Shades of Grey

Let me begin by saying that I have not read the book or seen the movie, Fifty Shades of Grey. Therefore this is not a review or a commentary on either. Rather it is a commentary on how we react to things in our world, to how we create this world together.  As the saying goes, things are not black or white; there are many shades of grey.

I have seen others critique the book and movie Fifty Shades of Grey; some have said that it normalizes domestic violence and torture of women. I can understand that concern given the propensity of violence towards women in our culture and around the world. I’ve also seen people say the movie should be banned. That’s where my personal demarcation of black and white comes in. If you don’t like the message of the movie then absolutely speak your concerns, share them far and wide if that’s what you feel called to do.  Use it as an opportunity to start a conversation about how we end domestic violence. Do something positive and constructive with your concerns rather than telling other people they can’t watch the movie or read the book. The same can be said with any books people have tried to ban throughout the history of our country.

And yet, there are shades of grey.

Recently Sony Pictures chose a self-imposed ban on the release of its film, The Interview. I have my own opinions about whether that was all just a publicity stunt or not, but that’s a whole other shade of grey. Again this is not a movie I have seen. That was a personal choice for me.  I had no desire to see it. For me the idea of creating a movie about the assassination of a living political leader was a poor choice, and not something I would want to support. So I didn’t, and I had a conversation with my daughter about why I made that choice.

I hoped the controversy surrounding The Interview would at least spark a conversation about conscious creation. It really didn’t. I hoped that out of the tragedy of the shootings of artists and staff members at Charlie Hebdo would come a continuation of that conversation. It did, a little. As a writer, filmmaker and artist I completely support freedom of speech.

And yet, for me there are shades of grey.

There is a quote from G.K. Chesterton that gives me pause, “To have a right to do a thing is not at all the same as to be right in doing it.”

I have the right to write whatever I want, whether it be inflammatory and unkind or compassionate and peaceful. The grey area is not whether or not I have the right to my opinion and to expressing that opinion. The grey area for me is whether I would be right in doing that if I know it would cause harm. Are we right in showing the video of a policeman being shot in the head in the streets of Paris or the video of a man being burned alive in a cage? Those were people who were beloved to others and I can imagine the irreparable harm those images may have caused.

Yes, sometimes we have to shine a light on wrongs in order to create change; I understand and support that idea. However, we have been shown so clearly by the non-violent movements led by Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., among others, that love can shine the brightest light. If you meet ugliness and judgment with ugliness and judgment you only spark more of the same.  Yet, if you meet ugliness and judgment with kindness and love, you call out to the innate goodness in the other, whether you can see it in that moment or not.  It may not always be easy and it certainly takes a knowing of the strength of love within you.

Recently on the radio program On Being, Krista Tippett spoke with Congressman John Lewis, a leader in the Civil Rights Movement in the United States. He spoke eloquently of the importance of love and compassion in our interactions with others.

“First of all, you have to grow. It's just not something that is natural. You have to be taught the way of peace, the way of love, the way of nonviolence. And in the religious sense, in the moral sense, you can say in the bosom of every human being, there is a spark of the divine. So you don't have a right as a human to abuse that spark of the divine in your fellow human being.

We, from time to time, would discuss if you see someone attacking you, beating you, spitting on you, you have to think of that person, you know, years ago that person was an innocent child, innocent little baby. And so what happened? Something go wrong? Did the environment? Did someone teach that person to hate, to abuse others? So you try to appeal to the goodness of every human being and you don't give up. You never give up on anyone.”

You never give up on anyone. In the face of such blatant hatred and bigotry they didn’t give up on their fellow human beings. It’s a lesson I sometimes fear we are losing. It seems we give up on each other all the time, day after day, when we choose judgment over conversation, when we choose degradation instead of reflection, when we choose anger and hatred over love and compassion. We are giving up on each other.

It’s crystal clear in US politics where we can no longer even have a civil discourse with each other. Everything is either black or white, pro-life or pro-choice, pro-gun or anti-gun.  We continually draw lines in the sand and say we have to stand on one side or the other. There are no shades of grey, no demilitarized zones, no common ground. Until finally we have reached a point where everyone stands behind their imaginary boundaries, whether those be national borders, state borders, political parties, the walls of religious institutions, the walls of our homes or our cars, or the edges of our computer screens. Everywhere we turn we have created imaginary boundaries that separate us.

For me, never giving up on anyone is about acknowledging that spark of the divine that Congressman Lewis talked about, in every interaction we have. While I might have a right to disagree with you, and yes, sometimes an obligation to speak up if I believe what you are doing is hurtful to others, yet I have a greater obligation to speak up with compassion, recognizing that spark within you. I must allow myself to see that spark before I speak, or write, or post, or tweet, or call, “Action.” Often that means we need to pause before we speak, write, post, tweet, or roll the cameras. In that pause we find the shades of grey. In that pause we choose not to give up on each other.

Viktor Frankl provides a beautiful reminder, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

As I look out at the snow covered landscape, I can see so clearly that there are many more than fifty shades of grey; within them may we meet each other, within them may we discover our growth and our freedom.

Listening

Listening

Lynda Allen

What does it mean to listen? To hear?

I can hear your voice, and not hear your words.

I can hear your words, and not hear your meaning.

I can hear your meaning, and not hear your heart.

If I can be quiet enough to hear your heart,

then I can hear your story in your meaning.

I can hear your truth in your words.

I can hear your soul in your voice.

If I can be quiet enough,

I can honor your life as I listen.

From Deepest Darkness there Came Great Light

From Deepest Darkness there Came Great Light

It matters where the light falls

A manger is a trough from which horses and cattle are fed. Once a manger was padded with hay that a baby might rest upon it and the world be fed. Gentle hands laid him to rest upon a bed of straw and a great light from deepest darkness fell upon him.

They did not know that it matters where the light falls, that if it falls upon a heart so open, it will find there not just a home, but a mirror to reflect it back. When they looked upon him they saw the great light shining back through his heart, his smile, his touch, his words. But it matters where the light falls. For some, the reflected light from deepest darkness warmed and illuminated them and they felt great and abiding joy. For others the light was blinding, and they could not look directly at it. They feared it because they knew that to look at the sun could do great harm. They didn’t know that this son meant them no harm.

It matters where the light falls. Some saw the light from afar and knew it was a beacon that could guide them. They let the light fall upon their hearts and found it would lead them across vast expanses and bring them at last to the source of the light. And so it did. It brought them to a tiny manger from which they were fed, one small heart reflecting the light for all to see. For that is what he was from the moment he was laid in the manger, simply a reflector of the great light from deepest darkness.

It matters where the light falls. If it falls upon the doors of an inn that are closed, the light will warm and illuminate only the door, not able to enter across the threshold.

That night long ago, it fell upon a stable whose doors were swung wide and whose creatures were welcoming. That night it found an open manger, a receptive place, for the light to be laid with gentleness upon a soft bed created with love. That night the great light that sprung from deepest darkness came to rest upon the heart of a child. His heart, which was so great in one so small, welcomed the light and there was immeasurable joy.

His heart shone forth with the light. His heart was the light. His heart is each heart.

The great light from deepest darkness ever shines and ever touches all, it matters only whether it falls upon a closed door or upon a place with doors open and a manger waiting where the light can rest and feed all.

Lynda Allen

December 17, 2011

It's about us

The noise is so loud, it’s all I can do to tune it out, for just a moment. For just long enough to remember. To remember that this isn’t about you or about me, it’s about us. It’s about family. It’s not about black or white. It’s not about male or female. It’s not about rich or poor. It’s not about nationality or religion. It’s about family, it’s about our humanity. And we are on the brink.

It’s so loud now that everyone can feel it in some way, even if they don’t recognize it. Long established ways of being are disintegrating, they are falling apart and falling away. Rules of privilege and power are shifting.  All we really need to do is let them shift, let them fall away. But there are many who simply can’t let it happen. They are too afraid of what they don’t know.

That’s what all the noise really gets down to, fear of what we don’t know. And if we don’t know each other, we are told to be afraid. So the obvious solution is get to know each other. Reach out and shake a hand, introduce yourself, carry a sign that says Free Hugs. You never know what might happen.

But what’s happening now makes me feel sad inside. In one ear I hear from a beloved father that accusations of rape are a hoax. While in the other I hear from friends their stories of surviving very real assaults. In one ear I hear it’s her fault for not leaving him. While in the other I hear, I had no where to go and no means to start again. In one ear I hear he attacked me and tried to take my gun, then ran. While in the other I hear hands up don’t shoot.

The cacophony is deafening. That is the goal though isn’t it, of those who would resist the change? If we make it loud enough, confusing enough, scary enough they won’t see the simple answer that we are moving toward. Family. We are all one family. You don’t have to get along with everyone in your family to be a family. And really whether you believe in Biblical beginnings or primordial goo, either way the answer is the same. We all descended from the same beginnings. There it is. There is actually common ground even between creationists and evolutionists! Only very few in power wants us to find our common ground, our humanity.

Yet it is there, and it is the only thing that can save us. Getting to know each other. If you look around  you will find that more people are already on that path than the news would have you believe. They are reaching out across borders, across aisles, across oceans, across pews, across streets, across railroad tracks and across protest lines. They are reaching out from their heart to yours, to mine. It’s the only answer. It’s the only way to reclaim our humanity.

I know it’s true because I had to reclaim my own. I found myself looking around at all the strife and pain and violence and thinking, “Who are these people? Who are these people who think this behavior is ok?” In those thoughts I lost touch with my own humanity. Those people, all of them, are me. Not only the victims, but the perpetrators. Not only the protestors, but the police officers. Not only. There is no more room for only.

I can’t only love you or you or you. I have to expand my heart enough to love all my family, as challenging as that can be. I don’t have to love your choices or your actions or your behaviors and if you go astray and hurt others, then I will peacefully prevent you from continuing on that path and still love you until you can find your way back home.

For each heart that turns away from the light dims the light for all. But each heart that reaches out, shining brightly increases the light for all. So when your light dims, we will shine upon your path. When your song fades, we will sing your unique melody. When you forget who you are, we will call you by name. When you have been hurt, we will remind you of your wholeness until you feel it again. When you grieve, we will share your grief and your memories of your beloved. When you rejoice, we will celebrate with you.  When you are lost, we will light your way home. When you are hungry, we will feed you. When you are cold, we will warm you. When you need shelter, we will invite you in. When you are afraid, we will hold you. When you succeed, we will cheer for you. When you learn, we will welcome your wisdom. When you hurt another, we will forgive you. When you hate, we will help you see yourself in the other. When you stumble, we will offer you a hand. When you laugh, we will laugh with you. When you weep, we will offer our shoulder. When you can’t remember your family, we will remind you with each one of our smiles.  When you move on from this life, we will grieve and celebrate you because we knew you as family.

I Will Not Be Quiet

I, like so many, am outraged by the article in Rolling Stone about the University of Virginia and the culture of sexual violence that exists "on grounds" and that is not adequately addressed by the university administration. If you haven't read it, it's a very difficult but important read. You can find it here. Sadly, it is a problem that exists on many college campuses. It's time to raise our voices. 

I Will Not Be Quiet 

Lynda Allen

I will not be quiet.

I will keep shouting,

“They are all our daughters.”

Every one.

Each girl that is raped on a college campus in Virginia,

or on a bus in India,

or as an act of war in Africa,

or in her home by a relative,

or by a professional athlete,

or by a teacher,

or by a celebrity.

Every one of them,

They are all our daughters.

Shaking our heads and being angry will not suffice.

I will not be quiet.

My voice will be raised in opposition.

My voice will be raised for safety.

My voice will be raised for justice.

My voice will be raised for respect.

My voice will be raised for education.

My voice will be raised for solidarity.

My voice will be raised for peace.

But make no mistake,

My voice will be raised.

I will not be quiet to protect your reputation.

I will not be quiet to protect your good name.

I will not be quiet while you sweep it under the rug.

I will not be quiet while you look the other way.

When you look the other way, you will find me standing there.

When you pick up your broom, I will take away the rug.

When you look to your reputation, I will hold up a mirror.

When you speak your good name, I will speak truth.

I will not be quiet.

Our daughters deserve better.

And they are all our daughters.

Loss and Holy Ground

I will warn you that these two pieces are sad, and if heaven forbid, you have lost a child, you might want to think twice about reading them. Thankfully, I have not had to endure that pain. However, recently a student at a nearby university was abducted and killed. It hit close to home for me and I struggled with a lot of different emotions in the weeks following her disappearance and the subsequent discovery of her. The strongest emotions I felt were for the young lady's parents. It is through my empathy for them that I was able to open my heart to these words. I admit I resisted for a while for obvious reasons, but my heart would not be still until I allowed the words to move. What struck me, which you will see in the writings, is when I heard that her parents went to the site where they found her. I was so moved and saddened by that. My heart still aches for their unimaginable loss. 

The first piece is sort of stream of consciousness as I was opening to empathy and feeling the loss, pain, anger and confusion of any parent moving through this kind of loss and so it alternates between he and she. The second grew out of the first and has a more organized flow. They are offered with much love, sympathy and compassion. 

Would it help to stand where she stood? Would it help to walk the same path that he walked? I have no way of knowing, I have no frame of reference for this. There was no preparation I could have been given to imagine what her last breath might have been like. There is no one who could train me to deal with the haunting of the words, “Was she scared? Or did it hurt?” If only there was some type of surgery that could be done to extract the words, “What if,” from my mind so they wouldn’t repeat over and over until the end of my own days. My own days, which should have come to their natural end long before his. He should’ve been standing beside my grave talking about what a long and full life I had. Now no one will be able to do that, because my life is no longer full. There is an empty place that will always remain vacant. Yes, there will be love and laughter again, life will continue with sunrises and sunsets, or so they say, but it will always be just a little bit different. There will always be a slightly different tune to the harmony of my universe because her laughter won’t accompany my own. I don’t know what to do with all the comfort that I want to offer her that will go ever unoffered. I can’t offer it to myself. How could I live with that, knowing he had none? If I could at least have been there to put my arms around her, that might have been enough. Probably not, but surely it would be better than this nothingness, this inadequacy, this burning anger because I was not there, because I could not save her, because there was and is nothing I can do to reverse it, to ease it, to erase it, to protect him. Nothing. And strangely, that is what I feel. Who knew that if you mixed intense sorrow, anger, fear, loss, heartbreak and despair, you would get nothing? A strange recipe indeed, with a bitter after taste. If I could taste, that is. There doesn’t seem to be much point in flavor or pleasure. They tell me there will be one day. But how can there be when I would feel such guilt at ever experiencing joy or pleasure again? If she cannot, then why should I be able to? I have given up raging about it because I have no one to rage against and even when I did it provided no relief, no resolve, nothing. They tell me it will fade. They tell me he would want me to go on living. But I’m so afraid to. I’m terrified to live if living means letting go. We had so little time to share, just the blink of an eye really. It’s not fair. We deserved more. We were going to have more. We need more time. I can’t breathe. The awful irony is that now each minute seems a year. Each week an eternity. How the days can drag so glacially on now, I have no idea. If only I could go back. How very many things I would do differently. If only. That has become my phrase of choice, my mantra. I think it hundreds of times a day, a minute probably, without consciously doing it. It seems to come unbidden from the stratosphere, drifting down like millions of snowflakes; if only, if only, if only. I stand silently within the blizzard of if onlys. I catch a few of them on my tongue and so give them voice, while millions of others drift quietly to the corners of my mind, creating drifts here and there for me to plow through later. I sometimes wish for a snow blower to come through in my dreams and blast them all away. I simultaneously wonder if I will ever fall asleep again without seeing her face and then fear that I will and what that will mean when I do, if I do. If you can really call it sleep. Mostly I toss and turn until I pass out from exhaustion and then wake up with a start at the slightest sound. I can’t tell anyone any of this. They seem to think work will get me through this, will take my mind off it. What they don’t know is that I don’t want to take my mind off it, off her. They say time heals all wounds. But it’s not true. It won’t heal his. I want to scream in the face of their platitudes, yet I know they are trying to offer comfort however they can. They have no frame of reference either. No one ever taught them how to comfort a friend who is grieving the loss of a child. Let me tell you now, there is no comfort you can possibly offer. You are better off not trying. Instead, let your quiet presence be what you offer. It will be enough to have company through the long, blinding blizzard. 

Holy Ground
Lynda Allen

To the human eye, it seems just a lonely patch of land,

deserted and quiet.
A few animals pass by and the plants grow in peace.
I wonder if any of them were witness to it,
if I would even want to know what they saw if they could tell me.

To my eye, this lonely spot

is sacred, holy ground.
Not because a miracle happened here,
but because it did not.
I hadn’t known that the absence of a miracle
could create the holy.
I wish with all that I am
that I had not learned that particular lesson,
in this particular way.
I hope one day to have the courage
to believe in miracles again.
But today I do not.

Today I walk in silence
listening for echoes
and finding only loss.

How do I stand here where they found her,
and still go on breathing?
Too many unanswerable questions scream out
in my far from silent mind.

So I turn my attention to this place.
Somehow, despite what happened here,
it is able to hold the sacredness,
express the fragility,
witness the loss and the pain.
If only I could learn from it, how to hold all those things,
and still give forth life, beauty, light.

Instead I do the only thing I can do in this moment,
I sit on a rock and weep.
I weep as if weeping is the only thing I have ever known.
I weep every tear of joy or pain that would have been offered
throughout her life, that I will now never get to offer.
I weep for every first and last never to be lived.
I weep for each breath lost, every idea unborn, every laugh not heard,
every heartbeat not felt.

I weep without ceasing,
with only this place as my witness.
My tears fall upon the quiet earth 
in search of a miracle.