A movement with legs: understanding the Occupy movement

The movement of many voices, also known as Occupy Wall Street, has just as many commentators—bloggers, bankers and barbers alike. Still, few seem to know what it's really about. Let’s begin with some recent history in an attempt to understand what gave rise to this movement and what it hopes to accomplish.

Occupy’s inspiration comes largely from the protests in Cairo beginning on January 25, 2011, and the more recent Spanish “Acampada” (camp-in). Egypt’s revolution was excited by the Tunisian uprising that started in December 2010 against the corrupted regime of former president Ben Ali, who had ruled for over two decades. On January 25, Egyptians took to Cairo’s central Tahrir Square to demonstrate against Hosni Mubarak, who had been in power for almost thirty years. In Madrid, what began on Sunday, May 15 as a march in protest of Europe’s highest unemployment rate of 21% turned into a camp-in at a square in the middle of the city.

Occupy Wall Street officially began in British Columbia, Canada, with a blog posted on July 13 by Adbusters, a network of self-proclaimed “culture jammers and creatives.” The post begins, “#OCCUPYWALLSTREET: Are you ready for a Tahrir moment? On September 17, flood into lower Manhattan, set up tents, kitchens, peaceful barricades, and occupy Wall Street.” And that is just what an estimated 5000 people did, amassed with help from a group called “US Day of Rage” which calls for free and fair elections, as well as the “hacktivist” network known as “Anonymous.”

Farm camp snapshot: story time in the sheepfold.

 

Food, Glorious Food! Applying Our Values to Our Veggies

(Adapted from the Principia Pilot.)
The people I admire most are those who truly embody their values, and I strive to do the same. Some of my most basic and essential values stipulate the health and happiness of all humans and the natural treatment of animals and Earth. Why then, have I been eating food that denies those very things? Well, I’ve decided to stop.

“Modern eating is all about forgetting,” Harvey Ussery, a self-proclaimed modern homesteader, said. Perhaps more than forgetting, it’s about ignoring. It’s not necessarily our fault that most people don’t know much about where food comes from or how to grow it, which they could hardly help but know in times past.

But once we know even the first thing about food production, how can we consume meat and vegetables that rely on antibiotics and other chemicals to make it to our lunch lines—chemicals, those are, that sicken livestock, poison field workers, and pollute our waterways?

On Healing the World

(Originally posted on euphratesinstitute.org/warriors-for-peace/)

As the sun began to set today, the wind whistled through the greening trees, the birds sang their songs of spring, and twenty or more students gathered to pray and to heal. I arrived at this impromptu outdoor church service just as the prepared readings were ending. The topic was healing, and what followed were the voices of almost everyone there, sharing gratitude, inspiration, and accounts of healing. Most people who shared expressed their gratitude for this meeting and the irrepressible sense of love and healing power in the air. I felt it too, this overwhelming sense of infinite goodness. And I know that it reaches beyond that one beautiful spot where we were sitting.

It is that same spirit of infinite possibility that is present for all the universe, and I know it’s what can heal the world. It is the wealth of ideas that anyone, anywhere, can access at anytime.

From Scriptures to Scruples

(Adapted in-class essay from my Women in the Bible course)
       I consider myself Christian because I hope, as a spiritual freedom fighter, to follow Jesus’ example in healing the world. But I have mixed feelings about including the Bible in my personal practice of faith--even a spiritual interpretation of it--because of the rampant chauvinism portrayed in it and perpetuated by its societies. That said, I find it useless to read the Bible selectively, as some feminist Christians have. I do find valuable lessons and principles in the scriptures, and those I strive to embody, but the sexism is there, and instead of being ignored or omitted, it should be considered as we solve the same issues engrained in society today. While we look to parts of the Bible for inspiration and guidance, we should look to other parts in our self-examination, as we work out our own principles and give the long-overdue justice to those marginalized groups that have endured our selfishness and prejudice since, it seems, the beginning of human history.

torn away

I'm watching a stupid movie on this Boeing 757 and reading the words on the T-shirts walking the aisle and it hits me, tears and all. I'm going back to the U.S. It's hitting me square in the face but I just can't believe it. How did this happen? Where did these months go? They've gone to my memories, deep down and all over the surface. Please don't let them sink anymore. And why do I cry? Because for all my excitement, I wish it weren't ending. Because I'm flying over ripples of blue, away from those twelve wonderful beings who have so filled my life in this time with things I can hardly comprehend, who have fed my growth with every insight and embrace. Away from them with all they've given me, toward a world of unknown challenges and possibilities. This growth that magnifies and shapes me brings me to big drops on the page, salty and sentimental. The surface of the sea below us reminds me of a wrinkled passion-fruit, all flattened out. My passion remains alive and full, but it might take my soul a good while to catch up this time.

River
rush over me
and heal my wounds.
A friend of ours
had a fight with my skin last week,
and I suffer from it still
but it has taught me to breathe.
And so I breathe.
Water and wind,
sun and sound
fill me,
take me over.
River
rush over me,
heal these wounds.

Leaving the Island

Another ride,
another venture,
sunrise from another shore.
Goodbye beaches of shell and tide,
goodbye caminatas on dirt roads
and skittish Brahmins in the night.
Goodbye hills and trails and people
Joyful people.
More to live on in the memory.
On to the city, the mountains, the fields,
on to the unknown
To ideas and connections yet unfurled,
to another day
another month
of learning
living
discovery.

NEWS FLASH: An Over-Abundance of Abejones

Altamira, Biolley. Dozens more abejones sacrificed their lives last night in the pursuit of light, or so it appears. Still more lay helpless on their backs this orning, alive but incapable of regaining footholds. Likely due to the unusual amount of rain this dry season, one local speculates, entire populations of the large, brown beetles emerge confused from the earth each day, doubtless wondering what happened to the colder air of the more familiar month of May. Grace Montoya said, "The may beetles entangle themselves in your hair, and you have to keep a sharp watch on your food." Can humans and abejones coexist peacefully, or do we have a problem on our hands, or rather on our counters? As the bodies of these "fearless fools" accumulate on our doorsteps, only time will tell.

the audience

Today
as dusk came creeping,
I saw a twinkling star
though a window in the fingers
of a tree above me.
Then I saw a second
a third
a fourth
and I thought,
Here I am
the audience
of the audience
of the universe.

a greater glimpse

With the warm radiance of sunset to the West and the full, white moon rising in the East, I love the mountains and the water, and think of this third globe whose ocean we're riding on in a fiberglass hull with an outboard motor as we bask in her beauty. And I realize that's all I can do. I love her and the sun and the moon and yet I don't really know her, and I can't say that the sun tells me the time of day, or that I live by the cycles of the moon. As I walk over her squishy, life-bearing mud to the shore, on my thick rubber soles, I can't say that I feel herbeat beneath my feet. Maybe I've felt it once or twice, but I can't say that I really know her. I feel harshly in these moments a painful separation from the real force of life, as I witness Gaia's turning as it happens every day. And I think that what I've known as God--in the moments on mountaintops, in treetops, and by riversides when I'm totally lost in life and its mystery--is only a glimpse, a slight, ever-so-generous glimpse, of that force. I hope someday I'll know her, I'll feel her fully and my life will revolve around her and depend upon her. It might start with more of those glimpses, gaining frequency and strength, but someday, the separation will be less and less, and no more. Someday, my life will be her life, and your life too. My place will be rocks and trees and fresh water, not a house or a school or a town, and I will know my place and those who share it, and I will know how my place fits within its place, and how I fit within it.

monkey friends

Oh, I wish I was a monkey. To wrap my tail around the finger of a tree and tiptoe along its forearms, up there in the wind and the weather, swaying, swinging. Come down and hang with me in my hammock. I see you eyeing it, or me. But where did you go, so soon? So far, so quickly. Talk to me again. I wish I was you.

running, running

The pitter-patter of my trail runners on the dirt road. The easy morning air. The engagement of muscles with every stride and step, stride and step. The bright, gentle sun over teh fields and the people coming and going with water, tortilla dough, and other errands. Jewelle supporting me with her simple presence, whether she knows it or not. This morning's thirty minute run was infinitely more enjoyable than that of a few days ago. Not because it was any shorter, or the terrain was easier, or I was in better shape for it. Rather, because of a different mindset. This time, I didn't give in to the anxiousness when nearing the close, or the out of practice tire. This time, I finally accomplished what I've been hoping to: I'm beginning to run int he moment--that is, to love every moment of the run and every aspect of every moment. Here's to future runs!

floating the canyon

The canyon's rocks rise up into the sunshine. Happy green plants spring from their contours, waiting for the rainy season. Clouds pass int he sliver of bright blue sky above as I float on my back up the cool river that long ago and ever since has shaped the seats and pockets that we climb on and jump from. Endless adventure lies past every curve, but we only make it so far. Still, this is incredible: swimming and jumping and laughing like children, eyes open to every detail. I wish I could float eternally here, watching the sky change and the spiders pass. From June to October, they say, the water churns and reels far above where we swim now, and people ride the rapids in rafts and PFDs, but I am content here on my back, here in the Rio Coco, here in the canyon in Somoto, Nicaragua.

hello, sabana grande

Here, chickens roam freely and feisty dogs are guards. Young women carry water from the well on their heads, and boys bike awkwardly with the buckets on their handle bars. Here, coffee is made, tortillas are fried, and breakfast is cooked on an adobe stove over fire. No one eats together. Is this normal? I hope they warm up to me. Here, radios mumble from kitchens, and silence is hard to come by. Here, the water is cold from the bucket and it's hard to get my hair clean. Here, young men rap on the stands as kids play futbol with the gringos. The mountains are beautiful, and the full moon is out as we walk home in the dark.

Narrative

Sunday, January 9.
Today we met at the school at 9:30 and got in the truck for the beach. I suppose I expected it to be really crowded, but it was only moderately occupied. We spent the day soaking up the hot, hot sun, enjoying the perfect water, reading and sleeping. Some of the girls surfed, and we watched experts on the waves right in front of us. A lot of the group got various fish dishes at a hotel restaurant on the shore and Carrisa and I found fried plantains--a shared favorite--at a cabaña kitchen where presumed locals hung about in hammocks and ate around small tables in the sand.

Monday, January 10.
After lunch, we got tours of Leon´s cathedral--the biggest in Latin America. It´s a huge, grand building with all sorts of stonework, paintings, and portrayals of Jesus, but the best part was out on the roof. We sat on the first level for a bit while the other group finished up and then we climbed up to the top level where we sat for a while. From there, we could see all around Leon to the chain of stunning volcanoes surrounding this hot valley. There´s no better way to see a city than from above it, and the wind gave perfect relief from the heat as we absorbed this bird´s eye view.

an attempt at poetry

Stand up, stand up
It´s better this way
Stand up on the edge
as the truck bed sways.

Put your arms out
and duck for the trees
Watch the sun set
in the cool driving breeze.

When we get into town,
wave at the cars
The lights of this city
can´t block out the stars.

Narrative

Tuesday, January 4.
I think I finally believe I´m here. I thought I´d believe it once I boarded the plane from Miami, but no. Then I figured I´d believe it once I landed in Managua, but no, not in the airport. It was much more believable in the hotel we stayed in last night, the walls of which were painted with funny characters, scenes, street signs, and phrases. But even at the university, where Susan of Grupo Fenix oriented us about the organization, and where we heard other presentations, it hadn´t completely sunk in. But here in colonial, tile-rooved Grenada, it has finally hit me: I am in Nicaragua, continuing this amazing life of adventure and learning.
In spite of minor reservations about a group with so many girls (10:1), I can´t imagine a better group of people, and I love them all already.

Wednesday, January 5.
Rode up el Volcan Mombacho this morning, through coffee farms and cloud forest. Hiked around on top with a tour guide, saw steam holes (fumares) and beautiful views of the Lake of Nicaragua and its islands. Taught Jorge, our Grenadan tour guide and a student of architecture at the university in Managua, ninja and other games before leaving.
Had a great first meeting and later walked down toward the lake. Told it was dangerous at night, we stopped on the steps of a stone church instead. I continued an amazing conversation with Myra about farming, books, travel. Some played soccer. Then we did eight-minute abs and yoga. It was wonderful.

Thursday, January 6.
After breakfast, drove to Managua, sad to be leaving Grendada so soon. Relaxed while errands were run, said goodbye to Susan, and rode two or so hours with Lindsay--Grupo Fenix´s program coordinator or so--to Leon, Nicaragua´s once-capital and "rival" of Grenada. Got our host families´names at the Dariana Spanish school and dispered to our homestays for lunch. Carla and I met Jonathan-11, Franco-1, and our host parents. Got lost finding the school for our embarrassingly grammatical placement tests in the afternoon. Then met, did abs and yoga outside of a curch nearby. Walked through the market square with Jewelle, Lydia, and Claire on our way back home for dinner. Rode with the family to the cinema to see Los Viajes de Gulliver--funny.

Friday, January 7.
After lunch, our teachers took us on walking tours of the city in smaller groups. We saw an art gallery, churches, and murals. When our tour was over, Lindsday and Neal--one of our two professors--sat with us some steps. We tried some rice drinks served in gourds. Cacao was by far the best. We then had great conversations in the square as the market buzzed all around us.

Saturday, January 8.
Today´s afternoon activity: volcano surfing. Okay, it was actually more like volcano sledding, as everyone but Iliana sat on the wooden boards instead of standing. We drove out in a huge two bench truck, debating which slope we´d descend once the volcanoes came into view. I rode most of the way standing behind the cab with the wind in my hair, rushing past people and palms.
The slide down alone wouldn´t have been worth the $24, but with everything else included, it was amazing. The dry, black rocks, the pungent yellow sulfur, burning hot with its white, billowing crater steam, watching everyone race down with clouds of dust trailing behind them, and the huge round sun of stunning orange-red bands sinking slowly behind the horizon over the pacific waters.

on war and peace and rivers

I often think about war and how I hate it and wish it to end, but recently I've been thinking about the peace which I hope to see replace it. Where is that peace? What actually embodies it? It's harder to articulate than one might think. The first thing that comes to mind is a river. But is a river peaceful? It may be equal parts eternally beautiful and relentlessly powerful, but peaceful? I think not. I love a river--even a raging river, even one that fills me with just as much fear as awe. But I cannot say that a river embodies peace. And so I must think: couldn't the human species be equal parts beautiful and ugly, compassionate and hateful, innocent and horrifying? Isn't it, in some way, like my dear river? But war is never beautiful; war, I do not love. A river doesn't hate or discriminate. It just is. So I'll search for another metaphor. All of the things I think of--the mountains, a tree, the ocean, the stars-have peace insofar as they simply are. I suppose humans should learn to simply be in the world and with the world.