To Tori

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She was special to me.

China Dolls

We were pieces of china,

dolls smashed,

determined to assemble ourselves.

How I would have liked to know how to put one piece of you back

where it belonged, a hard pigtail maybe, or a pale pink toe;

I was unable to find my hands in our rubble.

Now that my dust has become pieces,

my white fingers a delicately unified hand,

and I am more doll than shell,

you have disappeared.

I cannot touch even the pieces of your shiny forehead,

cannot see your ceramic eyes, cannot lift my ragged arms

to rest them on your limp shoulders.

As love turns my dust into china,

I see more clearly why I loved you: that

I wanted to be like you.

Our souls were sewn together like a doll skirt,

before I had a body to wear it on.

Ode To My People

Ode To My People

 

Rationality is me seeing what I see

and not saying otherwise.

To say is to be brave;

for to say is to admit that you are not happy

in a system where the meter of your happiness provides true indication of belovedness.

 

This is the system of my heritage and it demands Truth or belovedness, but finds their coexistence to be

a confounding impossiblity.

 

If this system is true

then I am unloved and unhappy,

(though I often feel both loved and happy)

because this is what I see and must speak:

 

Dehumanizing declarations made at Thanksgiving and families move yet further away from unity

Original land owners herded like cattle and eighteen year olds commit suicide on the eve of high school graduation

Women with ebony eyes disappear along with elephants and no one says if either one is important

New neighbors forced into corners of lives spent with hands red and bruised from tearing frozen

chicken breasts

 

Little feet and necks swell with flesh and with every click Coca-Cola makes millions

Men have bad dreams of the children they killed beneath a red flag

Ebenezer Scrooge lives in privileged pockets, sewn with the blood of Taiwanese factory workers,

just $7.99 at Old Navy

The final chapter of the Biology textbook goes untaught and lives of girls without options

grind to a halt

Twelve year olds are hustled across state borders like sacks of cocaine

Girls are touched in taxis and under tablecloths

Boys get shot in the street

 

Candy wrappers fly out of open windows and choke sea turtles

Concrete eats the grass

Earth´s belly heats up and casts religious people out of their homelands

Ice melts and Santa Claus will show up soon; a wintery work shop disrobed by our insistence on a 66 degree house year around

Regions suitable for cultivating vineyards move from North to South and still the planet is unchanging;

She is wrong about her own health

 

Irrationality is expecting the blind to see

the way I see.

 

Sight is a gift:

a gift that weighs on souls,

shaking the burden too long left on the shoulders of the beloved Underdog:

firstborn of the Christ.

 

This is the system of my heritage and it demands Truth or belovedness; but I dance

in their coexistence.

Truth is, I find myself beloved.

 

Woe to you!….For you load people with burdens hard to bear, and you yourselves do not touch the burdens with one of your fingers. (Luke 11:46)

Woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you shall be hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep. Woe to you, when all people speak well of you, for so their fathers did to the prophets. (Luke 6:24-26)

Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall become straight, and the rough places shall become level ways. (Luke 3:5)

 

 

 

 

 

Beauty & Sexuality

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The story of why I cut my hair starts with yesterday (the seed of today):

Yesterday I experienced & incarnated Divine beauty. The invitation went something like this:

touch some sacred places within you and know that you are profoundly gorgeous.

You are woman: wondrously alive and unified with the Earth.

 

That was yesterday.

 

Today I hear afresh the bullhorn of unjust division between men & women, along with a

gospel of mutual objectification. Corruption crawls in one side of my psyche and the

beauty that was the gospel of yesterday becomes a ball and chain–a temple of limitation soaked in the blood

of everyone whose hair isn’t blonde and whose chest isn’t robust.

 

What this new (to me) culture called my kingdom quickly became an instrument of handicap. The reduction of my being into a body, a butt, blonde hair, chafed at me–rubbing me raw. I

felt myself turning on a spit amidst jeering humans with balls & chains of their owns. Pieces

of my flesh dripped grease into the fire as they pulled me apart–nothing but a morsel on their tongues. Women worldwide are seen (and see ourselves) as consumables; my race cut in two like the skin we all rip to enter this world

The same charade plays in my country, but new perspective brings fresh heart break, and a

hunt for Divine invitation here: (the way, Truth, and life of) how to evolve.

 

….Jesus showed me the face of ardent rebellion: women who have been in this fight longer

than I. My classmate with cropped hair under a boys cap, accustomed to the jeers yet still

fiercely female, playing for years with no checkmate, she called me wordlessly to leave my

own kingdom of beauty behind.

 

My soul heard hers call me out of the enemy’s bed, into the rebellion. I jumped. I blinked and

knew that what I did had been essential: that there are no exceptions, no part of me that can

maintain allegiance to the lies. There is no looking back. There is life and death and I choose LIFE.

Life with the side-lined. Outcasts. Humbled Ones. Marginalized. Homeless. Single Mothers. First Nations. Scapegoats of our societies. Fortresses in my own soul.  Life against the odds.

 

I choose to fight relentlessly against sexist, racist, dehumanizing ideologies while loving

radically those who hold to them.

 

As one being we long for freedom.

We long as one because we came from One & are journeying together.

Redemption is written into every story;

I learned from this jump that my sexuality is more than an act or a crass word. My sexuality is

a fierce desire to survive, to evolve for the sake of abundant life in any context.

 

This haircut is the external symbol of my internal evolution: this is Truth incarnate.

 

The Lord lives and blessed be my rock and exalted be the God of my salvation….yes, you have exalted me above those who rose against me; you rescued me from the man of violence. *Psalm 18:46 & 48b*

 

¿Porqué corté mi pelo?

Hay dos partes en la historia: la belleza y mi sexualidad.

Cuando me mudé a temuco, chile de una pequeña ciudad en el sur de los estados unidos me di cuenta de una división muy profunda entre los géneros. Una división en la cual mis lágrimas nadaban porque de la pena de estar vista sólo como un cuerpo: pelo rubio y nada más. Me sentía como un objeto como resultado de la diferencia entre esta cultura y la mía. No es peor acá, simplemente es diferente y más fuerte y me costó cuando caminaba por las calles y escuchaba las voces de trabajadores y hombres normales.

Me sentía como carne en un circulo de hombres con hambre, con ganas comer lo que soy. Pide a mi Dios(a) una perspectiva nueva, una manera para sobrevivir y evolucionar en este contexto nuevo. No pude creer (ni quería creerlo) que mi sexualidad podía ser nada más que un acto, que dibujos y fotos encontradas en el internet.

Entonces vi una compañera de mi clase y su pelo cortito me inspiró: ella luchaba en esta guerra antes de mi tiempo acá y ella tenía la sabiduría y la fuerza mantener su propio estilo sin tener en cuenta las opiniones tristes y malas. Sabía que seguir su ejemplo valiente era mi senda, el próximo paso en mi evolución personal. Así corté mi pelo.

Unas personas no me han respetado desde lo corté y la mayoría no han entendido. Pero hay un poco…un grupo pequeño que me apoyaba, que entendía, y ellos cambiarán esta cultura, este mundo. Porque sus mentes están abierta, sus corazones están suave y porque siempre eligen la esperanza y la libertad personal y no pierden una oportunidad de ver por los ojos de una otra persona.

Si no seguimos luchando, creyendo, esperando un mundo mejor, viviremos sin la energía divina que es necesario para disfrutar llenamente cada día de nuestras vidas maravillosas.

Lucharé contra ideologías deshumanizadoras sin recreo pero amaré a la gente quien cree en esas ideologías radicalmente; es posible hacer los dos al mismo tiempo, lo sé.

 

Por mas difícil que sea un objetivo, siempre exista una manera de superar los obstáculos….Si permanece esperando el momento ideal, nunca saldrá del lugar; es preciso un poco de locura para dar el próximo paso. El guerrero usa un poco de locura. Porque en la guerra y en el amor, no es posible preverlo todo.
*Paulo Coehlo, Manual del guerrero de la luz*

 

¡El Señor vive! ¡Alabada sea mi roca!
    ¡Exaltado sea Dios mi Salvador!
Tú me libras del furor de mis enemigos,
me exaltas por encima de mis adversarios,
    me salvas de los hombres violentos. *Salmo 18:46 & 48b*

 

 

 

 

I Am & I Hope

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Born to be creative, freed by the Truth to pursue life in the trails I blaze through this globe-jungle.

Who am I? is a question I ask myself every day and then smile at the obstinate refusalof my soul to respond simply. I am not simple. I am big. I am not defined by the color of my skin, by my heritage, by what I know or do not know, experience or do not experience. I am me, I am. I am lost in I AM. I am a wide network of dynamic relationships, ideas, and memories. I will not be stifled. I am gratitude and I am the tears of the ones I love.

I spend my days in expectation of the unspeakable Divinity which is faithful to bestow a timely spark on my dry wood. Then, as ashes, my substance travels the invisible current of our atmosphere to the wildest corners of our world; may I land where hope is needed and may I be loyal to her, Hope, the North Star of my very being.

I bow my head to the women whose voices are strengthening me, whose hard-earned beliefs keep me company, keep me grounded in the soil of my God & teach me that I am never away from my loved ones, nor am I ever unloved.

Enjoy the quotes, friends. Thanks for reading.

Lydia Nomad

 

I once heard that there is enough food in the world to feed all the hungry children. It is not a lack of resources; it is simply a lack of will. When I think about what I have hoarded or held onto because of fear, it causes me great grief. I want to walk, eat, pack, and work with an open and trusting heart. For I have learned that when my heart is open to the world, my vision is transformed, and I am able to see family where I once saw strangers and opportunities to heal where I once saw obstacles to joy. –Becca Stevens

 

We have been treating the earth as if it were a supply house and a sewer. Weve been  grabbing, extracting resources from it for our cars and our hair dryers and our bombs and we have been pouring the waste into it until it is overflowing. But our earth is not a supply house and a sewer. It is our larger body. We breath it, we taste it, we are it, and it is time now that we venerate that incredible flowering of life that takes every aspect of our physicality.–Joanna Macy

 

“No hay paz sin justicia,

no hay justicia sin equidad,

no hay equidad sin desarrollo,

no hay desarrollo sin democracia,

no hay democracia sin respeto a la identidad y

dignidad de las culturas y los pueblos”.–Rigoberta Menchú

 

 

Love Now, For Always

 

Nothing is forsaken since love seeps through

Shallow graves and dead stumps.

We weep for blights and injustices,
But even if we hung up our lyre,
The bluebirds and yellow­bellied sapsuckers
Sing for the weary, “There is love after death.”
–Becca Stevens

Patagonia & Hopeful Humanity

What is this mysery?

Frozen piece of earth,

with lives huddled together on its slender finger turned toward Antarctica.

Who are these mysteries?

Long eyebrows and faces pressed together even in the streets, asking me questions and hesitantly demonstrating the English that was handed to them in high school.

Who am I amidst these mysteries?

…These were questions I asked myself as I drove for hours to reach Coyhaique, a city in Patagonia. I never imagined myself so close to the turning of the globe, to the tip of South America!

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I was there for four full days and experienced the rich culture within the Chilean family of my friend and hosts. The past 3 weeks here in Temuco have been challenging. Trying to figure out communication, how to be me, how to thrive regardless of what goes on around me, all when I don’t know how to take out the trash or what the hell to eat…phew! Culture adjustment is a whirlwind: life with Chile up until my time in Coyhaique had been more of a wrestling match than a love affair.

Then I breathed some mountain air & sat in the fire light of an accepting and warm culture.

My soul exhaled.

When my soul exhales, I tend to write poems 🙂 Enjoy, dear ones.

 

The Taste of Human Hope

 

Life in Chile has a cheesecake flavor,

every bite silk against the tongue, chased by purple wine.

 

Housekeepers and brooms twirl in kitchens,

radios playing the tune of each caramelo swirl.

 

Mamás and Papás, grandmas and their babies tuck themselves into corners

while the whole thing stops for lunch.

 

Children bounce between gentle arms:

the community choreographs an artistic ritual of mild annoyance.

 

Birds with dry rubber bands in their throats ride updrafts to the base

of mountains bigger than I have seen before, as dogs nobody owns sniff my skirt hem.

 

Weak orange street lights draw lines in the evening haze,

dull silver knives massaging cheese and sweet sauces onto fresh buns.

 

Behind curtains cheeks are kissed, tables set with white clothes, tea cups, and small spoons,

weapons against the agitation of winter.

 

It seems that Chileans fight the frigidity I feel with sparks of loving invitations to dinner,

by tenderly cutting their salami and cheese sandwiches in half.

 

Tall trees frame the moon with crusty silhouettes. Under the clouds, in front of the velvet sky,

the star Love gave me winks mischievously.

 

Esperanza, Hope;

I am a child yet she is my winter light daughter.

 

Let us lie in the arms of one another,

first born of each other,

 

as I stand amidst the cold night air

and you pin back the blackness.

 

 

 

Hugs & hope,

Lydia Nomad

Loverfly

Fam!

In all honesty, I am a little embarassed that it has been almost a month since I posted. However, I have been listening to some lovely lady voices (Naomi Shihab Nye, The Indigo Girls, Regina Spektor, Audrey Assad, to name a few) & now find myself living in the Southern hemisphere for a while. A city in central Chile called Temuco is my current home. It is terrifying and enchanting to be here but the journey and settling in process could not have gone any smoother.

In the moments when everything, from the city streets, to the food, to the curtains and the bed where I sleep seems foreign and I become overwhelmed, these words have been an oar I use to paddle my way forward*:

By the light of day and by the dark of night your God has not forgotten you || Quran Daylight 93.1

&

Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you. || Psalm 116:7

Sometimes the most difficult of big journeys (or just big changes) require me to sit, to return to silence, and remember God is not mad at me. I am not in trouble. It is all a gift to be enjoyed. And most important, and most difficult for me to believe, it all has a purpose. I have purpose.

Silence is the language of God, everything else is poor translation. || Rumi

It is interesting the internal furniture that is rearranged by travel. Sunday afternoon (my 5th day here) an old sorrow surfaced, like pieces of algea that ride the tips of ocean waves. It evoked a poem and a deep ache inside, connected to other aches. Pauline Boss says that the answer to human sadness is human connectedness (I have been listening to a lot of On Being with Krista Tippett, obviously) and I wonder if that is because sorrow touches every experience we have. Sadness is an ultimately integrated space and our interactions with others, those sweet moments when we touch and are touched, must be the only remedy broad and complex enough to greet the ache.

My liberation journey continues, now on a new continent. Dirt and sky, both ancient and savage, keep me company as I wait, breath, live one more day….yearning for gratitude, aching for new Life inside.

You, dear blog readers, always get the roughest, newest poetry. I hope you enjoy:

In a country new to me

I looked down and saw, for the first time,

the face of a miniature Chilean:

round, chapped cheeks and almond shaped eyes with dark brown fans for eyelashes.

I asked the unanswerable question: how does loving a child

make adopting an entire culture

that much easier?

 

Tucked away from the wind in the afternoon

one of the unanswerable questions I find is:

Why fall in love so often?

Why are humans so quick to embark on such a painful journey?

What foolhardy resilience are we busy cultivating

that we jump off the cliff time after time (to pursue cultures, experiences, people),

falling into something new with the old still all around us.

 

I keep this one love like dried beans in a secret, quiet place in my heart

where it is dry and cool

and where I don’t look very often;

I don’t know why.

It hurts to look, yet

for the sake of the future loves

I will be found taking the moments made for a look:

a gaze that is long and loving,

though he will never know.

It is the release of his thoughts of me,

of the white woman who came and went

without apology,

that simmers in me volcanously.

It is because he will never know, just as many who have loved me (of all genders and age) will never know,

that the purity and strength of their love was the fire under my feet.

Busy looking for what their love lacked,

they failed to see how love was all I needed

to keep healing, to move towards wholeness,

to walk the way of becoming just one step more.

I didn’t need anything more than what they had to give,

I couldn’t put a tidy bow or explanation on it because their love ran me out,

and what sense is that?

 

A whisper says, learn to not know

or understand,

because love leaves us speechless.

The profound nature of my desire to make it right

beats against my chest;

a silent kick drum against the part of me where I loved him, where I hold those tender memories.

Now the space between us is a chasm and there is no use asking it to decrease in breadth

because what would I say?

Still there is no sense,

only Love, a butterfly perched on my lips, where I smile anyway.

 

Ciao!

Lydia Nomad

 

*Naomi Shihab Nye, On Being with Krista Tippett, July 28, 2016

 

 

 

Brave the Glass

A couple of weeks before beginning the 31 Days of Her Voice challenge I started a practice of seeing women. I had noticed a trauma-related practice in me of scoping out a room from a perspective of “who has the power?” and making the assumption that that is always  men. There I would be, exploring how they used their power and letting my experience be shaped by the male ego even further than it already has been.

Well, I’m not them, and that’s not my ego. I’m me, I am distinct. Why don’t I be shaped by me?

*Breaking news*: me is a woman. So, I started reversing the male-focused practice by making a habit of seeing the women in a room first. Who do I see? What does she look like? How is she carrying herself? Where is she putting her power? What this has brought about in me is inexplicable; it’s a surge of power within. A brawny wind tickles my soul as I notice that women DO have power, that the whisper of men being stronger, more, or even fundamentally different, is simply an illusion.

….To see women is to see so much in all corners of the human experience. Everywhere we are waiting in lines, rolling our luggage, honing our crafts, cooking meals, closing shops at dusk, sweeping floors, reading and writing books, recording podcasts, creating theatricals, cradling new lives. We try new foods, make friends, pierce our noses, walk miles to get bread and milk for our children.

…Pardon my lingering stares, ladies. I am falling in love with what we are.

Woman is a living, breathing organism.

We are what unites us, one in Being, hopefully expectant.

Hopeful because our men hurt us without knowing how or why, with our breath we often take life instead of give it, and with the same ears that hear lullabies we hear lies about our worth and capabilities.

Expectant because we know that our men are made of glorious star-particles same as we are, and because our ears and mouths were made for the gentle give and receive of life life life.

We, right now, decide what feminism is for the next generation. We create the framework on which the girls who follow us will hang their lives. Will we make it restrictive or expansive? Will we pave the way or construct a gable?

.

I will live for all the women who are stuck

for if I am coming un-stuck, then liberation is not far from us all.

If one of us can be dislodged even slightly from the mire, then in taking that step

all gain a glimpse

of our re-birth.

 

But forget all that–it is nothing compared to what I am going to do. ~Isaiah 43

 

I will never stop growing & being re-born, ever.

It doesn’t stop next month

next year

ever.

This life is a growth spurt–

pains and all–

but it doesn’t end.

There is no damn ceiling.

 

 

Rosa was a freedom fighter
And she taught us how to fight

Ella was a freedom fighter
And she taught us how to fight

Audre was a freedom fighter
And she taught us how to fight

Angela was a freedom fighter
And she taught us how to fight

Sojourner was a freedom fighter
And she taught us how to fight

Assata was a freedom fighter
And she taught us how to fight

~Jamila Woods, Blk Girl Soldier

(^^best 31 Day discovery yet!)

 

 

 

Poem Full of Hope

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She carries her cross, terrified and fully aware of surrounding and indwelling dissonance;

she knows she was made for more, a more she knows nothing of, which makes her ache with hope and agony.

 

Terrified, she treads deeper into the forest landscaped with fear and uncertainty.

She carries her cross because she needs more to live for.

 

Children who have yet to see the forest edge, for them she carries her cross.

While they can’t muster hope she, terrified, touches one more toe down.

 

She carries her cross, brown-eyed and unstable.

Terrified, the woman is Jesus, come back to lift the poor from the hopeless heaps we’ve put them in.

 

 

Me For Me

These words are about the healing and growth I am undergoing and what that is bringing about in my life. Next post will be about how exactly the 31 days of Her Voice has intensified this process. Enjoy 🙂

 

Everything is different now that I get to have me, and

see through the eyes I was born with, no one else’s.

 

A world of invitation and delight orbits just outside my domain,

without whisper of exclusion.

 

Having me is eating and tasting food for the first time,

it’s looking in the mirror and knowing that I am that.

 

It’s dancing wildly without a thought for who is around,

it’s being with loved ones and then being completely alone.

 

It’s one boat leaving the dock and another pulling up alongside

It’s a journey I can’t un-take

 

 

Who is she?

This wild woman with Tarzan arms that have climbed trees in Puerto Rico, held children, cooked Indian curries,

shook hands, written essays, braided hair, drafted budgets, wrapped around the body they’re attached to.

The wild woman who holds herself and stands on no feet but her own.

Who creates spaces where others can breath, where long-dormant hearts can beat again.

 

Once you see you can’t unsee.

Once you feel you can’t unfeel.

 

There are magical children around me. Some are adults but most are young, not so long out of the womb that they have forgotten the Spark they sprang from.

When I ride in the car with these kids, climb rocks with them, blow bubbles with them, read books with them, something extraordinary happens.

Over time a space is created. I imagine wind drawing a circle between us, its gusts creating a vortex of safety, peace, love, and acceptance.

Some kids hear the whisper quicker than others but it is there for all: Everything you are has a place. And by sheer Heaven-wizardry that message brings out hearts and puts smiles on faces. It’s like camels just come to an oasis.

Hearts start to show like turtle heads peeking out from under shells. Words I can’t yet voice, about things I haven’t begun to comprehend,

do their life-giving work in this space. All that I feel I cannot do for the children starts to do its work.

With me, but also without me.

 

In me something is happening.

My interior is a wide expanse with hay that sways in the breeze rather than the barren land it once was.

As restoration roots within me it creates a sacred spin around me; rearranging the souls that I overlap with, gentle licks of ocean against sand.

I sense that it is less an hour glass and more the mysterious layer of cinnamon particles carried by winds that, over time, shape the sand dunes.

 

There is no sense to be made of what goes on in and around me. To put language to it is a fun, sometimes useful, challenge.

To enjoy it in all its delicious mystery is the only mandate. It’s more of an invitation.

 

Do you believe in an endless love?