Sustainability - What the $#%% Is It?

A couple of friends noted my "cynical" comments and critical take on San Diego's Earth Day celebration at Balboa Park.  I figured, since I am so willing to get up here on this pulpit and yell with my flat screened bullhorn, I should at least take a moment to contextualize my argument.

I readily acknowledge that I do not lead the most sustainable lifestyle.  I drive way more than I necessarily need to.  I have yet to create a garden in my backyard - a place in which I can grow my own fruits and vegetables as well as recycle any leftover, organic matter by turning it into compost. And, I consume more than my fair share of the Earth's resources, especially in comparison to most other human beings, and creatures, walking this planet.

Nonetheless, I find it difficult to stomach consumption all dressed up in the emperor's new clothes and given 21st century labels, such as "sustainable," "organic," and "green."

For those of you not familiar with San Diego, the region lives up to its southern California hype in terms of its automotive addiction.  For decades, the downtown city center was predominantly a place where suits and ties commuted into every day for the weekly grind.  The Gaslamp, with its gyrating discos and expensive eateries, was certainly a hip nightspot for the fashion forward.  However, it just wasn't fashionable or cool to live amidst the transients, Mexican-American implants, and methamphetamine houses.  At least, not until our beloved baseball team had a brand, spanking new $241 million dollar stadium built down near the shipyards on the Embarcadero.  Ever since, the homeless have increasingly been targeted, the meth houses have been boarded up, and the sprawl of East Village has been dwindling.

Because the founding fathers of our small city never had the long-term vision to plan a seaside community of high rises that could accommodate thousands of people of varying means, San Diego has been a bubble of grossly inflated real estate prices.  It was only a few short years ago when half-a-million dollars was the median range for a house in our community.  Since 2004, when the Padres were bequeathed their new home, 1,000-foot-high mechanical arms have been a consistent part of this city's skyline.  Someone is making a killing, but it isn't us.   (Did you know that San Diego has been teetering on bankruptcy for years now?  Our city is so broke that we can't even afford to pay the pension benefits of retired and soon-to-be-retired city employees.)

Suffice it to write, the planning that went into the city's public transportation system was equally poor and short-sighted.  Within the city proper, trolleys run south, from Old Town to the border with Mexico, and east to SDSU (this connection was just finished recently) as well as to Santee (an eastern lying suburb where a women's detention facility is located).  For commuting in between these southern communities, there is one train that runs from Oceanside, which is forty miles to the north, into downtown - at hours solely conducive to the traditional 9-5'ers schedule.  Gratefully, the Sprinter was recently added to this train line - as it moves from Oceanside, across the northern tip of the county, and east into Escondido.  Rounding out the city's transportation is a large fleet of "green" buses that take anywhere from 1-3 hours to complete their routes. 

When I first moved to downtown San Diego six years ago, I was at the tail end of a "car-free" lifestyle.  Thus, I relied on both public transportation and my bicycle to get me around the city streets.  Bicycling around San Diego is an absolute privilege, one I sincerely wish upon all able bodies.  Our now bustling metropolis is surrounded by a host of quaint neighborhoods.  From the views of Tijuana in Golden Hill to the graffiti art of Chicano Park in Barrio Logan; from the friendly bars and delectable eateries in South Park to the grand Park Boulevard and University Avenue in North Park; from the gay pride of both University Heights and Hillcrest to the alternative coffee, video, and music shops of Kensington and Normal Heights; and from a diverse palate of exotic cuisine in City Heights to the slick pompadours of Little Italy - a bike is truly all one needs to see and experience San Diego at its finest.  The parks, restaurants, cafes, bars, views, and casitas are rich with history, meaning, people, and culture.

Unfortunately, because there is no trolley running along University Avenue - a stretch of road that essentially begins in uptown and continues east, for miles, into La Mesa - most people drive their cars into and around our city.  Each year, a handful of events, from Gay Pride to Earth Day and from the new Indie Music Festival to the beloved Adams Avenue Music Fest, draw hundreds of thousands of people into these surrounding neighborhoods.  For the most past, a large portion of these people are using vehicles to get to their destinations.  When it comes to sustainability, it appears that we are missing the moot point.  I would declare this to be the case with the handful of annual cleanup events, as well.  When we all pile into vehicles to travel to an agreed upon destination on an agreed upon date - how sustainable are we really?  Then, to top it off, events such as Earth Day still end up creating an incalculable amount of waste and consumption.  Is this really what the organic, green revolution is all about?

My goal, however, is not to rain on anyone's parade with a sour grapes attitude.  Rather, my aim is to point out our very human contradictions and to provide some solutions.  The "Kick Gas" Festival is coming to San Diego's Qualcomm stadium this October 24th.  The trolley has a stop right outside the stadium, so come on down and learn how you can take the small steps in your everyday life to eliminate our nation's dependence on oil.

Roots, San Diego's Sustainable Food Project, is a meeting place for sustainable minds.  Our coalition includes a sub-group called Victory Gardens, in which we come into your backyards, neighborhoods, and schools, build a garden, and teach you how to grow your own food.  Victory Gardens relies on donations and grants, so if you do not have any money to give they are still willing to work something out.  Roots also has tight-knit relationship with La Milpa Organica, a community farm in Escondido.  La Milpa is currently launching its CSA program, so gather eight of your friends and order your fruits and vegetables directly from a local farm.  La Milpa also hosts a monthly community potluck on its lovely grounds in which good people gather to enjoy live music, fresh baked pizza, a movie at dusk, and more.  Ultimately, the point is that sustainability requires a local, grassroots effort here in the comfort of our own homes and neighborhoods.  Let us champion a return to the days when we broke bread with our neighbors and when we came together in the spirit of a safe place for our children and a healthy environment for us all.

Last, but certainly not least, what we can do now is to move through the world with the mindset that every day is an opportunity to clean up, get involved, and make a difference.  Going to the beach tonight after work?  Pick up fifteen pieces of trash along your stroll.  Driving to your weekly meeting, event, or gathering?  Let people know where you're coming from and that you are open to carpooling.   Are you a habitual coffee or tea drinker?  Invest in a reusable mug and keep it on your person in times of need.  The possibilities are endless.  The important thing to remember is that, like anything else, sustainability requires small steps taken on a daily basis.  Now is the time.

A Commercial Break: Core Connect Parenting

A month ago, I wrote a post about community and, more specifically, I relayed an experience I shared with three others while exploring time and space at our weekly gathering place in Encinitas.  On this day, I was looking to connect but I was feeling unable to do so in the way that I most usually do - with high energy and grandiose movement.  Instead, I turned to my quiet breath and still reverie, and I discovered an equal celebration of spontaneous life and the improvisational moment.

On that morning, Christy Ahna Zahava caught my attention from my peripheral view.  She was sitting in repose, listening to the moments at hand.  I joined her on a magical journey that began before this one day and that has continued since.  Today, on this morning, I wanted to honor Christy and her work.

Christy has been studying "Connection Parenting," the work of Pam Leo, and now offers classes, both in-person and in-teleconference, regarding Grief Recovery, Healing Loss, and Parenting Through Love Instead Of Fear.  Her web page, www.coreconnectparenting.com, is informative and her person is inspiring.  Although I am not yet a parent myself, one thing that I recognize now is that I could never raise my child with another person alone.  As it is, the power of community is vital to my emotional health and well-being.  I can only imagine how much more important it will become as my most intimate of tribes contintues to grow. 

For all you parents out here in virtural land, if you need someone to talk to, to provide constructive feedback, and even if you are looking to expand your circle of support, I highly recommend you look in Christy's direction.  She is an amazingly patient mother, a gifted communicator, and just an all around motivational human being. 

 

Recognizing the Shadow Self

A few posts back, I ruminated upon force.  I spent a week, or two, eschewing the word - contemplating its role in my life; actively discussing the topic with others; and then, finally, coming to a catharsis in which I recognized that there can be "good" in force.  However, what I neglected to mention in that posting was the shadow side of force - abuse.

I had to experience some of its affects, such as a loved one grabbing my arm in a forceful manner and then proceeding to emotionally berate me (I understood that this person's behavior was not personal, he was simply responding from a place of deep hurt and fear) before I made a long, overdue emotional break.  What was most poignant about these moments is how I, through my own processes of introspection, meditative thinking, and curious questioning, was learning to honor myself.  "I do not deserve that touch, nor do I deserve this behavior," was a deafening call that I had finally learned to both listen to and heed.  (Yes, at 32 years of age, I am just coming into my own.  Shall I be ashamed of this, or shall I revel in it?  Considering the fact that I now have over half a lifetime left to make different choices, I think I will choose the latter - thank you very much.)

However, this posting is not about abuse.  Rather, I wanted to write of the shadow self, especially in regards to how it relates to physical and sexual attraction.  If you have not already made the connection, I was referring to my now ex-partner in the above.  I do not share this because I want to convey any ill will towards the man.  Quite to the contrary, he is a beautiful, amazing being whom I love and care about deeply.  We simply were drawn together during a period in each of our lives when we were feeding the whims of our shadow selves on a daily basis.  After all, no one can "abuse" us unless we are actively abusing our selves first.   (Just as no one can set us "free," if we do not create our own liberation first.)

With that said, I have been a single woman again, after four years of a monogamous coupling, since July.  I have not spent this time looking outside of myself - for any thing.  My intentions, for the most part, have been focused inward - on a pursuit to teach myself how to fill ME up with all that I need so that I no longer project any longings in an outwardly direction or suffer through any ideas that what I seek is with/out.  What I have been doing is observing my whole self in motion, and noticing where my energy is drawn, to who, and why.   

Just this past weekend, two instances revealed themselves to me in which I noticed that I was once again, strongly and with animal force, attracted to a shadow self.  In the first case, I had been harboring painful feelings of attraction for another, for years now.  Yet, there has always been a schism in how this person and I interact.  On the dance floor, our engagement is flowing, intuitive, juicy, and generous.  However, in the day to day, our interactions are awkward, disjointed, and there appears to be a serious void when our bodies touch. 

Ironically, only a few months back, I noticed how split my own self seemed to be.  There was the me who moved around a dance floor with grace, ease, and lacking fear, and there was the me who moved around the "real world" deeply afraid of judgment, denial, and rejection.  I have been resolved, ever since, to mend this divide - to actively engage in as many moments of life from a place rooted less in fear and my vulnerable defenses and more from an open and expansive vulnerability that is softer, gentler, more yielding.

In this person, I also recognized my mirror image.  More specifically, I saw my fears of my own sexuality and sexual attraction reflected back.  What I mean by this is simple: for entirely too long now, I have been afraid to speak my desires, to give voice to that which I want.  Yet, I deserve (just as you do) to give myself the chance to receive.  Even if the receiving is a, "No, thank you.  I am not interested and I do not feel the same."  At the very least, this kind of feedback allows me to let go of my attachment and to move on with my feeling body. 
Next. 
If I do not verbalize my thoughts, however, then I am passing up on an opportunity for growth.  When I do not give voice to my authentic desires, then I am stunting my own well-being.   
No mas, por favor...

The second instance was more intensely charged for this other was a stranger with whom I spent a mere few hours in shared company.  In his eyes, I recognized my shadow self - my dark side that includes forcefulness, aggression, rigidity, and apathy.  I raised my piercing browns and met his, time after time and ignorant comment after ignorant comment.  There was no backing down.  There was only these two animals, meeting - with horns raised, hooves clashing, and nostrils panting.  It was pure, raw attraction.  It was potent.  And, it, he, invaded my dreams that night.  The force was truly that palpable.  It was...scary.

Scary because I could have very easily (fortunately circumstances did not, nor would not, allow for such a thing to happen) acted upon the desire.  The following day, however, after the two glasses of red wine had worn off, I once again came to understand that my own fear is still subconsciously affecting my carnal yearnings.  For, in each of these cases, I had been attracted to elements of me.  However, engaging with these sides of me on a more intimate level would do little to foster my own intrapersonal growth.  More than likely, what they would have provided is for me to continue running circles around myself, and hitting my head against the same old, closed door. 
No thanks. 
I'll pass.



         

   

 

Leftovers

(The following is from a letter, typed this morning.  I felt it conveyed a message that is pertinent to this arena.)



Remnants from last night that I must convey, express, and let go of:

What I heard you saying in regards to the, to MY, San Diego Dance Community
(a community, by the way, that is older than the both of us),
is that you feel unsafe and that you perceive a lack of depth as well as raw vulnerability within it.
Yes, you are entitled to your feelings and to being in your place of becoming
(wherever that is) while in our shared area. It is NEVER my intention to imply otherwise or
to "force" anyone else to feel, express, and experience, the way I do while in this arena.

However, I feel the need to speak up for this beloved community of ours - for this lifeblood of mine
that sustains and nourishes my emotional well-being on a weekly basis. I chose to speak up for
this sacred space last night by pointing out what I feel is a selfish lack of compromise, even though I knew
that by doing so I was potentially creating disharmony and sowing seeds of discontent.
In the moment, this did not feel good or comfortable - whatsoever. Nonetheless, I chose to defend something
I believe in - because, otherwise, my silence would have been a complicit act of enabling (enabling you to continue to sit in your place of judgment, criticism, and projection).

This morning, I am compelled to point out a number of glaring contradictions in your words and deeds.
There have been a number of occasions in which I have approached you, and you have completely blown me off. You have refused to even try to engage with me. Therefore, my body intuitively responds and chooses to give you a wide arc of personal space so that you can process through your own healing. Your non-verbal language has conveyed to me to stay back, and stand clear. Why, then, would I place my hands on you, and attempt to give you anything in terms of physical/emotional healing, when this is the clear message you are sending? Then, on the day when I was lying in the back changing room, suffering from my own physical pain, and when I could have used your healing hands, you chose to walk by me -
heading directly into the bathroom where you changed into a bathing suit top and looked at your mirror reflection - TWICE!

You judge my peers, my friends, my beloved community members, for their "lack of raw vulnerability," yet you do not understand that choosing to show up, week after week, to be present, and to allow others to bear witness to the process, is, in and of itself, raw vulnerability.

You judge me for my "little girl'ness" yet I am every inch a self-actualized and deep woman (even if I have serious room for improvement). I spoke up last night, and my words produced in you a desire to bite back - which you did - to protect your withering defenses. You even slapped my arm - twice. When I called you on it, you again responded from your vulnerable defenses. "I did not hit you," you retorted. I did not appreciate your touch, I did not deserve your touch in that way, or in that context. Still, you did not apologize for your actions.
Then, when you were reduced to tears because you were finally realizing that all of this is self-created
blocks that your mind uses to separate you from me, from us, you became tearfully emotional and I offered my hand, to your knee, softly, gently, to soothe, and to remind that I am here, and that I support you.

But then, I left angry! Angry that I was left feeling unsafe in your home, and at your hand. Angry to be judged when all of your judgments are mere reflections of that which you have yet to accept in yourself. And angry that, again, it felt selfish - that I, along with others, am merely invited in to your home, week after week, to bear witness to YOUR process. Going in to someone else's home and sharing feelings, deep seeded emotions, is yet another act of raw vulnerability. I can not help but to notice that you do not invite others to host the potluck at their homes. Who is really suffering from a lack of vulnerability here? Just because I do not cry, and well up physically with sadness, does not mean I am superficial, always playful, and somehow lacking depth. Quite to the contrary.

Last but not least, the innocence of play is direly needed in today's world. Playfulness, curiosity, and the generosity that is a result of these, is an integral part of my practice and will continue to be so.
Perhaps, you can learn to harness some of these life skills for yourself.

Lessons Learned From the Pulpit, Take I

More than likely, you, my dear reader, found me, my writing, and this blog, through my Facebook profile.  (Praise be, I doth do declare!)  As some of you may have noticed, I wield a dramatic flair for utilizing my status updates as a means to extoll my hard-earned philosophic meanderings as well as my nascent political hankerings.  The damn thing is like an American Idol microphone in my hands, as I belt out the bluesy news of the day or my unrequitted longing for a just future.

Last week, my physical being was assaulted by the sickening jargon of Bill O'Reilly as his hate-speak poured from the television in another room and into my vulnerable body.  I closed the door in an attempt to protect my withering self.  Nonetheless, I was dismayed and disappointed to note that the divisive fear of yesteryear was once again upon us, the American public.  The following day, I tuned in to my Facebook Homepage to discover that my like-mided peers had been posting links of photographs of uneducated U.S. citizens holding up badly misspelled placards that simply perpetuated the propaganda of the day.  (Something about Healthcare and Socialism.)

I was excited to report upon an ironic synchronicity that I discovered in a Tarot book.  As an artist, a large part of what I do is pay attention to story - the stories that have been told for milennia (such as astronomy, religion, & etc) and those that continue to be told today (of both woman and Earth as object, for example).  A boyfriend from my middle school days responded to my posting with an erratic missive.  It was as though those third-person postings that my peers had been virtually plugging into leaped into my real world, with full force.  How should I respond?  How could I respond?  Initially, my defenses flared and I wanted to bite back with poisonous venom.  Instead, however, I breathed in, and chose my words carefully (for they are, after all, a tool and they can be a weapon).

A few days after this encounter, I noticed that it was this same man's birthday.  I chose to wish him another happy trip around the sun.  He responded by writing that he had never thought of life in this way before.  "Keep wonderin', my man.  Keep wonderin'," was all I could encourage.

Here is to more honest American discourse.  May we passionately debate our beliefs while respectfully agreeing to disagree.  May we not fling mud, sticks or stones - especially when the privilege of education has only been granted to some.  May we quit with the guns, bombs, and wars and choose to meet in the middle - with an open heart, a soft hand, and a warm touch.

On Force

Why do I feel the need to rise to certain occasions and attempt to meet force with force?
Why can't I just allow the words and deeds of others to simply wash over me?
Why do I feel it is my job, my duty, to respond?

A few weekends ago, I became impatient and frustrated with my (now ex-) boy/friend.
Always living a few steps ahead of the now, he was excitedly entertaining thoughts of an impending future in which he will be living amongst Shaolin monks.  "This experience will be my Master's degree," he said.  "And, after I create my own Self Creation Studio, that will be my PhD."
"Why can't you just be here, now?" I forcefully cajoled.
My annoyance was palpable and it affected our ability to enjoy walking our shared dogs together at the beach.  Afterward, as I drove the distance back up north and away from the recently had experience, I started to feel pangs of guilt.
What was wrong with me?  Why couldn't I just let him be who he was, and for the moments to pass as they did?  Why did I feel the need to exert my will??

I called my sister to confide, but she wasn't available.  I managed what in the past would have become a full-blown panic attack as I continued along my merry way to Dance Church and beyond.  Life continued, as it always does.

Nonetheless, the topic stayed with me.  For, prior to this experience, I had a strange, and strained, encounter with my mother.  She was upset with me over some of the things that I had written in my graduate thesis.  "Some of those things just aren't true, Cara," she angrily proded.  She was referring to the time period when we lived in Canada, which is where I was born.  I had written of one of my earliest experiences of dancing to pop music and how both the rythym and the lyrics had carried me off on a life raft and away from the rage that could shake our home to its foundation.

My mother, knowing no different, simply emulated what she had witnessed in her father's parenting style.  She used fear to control her three children.  She was a domineering force, with a heavy hand.  She also suffered, as most of us do, from repressed anger and emotion.  It exploded out of her, in irregular bouts, knocking down her innocent young and then picking them up and dusting them off in shame.  "I wasn't angry until we moved here (to San Diego)," she wanted to believe.  "Well, that can be your story," I responded, "but it isn't mine or my siblings'."  She began to shake violently and, at one point, rose to her feet and walked over to where I was seated at the kitchen table, and behind my computer screen.  She jutted her round belly into my side, while looking down at me menacingly.  To disspell my own discomfort, I raised my shoulders to my ears, rolled my head around my neck, and made silly faces - channeling my little girl of old.  She bent down, with a serious grimace, and peered into my face.  I reached up, pursing my lips into a kissing position.  The moment quickly passed, and she moved on to tend to the laundry.  I, however, was left slightly unnerved.

Since then, she has shared with me that she was "only kidding" and that she thought I understood this.  "I thought we understood each other," she whined.
I don't know what I understand, to be quite honest.
Nonetheless, life moves on...

At Dance Jam, that Friday, a local dancer, who is one of the founders of my favorite post-modern dance collective (Lower Left), entered our space.  I had seen her just a month and a half before, but I had not witnessed her at our Barefoot Boogie weekly event ever (I think).  I was grateful for her presence.  She began with deep stretching - warming up the joints of her hips, knees, and ankles.  With fluidity, she bent into these soft places.  I wandered up to her, and greeted her with a soft hug.  She spoke of the tumult of her life, of late.  I mentioned my investigation of force.  With that word, she begin excitedly punching at the air and flinging her arms and legs into space.  She used this momentum to carry her around our shared arena, and I observed her moving in and out of full and flowing interactions with others for the remainder of the evening. 

Prior to her departure, she shared with me how she and her 8-year old son had been spending time together watching "Star Wars."  After the film, she openly discusses with her young and impressionable off-spring some of the themes from the futuristic sci-fi cult classic.  She then thanked me for shifting her intention in that space while I greedily accepted her offering of
"May the Force Be With You."

Indeed.

The more I contemplated the word, the more I realized that I was the one who was associating negativity with it.  Yet, the images that kept coming to mind were of Tiannamen Square and the man who sacrificed his body because he chose to stand up against an oppressive and initimadating force.  A similar and more recent story came out of Palenstine in which an American woman also used her body to take a stand against Israel's enforced settlements.  Surely, these two did not die in vain.  Surely, there is a ryhme and a reason to standing up for something one believes in, and for not backing down - even if the loss of life is imminent.