Quiet Street

Once you realize that the road is the goal and that you are always on the road, not to reach a goal, but to enjoy its beauty and its wisdom, life ceases to be a task….

― Nisargadatta Maharaj

Where I come from, like anywhere, there are rules. Some are written, but most are unwritten, passed on member to member, generation to generation, word of mouth, tongue in cheek, morphing as they circulate, like an ontological plague.

Learning the official promise and bylaws at the Organization was easy. At the beginning of meetings, everyone recites the pledge: “I promise by the strength of Christ to be brave, pure and true. I will fulfill my duties at school, home and club; do my part in [the Organization’s] activities, keep all dates and promises and read at least one verse in the Bible daily.”  

It takes a little longer to learn the laws, but anyone who wants to be recognized by leadership, to earn a pin or a neckerchief, to move up into Phosterians or RHLA, strives to live by these, as well:

A member is brave. He/she will not shun duty. He/she realizes that bravery in standing for the right is greater than mere physical strength. Coaxing of friends and jeers of enemies cannot persuade him/her to do wrong.

A member is pure in body, mind, speech and conduct. He/she will not defile his/her body with tobacco, liquor, or other harmful habits. Because he/she keeps his/her mind pure, his/her speech and conduct will also be pure and he/she will choose to go with a clean crowd.

A member is true to himself/herself, to parents, to all leaders, and to God. He/she will not lie, steal, cheat or gamble. He/she will honor his/her parents and be respectful to those in authority. He/she is reverent toward God.

In theory, these were the only rules, but in practice, the parameter of acceptable behaviors was vastly more complex. To thrive in this Organization, you had to learn the boundaries–meaning, the bi-conditional logic of what is and isn’t godly.

The Organization obtained its current property when my mother was a young child, leasing the initial 4 acres of riverbed from a local philanthropic family in 1952, and then acquiring adjoining use rights from the Southern California Water Company and the Los Angeles Flood Control District. My family turned a former garbage dump located at the end of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by suburban homes, into a sanctuary of ballfields, and the bowl of refuse became a worship center to a close-knit homogeneous ideological community that has thrived for decades.

However you approached the entrance to the Organization, an unofficially zoned no-noise buffer emanated approximately a mile in each direction. Upon entering that perimeter, no matter what was taking place prior, everyone would hush, and the participants on the bus would be quiet until we drove down the driveway into the basin of fields. Whatever your age, whether you entered the property by car or bus or bike, the blocks of homes outlining the entrance were all part of Quiet Street. If you wanted to stay in the fold, you made the journey silent as a contemplative monk.

The practice of silence served two purposes, but the second one didn’t occur to me until long after I left.

Ostensibly, we were quiet to respect the residents in the surrounding homes. If they weren’t bothered by our noise, they wouldn’t complain to law enforcement of our presence. We all understood that what we did in that basin was unconventional (and, of course, holy) and only those who fully understood God’s purpose should be privy to it.

I walked, biked and drove through Quiet Street thousands of times from my first memories as a toddler through my teenage years, and each time I did so etched in me an unwitting meditation practice. We left what we called the Outside–a world of commerce, temptation and worldly pleasures–to pass through the silence of those transitional streets, to cross the threshold of the cul-de-sac thoroughfare and burrow down into our spiritual home.

A student asked me today how I learned to drop down into my body, how I learned to be still and practice inner-knowing. I didn’t explain Quiet Street, nor quote how at the end of all our exploring, we will arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. What I did share was a simpler truth: throughout my childhood, the practice of mindfulness was integrated into my daily life. Learning to be silent, learning to be reverent in the midst of chaos, learning to pause and respect the physical space of a spiritual journey, is a practice I am deeply grateful for, and one I continue to honor.

 

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I Will Not Let Thee Go Except Thou Bless Me

The function of prayer is not to influence God, but rather to change the nature of the one who prays. —Søren Kierkegaard

I left organized religion many years ago, but religion has not left me.

Growing up, I was taught to give thanks in all situations and to pray without ceasing, for this is the will of God through Jesus Christ.

To pray without ceasing is a difficult habit to cultivate and an even harder habit to break.

Anne Lamott says there are three prayers every person should learn: “help,” “thanks,” and “wow.”  And I agree with her that fostering interdependence, gratitude and awe is a humbling and worthwhile practice, whether or not we believe in a literal God.

But prayers are so much more than an expression of intent; prayers are a vibration, like poetry and music, and there are as many vibrations as there are art forms to express our range of human emotions. There are prayers of supplication, prayers for comfort and love, prayers for rescue and mercy and healing, both for ourselves and for others. Some prayers are like breathing, some are like listening, and some raise up your hands like a flamingo, whether or not you emit praise.

But the hardest prayers to give up are the conversational ones, the ones where we simply commune with God, about our day, about the minutiae of our microscopic participation in the world as we know it, where we unwittingly define and share our values, softly appealing to a higher perspective.

Talking to God is not the same as talking to yourself. It’s more like looking for yourself.

Giving up prayer like that is like losing your best friend.

One of the uniting principles of the upper chakras is communication, which is an act of connection. We take patterns of thought and make them specific through the process of naming. And prayer is a type of naming, focusing our consciousness by drawing limits around the context of our prayer, why it is this and it is not that. To pray is to clarify a thought, to set boundaries, to specify what we value by naming what we want or need. Praying gives structure and meaning to our thoughts, rather than random ruminating or otherwise spinning around our own manic mind-talk.

When I left the Organization, I wanted a blessing on my way out. I wanted someone from the family I grew up with to believe good things could happen to me while not wrapped in the confines of that particular subculture. I wanted someone to let me go with a handshake or a hug. Actually, even a nod or a wave would have been welcome. I wanted someone to wish that the road would rise up to meet me.

I spent years wrestling with that one, and it never came.

The sound of grief, like the sound of prayer, has a distinct force and vibration, and this vibration exists through all form of matter, energy and consciousness. In fact, the Hindus believe that vibration, working through various levels of the density of audible sound, is the basic emanation from which matter was created.

Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob’s hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, “Let me go, for it is daybreak.” But Jacob replied, ”I will not let thee go except thou bless me.”

When I left for college, and first heard the scientific rationale for atheism, I began to shift my belief system to accommodate these supported truths. Eventually, education would lead me to develop a new understanding of concepts like neighbors and moral responsibility, as well as community and belonging, widening my interpretation of ecumenical and congregation to center around connection rather than separation, and to privilege love over fear and guilt.  

I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in prayer. And when I think of family, I know I would still wrestle an angel for their blessing.

 

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Dark Gifts, Part II

 

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“Let me fall if I must fall. The one I become will catch me.”

–The Baal Shem Tov

 

We have been living in the Mess Hall at the camp for months when Christmas rolls around, and I am excited by the snow.  My siblings and I are all struck silent and still by the prospect of being confined, although we don’t know to call it that.  We are huddled at the top of a dirt road, safe in the Mess Hall, relieved that it is impossible to drive down to get to the main road and make the 95 minute trek to Communion. So here we are.

Trapped, but safe.

I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to be in this winter wonderland, away from the possibility that my parents will be summoned to preach or teach. I don’t want anything for Christmas except for to stay here forever, to stop driving down the hill, to never have to drive down the mountain again, for this cocooning never to end.

The Mess Hall is one large room with a concrete slab floor, and we are fortunate that there is a 1947 stone fireplace, where we can dry wet things and hang stockings. We have stockings made of felt, with felt images, pieced together by women who have been called by the Lord to work with their hands.  We are told that coal or oranges are traditional gifts, relegated respectively to children who are either naughty or nice. Now that we’re living as if we belong in another century, we believe this, having almost forgotten there was ever a world before now, that we once lived on a street, with neighbors, in a house with a toilet and a shower.

The night in our bunks is cold, but we are full of hope.   

“The man in the moon is watching us, Mikey.”

My brother looks at me with droopy eyes, like he’s been ordered to nod off, but refuses. I point out the window, toward the glow of the moon, noticing the pine needles strewn across the field of snow like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs, marking the way home.

“Is that God?” he asks, “Is that where God lives? Or Santa Claus?”

“God lives in Heaven,”  I explain, “Santa lives at the north pole.”

“Is the north pole on earth or in heaven?

“The north pole is where the magic happens on earth.  God saves his magic for after we die.”

“Are you going to die?”

I’m only four years older than he is, but I look at Mikey with maternal confidence, like I know what I’m talking about.  “Santa won’t let me die tonight. But if I do, if I die before you, I will ask God to make sure Santa takes extra good care of you.”

“If God can do that, why doesn’t God just take care of us now?”

Our parents rustle in together, en route back from the outhouse.

“Lights out” our father barks, and darkness descends as if from the hand of God.

We wake up to sun reflecting on snow, the pine needles too numerous to follow in any one direction.

Underneath the stockings are four suitcases: yellow for Lori, pink for me, blue for Wendy and brown for Mikey.  We will live out of these suitcases for the next ten years.

My siblings and I spent the rest of our childhoods (every weekend, most summers, and whenever we missed our ride back up the mountain) at whatever home would take us in. I learned to pack lightly, to come and go, to conform to whatever subculture I entered for the time it took to sleep and be fed, and then to leave and try not to come back too soon. I learned to be polite and ingratiating, but not get too attached. I learned what love looked like, how it manifested itself, how intimacy was expressed in so many different ways in so many different homes, but I also grew to understand that love was for the families who lived there and I was always a visitor. I learned to come and go without asking for anything, to avoid being noticed, to take what was given, whether I wanted it or not. I learned to live with disappointment, without attachment, to travel lightly and to exit quickly, before I could see the visible signs of being unwelcome. My escape hatches were pre-planned and well-rehearsed. At one home, I would jump off the garage roof to slip out the back gate onto an adjoining field. Occasionally, I slept out there on the grass.

The first man in my adult life who loved me made quesadillas with avocado in his mother’s kitchen, food he enjoyed and wanted to share with me. No one had ever done that before. The second man who loved me stocked his refrigerator with foods I liked, so when I came over, there was always something for me to eat, without asking. These were more than kind gestures. These were concrete illustrations that they wanted me in their space.

I returned their love largely because I felt claimed.

I’ve begun a meditation truth practice. For one month, I have been committing to sit with whatever truths come up about myself. This practice doesn’t require me to share these truths with anyone. If something feels relevant, I may write it down. But the practice is merely to show up and feel what comes up, without running away. Every day.

Showing up for myself has been far more difficult than manipulating exit strategies. I’ve always been ready to jump off the roof of my own life. Staying on the ground is harder.

Certainly, there are things I’ve been mindful to build, and I am proud of the home, career and relationships I have spent decades cultivating.  But I am the kind of person who would rather walk than wait for a ride. I am more comfortable with physical discomfort than with nurturing, and I would rather sleep outside in the rain than ask anyone to take me in.

As T.S. Eliot reminds us, “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

There is always the return.

I still find it difficult to know what foods to choose for myself, to have any idea what I want or need, to see self-nourishment or self-care as activities worthy of my time.

But I’ve come to know what is mine.

Almost a thousand years ago, Hildegard of Bingen, a visionary who worked in seclusion in a monastery rather than accept the limitations of a woman’s traditional life trajectory, reminds us, “We cannot live in a world that is not our own, a world interpreted for us by others. An interpreted world is not a home. Part of the terror is to take back our own listening, to use our own voice, to see our own light.”

You cannot disown what is yours, no matter how many times you walk away. Wounds that heal still leave scars, and sometimes all we have to follow is a trail of blood. I would rather keep moving than sit around waiting to be claimed. Over and over, when things start to settle down, when I begin to feel too comfortable, I look for the exit sign.

But now, when I throw my things in a suitcase, restlessly searching for the next transition, I know how to find my way back home.

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Dark Gifts, Part I

It’s very hard to grow, because it’s difficult to let go of the models of ourselves in which we’ve invested so heavily. — Ram Dass

On August 15, 2015, on the bottom floor of a gutted house in downtown Los Angeles, in the middle of what was once a living room, Ron Athey lay stretched out on a table naked, balls bound and swollen, fishhooks pulling back his eyelids and his nipples, the skin of his collarbone, his belly and his thighs, like acupuncture gone wild. A short row of men lined the side of the altar on which he lay, and massaged his quivering thighs and heaving torso. There was a balcony upstairs, where viewers congregated and drank from the open bar, from whence a spotlight shone down, creating a circle of bright light around him, evident from all vantage points in the venue. Even from a fair distance, I could see the beads of sweat above his upper lip, as the men massaged thick wads of cream into his sweaty flesh. One of the men stepped aside, gesturing and encouraging me to walk forward. I made my way up to the platform to stand next to Ron. I put my hand on his chest. I felt it rise and fall as I rubbed gently. He didn’t look at me. His eyes were angled toward the ceiling, but it appeared to me like they were looking at the sky.

I stepped away to let others through, and to look for my friend Denise, an art professor who had worked with Athey as a graduate student at CalArts. She had invited me to this art show tonight because, she said, “you are brave.” I hadn’t known what she meant. Athey has a long history of bold and bloody performances, which she well knew, and I didn’t. I found her buried in the corner, looking small, like a child. She asked me if I touched him. I nodded.

“I can’t” she said, “It makes me nauseous, seeing him like that, doing that. I could never touch him.”

I nodded again. I got it. The room was hot and dense with the smell of beer, blood, sweat and massage oils. Intellectually, I understood this whole thing was raw and intimidating and probably a little dangerous. But I felt comfortable in the space, and oddly at peace with the worshippers, the theatrics, the suffering and the witnessing of it. The laying of hands felt familiar to me, and the noisy backdrop was like a soundtrack of speaking in tongues.

A voice boomed through the speakers and the spectators hushed. Ron rose from the table, as if from the dead, peeling back the hooks and discarding the wires. He garnered a cape and hat and began to walk in a circle, and with each step, his cape blew back gently to reveal his naked, vulnerable body, testicles now unbound and gorged with blood, so they looked impossibly large. The audience carefully stepped back to give him space. The voice from the speakers spoke of Pharaoh and mercy, exculpation and redemption, sin and ablutions, captivity and exodus. I thought of Moses and his band of followers leaving Egypt and walking toward the promised land.

I stood silent, reverent and rapt, as did the viewers around me.

The truth is, most people are horrified by Athey’s art. He has performed prophecy, pain, Christian mythology, transgressive and redemptive sexuality, and the politics of queerness when being HIV-positive (as Athey has been openly since the 1980’s), was a death sentence. Critics find him masochistic, dirty, extreme, and grossly inappropriate. I can’t argue with any of those labels. Yet through his work, I am reminded, yet again, that pain is inevitable, and suffering is a choice. Throughout his performance, I felt like I was more than a voyeur, or even a witness. I was a participant in a holy catharsis, in a space transcendent like a cathedral, communal like church.

For some of us, change and growth, transformation and metamorphosis, require more than words. For some of us, the symbols and integration of those symbols on or into our bodies helps us shift identities, from archetypes we clung to as children, to more fluid ways of seeing and being in the world. Sometimes this takes more than intellectual knowledge or analysis. Sometimes we have to walk through the desert barefoot and feel our way across the sand, without a map, or even the assurance of a destination point.

When I am afraid of cataclysmic change, I often think of the goddess Kali, who is the embodiment of the terrifyingly beautiful cycle of life and death, the pyrrhic clearing of the old to make way for the new. She burns away what no longer serves us and forces us to shed outgrown patterns and strategies and emerge as something new. Kali destroys the safety nets we cling to, so that we can grow into a new container of being.

Ron Athey’s work, like Kali, has stayed with me, walking beside me like a friend.

Athey’s fishhooks and binds are clearly self-imposed. By inviting people to participate in his suffering, to bear witness to the process of transformation, he gives us permission to endure our own pain, without apology or excuse. This isn’t an apocalyptic message. The visceral experience of being present for another’s transformation reminds us that we may have to give up our old, comfortable life to change the way things are. Athey reminds us that healing, like freedom, is a process.

Experiencing pain doesn’t mean we’ve failed. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is a choice. When I think about the ways I willingly push myself–my body, my mind, the boundaries of social acceptance–I am reminded that growth comes with a price. Paying it is a fair exchange.

 

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The Throat Chakra

Truth.  The real truth only comes years later, when finally one day your body feels safe enough to feel it. –Tom Spanbauer

The screaming started a year after I had my thyroid removed, and a few weeks before someone I used to love broke into our family home, causing a great deal of damage.

For three weeks, on and off, at what felt like random intervals, the demon would come to me and sit on my chest in the night, dense with the weight of an anvil, and slowly drain the breath from my lungs. Paralyzed, I would watch it compress my chest, pinning me to the bed, syphoning my lifeforce, eliminating my breath in tiny increments, freezing everywhere in my body but my eyes, which continued to blink and dart and roll, furiously fighting against surrender, refusing to accept death at this creature’s gnarled hands.

But eyes aren’t much of a defense against a demon, and I would feel myself begin to fade into the sheets until somewhere in my throat the scream would begin to form and escape my mouth in a barbaric, primal roar that wouldn’t let up until it exhausted me into a little ball of quivering quiet.  

When the screaming began, my family would turn on the lights, and see that nothing was there, so they would shake me, gently, and then more aggressively to wake up, please wake up, while I screamed without words at this thing, at this thing, please, get this thing off of my chest.

At some point I would recognize the person who was actually in the room, but the demon still held me, so that I had no control over the scream, where it started or how it ended. When my senses became alert enough to hear it, it was a sound outside of me, just as the sounds of my family pleading for me to stop were outside of me, instructing me to wake up, trying to convince me I was dreaming.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was an assault.

The voices of my loved ones made familiar sounds outside of me and I could hear them, even as I heard the scream outside of me, alien and intrusive, like an out of sync audio track in a foreign film. The scream was its own entity, and I could hear that sound like the crescendo in an orchestral score, the sound of a woman rising up and fighting for herself.

The throat chakra is the energetic space that pertains to our self-expression, our personal truth, how we define our purpose in life, and our ability to express ourselves to others, with creativity and authenticity. When our fifth chakra energy is blocked, we may find ourselves unable to speak our truth when we need it the most, we may have difficulty expressing our needs and desires, and we may lie to avoid conflict or to keep others from knowing who we are.

Communication is, at base, an act of connection. We may be connecting intellectual ideas, clarifying economic transactions, or sharing intimate feelings, but regardless of tone and content, the action of communicating merges us with our listeners and expands beyond the boundaries of our own minds.

To open our fifth chakra, we practice synthesizing old ideas into something new, something more concrete–through listening, speaking, writing, chanting, telepathy and art forms. When we share these things openly and honestly with others, we deepen our connection not only to them, but to ourselves. When we lie, to ourselves and to others, we create dissonance and distance.

Of course, before we can share our truths, we need to be self-reflective enough to know what they are.

At the time, I didn’t find the the gash across my neck, nor the stitches, nor the healing process, nor the fact that my vocal cords had been stretched apart during surgery, to be of any particular significance. Nor was I able to acknowledge, even afterwards, how the fear of that demon was connected to signs that the past wouldn’t stay in the past. I wasn’t able to connect these dots because I didn’t know myself well enough to know what I was feeling, let alone express it to anyone else or to ask for help in understanding my relationship to these events.

My throat remained constricted, tight, strained and raw during those weeks, even on nights I wasn’t screaming. On the nights I did, I could only whisper my way through work the day after.

I am now committed to a daily spiritual practice of ruthless self-honesty. And when Visuddha, my fifth chakra, is open enough, when I have rigorously practiced communication within my own body and mind, when I have sat long enough with the pain to have built up neural pathways of radical honesty, I will find the courage, strength and will to express these truths to others. And I will be ready to create art.

 

 

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Anahata

For the person who survived on scraps of affection, there may be a lifelong habit of contraction that is only obvious when you are showered in appreciation. Here the heart is challenged to receive at a greater capacity than it has ever known. Bearing the pleasure means beginning to notice those jumpy places which anticipate pain, which expect abandonment, which brace for danger when it’s no longer there. Only then can we begin to invite a gentle exploration of pleasure, allowing life into those areas which have been cordoned off in self-preservation. We must acclimate, often through grief, to the life-giving nature of love which is all around us waiting to be received.  — Toko-pa Turner

When I was Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles for the first time, I was 10 years and 5 months old.  I was put in “isolation” in the Hematology Ward, which means I was housed alone, and medical personnel wore masks and gloves when they came into the room. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me, and neither did they, but I was covered in bruises and petechiae, and I had what looked like a single bug bite near my pubic bone. They drew vials and vials of blood, took my vitals every few minutes, lanced the welt, and discovered that my platelets were dangerously low (below 5,000 per microliter) and I had chickenpox. These may or may not have been related.

I spent a lot of time alone in the hospital.

For the next 3 years and 3 months, my life revolved around my illness. When I wasn’t in the hospital, I often slept on my grandparents’ fold-out chair, because they had a phone and lived less than an hour from Los Angeles. They were old and my grandmother had had a stroke a few years prior. The house was quiet and I often went days without speaking to anyone, or anyone speaking to me. I didn’t go to school, and for a long time, I had no access to books. I spent a lot of time on the fold-out chair, looking at my grandmother’s accordion desk. When she died, it’s the only thing I wanted.

I rarely talk about any of this.

It wasn’t really the illness that broke me. It was the isolation, the distance from the community into which I was born, the inaccessibility of my siblings and my parents–who all lived far away in the mountains, and for whom visiting wasn’t convenient or a priority.

Three years is a long time at that age.

The girl in that hospital bed has begun appearing to me lately, asking for my help.

This may or may not be related to learning to accept love.

In the chakra tradition, the heart is the center, the essence, the spiritual core, the source from which energy flows in each direction, from the lower three chakras that represent physical matter, to the ideologies of the higher three chakras that house our spirituality. The heart chakra integrates and balances the various aspects of our being, including what we long for and what we fear.

As we age, we continue to hold awareness of all the ages we’ve ever been. We might think of the entity comprised of mind/body/spirit as a container that houses all parts of ourselves, from the needs (met and unmet) of our bodies to the needs (met and unmet) of our spirits.

The task of the heart chakra is to recognize and integrate the disparate aspects of ourselves, from the performing parts we embrace to the shadow selves we fear. For most of us, it is a challenge to have compassion for all of these selves, especially those we believe are broken.

Rather than seeing love as an extension of need or desire, when we develop unmitigated compassion, we can begin to build an empathetic connection, starting with ourselves, and extending to others.

When we work to balance the fourth chakra, we begin to transcend ego, and loosen our self-defined boundaries. While strong boundaries are necessary to protect ourselves from abuse, they are also an attempt to shield ourselves from pain and vulnerability. But pain and vulnerability are central to the human condition, and denying them keeps us closed off from reality. Meditating on the heart chakra helps us recognize the people, places, events, commitments and emotions that scare us the most. Facing these with with an open heart is central to our well-being and to our growth.

The world I grew up in was the only world I knew, and it was so normalized, it has taken me a very long time to understand what I gained and what I lost from my isolation.

I wish I could go back and hug the girl in the hospital bed. I would tell her I love her, and I would sit with her and hold her hand and read to her, and I would assure her that whatever happens, I won’t leave.

 

 

 

 

 

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Some tips for young journalists

I did not think of language as the means to self-description. I thought of it as the door — a thousand opening doors! — past myself. I thought of it as the means to notice, to contemplate, to praise, and, thus, to come into power….I saw what skill was needed, and persistence — how one must bend one’s spine, like a hoop, over the page — the long labor. I saw the difference between doing nothing, or doing a little, and the redemptive act of true effort. Reading, then writing, then desiring to write well, shaped in me that most joyful of circumstances — a passion for work. — Mary Oliver

 

I accompanied nine of my students to the College Media Association Convention in New York City this week, and here is a small sample of what we learned:

Meredith Talusan, Executive Editor @ them:

“Part of it is just being at the right place at the right time, but the way I look at it, as long as I’m doing good work, the opportunities will present themselves. I’m most interested in the quality of my work.”

We should have a Chief Content Officer.

Kimberly B Johnson, Associate Editor at Konbini:

Brand Identity

Obtaining the Knowledge

Finding the Stories

Becoming the Expert

When you immerse yourself in a culture, the stories find you. Small companies will give you more freedom over your platform.

Joanne Lipman on That’s What She Said: What Men Need to Know (and Women Need to Tell Them) About Working Together

We all have unconscious bias. We have been taught to overestimate boys’ skills and to underestimate girls’ skills, which starts in infancy.  For example, by objective measurements, parents overestimate their boy babies’ crawling abilities and underestimate girl babies. As early as six years old, boys pay themselves more (in Hershey kisses) than girls do for the same tasks. In fact, in repeated studies, boys paid themselves more at every age than girls do.  And in college, professors call on male students more frequently than female students.

Women get interrupted more often than men, even if they’re Supreme Court judges. And often, it takes a man repeating what a woman says for her idea to be heard.

Open secret: women are not as valued as men are in our culture.

Advice from journalists at VICE

Modern storytelling requires a multi-platform news delivery system, and the world is hungry for what youth is creating.

Have a portfolio with links to work you’ve done, posted on platforms like Medium.

Keep an updated Instagram site.

Do something that gets you out of your comfort zone, and keep producing. Master your craft. Be consistent and reliable, develop a personal style, and be adaptable (code-switching).

Take as many informed interviews as you can and don’t give up.  Self-learning is crucial. Look at professionals you respect and find out the trajectory that got them there. You might be surprised.

It’s not about internships or degrees. It’s about active links to your work, and strong storytelling with multimedia delivery, regardless of platform.

Some of the perks of working for VICE  include: no dress codes, options to telecommute, and free snacks.

From various students, advisers and industry professionals, during presentations and conversations:

Twitter is mandatory for journalists. Your social media accounts should be your name. Avoid dashes, underscores, or any symbols difficult to remember. Be as consistent as possible across all platforms. Building a following on every platform will help with engagement, sourcing for stories and brand building.

When people visit your social profile, are they impressed? Does your social media presence look like you?

When someone wants to hire you, they will cyberstalk you. Period. Be sure you know what they will find.

Your photo should be consistent across all platforms. Create a brand for yourself. Become a logo. Cover photos should be thematically consistent. (Look around at the background and be sure there’s no clutter or diversions.)

Your bio: must-haves: name, what you do, what you’re passionate about, and don’t mention anything in your bio that you’re not willing to post about.

If you want to get hired in this industry, you need a website. Use Google to search the best domain to buy your name. Maybe use WordPress, but buy your name, rather than use a .wordpress. Make the effort. Figure out how to do it and take the steps.

Generate content and post on your own website, in addition to social media. Everything should link to your website, which should have all your social media icons. If you start a blog, make sure you post regularly. Give your contact info on the site.

Don’t have a private social media account.

Connect on LinkedIn – make sure you have a professional presence – which may be a duplication of your website – connect with as many people as you can on it.

To truly do personal branding well, you need to treat your own social platforms like that of a brand; any brand that performs well will have a clearly defined strategy. Set an objective. Define your audience. Set you voice and tone. Create specific goals for each platform, and decide how you will measure success.

Outline a list of words/adjectives to use that define and describe your brand. Always use an image with a post when possible, and size your image for each specific platform. If you’re not professional on a platform, make it private (even though, of course, nothing is ever private).

Use hashtags in a sentence, whenever possible. Try Hashtagify.me

Monitor and keep a constant eye on your network/beat, follow members of your community on social media, set up google alerts and use google trends.

Engage and be social on social media. Get involved in the conversation.

Grow and become a node for information and serve needs that are unmet by other organizations

Be (and stay) active on the social accounts you decide to focus on. Don’t be afraid to schedule tweets to keep your feed active.

Block people you don’t want following you.

Consider Trello/Slack integrations

Adopt newsletter strategies that can help with workflow issues.

Understand the difference between digital content versus print content.

Consider Apple News, traffic drivers, partner platforms, algorithm de-prioritization – developing communities you can talk directly to – you can’t trust any other platform to prioritize you.

Instagram stories – cover live events, show behind-the-scenes, and cover sports

FaceBook groups – Your publication can be enhanced by developing a community – by being an authority on everything on campus, delivering content they can only find through us – form a community group, make it private, create a barrier of entry, an air of exclusivity and connectivity

Lauren Duca, American Writer on “Establishing a Unique Voice in Today’s Media Landscape”

We should practice radical transparency – We’ve been doing a performance of objectivity in journalism, pretending the truth is a math equation. But we have new tools now. We don’t have to rely on the appearance of being true; we need to do the real work of researching and showing our process to the public. Legacy newsrooms used to be filters and provide accountability, but there were always holes in that. False information has always been presented to the public eye. We need to rethink how we factor in as journalists.

It’s impossible to keep track of the news at all times. We need to offer the public guides that they trust.

Freelance is powerful work because you’re not owned by anyone;  you can speak your truth, and you don’t have to wait to start.

While there are certainly new challenges in the digital age, there’s also an opportunity for diversity of voices, for independent channels, for stories we’ve been numb to for many years.

Read and reread The Elements of Journalism: What Newspeople Should Know and the Public Should Expect by Bill Kovach

Journalism is a trade, not a profession, and you learn by doing. You have to be motivated by your own sense of ethics, and have a commitment to verification. People may label Duca a“deranged feminist,” but she is transparent that she is writing opinion, not polemics.

Duca tried to sum up her career trajectory, the bottom line of which is that she was always desperate to find out how other people did it, and what she noticed is that you can master as aspect, but as a journalist, the ground shifts under our feet.  When you’re searching for stories, think about what excites you, what you want to tell your friends later when you get drinks, what have you been strangely exposed to.

You have to write to be a writer. Don’t be afraid to ask questions. No one really knows everything.

New journalists much challenge power by empowering citizens with information.

Media companies are desperate to tell stories online and young people are particularly adept at producing stories online with an emotional connection. Know your strengths. A freelance career is tough, but you can use the time to learn your field. The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm is a fabulous book.

The more you build your foundation, the stronger a journalist you will be. If you want to start a column (and you’ve been told that no one cares what you have to say), consider what you are uniquely bringing to the conversation. And then be rigorous in bringing it.

The truth is not a math equation. If you’re drawn to defending someone, and you are committed to verification, do the work to prove that position, be willing to learn and stay open, keep people around who will challenge your perspective, so you don’t get caught in the echo chamber of your mind.

If you’re a young woman and you do responsible work, but continue to receive harsh criticism, recognize that some people don’t think a woman (especially a young one) has the right to an opinion. Newsrooms traditionally blindly accept patriarchy as the norm in the media. As yourself who is controlling the lens.

 

Infinite Game

…every love story is a ghost story…

Last week, a friend brought me 80% Dunkle Schokolade from Germany and I couldn’t taste it.

He opened the packaging like performance art, broke off a shape resembling a scar. I watched him do this, grateful for the gesture, mesmerized by the movements. I reached out, tried to appreciate the taste and quality and texture of his gift, but it felt cold in my mouth.

I wondered if it was his kindness that scared me.

This morning, I made coffee and I saw the bring pink hues of the Haitian art packaging that protected the leftover chocolate on my desk. I turned it over to read the history, looked at the list of ingredients, curiously fingered the ridges of the foil. Then I wrapped myself in a red wolf blanket, warmed my hands on the coffee mug and held the chocolate next to the heat of the drink, softening around my fingers till it was pliable, like clay.

I licked the chocolate and a wave of resistance sprung up like a flavor, unspoken goodbyes choking me as I swallowed, a machine gun of memories punctuating the background, loud and violent, like a backdrop of war. My parents, my grandparents, the Field, Phosterians, Chapel, the Trip, Quiet Street, Devotions, driving through grooves of mud so thick, getting out is more than dark and dirty.

I hadn’t thought to tell him that Europe is not always a college playground, that sometimes abroad is the only place you can think of to go, but it’s not far enough away.

I dipped the chocolate in the coffee and rolled it around with my tongue and the coffee and chocolate calmed me, like a cigarette. I sensed the taste of fig, with a touch of floral and a tinge of nut, and it was warm and layered and acidic inside of me, the way a lover moves inside of you, and the bitter sweetness alternated in syncopation, like a heartbeat.

 

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The F Scale

“She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.  It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.”  – Toni Morrison, Beloved

I have never understood the phrase, “just friends.” Friendship isn’t a a consolation prize. Friendships can be the most cherished, solid and enduring relationships we have, a chosen space where we can be intimate and vulnerable and seen.

Of course, it depends on how you define friendship.

In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle describes friendship as reciprocated goodwill. He suggests that in a healthy friendship, friends love each other for the sake of the other, as much as themselves, and they wish good things for each other, whether or not it directly benefits them.

I believe all my friends wish good things for me, but without a certain degree of closeness, I think it’s difficult to know how to participate in “reciprocating goodwill.”

One day, on a road trip, in an attempt to understand exactly what we were talking about when we mentioned a “friend,” my companion and I created an F-Scale,  It was a long drive and we worked on this so thoroughly, I sometimes forget that these terms aren’t a codified language. For example, sometimes I assume other people know what I’m talking about when I say, “Yesterday I had lunch with Wendy, an F2.”  

This whole idea of a scale may appear callous, but it’s astonishing to me that we don’t have more nuanced variations of the word “friend.” As someone who takes friendship seriously, I recognize that at least two of these categories would be better labeled as acquaintances–but in the interconnected era of social media, it feels necessary to use at least cop a nod to the F word. The base concept here is that anyone who actively wishes good things for another person is in the generic sense, a friend, but we might value our connections in some sort of vertical order, like this:

F 5 –  Those I know the name of, and respect details I am aware of about their lives, but this information has mostly been garnered through other people in our shared social spheres, and is really more an illusion of connection.

F4 –  Those I interact with publicly on a semi-regular basis, enjoy their presence and their stories, but our interactions are primarily through shared commitments, not specific intent.

F3 – Those with whom I share a meaningful connection, with whom I schedule to spend time and/or have multiple points of contact, but our in-person interactions are significantly limited by geography, conflicting schedules or otherwise disparate social systems.

F2 – Those with whom I have had many consistent, meaningful interactions, choose to prioritize time with, and care about the details of their lives–but we have not yet found a rhythm to our mutual interactions, so there is a degree of uncertainty, irregularity or question of sustainability.

F1 – Someone I care for deeply, with whom I have an ongoing conversation, mutual trust, respect, and honest disclosure.  I care about their hopes, dreams, opinions and goals, as well as their faults, fears and failures and can read many of their thoughts and moods. I feel free to express genuine concern, without fear of reproach, and we can count on each other’s responsiveness. We both initiate and prioritize our connection, and give deliberate time and energy to each other’s welfare.

At a Writer’s Conference, I once had lunch with a woman who had her own friendship barometer and we eagerly exchanged notes. Her view was gloriously simple:

  1. I will have coffee with you.
  2. I will have a drink with you.
  3. I would bury a body for you.
  4. I would kill for you.

I told her I thought there was a pretty large leap between categories 2 and 3 and she laughed. “Thin love ain’t love at all,” she said, “that there is the line.”

And this got me thinking. Since love is definitely something exchanged between genuine friends, what do we mean when we say we’re in an intimate relationship? Is a healthy romantic relationship significantly different from our closest friendship? With an F1, I am personally open, willing and expecting to be transformed. If that’s the case, is romance an F1 with sexual attraction? Are there quantifiable differences between a lover, a girlfriend/boyfriend, a spouse or a partner? Is there a differing degree of loyalty inherent in each term? How often do people intuitively agree on how they prioritize their connections?

For many people, a romantic relationship requires more time and attention, as well as a commitment to and integration of shared values and experiences. But I would argue there is a similar element of interdependence between the closest of friends. And both friends and lovers can break our hearts.

Most Americans define an intimate relationship as one in which they’re sexually exclusive–but certainly not everyone does. And plenty of people are in long term marriages rich in friendship, shared interests and values, in which they no longer have sex.

Perhaps people who are in intimate relationships that work for both parties don’t play within sexual boundaries, but with sexual boundaries.

I think with romance, we often lose the delicate balance between effort and air. In most of our relationships, we don’t do the proverbial slow dance. We bob around each other, mirroring each other’s movements, holding hands, spinning in and out each other’s orbit, engaging with whichever person brings us the most pleasure or meaning in the moment. We make effort, then give space, and as we find ourselves getting closer, we tend to do more of the former and less of the latter.

In romantic relationships, however, we often expend and expect effort, without the grace of air, and with a possessiveness that can feel claustrophobic. While I respect and value the idea of mutual surrender between intimate partners, we are often less genuine and generous with our romantic love than with our Filia love. And because we are less attached to the fear of loss, we are frequently more committed to a practice of honest communication with a friend than we are with someone with whom we’re sexual.

We might do well to shift our expectations, and hold our romantic relationships to the same standards we hold our deepest friendships. Perhaps when people ask us what’s up, and we find ourselves having to categorize someone we may or may not be dating, we might more effectively explain, “We’re just romantic.”

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Manipura

 

 

“It is better to live in a state of impermanence than in one of finality.”  

Sometimes the chakras are referred to as the wheels of life, even though we usually think of them as a vertical line, a hierarchy that goes straight up the spine.

These days, I’m more interested in horizontal thinking than vertical thinking. Sometimes a lateral move is the best move we can make.

We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.

The purpose of the third chakra, Manipura, is transformation. A friend recently asked me to explain the relationship between the second and the third chakras. I tried to describe how when we activate the point of matter (chakra 1) with the line of movement (chakra 2), we generate energy. It’s like rubbing two sticks together to ignite fire. It is the fire of our will that propels us away from fixed patterns, away from the path of least resistance, and steers us past the expectations of others into a realm of integrity within the self.

He asked me how I maintain the discipline to keep moving. I said for me, moving is survival.

The Field was my home. It was the only home I had. The Field was my family, my fortress, my ballast, my only love.

Be brave enough to break your own heart.

When I was 13, I had been in and out of Children’s Hospital for over 3 years. I had felt weak and helpless and alone, separated from the Field since I was 10 years old. The operation I was offered was a risk. The doctors said it could go either way. My mother told me I should stay back, but she wouldn’t stop me from moving up. She told the Leaders at the Field where we come from that if they didn’t let me move up, I might die on the operating table.

Where I come from, this is the language we used.

Nothing could force me to stay one moment longer than I had to.

I moved forward.

My friend asked me how I learned to take care of myself at such a young age, how I could trust my choices. If I didn’t take care of myself, no one else would, I said. He pressed me further, “But why didn’t you just look for someone else to take care of you?”

Do not look for healing at the feet of those who broke you.

Where would I have looked? Need is inversely proportional to power, and my needs were too great for anyone to fill. I couldn’t have asked. I couldn’t afford to give up my power.

If you’re not enough for yourself, you’ll never be enough for someone else.

I left the Field at 17 because I had to. It was the only way I could grow.

 

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