Light In Action

Open Letter to Gaia

I am your daughter. You have suckled me throughout my life. There is milk and fruits and honey for me to enjoy. You are larger than the prairie, more rugged than any mountaintops, more forgiving than a quilt of snow. You are expansive like the universe, yet tender and dear like a sister’s embrace. I trust you completely.  GirlsSnow2014 - CopyFor ours is a wordless love, an intangible working relationship. I am so grateful, and I show my gratefulness to you by living as fully as possible. I show respect to the elements: earth, air, fire and water. I will not take you for granted: the promise of you living with me is pretty much a forever promise. Some days I show my respect by not capitulating to depression. Some days I make myself can food, or to stop buying anything in plastic. Sometimes I spend time working through my prejudices and resentments. But most days I love you by laughing at myself, and making room to dance.

I know my work is important. I am like a blade of grass, or like one ant in the Sahara desert. I do not doubt that what I do is valuable. But in the last year, I’ve sensed that our loving relationship has changed. You need me now, more than in the first half of my life. I have heard your anger and your pleading. You have tapped my shoulder, and I must enlist myself in your service.

What does that mean? What am I to do?   In my youth our relationship was happiest when I was sailing, or chasing horses, or fishing for crabs, or building forts. I like caring for birds and some herds. I live in the city now. I love trees and orchards.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I am working hard, and my attitude is improving. For half my life I’ve been working to stop human violence. Now I’m asked to stop violence to our waters, landmass and air. It’s hard for me to change my time commitments.  I need to keep a hopeful vision front and center; I need to listen to signs, dreams and positive actions out of unsuspecting places. If I listen to those only wanting to stop KXL pipeline or stop mining or fracking or this or that, it’s depressing. As for the environmental movement, there’s a lot of fear out there. I refuse to let fear rule my actions. Please help me to be a community builder, not a wet blanket with other environmentalists.

You are asking me to change my life. I need to change in drastic ways, but healthy ways. I know I will be a better person, and I’ll enjoy myself more. I have an intimation of the changes needed:

  •  Better eating. Eating less and healthy and with intention
  •  Grow more food. Develop more relation with the soil. Learn about it, love the soil around my house.
  •  Get support in changing my transportation needs. I fly a few times a year.

Precious One, you are Mother, Wholeness and Ever-Changing Trickster. I know humans are not a big part of the picture. We are an arrogant race. I love you and I know that others love you as dear as Life.

May we grow in wisdom and in harmony with your amazing elemental soaring sensational Planet.  Yours truly, Minga


Suffragettes, Chicks and Gitmo

Why would 100 prisoners organize a hunger strike in Guantanamo? Did our Congress answer that question adequately before an army of doctors coerced force feeding? Force feeding is not the opposite of hungering for food. Feeding tubes down the mouth are dangerously painful. Force-feeding is rape of the stomach.

Guantanamo Bay
Guantanamo Bay

It’s mutilation of the esophagus. And violation of one’s dignity.

Human life begins with eggs, seeds and then food. Food has a double oo. Food is one letter away from good. Good is one letter away from God. I’ve watched a scrawny, pinion-peppered baby robin get fed. I see that tiny dinosaur head  with saucer eyes and huge mouth gaping wildly towards the mother. That robin chick clamors for food. It chirps vigorously before, during and after being fed. From mom’s beak, down mom’s throat and then regurgitation into chick’s mouth. Gulp, yum. Food.

But food is something we decide we want. Birds would never feed chicks against their will. Even a severe parent can’t force their child to eat those smelly foods, moving the jaw up and down.

Hunger strikes are often related to prisoners struggling for human rights. In England and the US women fighting the right to vote decided to stop eating about 1910. Pankhurst described the suffragettes’ ordeal, “[the prison Holloway] became a place of horror and torment. Sickening scenes of violence almost every hour of the day, as the doctors went from cell to cell performing their hideous office.” When the prison guards opened her cell door, Pankhurst raised a clay jug over her head, to avoid the force-feeding proclaiming, “If any of you dares so much as


to take one step inside this cell, I shall defend myself.”

Why does the US think that force-feeding is helping humans on the path of sanity and justice? Morally, only the very sick or wounded should be force-fed. Can we learn from the past, or will we veer towards extinction? Alice Paul, who more than Lucretia Mott or Susan B. Anthony, ushered into the White House the right to vote, was force-fed along with other women. Remember by 1913, the campaign for females sufferage (started in 1848), was floating like a dead fish in oily Potomac. In March of 1913 Paul had organized a march of 8,000 women which upstaged Wilson’s inauguration. Later, they organized a sustained picket (first group to wage civil disobedience) in front of the White House, called the Silent Sentinels. In 1916 hundreds of women were arrested for obstructing sidewalk traffic. In jail our foremothers, Lucy Burns, Dora Lewis, and others were beaten, hurled against walls, choked, and kicked. But the worst punishment was being force-fed.

At Guantanamo approximately 100 of the 166 detained prisoners are refusing food. Of those, 29 were being force-fed, shackled to a chair, fitted with a mask with tubes inserted through their nose for up to two hours at a time. Over 130 have joined the hunger strike that began February 2013. Force-feeding is considered torture by the United Nations and condemned by the American Medical Association. One prisoner described force-feeding by saying it felt like, a "razor blade [going] down through your nose and into your throat.

Is the treatment in Gitmo racist? The US treats immigrants as guilty, inhumanely, without evidence. A recent letter from a prisoner says, “I do not wish to die, but I am prepared to run the risk that I may end up doing so, because I am protesting the fact that I have been locked up for more than a decade, without a trial, subjected to inhuman and degrading treatment and denied access to justice. I have no other way to get my message across…”

Why would so many men and women go on a hunger strike, knowing they will receive the extra torture of force-feeding? They must be fighting for their lives. In 1917 finally Woodrow Wilson persuaded Congress to put the 23rd Amendment to vote. He had promised 5 years earlier in 1911 when first elected that he would defend women’s rights. Only after hundreds of women had suffered in prison was Wilson persuaded to act. Aleluja. Now for 93 years women have reaped the benefit. Suffragists risked their Lives, willing to die, so that we their grandchildren can Live.

What will we say in 90 years about the 30 Guantanamo prisoners asking Obama & Congress for their civil rights? These people, most are innocent, are choosing the torture of force-feeding instead of the long languishing torture of prison without cause.

Jewish scriptures proclaim, “Choose Life so that you and your children can live.” The baby birds that flap and tumble and chirp outside my window eat ravenously. They have their answer. The summer winds blow hot this year. Cuba is far away, and Guantanamo is a nightmare that I choose to ignore. “What does our God require of me?”

Gitmo in Severe Weather
Gitmo in Severe Weather

The Boston Bomber & Mother Bears

Cambridge Rindge & Latin High School

Whatever was Djhokhar Tsarnaev thinking-- accused of setting off homemade bombs on April 15? It’s baffling. Here is a teenager, deeply wounded, isolated from all he knew, and now in police lock-down. I did meet him a few times when he was 16 at the Cambridge high school. Djhokhar grew up in Massachusetts where “all the kids are above average.” (as said by Garrison Keillor). His fate is wrapped up with the fate of hundreds of injured people. I do not excuse what he did.

When my curious sons entered high school, I was shocked at the danger exposed to them: the hazing, the used needles, the assaults. In 2005 I woke up from a daydream that the US is a safe and law-abiding society. Like ice cubes down a sweaty back I realized our cities can be a war zone for teenagers. My son was harassed by gangs after school: he was intimidated and paralyzed. He escaped physically in one piece, but his inner landscape was scarred.

Now after Aurora, CO and Newtown, CT an epiphany strikes me. A major problem of our culture is that Americans murder one another as much as we kill “enemies” overseas. An armed police officer is employed at the high school, where students have been removed for

Boston in Mourning
Boston in Mourning

carrying switchblades. After Kennedy’s assassination Malcolm X famously said, “The chickens have come back to roost.”

You know what I’m saying? These massacres, by and for Americans, show how our young men are addicted to violence. It’s not criminals pulling the trigger-- it’s not the drug dealers, nor the crazies, nor the sociopaths. It’s our children, growing up under the opium of the gun. By 10 years old, Americans learn that problems will get solved if you carry a gun. Our boys are executing the values promoted by the NRA and allowed by the media (TV, games, CDs). It’s Djohkar this time, next time it could be your nephew. Kids have access to guns, and access to making bombs. The hard truth of the Boston bombings is this: we are all complicit.

The effect of mass violence is a people in trauma. Our haunting fear is that our children are at risk in schools, on buses, huge concerts, and now at large sports events. Where is the fierce mother bear icon to protect the defenseless? Imagine a grizzly hunting for berries, and finds her cubs in danger? See her stand rising up on hind legs, bobbing her head-- doing anything to keep her cubs safe.

Christians wait piously inside church, praying for their salvation. At night Godly people lock their cars with a McFlurry shake in hand, hoping not to hear gunfire outside. Will salvation come in church, in the courts, or in the jailhouse? Where can we reverse the gang-busting, trigger-happy attitudes of our young people?

My sons are excelling in college, but did not escape unscathed the initiation rites of teenage cruelty. My sons grew up happily engaging with people like George Zimmerman and Djhokhar Tsarnaev. My sons are constantly living out the question: how can you be a respectful, strong man without being violent or revengeful.

How  can we stop accepting violence?

We will talk for months about the Marathon bombings in Cambridge where the two Tsarnaev brothers grew up. Djzokhar, the 19 year old, was a year behind my son in high school. They played volleyball together, my son was the team captain. My older son worked for at a summer job for 3 years with Krystal Campbell whose body was blown up by the bombing. One son knows the accused, the other one knows

Asking for Guidance
Asking for Guidance

the victim killed. If you didn’t know someone who was injured, you probably know someone one step removed.

Our family is struggling, the same as most of us are trying to make sense of it all. Let’s not just continue work as usual. We do not have to accept the use of violence when our cubs get as big as we are. Mother bears can do more than growl.

The Jewish scriptures provide understanding for Boston’s tragedy and the culture of violence:

“A voice is heard in Ramah,

mourning and great weeping,

Rachel weeping for her children…, because they are no more.”

This is what the LORD says:

“Restrain your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears, for your work will be rewarded…” (Jer. 31)     Let’s get to work.

Statue in Harvard Yard
Statue in Harvard Yard

Our Beloved Boston Marathon

Not the Boston marathon. OMG. Not 2 explosions during the marathon. This is worse than a Hitchcock nightmare. Oh Holy God. 4 people dead and countless injured. Here, in my cheerful cocky energetic hometown. And the Marathon, started in 1897 with 18 runners, is emblematic of savvy Boston. Now I know the violence in the US is a run-away train. Now I know we Americans are over the top. So. Help. God. So help me God.

Don’t call me naïve if I chortle that Boston is a wonderful city. The health fairs, the new city-wide bicycles, the parks used for skating, baseball, picnics, dogs and Frisbees. We don’t even call it Boston central park: instead it is Boston Public Garden and Boston Commons, because the land is commonwealth to us all. That’s all 4.5 million of us packed into a peninsula beside the Atlantic Ocean.

We have public transit that works dependably; the universities attract a UN rainbow of people; we have specialty health centers like and Dana Farber for cancer. Our exquisite health care system is aided by an amazing high Tech industry, employing lots of software engineers after graduating from a prestigious school like MIT. Tufts, UMass, BU, and Harvard all have strong undergraduate programs and medical/dental schools. We are replete with young people, artsy folks and street jugglers. Mayor Menimo budgets lots of money for youth summer jobs, and with the same fervor doffed to our beloved Bruins/Pats/Celtics, Boston has built up a hefty police force. The Red Sox nation is a unique phenomenon--winning the World Series in 2004 and in 2007-- we are proud, wielding our economic hammer with a Bossypants attitude. But we, like other places-- Newtown CT; Aurora CO; Virginia Tech and the Twin Towers in NYC—don’t tolerate senseless violence. We are vulnerable now and in tragic mourning. Our town with its Yankee ingenuity has just taken a whuppin’. So we put down the brass and show our tender side: the side that loves Jack/Bobbie/Ted Kennedy, the side that lets OccupyBoston camp out in the middle of the commercial district, the side that treats children suffering from severe burns and cancer, has Spring races for the hungry, for those raped, for our Vets, for AIDS survivors, and for the healthy. We embrace them all.

Boston is in Recovery.

I’m a nonviolence trainer and a trauma crisis counselor. Please hear our agony-a pain only us who love our Marathon can feel. If you aren’t from Boston, the Marathon is not just a race—it’s a cherished symbol. The Boston Marathon is the world’s oldest annual marathon, with over 500,000 spectators. Amateur and professionals run it, with about 27,000 runners. Massachusetts official nomenclature for this Monday in April is Patriots’ Day, a state holiday so school age children can view the marathon along Commonwealth Ave.

The response to the violence is more telling than the hateful crime. Boston’s real marathon is the healing. Our recovery from fear and reconciling ourselves to each other will take a Herculean effort. Pray for the victims, and pray that our love grows even deeper of this place, for all of us-even the criminals. It’s the legacy of Boston. We will be proud of this Marathon too.

Poems Arch Across a Wet Sky


The Walk

Each step a word

May Day 2009

Each toe a pupil

Each pilgrim a sapling

Big toes flex, then probe, and grab

Groping over earthflesh.

Callouses reach blindly for a vista of mountains.


The arch tenderly curves around a root

Prayer is never stagnant

Grace wraps between skin and grist

After decades of walking

The heel grinds a stone

The rough edges carve out decay

Pebbles grown round with sinew and service

Arms ventilate the stuffed cage,.

Moving hands release a closed heart

Arms swing slow beside tree branches

The narrow voice box floats a bit higher.

Worship whispers in your gait.

Each step an answer

Each answer a gift

Each gift a nod

Receiving God. March 2013


Midori’s Dilemma

The mold is creeping. Here we do not hide the truth.

The portrait of John Woolman can’t disguise the black spoors.

A coffee cup is picked up delicately by an arthritic hand.

Watch the coffee gyrate when she takes a tentative step.

Lentil soup steams as Tom’s ladle salutes a hungry stranger.

A toddler forgets her Spiderman beside the compost bin.

Pink worms ooze inside the black belching box.


Do not expect to see the infinite love of God tumbling from the high hills.

After the prayer undresses you, pick up the shovel and join the worms.

Outside a sparrow sings amidst the greying sun all of the divine’s mysteries.

Seek justice between bites of stew.


Chew up hate; tweet cheerfulness; climb the ladder slowly.

Even Lucretia Mott had manacles muffling her clarion words.


What is home? Where can I find love?

Somewhere between the mold and the Bible. 4/15/13

GS graduation

Guancascos in Honduras

In Honduras I pick up bits of the culture. I eat an empanada, and the memory is stored on my tongue. I see a boy riding bareback downhill to the bridge, and my calf muscles contract as if trotting along. I'm amazed at the bromeliads growing like spikey lily pads, the branches filled with orange flowers. One tree can host a botanical garden. Thus after a 3 day visit to Honduras, a bouquet of sweetness fills my sensations.

We walked from 'el castillo', the castle, to the Central Park planted snug against the Iglesia de San Marco. I was prejudiced without cause hearing the story of Honduran President Juan Lindo (1850c.) and his invasion of Guatemala. The Castillo was a bit somniforic until I read that Lindo said the future of the country depended on breaking forth and educating the people.

We met many Honduran Quaker leaders (Martha learned all the gossip). We visited in colonial Spanish-built houses with tile floors and a style of ceramic roof that lets in air, but not raindrops. We couldn't resist a trip to the thermal pools: hot springs that flow down from the amazing rainforest of the Celaque summit. My image of Honduras as a poor downtrodden country without much culture to mention was completely overturned.

One of the most intriguing parts of my education was learning about a PreColumbian peace process among the Lenca people here called guancascos. The Lencan Indians are bereft of their language and religion, but guancascos is alive and well carving a peace between communities. This unique tradition can instruct our flailing peace efforts. Guancascos is a bilateral peace treaty between two competing groups fighting over territory. It involves days of dance, ceremonies, a change of local leaders in office, and sometimes weddings and baptisms. Both towns attend the process. It's the biggest event of the year.

Guancascos begins with the Traida de Polvora, the bringing of gunpowder. At this time the leaders from both sides meet: the costs of the fireworks are negotiated. Every peace summit needs a divvying up of fireworks to whet the whistle for larger conflicts. Then the two communities often have a Broom Dance, where the newly elected leader hands a flowered broom to the outgoing village leader and in turn a Tall Staff is given to the outgoing leader. There's ofcourse lengthy greetings punctuated by fireworks and music. The parade starts in one town, and then heads to the outskirts, and ends in the second town. The two groups sachet towards the main Catholic Church, over a floor covered with pine needles, and decorated copiously. The climax is the Danza de Gorrobo, the Dance of the Black Iguana, with elaborate costumes and native musical instruments. Don't these dances sound better than signing a written contract, costly and ponderous?

Guancasco is used in a few dozen villages around Gracias a Dios, and Santa Rosa de Copan. I wonder what ways the Guancasco can instruct Quakers who are a bit stiff around peace initiatives.

It offers formal ways to connect with potential enemies or former enemies. It is renewed every year or every other year. This style of waging peace has happened for 500 years. Ah yea, sounds like a tried and true process to me.