Hole In the World

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day - January 18, 2021

My family of origin was dedicated to a sense of global family, the gifts of differing languages, cultures, and skin tones. Also, I seek to be committed to the health of our planet, its soils, waters, and air, and all the inhabitants. These priorities fly in the air at the end of our driveway in the form of an earth flag.

We recently replaced the old flag.  Its fabric was worn thin, then through, by relentless sunlight, driving rain, violent winter winds… and time.

The hole torn into the flag’s planet image offers a jarring truth.  The battered fragility of that fabric world mirrors my heart — and perhaps a shared communal heart. 

What shreds it?

   Witnessing the sad pandemic vulnerability of especially brown and black people.

   Witnessing Mr. Floyd gasp-cry for mama, gasp-cry for air and life.

   Witnessing Ahmaud Arbery’s run for strength and wholeness become a futile run for his life.

   Witnessing Trayvon Martin’s hoodied teenage meander become a doomed last stand.

Any of these could have been, could now be, could in a decade be, one of my sons. In each of these lost are bits of my sons, bits of my kin, bits of me. For those of us with dark skin or living at the edges (and perhaps for all of us) our best defense, a source of our breaking, and a source of our strength is knowing that each of these is each of us. 

   Witnessing the names - Michael, Breonna, Philando, Sandra, Emmett, Martin - fill too many pages.

   Witnessing my sons, my brothers rage, weep, go silent and resigned with the knowledge that they and theirs are somehow marked.  The fears and traumas of our society and power-holders mark my sons and larger family in ways that constantly render them unsafe and at-risk.

    Witnessing, watching the holes in our world and in ourselves grow.

    And witnessing, just last week, flags - including confederate flags - and faces flood the capital of the United States of America, suggesting the nothingness of my children’s lives. 

I can replace a ripped flag, but what do we do with a world, a country, hearts ragged with deepening fears and wounds which fester into hatred and enmity?

I imagine mending a torn world takes some doing.

When I start a new garden, I fill the base with compost and debris:  rotting branches, old leaves, manure, food scraps, ashes, straw.  I water it - soaking it deeply, then layer on more compost and living soil, then soak it again. Time, water, and numinous natural forces break down and transform all these elements into fertile soil.

Maybe the worn-through, gaping wound, flapping-in-the-wind places need this from us— to actually name, offer up and dump in the rotting, stinking, remnant, piled-up pieces of ourselves and our histories.  Maybe we soak them with all the tears and wailing we’ve held back. With all the tears we’ve frozen into walls of control and division.  With all the tears of rage, loss, and fear. With all the tears of hopes and dreams deferred. Maybe as different continent’s First People teach, we pray in every way imaginable over this “soil” …together.

Importantly, our nation has set aside time to honor a man, community, and movement which calls and challenges us to do the near-impossible work of growing the Beloved Community:  a community of social and economic justice, inclusion, and kinship. The lives of Dr. Martin Luther King and many others were given and taken in the struggle to redeem our nation’s soul and repair our world.  

What if these are the seeds, visions, actions we plant into the grief and debris? What if the intertwining and strength of these roots bind and mend our edges and stories?

I admit there are many years when I think the micro-farm growing season is going to break me.  It’s not easy work building soil, planting seed, protecting the growth.  But working side by side with partners young and old grows hope and faith. And the miracle of rot transformed into beauty and nourishment for community helps me believe in a repaired world.