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Life changes us...
And I find it all a bit uncanny. The small yellow house where I was born is less than a block from the flat I just moved into. On some subconscious level, I know this was no accident. Returning to the place where I chose to enter the world has given me a new sense of agency. Forever yesterday, today, and tomorrow, I am as bitter and vexed as I am resilient and blessed. My journey through depression, facing a deeply rooted fear of abandonment, continuing to grow as a writer, musician, and spiritual activist, yielding to self-love and acceptance, harnessing the ability to lose control and LIVE by choice and not by default... Every moment has enriched me. I chose to have this life with these moments.  The yellow house reminds me to take a look around, examine forgotten scars, and nurture new beginnings. I kind of go through this time scratching my head with a smile. I know it is all really quite good to be right here right now. I also know that whatever it is about today that I love or hate could very well be gone tomorrow. One day, it will be, or I from it.

"I like who I am Becoming."    - Maya Angelou

A proclamation for a few

"Christian, Jew, Muslim, shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged"     - Rumi

Maybe you’ve gathered that I’m pagan. Maybe we met recently and I introduced myself to you as Dove. Maybe we’ve shared sacred space together. Maybe you knew me on Maui. Maybe you’re family, just trying to understand me a bit better. If any of what I've just said comes as a surprise, then this post was made just for you. This writing was born out of personal necessity and I’d like to get it out of the way so that I can get on to writing about things that really matter to me without you wondering where the heck that came from or getting offended. Maybe that won’t happen at all and I’m just projecting, again. But you can see, just the idea of writing what I want has made me a little neurotic.

I choose the name Dove, primarily among close friends and my spiritual community, because doves serve as a reminder to me of the inherent sanctity and perfection within us all; they are pure, innocent, and sacred. One flew over Christ at his baptism. In Greek mythology, doves draw the chariot of Aphrodite, the Goddess of love. The Hindu god, Yama used doves as messengers, and the Japanese god of war, Hackiman, used doves to announce the end of war. They are understood cross-culturally as symbols of peace and compassion. For me, they bridge the gap between my Christian upbringing and my pagan reality. One of my goals for the year is to write more and that includes this blog. I've spent a lot more time making it look nice, than I've spent writing on it because I've refrained from writing about themes that really inspire me. That changes here. I choose to be Dove instead of Shari here in this webspace, because I created this space to express myself from a place of spiritual integration, and being Dove is a part of that. If that makes you uncomfortable, then lets just be Facebook friends. 

I don’t want to write about what I believe in or why. I have absolutely no interest in explaining myself. (If you really want to know more, just read the quote above. That pretty much sums it up.) I just want to write without there being this line, this boundary that I won’t let others cross, the line that shows you who I really am and what I really believe in. Having any sort of limitation, hinders your ability to really express fully from the heart. It’s stupid to live in the United States and not express yourself and truly be who you were born to be, even in spite of your friends and your family and the people you love. And after years of struggling against my natural inclination to hide, I realize that it is frighteningly easy to play that game in a place where everyone has the liberty to think and believe and do whatever the heck they want. I don’t need to be accepted by you. I need to be liberated from my fear of not being accepted by you. And that’s all this is, a simple letting go, so that I can get closer to being me. It's still a work in progress.

Insight into Activism on MLK, Jr. Day

On the day we remember a leader in civil rights and liberty for all, I wonder why the Occupy Movement has dwindled.  When Occupy began I got caught up in the current and the rhetoric and the adrenaline; so many people, all sorts of people, having conversations that mirrored my concerns. I’m disappointed that the media has decided it’s over. “Why?” I asked Marc, my mom’s boyfriend. “Why couldn’t Occupy have the same staying power as the Civil Rights Movement?”

           He said, “Well, because we had a leader for the Civil Rights Movement. We had a clearly defined message with a clearly defined goal."

And in light of that I see how activism has changed since the early-mid 20^th century. When you think about the names of the major movements of the 20^th century, you hear it – We wanted Women’s Suffrage, we wanted Civil Rights. What do we want now? Balanced wealth? Corporate accountability? Evenly distributed taxes? It's a hard question to answer because what we want no longer falls under one umbrella. These movements of the 20th century had visionaries and a face that could be distinguished from the rest of the crowd. There was consensus. We had Susan B. Anthony and the National Women’s Party. We had MLK and the NAACP. Blacks during the Civil Rights movement knew that they were marching into police brutality, unemployment, and terrorism as a result of their visible unrest. It was the brutality under which they suffered that brought the Civil Rights Movement to the world arena.  When they were sprayed with fire hoses and beat with police batons, when they were being stabbed and beaten, when their daughters were blown up in places of worship, they responded with peaceful protest, not physical violence. What would happen today if officials did that to a crowd of Occupiers? We would not sit peacefully and wait for the world to see, we would vandalize and we would fight, because we have a much deeper sense of entitlement now.

That’s why our approach to protest has changed.  We defend our rights instead of acquiring new ones.  The voices of our protest come from every race, religion, sexual orientation, employment status and ability. Our face is every face. And instead of having a clear goal, whether it’s a law to be passed in Congress, or an Amendment made to the Constitution, we have instead opted to turn political theatre into a stage where we can express the diversity of our opinions and show the world that the injustices that we are facing today transcend the boundaries that we thought once separated us.

Yes, Occupy has faded, but new avenues of conversation have opened up in academia, in politics, and in economics.  The truth that there is an imbalance of wealth has found it’s way into the media; people are now trying to define the “1%.” And in the midst of Occupy, Bank Transfer Day was born, which lead to Bank of America changing one of its major policies around debit and checking fees. Things seem to be changing from the bottom up instead of trickling down. It’s got people buzzing in the age of information, and that’s the legacy of activism today.

“Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

   

 - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Remembering What They Gave Me

They, are my fathers. When I was sixteen, one gave me a set of pearls to mark my coming of age. Now at twenty-four, the other has given me a diamond pendant cross on a fine chain, to mark our reunion after a life's absence. One begs me to remember and another asks me to forgive. Each pearl on a strand could be a memory: a Tuesday night Scrabble match, an evening driving lesson at that empty parking lot in the Sunset district, a bedtime story from Listening to the Great Teacher, an afternoon out on the old pier in Pacifica, a Sunday at the Hall, a Saturday in service, a dinner at Aunt Willy's. The pearls go on, eternally, like the memories I will always have of my father, Johnny Jefferson.

I've mentioned this cross before. It is my first diamond jewelry. It is the loved relic of a faith I never knew how to practice and of the family I am still learning how to know. The father whose name I carry, gave this piece to me. Its diamonds shine hard like the yearning to understand that never dissipated. Timeless, they say, I imagine one day, after my ashes have been spread, it will adorn the neck of a niece or daughter whose beliefs are different than mine. Will she know what it meant to me and what it represents? Will she know that in quiet moments of solitude I pried open the box my father gave me to peer upon its untarnished gold? Will she better be able to where it?


I remember them both during this odd time in my life, when the one that helped make me who I am through thousands of small cherished moments faces another year of cancer, and when the other can't understand why I turned away from him after receiving this cross and the family I've always wanted to know. These are sometimes the jewels of a woman's life, and in a gesture of trust and good will, I've shared them with you here. And still so early in my life, I can only wonder what jewels lie ahead.