Of Birthdays, Despair, and Dreams

My birthday falls within two days of Dr. Martin Luther King’s. I didn’t know this until he was assassinated in 1968, and I don’t think the closeness of our birthdays began to influence me until years later during the public debate over establishing a national holiday in his honor.

Twice the holiday observance has fallen on my actual birthday. The first time, I was in a small boat floating down the Ganges River with a man named Moon. The second time I teased my little granddaughter, telling her that she had a school holiday because of me.

Our birthdays have became linked in my mind so that, as they approach, my thoughts expand beyond growing a year older, or how, or if, to celebrate, and into contemplations of both the past, and what progress had been made in the years since.

The night Dr. King was assassinated my husband and I were registering voters door to door in a black neighborhood in San Francisco. I was 19, he was 21; young married college students with an 11-month old daughter.

We’d been successfully door knocking for about an hour when the news of Dr. King’s murder came through. I remember some teen-aged boys angrily yelling the horrifying news as they ran down the middle of the street half a block ahead of us. One was carrying a gun, but while he was wildly waving it about, he wasn’t pointing it at anything. I don’t remember being afraid, and neither was Carlos. I sensed that he, being Chicano, felt some excitement at the display of defiance. I was just naïve.

We were too stunned to fully absorb what had happened enough to stop what we were doing. Looking back, it seems so idiotic that we kept going from house to house with clipboards and registration forms. At each house our knocking was now met with a face quickly peeking out through curtains, but no answer.

At one house our knock provoked the same scrutiny, this time through a small window in the door. Then the door flew open and a middle-aged black man confronted us with, “You kids get in here! What do you think you’re doing?” as he grabbed our arms and yanked us into his house.

He scolded us about danger and our lack of sense, then got our organizer Ben, a black man who lived in the same neighborhood, on the phone and arranged for him to pick us up and drive us back to our tiny student family apartment at San Francisco State.

I think we were both too dazed to think of thanking him, and too full of hubris and idealism to realize we should have.

Later that night the neighborhood, and most other black neighborhoods across the country, erupted in incidents of rioting, violence, arson, and looting. Anger boiled in the streets with cries of “Burn, baby burn!” and “Brothers, unite!” while the pall of sorrow and mourning descended inside the homes.

I still ache deep down in my belly as I remember that night. The pain of Dr. King’s murder is equaled by my anguish at how devastated I think he would have been by the reaction to it.

But at the time, I was angry too, and energized by the fury in the streets. I overlooked the destruction and lauded the public outcry with an “It’s about time!” response. It was an uprising of Black Power that we were absolutely sure would topple the repressive structure of The Man.

Now as I read Dr. King’s words, “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.” I look back at what wasn’t toppled, but instead made stronger. Two months later Bobby Kennedy was gunned down, and it didn’t seem that much longer before the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast for Children program collapsed, and Clarence Thomas rose to sit on the High Court.

In many ways our country feels even more divided now than it did then. Without the youthful naivety and idealism, it can be easy to fall into despair that it will never be mended, and difficult to challenge that despair with Dr. King’s Dream.

This morning I read the words of 12-year-old Patrice Asher, “I think he was a good man because of what he dreamed of. That was a good dream.” Her 12-year old wisdom sent me to the text of Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech, where his words, “Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.” stood bold and bright on the page while the words around them blurred.

Next I remembered Rebecca Solnit’s words in this month’s Orion magazine, “Despair is a luxury. If I despair I can drive a Yukon and watch bad television. Despair makes no demand upon us; hope demands everything.”

Her words, his words, Patrice’s words, words from the past, words of the present, the words of the future woke me out of a stupor of hopelessness. I remember what I’ve learned about High Holy Dreams, about faith, and see that I’ve just been gifted with another lesson.

Yes, that was a good dream - a good dream that pulls me up out of despair to a place where I can see the progress that has been made. Tomorrow schools and government offices will close to commemorate a man who dreamed. Tomorrow Presidential candidates that include a woman and an African American will speak of progress that still needs to be made to honor this man’s dream. And I, a year older, will honor him too, without the luxury of despair, and with hope restored by the power of his dream.

A Year of Cherished Kindness

Kate Fleming had a remarkable voice, a soothing alto so amazingly versatile that she could portray a small child or a Native American as easily as she could become the voice of a crusty old curmudgeon or an Idaho potato farmer on the audio books she narrated. She was an accomplished actress as well as an award-winning narrator and, according to her partner Charlene Strong, an elegant and willowy dancer.

Kate drowned in her Seattle home when the torrential rainstorm of December 2006, trapped her in her flooded basement studio.

I don’t know if I ever heard Kate Fleming’s beautiful voice. I’ve listened to my share of audio books on long drives, but never paid attention to the names of the narrators. But her voice spoke the words that will shape my chosen approach to life in 2008.

Kate said she cherished being kind to people all the time. I read her words in an article describing a documentary Charlene Strong is co-producing about the challenges same-sex partners face when end of life decisions are necessary.

She cherished being kind to people all the time. Those few quiet words, a simple sentence in a lengthy article, kept pulling me back. There was no equivocation here – no trying to be as kind as she could whenever she wasn’t tired, or distracted, or busy with the details of her own life – she said “all the time.” This wasn’t being kind to people she knew and loved, who’d been helpful, who deserved or needed kindness – this was, simply stated, people. And this kindness wasn’t a goal or a commitment; it was what Kate Fleming cherished.

Kate’s words have been softly swirling around inside me since I read them. A week after the article appeared I drove behind a car bearing a bumper sticker that asked, “What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?” As I posed the question to myself, I pretended for a moment that it was Kate who was asking.

The Dalai Lama once said, “My true religion is kindness.” No need to sort through the complexities of Tibetan Buddhist deities and dakinis when the essence of the message is so simply and elegantly stated. A framed picture of him sits across from my desk, and as I look at his comforting smile and sparkling eyes, I know that, like Kate, he too cherishes being kind to people all the time.

I wonder about being kind to people all the time. Would that even be possible for me? I think of my fervent, some would say rabid, political beliefs – could I be kind to those who support the Iraq war, who want to govern through their chosen religion? What about those who believe they are entitled to pollute the environment or own assault rifles; those who think it’s okay to spank children, or drive after drinking – could I be kind to them?

And I’m looking at far more than just being kind to people all the time – I’d want to cherish doing so, as Kate did. I try to spend as much time as possible with the people I cherish, as much time as possible engaged in the activities I cherish. I give attention, time, and energy to what I cherish.

I will need to bring constant consciousness to my practice of cherished kindness, along with time and energy. I will need to learn to be aware of each person I encounter and discover a way to be kind to them. No more slipping into distraction as I wait in a checkout line, there will be people around me that I can be kind to; no more silent critiques of the others in yoga class, or disgruntled eye rolling at those who drive in front of me. I see that this will be a practice of mindfulness.

Many years ago I developed a practice I hoped would maintain peace of mind while driving. Each time I spotted a disabled car on the shoulder of the road, or a person getting, or a trooper writing, a traffic ticket, or a road crew at work, I would offer a prayer of blessing for them and for myself. I would pray, May all be well with you, may all be well with me. Eventually the practice expanded to passing aid cars and fire trucks, those driving or speeding recklessly past, and even the long rubber remnants of blown tires we see on freeways.

I’d been inspired by reading of a monk called Brother Lawrence, who wanted to live a life of constant prayer; and by an overheard comment that our attitude while commuting is an indication of our emotional maturity. Both constant prayer and emotional maturity appealed to me as good aspirations. The Driving Blessings immediately softened my heart and brought comfort, so that I practice them to this day.

Perhaps that same kind of silent practice will help me to be more mindful of cherished kindness. I’m aware that I generate unkindness in my critical or resentful thoughts, Byron Katie calls it, “Going to war with someone in your head.” I will need to learn to practice kindness in my thinking as well as my actions. May all be well with you, may all be well with me.

I think of a woman who swims where I do in the mornings. She is very chatty and likes to engage in conversation while in the water. I like my morning swims to be meditative and quiet, so I keep my distance from her in the pool. I’ve been going to war with her in my head as I've heard her chatting to others, and of course, my mental state of war defeats my desire for meditation. I pledge kind thoughts to her when I swim tomorrow, and in doing so, I become aware of the kindness I will receive from having a peaceful mind.

This seems like the right beginning for me. I see that it is only a beginning; that the practice of cherishing being kind to people all the time will be an ever-expanding one that will increase mindfulness and consciousness and expand my awareness of myself and others. I’m sure it will challenge me as it grows me. I look forward to learning from it.

Kate Fleming once said, “I was born to read books out loud.” Thank you, Kate, for the gift of your voice that so moved and soothed others, and the gift of your words that now inspire me.