A Harbinger in Autumn

 

Rufous autumn leaves, cold day,

lambent at sunset, grey skies.

Love, welcome. Winter fire logs

from the tarn. The colors of

my youngest cat; golden brush-brown,

streaked black is the good earth below me

and the colors of my eldest cat above:

fluffy white cloud belly, grey-blue, deep silver.

Sweet little purr-bears on my lap, my back;

leaves fall and flutter to the dampened ground.

The wind, the tidings-bearer, harbinger

of the whole wide-overhead come down to visit.

Ye creaking bones of time gone-by, coming up for

another dance, find life anew this second spring

where your progeny more lithely sing; enter, soul,

this body new and here-below

to vivify the heart of our Creator;

living, moving imminent in earth

the wheel, the firmament’s rebirth.

 

written by Amber MV

In Search of American Peoplehood and the Strangeness of Being Human

Hello, good people! I am new to this group. It’s a conspiracy: I seem to have entered some longer conservation already underway among you. Allow me to chime a new tune and introduce myself to you.
 
It is the same old strangeness, finding myself here, waking up in the garden of Eden past dark. The Gardener is hiding in shadows and the fruit of the tree of knowledge lies half-eaten at our feet. Even the snake is nowhere clearly seen, and we feel only our own hominid nakedness in the night. Where are the skins of the ancestors, thickened and fur-lined? How vulnerable is this humanity.
 
I see that the conversation I have entered is a passionate one. I do have a strong instinct myself to run headlong into a fight for the true and the beautiful. But I joined this group to find lovable centrist and conservative friends that I can engage with face to face, not on the darned internet! What a sorrowful fill I’ve had of that in my dumber days. I say, if we argue, let’s do it with laughter together, live in the body! I’m all for hashing things out, but my heart is tired of not trusting or even knowing my people. And who are my people? We Americans are, and now I shall not be moved from it. How I want to live in peoplehood together. How I have stupidly missed this before, looking everywhere for this providential identity I already have. This peoplehood of we Americans: I want to keep my eyes on this, look forward to this, carry this with me.
 
The older strangeness of being human never ceases to tug at me. It hangs bittersweetly on the heart, you know. It follows at the back of my neck, just there under the hairline where the stem of the reptile branches into the tenderness of mammalian affection. What to do with this strangeness, this knowledge we carry of our hearts’ own utter defenselessness?
 
I have set out to find this country of my birth. Where are you, my people? Where are you, my mountains? I am in search of the flowering of the spirit.
 
 

On Intelligence

The Webster dictionary definition really hits the nail on the head when it defines “Intelligence” as successfully learning through experience and adaptation. The naturalist in me respects how this brings learning back to it’s animal roots: intelligence stems from an ecosystem which demands keen awareness and sensitivity to one’s environment to survive and thrive. Our environment isn’t what it used to be, but our instinct to adaptive learning is now more crucial than ever. Though the contemporary of cognitively acquisition of knowledge through books and words (compared to skills learned physically, in immediate circumstances) has tremendous value, a return is needed to the experiential, physical, responsive learning of our instincts. This will be necessary to ameliorating many of the ills of our modern educational system.

In the discipline of “book-learning” is the elitist attitude of ridiculing “street-smarts” as a somehow lesser form of “smarts”. This experience-based learning is assumed to only be relevant to the roughest city streets of disenfranchised youths. It is not respected as a way of learning so essential for survival as complete humans. Comfortable Americans maintain this misunderstanding because this instinctual way of acquiring knowledge arises naturally in people who must remain aware of their immediate physical environment to survive, such as in inner-city neighborhoods, unlike the privileged who are accustomed to living in their heads (or tuned-out in their head-phones) all the time.

I want to acknowledge, however, that the stresses of living in embattled environments should not be romanticized. A hostile environment can compel those on the edge of survival to use their energy for more immediate demands, such as escaping a physical threat, thereby leaving less room for softer sensory awareness. Yet this can also, paradoxically, be a direct link into greater environmental sensitivity.

To grow up with intelligence and awareness, of any useful kind, is to come to terms with the world. To face adulthood is to leave the teenage time of endless battles and accept which struggles are worth your morning coffee. If I ever get the great honor and privilege of mentoring teenagers, I will try to put this understanding into their minds without overpowering them, but encouraging them to discover these truths. A good teacher or mentor is to lead them in reverence for the path, with wisdom to alarm them of unseen snakes in tall grass, as was the way of all ancestors for their young initiates. But a good teacher accepts that these young ones must necessarily be wounded –the old primal wound of the psyche coming to terms with the harsh and beautiful way of the world– to “die” to their childhoods. Elders must protect and defend the young while yet getting out of their way. The young people are to be put in charge for a change, which too many adults live in fear of acknowledging, and so put their children in trouble on the road ahead. But if the young are taught well, and learn intelligence by experiencing and witnessing the living, active wisdom of the old, we who are older should have nothing to fear when it comes time to hand them the wheel (the driving wheel, or the wheel of life!).

Forget the Cover Letter. Make a Standards Letter.

To the Managers,

Thank you for your interest in hiring me. In lieu of the dime-a-dozen insincere cover letter, I present to you my Standards Letter in my search for employment that is befitting of my time I will never get back, my labor expended with the devotion of my whole mind and heart, and the very breath of my living lungs. This is what you need to know about me.

A person’s time and energy is more precious than money, and indeed, cannot be bought by money alone. Because of the high turnover and dissatisfaction rates in our field of work, in addition to several of my own difficult experiences, I request of you the follow before I accept an interview with you:

1. Our interview will be thoroughly two-ways. If you put your feet up, I’ll put my feet up. If you take a call during our interview, I’ll make a call and tell you it’s “important”. It will not be a case of you interviewing me only. There will be only two of us –you, and me. Any other ratio is unequal. I will ask of you the very same kinds of questions you ask of me. If you ask me what my “weakness” is, I will ask you what your “weakness” is. This will be a two-way street. I will ask you what you don’t like about being a manager at your company. I will ask you to give me examples of certain situations and what you would do in them. I will ask you if you possess a strong accurate understanding of workers’ rights (and what brings them dissatisfaction and pride in their work), CPR protocol or anything else relevant that you really should know but might not. I will expect as much sincerity from you as you expect from me.

2. If you want me to sign contracts, I will have you sign contracts. In fact, I’ll have you sign contracts, regardless. Because you are probably a tax-paying employer with legal papers and work agreements for me to sign, I will hand to you a contract where you will agree to conduct yourselves in transparency, honesty, timely support, clear standards and expectations, compassionate and encouraging feedback and absolutely clear communication. I will not accept aggressive or clique-like behavior. These are systemic issues in our field, and they end with me.

3. Most importantly, I will interview my potential colleagues. It matters tremendously who I will be working with. I will ask them what they do and don’t like about working here. I will encourage them to honesty, clearly letting them know why I am asking. If I get the sense that my potential colleagues are truly satisfied with working at their company (and it is theirs as much as it is yours), then I will know that your company is a worthy place to work.

A Letter on Social Justice to My Friends Who are Queer

This letter written in response to two friends, on the topic of two social-justice-themed workshops they teach.

My friends,

I enjoyed reading your thoughtful, compassionate letter. It means a lot to me that you took the time to write it. I especially feel moved that you are grateful for my friendship. Likewise. It’s an honor to know you both, and witness your work in the world, and I really mean that.

I started to write yesterday, when I was happy to receive your response, but then, fear came to visit me. It feels really, really risky talking openly about some of these things with you. Know that I am pushing myself to be transparent and vulnerable in sharing this with you. I do so to be an honorable ancestor, and ultimately, to do the long work of peace and reconciliation.

Yes, I did sign up for the course [on Queer people in the natural world] to explore my own natural queerness in community, in nature on our familiar and beloved land. I appreciate our shared understanding that queerness is holistic and you honor people self-defining that. And I signed up to enthusiastically support the return of my friends to the land.

But, with tangled mixed feelings, I’ve withdrawn from the course.

This is hard. I really care about you both and I’m really afraid of hurting or offending you. I know that you walk a hard road sometimes and I don’t want to add to that.

Look. There’s a lot in the social justice movement that feels really, really seriously alarmingly hostile right now. Like, I’m really scared to be around some folks. I’m afraid to speak up and share my dissenting opinion if I don’t totally hate Trump enough or whatever. I’m wary of what honestly feels like a ton of animosity toward my being “white” (can we be done with racialism and insistence on categories, yet? I miss my humanity. Or am I irrevocably assigned “white” at birth? So it’s okay to assign race at birth, but not biological sex?), or attracted to men (I actually prefer “androphilic” over “straight” because I identify more with the joy of who I love, not how hetero-or-homosexual I am.) I’m not Queer enough, not brown enough, not whatever-enough to be oppressed enough to be worthy of inclusion in the club. And it’s really bad, friends: I’m actually proud –grateful– to be American, both in the sense of citizenship in this great nation, and also as an inhabitant of this continent, my first and only home.

You know, “cisgender” isn’t a label I ever chose for myself. Someone made that up to differentiate themselves from me, or how they perceive that I am. Then they went around sticking it on everyone who they thought wasn’t like them.

To me, I am normal. And everyone who is “Queer” is also normal. Maybe that’s my privilege of being raised in one of the most unprecedentedly tolerant and humane times and places humanity has ever known. Apparently, it’s your privilege, too. Granted, people who are Queer aren’t the numerical majority, and so there is something of a need to find one’s own in community, and there is some natural differentiating in there, and I actually respect that a lot. In fact, I not only respect it, but empathize with it. Might there be a part of myself that, the less it becomes the unquestioned blank slate of society, and subsumes not everyone into it (hint: my own ethnic identity, assigned at birth!) it may strangely, then, emerge to be just as instinctually human, just as in need of tribe and differentiated identity as any other? Might this be a problem?

I am not writing this to you as a “white” or a “cisgender” person. I am writing this to you as myself. With a bit of upstart humor, I tell you, sweet friends, don’t you go assigning your labels to me at the birth of this conversation! Nobody’s skin color has any damn politics, any inherent meaning. We humans put this on us, we put this burden on each other. But we are never made who we are by insisting upon what we are not. This only leads to more and more enmity, terrible enmity, more struggle and more war. But we all want to come home to the heart of the world. And our pain is the world’s pain, and we cannot seem to unbind ourselves from it.

I remember someone once said that words may further divide us. If I speak of a “wolf”, an image comes to mind. But if I speak of “an old grey wolf in the wintertime”, an even more specific image comes to mind, and the images that each of us hold will vary even more from the former, from union with the others. Naturally, this is an effect of our interior landscapes, our individual dreaming. But it is also the course of humanity to be too drawn into these diverging labels.

I also remember one our teachers once saying that when we feel anger, it is a response to a damaged relationship. This is one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard. It has come to my mind constantly lately. Even strangers feel this: if somebody roughly bumps into us on the sidewalk and they run off swearing at us, it might make us angry because at the very least we expect the relationship to be one of common sidewalk decency. How much more does the reality apply when enmity grows among friends, among families, among entire nations? Oh, that we were the descendants of peaceful bonobos, and not hostile chimps.

In all seriousness, I get that a lot of “people of color” and Queer people have felt really oppressed. It’s not in me to argue with someone’s lived experience. But, by that same metric, I expect the same respect just because I’m human, and it feels like that whole mutual respect thing really isn’t happening from a lot of the social justice crowd. Not that the far right-wing is terribly better, either, to be sure. That crap is real, too. I’d probably be a lot more on edge about it right now if I lived in Ruralsville, DeepSouthia. But in these overwhelmingly leftist urban places, my partner and I are sometimes seriously afraid for our jobs, our reputation, even our safety if we question the claims of social justice or the political Left in the work place or among friends. Right now, I’m fucking scared I’m going to lose my whole beloved community, the dearest tribe I’ve ever known, if I dissent, if I say I don’t buy this power-and-privilege stuff. Did you know that?

Whether or not social justice is correct about all things, it’s the principle: a system of thought isn’t liberating people in good faith when people aren’t free to question and challenge it without the threat of social ostracization. It feels like there’s a ton of anger and blame and demonizing of our fellow countrypeople who don’t hold the same views as the political Left. It’s not OK when the right wing does it, and it’s not OK when the left wing does it. Like, now anyone barely to the Right of the far Left political spectrum is being called a Nazi or a white supremacist. And it’s ridiculous. In short, I don’t feel safe, and I feel the least trustful of my surroundings in a long time. What’s more, I know some women and people of color and Queer people are tired of being told that they are being oppressed when they keep telling us they don’t feel oppressed. Are their lived experiences not also to be trusted? What does social justice have to say to them?

And I don’t see how a few more groups of people feeling scared to speak up makes society any better off when more people feel anxious like historically marginalized people have felt. If one group has privileges, then it’s something we should all have –the privilege of being free. It’s the only privilege that really matters, and at root, all privileges are this. The privilege of being free and confident and loved in who we are should be celebrated and given to all. I am concerned that when people teach about “power and privilege”, they end up communicating a lot of guilt that ends up driving curious would-be allies further away.

In fact, this word, allies, feels like a real red flag of warning. Ally is explicitly a word of war. It suggests that there is our side, versus the other side. “Us” and “them”, the presence of an enemy. If the evidence of history shows us anything, if the warring instincts of our species have taught us anything, it should seriously raise an alarm. And now I hear they are speaking of accomplices, the next step in the big fight. Apparently, being an ally isn’t good enough, now. Did I mention the red flag?

This conversation comes at the right time, at least on my end. Today I decided to challenge my conservative friends. I told them that if they’re frustrated with some things in society, they first-of-all need to not think of their fellow Americans as the enemy. They need to get out there and challenge themselves to listen compassionately, but also to speak bravely with confidence about their own lived experiences. A lot of the resent they are feeling comes from their own sense of voicelessness. They started by complaining about what they didn’t like, but I kept at it; “No, don’t tell me what you hate. Tell me what you love. Tell me about how you do the brave work of peace,” –and they finally came around to sharing stories of what is already working to make peace with their perceived adversaries. Their mindset finally shifted, and they told me, I kid you not, the exact same kinds of human stories of relationship as I hear from my liberal friends. They were telling me about how mentoring youths is so powerful. They told me that if we just listen to the kids for once, they’ll know they’re heard, and we care about them, and they’re not alone, and what a difference this makes for the generations of the future –so that we may all be honorable ancestors.

Maybe you will think that my resolve to pick up the cross of the peacemaker is an extension of my white privilege, evidence of my relative ethnic comfort in this society. And maybe you’re right! But I’d rather use this privilege to make friends, not enemies. To live as a peacemaker, I am finding, is to solemnly resolve to have no enemies, even when there are those, from all sides, who would willingly make themselves my enemies. To be a peacemaker is to be, paradoxically, lonely. Critical thinking is a lonely place –I know you know what this is like, to stand in the fire. I must insist that any who would make themselves my enemy is but a lost friend, and I will not hate or abandon them. For any human creature, that’s struggle enough.

So, you say I should come to the Power & Privilege workshop. Maybe I should. But originally, I decided to put forth my own queerness and go try the Queer Nature weekend instead, because, truthfully, the intent as described felt a lot more constructive, more positive and generative of relationship. I am all down for Queer people coming home to nature. But I am wary of the divisiveness and blame and stacking of the oppression hierarchy that may be present in the Power & Privilege weekend. But if I would trust anyone to teach it, I would trust you. Maybe I’m exactly the student you need….

But I have another admission. [Our mutual acquaintance] sent out an email a few weeks back saying there’s a class on becoming an “ally” going to happen at the public library. I admit I had just about had-it-up-to-here with the grief of these divided times when I got that invitation in our local mailing list. I frankly gave her a straight-up-what-for, albeit constructively enough and with the absence of swearing, and reminded her that we aren’t a political mono-crop here, and she might think again about assuming such when she sends it out to our entire local mailing list. How would the lot of us feel were a “God, Family and Country Prayer Rally” announced in our community? We’re American, right? Aren’t we proud of this land? Don’t we also pray? So we should be just totally fine with it, right?

Though I’m not sorry I told her how I felt about it, I’m sorry for my exhaustion and surrender to grief. I’m sorry that there is the felt need for such a class, why ever that is. I’m sorry for the sins of people hundreds of years ago who I am permitted little heartfelt relationship to without the accusation of racial supremacy on my part, though I am readily called one-of-them in my “structural” whiteness. That night, I gave up. I surrendered to the grief of a broken America.

But then it passed. And we know we have been here before. Greater people than us have put their lives on the line for the freedom we all enjoy now, in this America that is ours. And I love what you say about being honorable ancestors –yes, how it does resonate. The ancestors of this continent –all of them, their blood and sweat and semen and eggs mixing together– didn’t fight and die with each other and our relentless inner demons so that we could just sit around not getting along with each other from the comfort of our separate computers. The responsibility is mine, and it is yours, and all the ancestors yet to come are watching our choices. How shall we find each other again?

Here’s a quote from James Baldwin, an African American writer and social critic. It’s absolutely spot-on, and how I greatly love it. It is from a letter Baldwin wrote to his nephew in 1962.

“But these [white] men are your brothers, your lost younger brothers, and if the word ‘integration’ means anything, this is what it means, that we with love shall force our brothers to see themselves as they are, to cease fleeing from reality and begin to change it, for this is your home, my friend. Do not be driven from it. Great men have done great things here and will again and we can make America what America must become.”

But I know you will say that it isn’t your responsibility to comfort my anxieties –and again, you are right. But I have to wonder. When one enemy is vanquished, who next will there be? What will we do when, finally, social justice figures it all out and there’s not a shred of bias left in our mortal hearts? Who then is the enemy? Will social justice then depart the now-perfect world? What then is the enemy? I will tell you what I think the only enemy is.

Our only enemy is the line between love and hate that cuts sharply through the heart of every human creature. The ancient human instinct for the making of enemies of one another, enemies made of those who would be our friends, this instinct for bloodshed, lies sleeping in us all. Neither skin color nor gender nor privilege has any persuasion over it. This is equality: to recognize that we are not so essentially different after all, despite wishing to be. The same instincts for great love and for terrible conflict are within every one of us.

I was talking with [our friend and teacher] about this today. I said to him that whatever engenders affections between groups of people, I am in support of. Whatever engenders enmity between groups of people, I stand in opposition to.

And thus, the Power & Privilege workshop. I greatly trust you as a friend. But in reflection, now, I ask myself –would I have you as my teacher? Shall I pay you to tell me …what will it be? I would rather you tell me your dreams. I would rather you tell me plainly of this pain you have known, and then I will tell you mine, and we will be people, just people, together.

I think of you as my friend. If you were leading a class, especially on such a sensitive topic, the heaviness of which I may not trust would (or could) be delivered in a spirit of affection, much less affirmation, how strange that would feel for me. I think of you as my equal, someone with which to loaf among the tangled grass alongside, talking of our converging lives in unhurried affinity. You speak of the bright eyes of the animal-people, I tell stories of the lord of the forest; we knit with wool. The names of plants, good medicine; mutual curiosity of the other, our strangeness. We size each other up a bit, laughing askance, you smile and take your leave of my weird enthusiasm. I smile and nod in satisfaction that so creaturely a friend I have known. We keep in touch over the years; a shared love of the Beautiful, a commitment to the Divine. This is how I remember you.

Much more could be unpacked, but it is late now. In trepidation I began my writing of this, but I am less afraid now. Bravery, transparency, living soulcentrically” –I still love that one–: these things you have presented to me. And I don’t know how you will respond. You might really feel angry. If you do, I understand. And I am sorry in my heart for it. But I think it is better to choose this bravery and transparency. I have never been one to hide my heart for too long.

And so my heart gives you thanks, the same much love in return. And with hope, I will not lose you, my friends. Now, setting off: if you feel you are losing me, I implore you, come find me where, like a goat, I have gone wandering. Do not give up on me, tracking me, for something has called me out here to search beyond the boundaries of the village, into the darkness of the worthy opponent, a good way off where no more the light of the campfire reaches.

May we all be honorable ancestors,

Amber

“When, I ask, will women and men find each other again?”

The following letter I recently wrote to a mentor and friend of mine. He leads an animal tracking course which I am currently a student in. For a number of years I have been very close with the community of friends connected through the nature school in western Washington state that offers this course. For the school year of 2012-13, I was a student in an immersive program for adults offered by this school, lasting nine months, which was largely a beautiful, meaningful, yet complexly emotionally-charged experience for me, as it is for many students. This experience gives context to this and other writings of mine.

This friend and mentor to which I write has been someone I have loved greatly, in the sense of a brotherly platonic love of friends. He has been a great mentor, inspiration and comfort at difficult points in my life, and I care for him greatly. However, I found the need to write this letter to him not only in response to his asking me a certain question, but because I am getting a strong sense of the need to speak up more about alarmingly far-leftist political and cultural trends I am witnessing in this community of which we are a part.  

His question to me was this: why, when a fellow female student of mine spoke of her gratitude for women being in our tracking course (a field of study which has been traditionally predominately male), I added my own outspoken gratitude that several men were there with us, too. She is grateful for having women around, I am grateful for having men around. Our teacher, to whom I write, wanted to know if I truly felt such gratitude for the company of male peers, or if my expression of gratitude was merely reflexive, to “balance” the previous gratitude expressed for women.

This letter, along with others posted here on my website, serve as a catalogue of the profound political paradigm shift which I am currently undergoing. It is an experience of both relief and anxiety. Relief, because I see now what I was blind to before. Anxiety, because I know, with heartache, I am risking all my friendships in these left-wing communities. But I will not remain silent.

Names have been removed to protect the privacy of all.

Begin letter.

 

Thank you for checking in, Friend. Always great to hear from you!

To get straight to the point – yes, I do feel really authentically happy to be around men in [our tracking course]. Men are inspiring, resilient, warm, inventive, self-sacrificing, affectionate, adaptive, brilliantly more funny than women on average (gasp! she said it!) and absolutely just as completely human as me. Women are also all of these good and beautiful things (I should know, I am one), but right now I feel a particular resonance with maleness that has given me a lot of fresh thinking and perspective. The example of men has actively helped me overcome old ways of thinking that no longer suit me. I am learning from men’s undervalued wisdom, as I have previously for so long and so thoroughly and so one-sidedly learned from women’s wisdom. I am learning to focus on the beauty and primary importance of the physical external world that is not constantly swayed by my inner watery emotions or navel-gazing depression. I am inspired by men’s example to see my own place in the world, as many men do, not as one of a victim who is oppressed by society, but an agent of free will and creative self-determination who makes her own choices with an upright mind. Yes, it is lately men who have overwhelmingly modeled these things to me; for several years now, in fact. So may it be my female privilege to speak of it freely and without censoring.
 
This moment you refer to, where both [my peer] and I expressed our gratitude, is actually a great case study for further conversation about “social justice”. The Dunes would be an excellent place to talk in person about it. I do always like talking with you, Friend.
 
I love men and maleness, and men’s friendship, and lately my spirit thrives on their presence. My second reason for coming to [our tracking course], after enjoying animal tracking, is to further reflect on and find within myself this sacred masculine that I value. The traditional presence of men in animal tracking is a happy thing to me. It is to be celebrated, as women’s traditional gifts in hand-crafts are to be celebrated.
 
So, too, should be celebrated women’s involvement in tracking. I hope you trust me when I say that I also celebrate female involvement in traditional male skills; obviously, or I myself wouldn’t be here. But now, I have some questions for you:
 
Do you feel free to be outspokenly proud of your natural maleness, as I am unquestionably free to be outspokenly proud of my natural femaleness? I have an endless supply of women-only social gatherings I may choose to be a part of. How many men-only gatherings are available to you? Who is advocating for the love of men? Who has the freedom to cry in public? Who among me and you, Friend, generally feels the freedom to cry in the company of the other? Who dies in wars? Who fills the prisons? Who cares for the hearts of men? Who commits the most suicide? If men are damaged, if men are wayward, if men are so lately despised and resented, if they are such oppressors, if something is so wrong with them, why do we not immediately arise to save them in love? Are they not our lost relatives? Are not men to be loved, too, as I love them, my brothers and lovers and mentors and fathers? Do men not crave this love of tribe and fellowship and women’s affection? Do men not sacrifice all for the hope of belonging, as women also do? Can a society be whole without women and men together in affection? Can men be complete if they resent women? Can women be complete if they resent men? Are women capable of malice? Are all women the same? Are all men the same? Where is the line between women and men –at a feminist rally, in anger? Is there an “us”? Is there a “them”? Where is the line that runs through every heart? When will anger finally end? When will men beat their swords into plough-shares? When will women learn from their example? When will we humans no longer accuse each other? Where do women and men finally lay down their pain, the whole world’s pain, and prefer to lean upon each other in tender fondness of kinship and partnership? Shall it be restrained to sexual matrimony? Shall love be restrained? Shall it not be so many kinds of love, disguised in the many forms of the scout? Shall it not be extended to the happiness of the greater society? Shall I not see in my sworn enemy my worthy opponent? Whose language is this? Who gives us life? Can a woman alone give life? Can a man? If I love men, is it assumed I hate women? If I want to thank men, are women resentful? Why would love engender resent? Is it assumed I am not happy with my own sex? If I were not (though I am), and if I wanted to be a man, would that make me a traitor –would it even make me a man– or would it make me more happy than I already am? Can I celebrate my love of men absolutely and freely and without accusation of misogyny against my own life? Can I celebrate men so that I might better lift up these men that I love? Can I call them out of darkness? Can I give them the forgiveness they cannot? Can I remind men that we need them here, alive, and whole, and afraid no longer? Will men finally come back from war? The old, ancient war that separated one from another, sister from brother, endlessly dividing, endlessly losing. Are women now going to war? How easily a war is waged.
 
When, I ask, will women and men find each other again?
 
Is it not originally, bravely, daringly feminist of me to so boldly pronounce this love, any love, my love for both women and men? And what of this insistence that men finally allow themselves to be loved by us women? I do not hold back, I encircle you men. Ah, let me initiate, brothers: I make the first move. I offer reconciliation. I advocate for my own heart’s pleasure, this troubadour’s happiness, full of song, fulfilled only by the otherness of who I am not, when the other is fulfilled in the same. I call you men home from a long war. I believe in the best of you.
 
Obviously, with a smile, you can see that these questions are rhetorical and meant to invoke contemplation. Now, compare this perspective to that of such bitterness seeping into our time, such a sorrowful resentment and mistrust of each other, divided into squabbling factions of identity politics –with you, my beloved brother, friend and teacher, placed squarely in the zone of the resented. So many would make you their enemy, though they don’t even know you. But I know you well enough to know, I think, that you would have no one be your enemy. I, too, have chosen to live by this. There are some now who would make me their enemies, but I have no enemies. It really lightens the heart, loosens the throat. But now I know what I am getting into.
 
The last time I went to a bookstore in Seattle, I looked at the women’s studies section. It had many books, diverse of topic and variety. Some were serious, some intellectual, some angry, some wistful, some lighthearted fun, most complaining about something-or-other, and surely some were truly soulful and well-rounded. There was an entire bookshelf filled, from the floor to the ceiling, with books by, for, and about women.
 
Then I looked at the men’s section, searching for the other part of my being.
 
Do you know what was there?
 
There were nine books. Nine. And every one of them could’ve been titled, Men are Problematic and Something is Wrong With Them.
 
Well, my goodness. This wasn’t exactly the world of feminism I was bargaining for as a Queer’N’Questioning teenager with a shaved head and punk in my earphones. The other half of my beloved humanity, the other half of my own complete self –shamed.
 
Of course, you are not intending to invoke any of this when you ask me my intentions in giving gratitude to the presence of men at [our tracking course]. I understand that. And it’s a fair question, given a certain frame of reference –wouldn’t I just be trying to undermine women? No– “balance” things out a bit? Couldn’t possibly be real love and gratitude for men, now could it? I wink and smile in slyness– I mean, women are so oppressed, right? Like, we can’t even vote or escape getting our genitals mutilated and there’s totally no laws or enforcement protecting us from rape or spousal abuse and we can’t even work outside the home. Oh, wait. That’s not the Western society we live in. Oops. I almost got the reality of our time and place –the heretofore unprecedented equality and humanism of the West– mixed up with the cultures who didn’t have those terrible colonial white men writing the Constitution or the Emancipation Proclamation or the Universal Declaration of Human Rights that absolutely set the foundational framework for the possibility of feminism and the civil rights movements.
 
I challenge the status quo, Friend. My existence demands it. You know me, I’ve never been one to blend in. I try! Truly, I’ve gotten better it the way of the scout. And, in all seriousness, blending is a normal human need, of course. I challenge things carefully. And I do so because I love you, Brother, and I love other men and maleness and the freedom of my own unchained femaleness to love freely and bravely and in many ways. And I have spent plenty of time already being mad at men, and being upset at the world, and demanding justice and reparations and counseling, and screaming on street corners for gay marriage rights, and volunteering at Planned Parenthood, and rebuking stupid rape jokes, and buying lunches for homeless people, and talking back to big powerful men and absentmindedly walking straight through a talking circle (haha, remember that one? What a dork I was! Hopefully, just a lovable dork) and otherwise being a card-carrying system-fighter (these are enough credentials to prove I’m a real Liberal, right?). And I can tell you that these ways are exhausting. And while the motivations to do some of these things are certainly understandable and I continue to have empathy for it in others, it is really no way to carry on in the long term. Anger isn’t sustainable. It’s tends to backfire on the user. You could say I’ve grown up a bit.
 
So, we stand at a crossroads in our time. 
 
Whatever engenders affections between groups of people, I am in support of. Whatever engenders enmity between groups of people, I stand in opposition to.
 
Think, very seriously, my friend whom I would never wish to lose or alienate: which attitudes or movements or ideologies engender affection, and which engender enmity. In this moment will mentor you, and invite you to critically contemplate this. And this is what I have to say to the extreme leftist movements of militant, speech-policing “social justice” cultural Marxism, and to the equally reactionary far-right supremacist fascists alike:
 
We know there is no one right side, and there is only one great human heart, and the ancient instinct to anger and bloodshed cuts through every heart, and how quickly do we forget and turn against one another, how quickly do we make an enemy of our brother and sister, and how terrible was our own civil war, and the way to all terrible wars are strewn with the perceptions of victimhood, and the accusations of wrongdoing, and we know we must make peace before sundown, and we know we must catch the peace tree when it falls, and we know there is no “us” and no “them”.
 
With affection and confidence,
Amber

A Picture of Mohamed by Dr. Jordan B Peterson

written by Dr Jordan B Peterson on 14 Feb, 2017, in response to Canada’s M-103

 

Is this a picture of Mohamed?

Something woke me up at five thirty this morning.

Maybe it was my conscience. Maybe it was God.

Take your pick. I’ll go for conscience. In any case

this week Canada’s government is going to consider

an anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 in parliament.

Before that happens, I have some things to say.

 

Moses was a murderer. Christ was a bastard.

And Mohammad? Mohammad was a…

Mohammad was a… Mohammad was a…

…holy man whose every word and action was correct.

I ask Muslims worldwide,

                                               Can I say anything else?

On the week Canada’s government is going to discuss

anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 in parliament

I ask Muslims worldwide,

                                               Can I say anything else?

I ask Muslims in the West,

                                               Can I say anything else?

I ask Muslims in Canada,

                                               Can I say anything else?

I ask Iqra Khalid,

sponsor of M-103 in Canada,

                                               Can I say anything else?

 

Is this a picture of Mohamed? Where do I cross the line?

This is a picture of Christ. This is a picture of Mo…

This is a picture of Mo…

This is a picture of Moses.

 

This is a picture of Mo…

This is a picture of Mo…

Is this a picture of Mohamed?

This might be a picture of Mohamed?

Did I cross the line?

 

When do I become Salman Rushdie? I’m a Westerner.

I am Salman Rushdie.         Iqra Khalid,

                                               are you Salman Rushdie?

 

When do I become the Danish cartoonist?

I’m a Westerner. I am a Danish cartoonist.

                                               Iqra Khalid,

                                               are you a Danish cartoonist?

When do I become

                                               Charlie Hebdo?

I’m a Westerner. I can criticize

so that things

                                               can improve.

So that we’re not trapped

                                               in the dead past.

So that we’re not trapped

               in the embrace

                               of the corpses

                                               of the past.

I am Charlie Hebdo.

                Iqra Khalid,

                               are you

                                               Charlie Hebdo?

Which side are you on?

Every Westerner is Salman Rushdie.

Every Westerner is a Danish cartoonist.

Every Westerner is Charlie Hebdo.

Who is Iqra Khalid?

 

When push comes to shove, as it will this week,

where is she going                to stand?

 

Muslims of the world, on the week of

anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 in Canada,

Muslims of the West, on the week of

anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 in Canada,

Muslims of Canada, on the week of

anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 in Canada,

Iqra Khalid of Canada, who sponsored the motion

after the murders in Quebec City,

on the week of

anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 in Canada,

                  Can I say:

                                This is a picture

                                              of the prophet

                                                               Mohamed?          

 

Because if I can’t, it’s not Islamophobia.

is This a picture of Mohamed?

is This a picture of Mohamed?

 

This poem has been transcribed from its original spoken-word video source. 

 

Jordan B Peterson “2017/02/14: A Picture of Mohamed”. Online video. YouTube. 14 Feb, 2017. Web. 20 Sep, 2017.

Image source: art by Bosch Fawstin, a former Muslim

Beautiful Photography from August

August, the climax of the year. Trees are lush and heavy. The fruit is ripe. A carefree laziness fills the hours. For a precious few weeks we forget what day it is. Every day is exquisitely the same. Nothing to do but complain about the heat. But soon enough, that satisfying contentment is shattered by one […]

via August — 49th and Pacific

Counter-clockwise

It was always unclear to me, as a child, what was “clockwise” and what was “counterclockwise”. What did kitchen counters have to do with clocks? And what made them so wise? Was the face of the clock looking at us looking at it? Watching a movie about tornadoes once, my dad said that the twister was chasing the storm-chasers. Was the twister alive? Was it thinking and moving with a spirit of its own? Was it spinning clockwise or counterclockwise? What happened to linear clock-time inside a circular tornado? If you are looking down on a circle from above, like God, the clock-hands move clockwise. But what if you were just a tiny being like a child, an ant on the face of earth, flat to the ground, looking up through the surface of the clock? The whole sky above. The sky grows dark with tornadoes as the clock spins in the opposite direction. Widdershins. Counter-clockwise.

Time was always doing these things; it was “up” –up where? “Running out” –out where? “Of the essence” –the scent of time. I lay beneath that clock of mystery, not understanding how adults could not understand that if you stand under the clock, looking up, the hands of time move the other way. The perception of time was literally dependent on how you were looking at it. Where you stand. When you are very small you are not sure where you stand. You may find yourself standing underneath a great circle, looking up through a hole in the heavens out of which opens great storms of tornadoes, rescued only by God’s hands moving in both directions at once. They were trying to teach me how to tell time. I wanted to tell time what I thought of it.

 

image source