Separate is not Equal

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This note is from a 23 year old nephew of a friend of mine. He just moved to San Francisco from Maine to allow him to find himself. He is gay and out and as you will see from this note, very outspoken. I reprint this here because it reminds me of myself when I was a lot younger. I believe youth can teach us a lot. In this case, I am reminded that I have grown accustomed to being bland (“balanced and fair”) about the issue of marriage rights for our gay population. Marriage must be allowed between ANY TWO HUMAN BEINGS WHO LOVE EACH OTHER AND ARE COMMITTED TO THAT LOVE FOR LIFE.

I want you to take a moment and listen to something very basic I don’t believe most people understand….

As I watched the debate last night the only thing both candidates agreed upon (except unconditional support of Israel, which of course is because otherwise they would have no financial backing for their campaigns) is an agreement on the definition of marriage being between a man and a women.

The core issue here is not gay rights, or the rights to see sick loved ones when in hospital, or be beneficiaries of marriage in a way most people understand. Marriage is an institution sanctioned by the government heterosexual people can enter into as an expression of commitment, love, and a common understanding excepted by society.

It has been shown through SUPREME COURT RULINGS separate is not equal. If you agree that a different water fountain for blacks, regardless if it still provides water to people, is a fair ruling than you won’t understand the issue. If you agree that separate schools for non-whites, even with the same books and materials, is a noble idea, than you miss the point. If you think we should again segregate buses and living spaces and create all together different institutions in society for each group of people then yes, gays should not get married. IF YOU ARE A BACKWARDS, MISINFORMED, IGNORANT PERSON who does not realize the way forward is for constant reevaluation of the standards in which we live and how we treat our neighbors, nurses, the teacher that teach our children, and our families, than you agree that a “union” or a “contract” is fair. How is separate but equal fair???

All I ask is when this topic is brought up, DON’T SAY “WHAT OTHER PEOPLE DO IS THEIR BUSINESS”, DON’T BE PASSIVE ABOUT THE SERIOUSNESS OF THE ISSUE. THE RIGHT FOR HOMOSEXUALS TO MARRY IS THE SAME RIGHT AS NON-WHITES HAVE TO ATTEND PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL, FOR THE BLACK KID IN THE HALLWAY TO SIP FROM THE WATER FOUNTAIN, AND FOR ALL OF YOU TO LIVE AS EQUALS IN A FAIR AND JUST SOCIETY.

If GOD is your reasoning, let him judge for himself on an individual basis, don’t force feed me your religion through public policy!

ITS SICKENING!

Thanks for reading, it means a lot.
Mark

Summer, Haircuts and Basil

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I had a haircut today. I love the feeling of the scissors snipping near my ears and the sheers vibrating against my head. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks. I realize that I’ve missed Summer, being so distracted with my career crisis.

I barely write here anymore, especially since the arts culture crisis began in Columbus in January, threatening my job of 19 years. I moved here to play in the Columbus Symphony. It was a thriving orchestra back then, up and coming. We had some great years with Alessandro Siciliani; a trip to Carnegie Hall, several recordings. Now all that is threatened.

An orchestra is like a tree. It takes a long time to grow and develop. It’s unique shape and habits are like no other tree. It offers relief from the rigors of the day under its branches.

I have an old Chinquapin Oak growing next to my house. It is at least 150 years old. It’s branches grow over two houses. When I had a large addition put on the back of my house, I had a special “floating” foundation put in, with three large piers upon which the room is built. I hired a tree specialist to dig the holes, so as not to disturb the roots. She used a large air gun to blast the soil away, revealing any roots, which she cut very carefully. Luckily, there were no really important arteries in any of the three 5 ft deep holes.

So it is with an orchestra. In the attempts to “stabilize” the organization financially, those who perhaps intended “progress” have instead damaged, perhaps irreparably, the Columbus Symphony. Several players have left, and more will leave in the next few months.

I planted three tomato plants in a pot in my driveway, one of the few places unshaded by the huge oak. Those three tiny little plants are now huge, rambling five feet high and flopping in every direction. The first tomatoes are almost ripe. (I planted them late) I watched the progress of those weedy plants each time I walked past them. I also planted a few dozen Basil plants, which are now robust bushes full of fragrant leaves. Tomato and Basil plants are the epitome of Summer! Their pungent smell and profuse vigor capture the very essence of Summer’s fecund process. So much happens in a garden during the growing season.

And I realize that, like the tomato plants, I’ve also been productive. I’ve had to adjust to the possibility of being unemployed for awhile until either the orchestra is resurrected or I gain another job. (akin to winning the Olympics, in other words a rare and difficult accomplishment) I’ve cleared out three rooms in my house and rented them out. The new house-mates have settled in and, in addition to providing me with income, are turning out to be excellent additions to my home.

I had a huge garage sale a few days ago. I seized the opportunity while clearing rooms out to sort through and eliminate superfluous stuff. I sold not only house items, but many plant divisions from my garden, mainly Hostas and Daylilies. I made $350 on the sale. And my life feels a bit lighter.

I am teaching more private students, and enjoying the process of initiating young minds to music’s complexity, especially since I have few performances to worry about.

Along with other musicians in the orchestra, I helped organize several very successful concerts to keep our orchestra in the public eye.

So, as I look at the garden through the large window behind my computer, I see that the garden’s progress didn’t happen alone. I now see how much I have grown, in self-reliance, confidence and resilience, during the past few months.

At the end of Summer, Fall’s harvest is the reward for hard work. Perhaps during the approaching Fall season, my hard earned personal growth and actions will pay off. I have to hope and be optimistic.

It’s all new, review of past posts

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I posted this 2.5 years ago. I am pleased how much learn, or relearn, from reading what I wrote then. Since I am not posting much new here, I thought you also might enjoy reading, or perhaps rereading, what I wrote back then. I hope to be back writing regularly here again soon.

double wedding ring quilt
This evening I meditated for the first time in awhile. I sat for over an hour in a chilly, dimly lit upstairs room, facing a north window, staring mostly at a desk I hardly use anymore. (especially since I set up this computer facing south in a different room on the first floor) I’m not sure why I meditated now or why I hadn’t for many months. I think I needed to reconcile the distance I feel from blogging, from words, thoughts, ideas. I needed to just experience, clean out.

Years ago I found a source of power in the detachment I learned from focused meditation. (I’m talking 15 years ago.) Detachment freed my fears, allowed me to breathe new air, new life and ideas. I felt free to grow and learn, to improve. Then I began to cling to that feeling, that essence of detachment. I began to mythologize it. And its power quickly faded. I wondered and searched for why it faded. I didn’t have a regular practice and soon “gave up”. (I don’t have a regular practice in anything, except irregularity.)

Sitting tonight, I tumbled with thoughts as I settled my posture to relieve the discomfort it caused. I tried to slow my breathing, which tends to become over excited and then I hyperventilate. I tried to calm my mind. Calming the mind is like trying to calm a restless sea. Doing less is better. So I just let. And let.

And let. The desk before me occasionally revealed itself directly in the swirl of words and images, the monkey mind flitting as a moth in the garden on a summer night. The desk’s wooden structure is as simple, platonic as it gets. Square angles, average proportions, no frills. Utilitarian. Probably oak, or some other hardwood, I’m guessing it was made in the forties of fifties, judging by the deco-ish drawer handles.

The three drawers at the right of a cubby hole for the user’s chair have been stained blackish, perhaps from thousands of touches by human hands. What of the lives of those hands? What of their fate? Did doubt tremble in some? Did sex film those fingers? Chocolate cake? Perhaps this desk was used in a factory office, where soot or other noxious particles permeated the building. Perhaps the lungs which breathed while sitting nearby have expired. Unknown, these possible histories flex in my imagination. What of the forests from which the wood came, each individual tree? And on. All this noticing happens in a second.

I shift my focus to the objects on the desk, which tell tales of my own recent history; a Japanese handmade paper candle shade, decorated with dried flowers within the fibers of the paper. It was given to me by a friend years ago. So simple and timeless and fragile. I consider its value, which soaks beyond its paper structure. Nearby sits is a small ceramic pot to burn fragrant oils. Functional, round, glazed white, it heats a few drops of oil by a candle placed below. Both remind me of past habits, now faded, to practice yoga and meditate here by candle light and (often lung-clogging) oil scented air. A tiny pocket notebook lies open, unused for months now, where ideas for poems or posts were noted. Other objects litter the desktop, adding to its history heap.

This bit of noticing brought me some clarity.

When I notice the ephemeral state of any thought or life, none of this matters. The pain and cold in my body are only temporary. Is any level of pain unbearable when considered against nothingness? Such awareness frees ties to the frail body. I can see so many choices, so many words, so many possible lives fanning out from here. Each choice excludes millions, and creates others. Yet just one is me just sitting. So I sit… and sit. I notice. I am older.

Long ago I read Sartre’s “Nausea” and was profoundly affected by it’s cynical, existential tone. I often feel the nausea of not knowing who I am, not really knowing, only placing meaning, choosing from the emptiness. Nothing matters in the long run. It’s all relative to the vast space and time we are so good at ignoring. I don’t behave so cynically, but inside, I still feel it’s all just illusions, temporary patterns. So I choose to live the illusions, the subjective experience in general, of beauty, happiness, food, love, sex, trust, music, family, friends. These are what I rely on to compose and anchor my detachment. Otherwise I would just float away.

This sitting session helped me. Detachment is powerful. Frightening. Enticing. A burden and a gift. I am responsible for how I live.

I have work to do. I have goodness to share. I matter. I know. It’s all good if I breathe in synchronicity with the heartbeats around me.

The photo above is part of an Amish “double wedding ring” pattern quilt, from OH, 1930s. The interwoven circles could symbolize the inter-relatedness of all life on this fragile sphere.

Is there a message in this photo?

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I’m thinning out my life to make room for roomers to help make my financial ends meet while enduring the chaos and insecurity of being locked out of my job without pay or insurance. Life goes on. So my cat, Merlin may be telling me by snuggling on the pile of stuff to be sold or given away. Life continues, with its beauty, its pain, its sweetness, no matter now “stressed” or “distracted” you may righteously feel.