Picket Signs
1.
Simple definitions of "picket" according to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary:
: a stick or post that is pointed at the end so that it can be put into the ground
: a person or group of people who are standing or marching near a place to
protest something
: a protest or strike involving pickets
2.
"Did you go to any of the Vermont Yankee protests?" R.L., who I have just met, asks me. R.L. is interested in social change and I wonder what is in his thoughts as he asks me this question. Will it matter if I say "yes" or "no"?
The Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Plant has indeed shut down, but nuclear waste will remain there, since there is no good way to be rid of it. This is where my frustration lies. Not specifically in whether nuclear power continues on, but our (human species) shortsightedness about all kinds of issues. Ultimately better to not need nuclear power to generate our communications and toys. Industrially speaking, we are a clever species. But we shoot ourselves in the foot over and over again, and keep placing bandaids on the wounds, and painkilling drugs in the body. Get rid of the Guns! Get rid of the Bandaids! Get rid of the Drugs! Couldn't we scoop up some cleverness to rid ourselves of the need for our own shortsightedness? There will be no Nuclear Power Plants if there is no need for them!
3.
Before I answer, I think back to the early 1990's in Montpelier, Vermont. I had connected with the New England Tradeswomen (now Vermont Works for Women) by making the drive from Massachusetts up to Montpelier for their annual conference. Since I never ran into other women on construction sites, this was my chance to hear other women speak about their own experiences and share mine. At that point in time, I was a handful of years into my cabinetmaking trade, and had dodged many comments about my phantom woodworking "husband".
"Where did you buy these cabinets?" and "Are you here to help out your husband today?" were the popular questions from men who did not understand my role on a construction site.
The two men who owned the cabinetmaking shop where I worked were always quick to reply. "Oh, no, Gail is one of our cabinetmakers!" Over the ten years I had worked for them, I always felt honored to be included as a colleague in the business.
But, the words didn't matter. While installing cabinets and bathroom vanities, I often would feel eyes watching my progress. I would look up, and see, in a hallway, a group of tradesmen on break, coffee cups in hand. I was the entertainment, they were the peanut gallery.
However, at the conference, I heard stories involving much worse. Union jobs. Hurtful graffiti. Insulting comments. The NEED for Compliance agents around gender equality on the job site.
I had naively stepped onto a path that trajected me into a gender fight.
4.
Sitting around a conference lunch table one year, I asked the woman next to me what she did for work.
"I lobby for gender equality in Washington, DC," she told me.
"I'm so impressed by those who pick up a sign and march," I said to her. "It's not my style."
"What do you mean?" she asked. " I couldn't do what I do unless there were women like you who live in the trenches everyday."
That conversation completely changed my self view. I've carried that "quiet" picket sign for thirty years now.
Every day I plant the proverbial "stake" into the ground and challenge how the world sees women in historically non-traditional roles, and what it is to be a woman fully empowered as a woman in a traditionally male domain.
5.
Every day, I open my heart to stay present and compassionate, stop to listen and say hello to those who look away while passing me on a sidewalk or a trail. I give myself away over and over since I know there is nothing finite about giving. We so seldom anymore take that kind of time to get out of our own narcissism, and see the gift in front of us.
I carry my containers and plastic re-used bags to the marketplaces. After watching a documentary from 2012 on the waste stream in and near our oceans, I contemplate not eating fish anymore. Plastics, even those that supposedly break down, still leave plastic fibers to be ingested by the fish. And then ingested by us who eat fish.
I volunteer at my local library, filling in as a Saturday morning librarian once in awhile. I have also built some shelving for the library, as a gift. Even though I now feel more "global" from my experiences on the "road", this is still my local community. These small communities are our foundation in a world breaking us apart and isolating us. "Make the time to give back," I say often.
I offer empowerment to women through woodworking classes I offer. I work with kids. Boys who learn from me will not associate "capability" with only men.
When I can, I offer a bed, shower and food to those traveling by. In honor of this holiday season, I recently received a Couchsurfing message from a young man from England who stayed with me for a few days this past Fall. He has made it across the country now, mostly hitching, Couchsurfing, and traveling with little money:
"I want to extend my sincerest and deepest thanks for the help each of you have given to me at some point on my journey; from just a couch to sleep on to the food you have given me and the wonderful company and glimpses of the areas I have been through. I did not know the world was such a beautiful place until I was able to get out and experience it in such a way, and not only have you guys facilitated my wandering about without any money but you gave me a much better insight into the world than I would otherwise have had." (Will)
It doesn't matter whether we have continued connections with those whose paths we cross. I will forever be a part of Will's story, and he mine. I plant a "picket" for faith in the goodness of our shared humanity and look forward to more paths crossed in the name of generosity and hospitality.
I use the pen to sign petitions or write about the sad loss of our human(e) connections with others. I practice courtesy and invite others into shared intimacy.
I've built a house without being a slave to bank debt. I belong to a Time Bank barter exchange. As much as I can, I resist packaging. I refuse to buy into fashion as a symbol of acceptance and success. I "create" rather than "buy" as often as I can.
Every day... I pick up a "sign" and carry it. CHOICE and FREE WILL are my "picket signs". My "pickets" stand all around me, a remembered "cemetery" from the everyday "trenches" of old beliefs and conditioning.
6.
I turn to R.L. "No, I didn't get to any of the protest marches at Vermont Yankee Nuclear Plant," I tell him. "The picket sign is not my style."
7.
We all have our "picket" planted into the ground around us. If so inspired, leave me a comment and let me know what YOUR "pickets" are!
The Collision of the Years
Part 1: The Road Remembered
(Arizona, December, 2014)
The last day of the year.
I look back on the year past and the energies that flowed through the seasons: the renewal of hope and faith, the opening of heart, forgiveness, laughter, and the naïveté of seeing light that has been honed into fraud so tightly woven that the sheen is golden and magical, a charm casting its spell over all who enter near.
The light, brittle, shattered again, the shards digging in and cutting, the blood oozing out. The weeping of exhaustion deeply abrading soft overworked body into a mash of nerves, muscles drawn onto a torture rack of stretching. My own doing. I am the ultimate Creator.
I have no regrets though. I have come to the end, or, as it has been said, the beginning again. I sit in this meditation now, looking into the mirror to see the road behind me, and there is sense there. There is the breath of invitation into a whole being, standing with a central spine of light, and in so doing, I invite others' light. They offer what they can, I know, and some cannot hold the lie, the light that they cannot bring up to the surface.
There is no fault, there is no judgement. We come in alone, in the purity of our beginnings, and we walk along, reaching out for that purity again. I look back to the knowing, the deciding, the trust in leaping through the hoop wrapped in fire—heat and passion. Or was it wrapped in flowers—new beginnings and possibilities? Or, perhaps, wrapped in gold— knowledge brilliant and shining?
But what has been pure is never pure, there is the dirt and grit, the age showing. But the dirt and grit have their pure state as well. 2014 has been the cleaning of the slate, the drawings with chalk, erasures, and re-draws.
There is the falling, not from fear or mis-step, but of allowing, and I walk now in a new breath that cannot be taken back in, the inhale cannot go back. The inhale grounds each step, and the exhale gives momentum towards the self. I reached in for the gold, not out, and I inhaled deeply as I invited the road.
Standing near the fire in San Marcos, Texas, I was reminded of the dangers of the Texas wild lands, and I smiled and announced my lack of fear.
"It is too late for fear. You've already taken the first step," he said, his long black duster coat draping off of him like a prophetic robe.
We both leaned in towards the fire to absorb its heat.
"Stop on the road and make an offering," the singer said from behind me. I turned and he handed me a small polished red stone.
All I could do was hold tightly to the stone.
And at this end of calendar year, when the day stretches its light to hone the strength of its rays, I stretch to hone the strength of my rays and reach out and over onto the new year energy, that 2015 energy drawing its own inhale. A year ago, had I seen ravens about, I would have listened carefully for the beckoning songs that would soon invite me into this present journey. Songs of release. Songs of exhaustion. Songs of closure and solo improvisation. Songs of motion. I see ravens everywhere now and watch them closely as I lean in towards their flight and trust.
Part 1: The Road Remembered
(Arizona, December, 2014)
The last day of the year.
I look back on the year past and the energies that flowed through the seasons: the renewal of hope and faith, the opening of heart, forgiveness, laughter, and the naïveté of seeing light that has been honed into fraud so tightly woven that the sheen is golden and magical, a charm casting its spell over all who enter near.
The light, brittle, shattered again, the shards digging in and cutting, the blood oozing out. The weeping of exhaustion deeply abrading soft overworked body into a mash of nerves, muscles drawn onto a torture rack of stretching. My own doing. I am the ultimate Creator.
I have no regrets though. I have come to the end, or, as it has been said, the beginning again. I sit in this meditation now, looking into the mirror to see the road behind me, and there is sense there. There is the breath of invitation into a whole being, standing with a central spine of light, and in so doing, I invite others' light. They offer what they can, I know, and some cannot hold the lie, the light that they cannot bring up to the surface.
There is no fault, there is no judgement. We come in alone, in the purity of our beginnings, and we walk along, reaching out for that purity again. I look back to the knowing, the deciding, the trust in leaping through the hoop wrapped in fire—heat and passion. Or was it wrapped in flowers—new beginnings and possibilities? Or, perhaps, wrapped in gold— knowledge brilliant and shining?
But what has been pure is never pure, there is the dirt and grit, the age showing. But the dirt and grit have their pure state as well. 2014 has been the cleaning of the slate, the drawings with chalk, erasures, and re-draws.
There is the falling, not from fear or mis-step, but of allowing, and I walk now in a new breath that cannot be taken back in, the inhale cannot go back. The inhale grounds each step, and the exhale gives momentum towards the self. I reached in for the gold, not out, and I inhaled deeply as I invited the road.
Standing near the fire in San Marcos, Texas, I was reminded of the dangers of the Texas wild lands, and I smiled and announced my lack of fear.
"It is too late for fear. You've already taken the first step," he said, his long black duster coat draping off of him like a prophetic robe.
We both leaned in towards the fire to absorb its heat.
"Stop on the road and make an offering," the singer said from behind me. I turned and he handed me a small polished red stone.
All I could do was hold tightly to the stone.
And at this end of calendar year, when the day stretches its light to hone the strength of its rays, I stretch to hone the strength of my rays and reach out and over onto the new year energy, that 2015 energy drawing its own inhale. A year ago, had I seen ravens about, I would have listened carefully for the beckoning songs that would soon invite me into this present journey. Songs of release. Songs of exhaustion. Songs of closure and solo improvisation. Songs of motion. I see ravens everywhere now and watch them closely as I lean in towards their flight and trust.
A 2016 Blessing
May we all find our "Pickets" and plant them firmly, with courage, determination, and perseverance! May we, in our shared humanity, come together in the trenches to change this world for the better. May we get rid of the guns, short-sightedness, and band aids, and bring out our best cleverness to heal our world. One "picket" at a time.
May we all find our "Pickets" and plant them firmly, with courage, determination, and perseverance! May we, in our shared humanity, come together in the trenches to change this world for the better. May we get rid of the guns, short-sightedness, and band aids, and bring out our best cleverness to heal our world. One "picket" at a time.