes or yards, reportedly breaking the law on the nightly news or rioting somewhere far away in civil rights protests. My limited experience led me to feel safer around my people, white people.

Until I identify and extricate these shards of racism buried deep in my bones, they will emerge in times of stress. Even when my sight is focused on justice and my vision is bold, these deep-seated, cultural biases don’t magically evaporate. I, and we, must wake up to the big and small ways that prejudice is infecting our actions and beliefs.

When racism shows up in me, it can break relationships, put black friends in jeopardy or cause deep hurt. When it shows up in white policemen armed with guns, these internalized racial fears too often turn deadly. When it shows up in grand juries and court trials, justice can’t be served.

We can no longer pretend that racism, conscious or unconscious, is an occasional or individual problem as too many more black men than white men are either killed by police or incarcerated. The underbelly of systemic racism has once again been exposed.

People ask me, often softly, “Do you have any hope?”

Yes, I do.

I’ve spent decades diving into the intersection of my life and the “Big Topics,” as I call them, as they cut through our world. My family and upbringing was rather ordinary, even for a white girl. No alcoholism, drugs or violence. No words of racial hatred. No overt sexism; my grandmothers and mother were all strong, independent women. Nevertheless, I finally noticed that I was asleep to the ways that race, class and gender—the big “isms”—were present and active in the corners of my mind or in a reactive moment.

I knew I had to share these discoveries as small steps toward having our society come to grips with the kind of internal racism that’s hard to acknowledge, which is what I did in Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself. I wanted my story to expand reader’s awareness of a bigger and more diverse reality of themselves and the world around them. When we awaken, I believe that we can see more clearly the ways that our actions—especially under stress—can be brought into alignment with our hearts and values.

Asleep and denying their presence, our unconsciously held beliefs are extremely dangerous in times of stress. Likewise, wallowing for too long in shame or guilt will derail change.

The shards of generations and millennia of racism, classism and sexism do not have to remain in our psyches. We can open them up, look at them with clear eyes, and change.

I have hope, but not because the changes required are quick or easy.

Lillie and Nancy 1 — Lillie Allen and Nancy

For the last twelve years, I have been part of an organization, Be Present, Inc., that gathers diverse groups across race, class, age and gender identity. There I learned to build strong partnerships due to my commitment to notice, examine, then shift subtle or overt shards of racism (or any “ism”) that emerge in the middle of our work together. As a result, I am beginning to know myself and others separate from, and outside of, the wounds—historical and present—that have infected and divided us all.*

My hope lies in the fact that more and more of us are waking up to our nation’s horrible generational legacy of racism and taking the necessary steps to remove these shards from our bones and institutions.

It is possible to make these profound changes. I’ve seen the impact of this transformation many times. Even while the heartbreaking violence grows in our streets and in the courts, something new and better is emerging. We must, as a country, wake up because it’s too near midnight to stay asleep.

As American cultural anthropologist Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”

*Check here for the more information about the Be Present Empowerment Model, my primary practice that has taught me how to bring my full, white-skinned self into our multi-colored world.

This blog was originally published by The Broad Side.

October 20, 2014

What Do You Do? (Take 2)

I’ve always hated the question, “What do you do?” So rarely could I fit into the little boxes of traditional jobs that I feared were the only acceptable answers.

And here I am in a month’s long quest to answer that very question for myself. At sixty, however, I am willing to create my own little boxes (or circles or triangles or blobs).

Today’s answer is that I am a Diversity Partnerologist. In other words, I am a specialist in the science or knowledge of forming sustainable partnerships across diversity. It is a field filled with experiments, stretching past the boundaries of good old American independence grounded in the values and perspective of Euro-American patriarchy. There are gems and wisdom to be found when everyone’s wisdom is heard as together we understand, define and envision ways to work together to attain common goals.

In the last year, I’ve been playing with different responses when someone asked what I did. Here are two of my favorites:

Big Topics Wrangler—I was born in Texas, after all. I like to “round up, herd and take charge of” conversations and actions around the drove of big topics that seem to roam—and sometimes stampede—freely today’s world.

Conversational Catalyst—I place myself in the middle of hot topic conversations where the chemistry of conversation has too long been reactive and divisive, in order to precipitate the possibility of transformation and healing—without being personally damaged in the process.

That’s me, for today anyway. What do you do?

I shouldn’t be surprised to discover when I came to post this blog that this is the second time I’ve written here of this question that has haunted me most of my adult life. it is fascinating to see how it keeps moving, clarifying, deepening.

October 1, 2014

Living in the Midst of it All

Each time the wind blows, a handful of leaves dance and spin as they fall. As the world turns around the big topics, sometimes it’s the small details that matter.

A cup of tea shared with Karyn after weeks on the road.

The orange pumpkin at my neighbor’s door.

Stepping into a steamy bath scented with red spikenard as I let the lists go for an hour on a busy afternoon.

Its good to notice the little things at moments like these. I’ve been to the first of two funerals this week. In addition, I am working on a blog that started with one small topic—radiation dangers of cell phones—and has exploded into something that touches so many of the problems in our world and fills me with shrapnel of fear. The blog, and my emotions around the topic, are too raw to post yet.

I am tempted to be silent and delete my current draft. After all, I’ve avoided this topic for several years, so why proceed now? I feel the pull of despair, something I know can stop me from taking action.

My wrestling brings me back to the central question of my life—how do I remain steady, walking forward with an open heart as things crumble around me?

I’ve been on this road for a long time.

I don’t know what I thought I was writing about when I began working on Big Topics at Midnight nine years ago. Every step of the way I uncovered information—some personal, some ancestral, some historical, some cultural—that shook the ground under my feet. Each time I had to stop writing and trying to figure it all out and instead tap into a far deeper way of knowing. I used all of my tools—prayer, journaling, collage, essential oils, vibrational essences, cards, leaning against trees, talking to friends … In addition, I stopped to notice the beauty all around me: falling leaves, pumpkins and shared cups of tea. Slowly but surely I found the ground under my feet and continued writing.

I know I can walk that journey from fear to clarity again. When the timing is right, I’ll be able to return to working on the blog I’m not yet ready to share.

Grace is found in the big topics and in the little details of life. Both are part of life. I am called to dance between the two and experience joy, as well as fear, and hope, as well as grief.

September 16, 2014

Let Your Heart Break #4: Living While Dying

Ed and Paul, June 2001 — Ed and Paul, 2001

What can Dad’s walk toward death teach us about living?

Thirteen years ago, as Dad lay dying, I watched the otters play in Monterey Bay and monarch butterflies fly around the bushes just outside his living room window.

Leaving my brother and the Hospice workers with Dad, I walked along the shore to the neighborhood coffee shop in the early morning hours of Monday, October 1, 2001. While waiting for my latte, I noticed a brochure for Reiki treatments by Wendy Cohen. I’d undergone this Japanese treatment before when a practitioner laid her hands over my body and filled me with renewed life force. I had found it more energetically powerful than a massage, and it felt like intercessory prayer. I wanted a Reiki session for Dad to ease his death process and for me as I supported his journey to and following death.

I immediately called Wendy. She was busy that morning but promised to check back in a few hours.

Wendy called mid-afternoon to say she was coming. By that time Dad was actively dying.

“Do you want me to come anyway?” she asked.

I did.

A few minutes later, in walked a stranger dressed in a mini skirt and Harley Davidson jacket, holding a bright red basket filled with little bottles of flower vibrational essences. Wendy silently took her place among the small group that circled Dad’s bed.

As soon as Wendy’s hands hovered over Dad’s feet, my hands touching his face felt his energy soften. His breathing slowed, and my heart melted. Two minutes later, his spirit gently slipped out of his body. His final letting go.

When family gathered for Dad’s funeral a week later, his casket lay in St. Mary’s by the Sea Episcopal Church, a church he’d attended only for funerals and weddings. Draped over his coffin was a cloth of bright red, orange and green—the tablecloth Mom had completed for our Christmas, days before she died.

I touched his coffin on my way to the pulpit to preach his funeral sermon.

As ended my sermon, I said, “Dad died in the living room of his home, where Mom died fifteen years ago. This tired old body he left behind is here in the same church

where Mom’s funeral was held and is now covered by the same cloth that covered her casket. And our family will again use the tablecloth to cover the family table when we gather to feast together knowing that we are encircled with the spirit of Ed and Sue. … God, ‘give to us now your grace, that as we shrink before the mystery of death, we may see the light of eternity.’ ” *

On September 11, 2001, Dad began his three-week walk toward death. Simultaneously, hijacked planes crashed into buildings that epitomized US economic, military and governmental power.

For a moment Americans came together in grief, but within days we shifted to talk of war and patriotic pride. As a result, thousands more have died in our unwinnable battles. In contrast, Dad responded with an open heart and lived even as he died.

Though Dad was an in-control man for most of his life, his heart had softened fifteen years earlier after Mom died. We’d grieved together, cried together and talked about her often. But my heart broke open even more as I watched Dad let go into his death. He taught me many things about life while dying.

Look around, even when things are falling apart. Butterflies and otters, flowers and clouds remind us that there is a bigger picture that surrounds the crisis at hand. Connecting with nature can keep us grounded.

Expect help to come from all directions. Sometimes it comes from predictable sources: family or hospice workers. Yet sometimes it arrives in a miniskirt and leather jacket, bearing a red basket of love. We never know. But before help will be given, you must be open to the unexpected and say, “Yes, please come.”

Gather together. The table of Life is spread and covered with a beautiful cloth. Sometimes that cloth covers a casket and it is time to grieve, cry, and remember. Let your heart break. If we don’t stop and give space to our hurting hearts, we can’t fully be present to joy and celebration either. For holidays such as Thanksgiving or Christmas, this bright cloth covers our feast laden dining table. Last month, our celebration was the wedding of my son Paul to Lauren and, thus, the cloth adorned the table joining our two families. When time is held for both grieving and celebrating, gifts are offered abundantly.

Whether we are faced with exploding planes or a terminal illness, how we respond matters. We are not alone. There are more possibilities than we can imagine. If we’ll keep walking with open hearts, dancing or crying or shouting in the midst of it all—anything except running away or knee-jerk reacting—we just might discover that Life is offered abundantly far richer than we can ask or imagine.

* Excerpted from my book, Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pg 143-145. Final words are from ”A Service of Death and Resurrection,” in The United Methodist Hymnal (Tennessee: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1969), 871

Fourth in the series about living while dying.

August 16, 2014

Let Your Heart Break #3: Joy

Right in the middle of a blog series about death, I am heading into a wedding. It feels as if I should complete my series before I turn in another direction. But life doesn’t work like that.

Death and birth. Crumbling and resurrection. Joy and sorrow. They weave in and out of each other on a daily basis. Life requires flexibility of the soul.

This isn’t just any wedding. This is the wedding of a child who was born into our family almost thirty-two years ago. Howard and I were twenty-eight years old when we brought him home for the first time, wondering, “What are we supposed to do now?”

Not sure we ever answered that question, but as the mother of both Paul and Laura, his sister born three years later, I learned about life and love, creativity and joy. On days when I struggled to get through a particularly exhausting parenting day, older friends would remind me to savor every moment, because childhood flies by.

It did.

And Paul is about to say, “I do.”

His fiancée, Lauren Holmgren, is an amazing woman. She has an inner light, clarity and strength rooted deep within her, and the two of them bring out the best in each other.

Of course, marriage is not all joy and delight. It is part of life, with all of its ups and downs, joys and sorrows. The daily-ness of marriage—or partnership for those still excluded from marriage—gives us the perfect place to work out all of our assumptions, rough edges and quirks. Some days are easier than others.

I am in the transition from spinning with all the details that need to be done toward savoring each moment. It’s sometimes hard to keep the bigger picture in mind—Paul and Lauren are getting Married!—when my calendar is full, my mind is trying to come to grips with Robin Williams’ suicide and my heart is aching with Michael Browns violent death in Ferguson, Missouri.

But that is Life.

And life is too precious not to take time to celebrate. I invite you to tip your glass in honor of Paul and Lauren, and all heart-filled, joyful events that are happening right now.

This blog is third in the series Let Your Heart Break…here about breaking open in joy.

Photograph of Paul and Lauren taken by Lisa Bogan.

August 9, 2014

Let Your Heart Break #2: Death is Part of Life

Dad was an organized man who kept meticulous books recording every penny earned and every penny spent. For as long as I could remember, he had exercised right on schedule, played golf on schedule and focused on his bowel regularity. Until he began his walk toward death, letting go wasn’t Dad’s cup of tea.

Somewhere in his bones, this man who had never been overtly interested in matters of the spirit knew that these final weeks of his life were a sacred invitation of transformation through release. He let go gracefully, if methodically.

When we met his attorney, Dad released his legal responsibilities. He made sure I understood his bookkeeping, then handed over all financial tasks. He walked independently for another week before he surrendered to a rolling walker.

One afternoon, Dad made yet another trek down the long hallway to the bathroom with his rolling walker. He stopped at his bed to take off his Pendleton wool shirt because its length got in the way. I offered to shorten the hem. He refused, insisting that there was no need for me to do that, and continued on his own.

Thursday, Connie came to clean his house, as she had done weekly for the fifteen years since Mom had died. When he told her about his cancer, Connie replied that maybe he would get better.

“No, I am dying,” he corrected Connie. “I’ve had a good, long life and I am ready to die.”

On Friday, Dad stopped walking altogether. We sat together in his bed, as his thoughts vacillated between this world and the next. “I can’t think of any brilliant thoughts to say, though it seems like I should,” he said. “I am quotable.”

All week I’d also felt that I should have been grabbing every opportunity to share profound thoughts about my love of Dad. Instead, we both were learning the richness of shared silence filled with love.

“No one prepares you for dying. Is this the way you thought it would be?” Dad asked me.

He wasn’t expecting an answer, but I was fascinated by his question.

Dad interrupted my pondering, saying, “I want to live a natural death.” He mumbled something else then chuckled, “I didn’t understand that one myself.”

I smiled. So many of our conversations over the years had been practical. Here, with death lurking at the door, we felt free to let our thoughts bounce from the absurd to the profound. All thoughts felt welcome that afternoon as we sat propped up on the bed, side-by-side.

“What if butterflies are the good guys?” he wondered.

I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Dad was letting go of his life on this Earth. We will all face death one day but today we are facing a different sort of dying: releasing old, outdated ways of living on this planet.

Surrender may not have been my cup of tea so far, but now is a good time for me to practice. Dad’s actions illuminated several skills that help in times of profound change.

Start with an honest assessment of the situation. As Dad responded to unfounded reassurance with, “No, I am dying,” I, too, need to be clear that now is the time to relinquish my tight hold on the status quo. Many of the ways of being that have felt “normal” and “right” must be acknowledged as polluting our world and spirits for us today and for generations to come.

For Dad, death wasn’t an escape; instead, he let go of his “good, long life” with gratitude. Likewise, much of the old has brought me delight and needs to be honored as nurturing my life. However, my culture’s short-sighted, unsustainable and inequitable framework needs to die and be rebuilt.

We speak of violent crime and build more prisons even though violent crime is at a 50 year low. We embrace more and more standard medical tests and treatment (if we can afford it), but overlook the toxic chemicals, radiation and stress that erode human and environmental health. We overlook the implications of privitatization of our water, manipulation of our food supply and destruction of our natural resources while racing through our days at an exhausting speed.

When I am willing to stop walking in the old ways, I can pick up my training wheels for walking into the new.

Dad, pushing his rolling walker, showed another way. He let go of fear in the face of death, and hope was born. He had no idea of what was next, how the process should be or even if butterflies were the good guys. None of that mattered anymore.

After Dad returned to his chair from the bathroom trip where I’d offered to hem his shirt, he reflected, “You know, something interesting just happened. You wanted to do something to make things easier for me, and I wanted to do something to make things easier for you.”

Death is part of life. Transitions aren’t easy, but fighting the inevitable is exhausting. Dad taught me that when I surrender my fear of the unknown, reach out in partnership with others and make daily choices that nurture my global family, I’ll find joy even in the dying parts of my life’s journey.

This is the second in a series about Living while Dying on our way to something new. I offer this in honor of my father, Edward Victor Mathys (1921-2001) and the dying that all of us alive on this planet need to experience now.

Much of this blog was excerpted from my book Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pages 140-145.

Photograph by Brenda Wills.

July 22, 2014

Let Your Heart Break #1: The Diagnosis

On the morning of September 11, 2001, the doctor called with the results of my father’s CAT scan: extensive cancer throughout both lungs.

As I hung up the phone, the drone of the television in the living room reported moment-by-moment news, some true and some outlandish guesses, about two planes that had crashed into New York City’s Twin Towers. It was only 9:00 a.m. on the West Coast.

I looked out the window at Monterey Bay. The waves broke and gulls shrieked as they flew overhead. Everything looked normal.

I asked Dad to turn off the television and told him the news. “The doctor just called to say that you have widespread cancer in both lungs.”

“Oh,” Dad replied.

In the context of burning buildings and staggering losses, what were we to do with news of a personal tragedy? Dad turned the television back on. I walked out of the room.

Later, when the TV was turned off and the news had sunk in, Dad talked about his willingness to have chemotherapy. “I’m not afraid to lose my hair,” he said, running his fingers through the few hairs remaining on his balding head.

A few days later I returned home to take my first-born son to college. When he’d graduated from High School a few months before, Dad was delighted and looked healthy. Now he was dying.

Six hundred and thirty miles away from the University, a man who thrived in solitude pondered much in his heart. When I returned to see him the following week, Dad told me in a strong and steady voice, “I don’t want any treatment for this cancer. I’ve led a full life, and I am ready to die.”

I was grateful that he’d decided not to pursue treatment but was startled to hear him speak so directly of his death.

As soon as I could be alone, I reached out to a friend, seeking comfort for my grieving heart. She listened to the full range of my emotions, then said, “Just remember, death is safe.”

Side-by-side with my sadness, I knew that she was right. Settling into the reality of Dad’s illness without fighting it, I became able to accompany him moment by moment.

Fourteen years later, I am haunted by the diagnosis I hear from many sources: civilization as I have known it has tumors in its lungs too. It is dying.

The day the towers fell and my dad began his walk toward death, there was a window of time where my nation could have made a choice to grieve, to come together to look inside at the shadows that have long been present within the twin towers of money and military power. Unfortunately, we made a different choice—violence and retaliation.

Today, as we try to extricate ourselves from those wars we entered on a lie, Iraq is in crisis. Far too many on all sides have died. Far too much money was diverted away from programs that serve life toward war. Again. And again. And again.

Pollution. Climate change. Wealth inequities. Fear. Fracking. Greed. Violence. These are growing out of control. The facts are easily accessible to anyone interested in looking at our culture’s horrifying CAT scan.

If we choose to cling to life as we have known it, to demand cultural chemotherapy even though it won’t do any good, it will be hard to move forward. Desperate attempts to treat the societal tumors in an attempt to get back to normal won’t bring the healing we need to thrive for today or generations to come. That which is diseased needs to die so that something new can be born.

Looks can be deceiving. Dad looked healthy at the graduation in June, but his cancer was growing inside. Likewise, appearances of economic recovery can hide the fact that the cancer of ever-expanding growth continues to spread. Hanging on to the old life and refusing to grieve the losses makes it hard to see, or tend to, the tender new sprouts that are already emerging in unexpected places.

Dad, a precise man who liked to be in control, made a different choice when he could see his life fading away. Walking with him in the last three weeks of his life, he taught me many lessons about how to find life right in the middle of death.

Death is safe. Life is safe. Clinging will kill a person or a culture. It is our choice.

This is the first in a series about Living while Dying on our way to something new. I offer this in honor of my father, Edward Victor Mathys (1921-2001), during his birthday month.

Much of this blog was excerpted from my book Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pages 140-145.

Photograph by Judy Bork.

July 4, 2014

The Wisdom to Stay Still

Moving slowly and listening deeply are common practices for a Sabbath day. Lately, however, I seem to be in seven-days-a-week period of deep listening and moving at about twenty percent of my normal, double or triple-tasking speed.

The nagging voices in my head are quick to point out how ridiculous it is that I am doing so little when I have a book to market, blogs to write, friends—some in very difficult situations—to visit and a hurting world all around me.

I know that voice: the good, responsible voice that fits right in with business as usual.

I don’t want business as usual. I seek to live into the new.

I am in the middle of several amazing conversations and partnerships across huge chasms of race, class and gender. It is the hardest work I’ve ever done. And it is the most transformative and joyful work I’ve ever done. I look forward to the time when I can write about the details of this work.

For today, here is what I know: the only way I can continue to walk this path is to honor my guidance to slow down, listen, ponder, spend a few minutes each morning tending to our garden before heading out on a walk, and wait for the next steps to emerge.

Slowing down in the face of urgent needs is part of my wisdom, not my laziness.

Something is brewing on the back burner of my life. I can’t yet see it. I catch a whiff of its scent now and again. I know it will have something to do with building sustainable partnerships across the chasms that too often divide us. I want to explore how to live our huge dreams right in the middle of our too often chaotic and unjust world.

That clarity is coming. Soon? Next year? That is not for me to know.

For now, I move through my days slowly. With profound gratitude. Connection. And lots of time for solitude.

If I am to take my place of leadership in our world, I must honor my wisdom to stay still and wait until the way forward is clear.

Originally published on the Divine Feminine blog page. Photograph by Judy Bork.