Friday morning ruminations

          Riots across the country in response to this week's police murder of  George Floyd in Minnasota. In LA, protesters managed to block a freeway.  From the New York Times:

MINNEAPOLIS — Minnesota’s governor activated the National Guard on Thursday as angry demonstrators took to the streets for a third straight night to protest the death of George Floyd, a black man who was pleading that he could not breathe as a white police officer pressed his knee into Mr. Floyd’s neck.

The order by Gov. Tim Walz came as the city asked for help after vandalism and fires erupted during demonstrations and as the Justice Department announced that a federal investigation into Mr. Floyd’s death was a top priority.

Many of us ask "What is there to investigate?  Witnesses' videos show the unnecessary murder."  May this be the last police killing, the last institutionalized violence against African Americans (and any other clearly inequitable treatment of non-white people in the USA--including immigrants.)  Dear God/Earth/Universe, I pray!

          Last night's Poetry Cafe at Pendle Hill, enjoyed through Zoom, elicited a poem from me in a brief 8 minute writing time.  Noted in italics are lines/ideas provided by guest poet Cathy Cohen:

About the Edges

Crossing narrow bridges 
may be a new way to orbit.

We play Chutes and Ladders throughout our pandemic
to avoid each other by six feet.

We get as narrow as possible and feel the strain
after the wideness of home spaces alone.

The virtual porousness of the home
sprawls where there is no touch at all.

But I would welcome teeth cleaning or haircut,
anything to remember where my edges are.

          And then there are rallies against pandemic restrictions, demonstrations about climate change and clean energy, and a continuing concern that Black Lives Matter.  School is out though it hasn't been in for quite a while.  People are antsy.  Imagine all of this continuing to escalate over 4 years as if a world war.  We play at class warfare, and some people pay more than others.

          As I wrote to my old Poets United teammates:   

We share each other's grief.  Each new event is another straw on the camel's back--each could be the one that breaks us and yet we keep moving on.  Quite often I feel dazed.  Why is it my lot to survive and witness?  Witness and grief, pouring from love, and continuing to love, may be the actual ministry we are called upon to contribute, called upon by whatever holy spirit fills us.  It's a lot to carry. 

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© 2020 Susan L. Chast