I just spent more than an hour on Facebook catching up(ish) on posts. Now, on this Saturday with nothing planned but a haircut and nobody home but me, I wander the house. I declutter the week’s “debris,” putting things back where they belong.
My mind and heart attempt the same thing. So much is rattling around inside me. I haven’t read most of the articles yet that were pushed to me. But they have a place to “belong.” Thank heavens for Pocket because before that I didn’t know where to put them so I could find them back. Here is a sampling of this morning’s “catch”:
- The Making of Ferguson
- Since St. Louis has decided against releasing a report, here’s the timeline of Michael Brown’s death
- ‘I didn’t think of Iraqis as humans,’ says U.S. soldier who raped 14-year-old girl
- The Worth of Black Men, From Slavery to Ferguson
- It’s Time for Whites to Accept Responsibility for Racist Systems
- How can white Americans be free?
- Smiling black woman next to Corbett on his website was Photoshopped
I want to read these articles; I don’t want to read them. I feel like two year old CJ whose mother reported on Facebook among the other posts I read this morning that CJ was having a tantrum because he wanted to be in the tub and outside the tub at the same time.
I want a great big, I mean BIG! grief ritual. Yes, for the loss of Michael Brown, Oscar Grant, Eric Garner and so many, many black and brown people who are being slaughtered in body or spirit.
But also for white people, my people. For the loss of our tenderness, our kindness, our vulnerability, our ability to see ourselves in “the other.”
This grief matters and it wants expression. It wants tears and dirges and keening. It wants sobbing and discordant melodies that put another vibration into the world.
My culture tells me that this will not make any difference. It is better to organize. To protest.
Spirit tells me otherwise. How can we find our soft selves if we do not cry, if we do not release the heavy heart, the cold heart, the hard heart, the oh-so-broken heart?