Cooperative Liberation From the Bottom Up

Random, but while going through the digital post-it notes on my laptop, I came across this response I wrote up for one of my classes. I didn't want to just delete it along with the post-it note, so here it is.
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Liberation in the context of political and liberation theology calls for a subversion of the current domination system - where one social class controls and dominates another, resulting in the inability of all to live a life of human fulfillment.

The revolutionary struggle calls for an approach of power from the bottom up, where the people hold their power, as opposed to a top-down approach, where the top few percent have dominance over the rest of the world. (ref: Placher)

The concept of liberation can also be understood in relation to the Eucharist - where we are freed from injustices, oppression and violence to be in right relationship with each other as the Body of Christ, united to each other and God; in solidarity with each other. To attain this freedom, we need to keep our eyes and hearts centered on the hope we receive from the resurrected Christ, and together, we need to find ways to live into the kingdom of God together - the alternative to the domination system of today.

Liberation is not an easy task, and comes with much sacrifice. It calls for a death to self, to rise as a whole in solidarity with others. It calls for us to embrace discomfort by rejecting the system of dominance from which we may enjoy privilege or security, to practice downward mobility so that freedom is something that can be shared not just by the privileged class, but by all. It is not giving voice to the marginalized and the oppressed as much as it is magnifying the voice that is already present but has been suppressed. Finally, the task of liberation is not just in the hands of the privileged - it is in the hands of all - when we cooperate as a Body of Christ and as a unified whole.

Storms

I like watching storms. I realized its been a while since I stopped to sit and watch storms, now that I'm doing so. Guess I've succumbed to the whole "I'm too busy to slow down" lifestyle, unfortunately.

Maybe its because storms create an inconvenience and interruption to the daily routine - what would otherwise be  simple and mindless errands transform into something of a point of consideration. The degree of wetness and squishiness (is there such a word?) of my shoes - a sensation I very much dislike. Storms evoke a desire to stay put - to be right where I am (indoors, that is). It's a nice excuse to hit pause on the to-do list, especially if it requires venturing outdoors.

For some reason, I'm fascinated by how water falls - how the heavy stream of water flows down the glass and the sides of the wall. I love how it sounds - steady but not robotic, continuous and dynamic. It is calming.

Sipping hot tea, sitting beside a loved one in silence with the occasional conversation, watching and listening to the storm, I am present to the moment, and grateful that I'm not battling the storm on the highway, hands gripping the wheel to make up for restricted vision, dreading the occasional reckless driver weaving through lanes, abandoning the use of their turn signals.

Puzzle pieces

There is a certain spirituality in the process of putting a jigsaw puzzle together, I think. I've recently developed a keen interest in them - something about the creation process has drawn me in.

I always start with the border - looking for pieces that have a straight edge... boundaries. Learning where we fit in, how we operate and interact within our different communities, and how and when we choose separation from others.

Then I start to find pieces that are colored similarly, grouping them together, hoping that they fit well and belong together. We develop our identities through our groups, our circles, and within these, we hope we find a community of good-fit and belonging. However, even within each person, there are different groups we belong to, and different identities we take on, depending on who we are with, and the situation we are in. The different clusters of jigsaw pieces join together to form a bigger picture - the lifelong process of integrating the different aspects of our lives holistically contributes to shaping who we are as an integrated individual.

As the process continues, there have been moments when I've found myself feeling dizzy and needing to take a break from the process which I've subconsciously been consumed by - the level of concentration can be exhausting. Self-care, a component we often tend to somehow be most willing to sacrifice before all else, is essential to us being effective in our work, healthy in our relationships, and balanced in our lives. Quality self-care is necessary for us to live in right relationship with the world.

Until the puzzle is complete, there's typically no way for me to know if I have all the pieces present, or if I'm missing any piece (such is the concern purchasing a used puzzle from a thrift store). There is an eagerness; a sense of anticipation throughout the entire process - I could try to count all the pieces beforehand, but I prefer to focus on the process - I could be (and have been) surprised by a complete puzzle, or I could be left with empty spaces. Sometimes, right at the brink of giving up finding that one missing piece, I see it laying in the corner patiently, waiting to be discovered - hope. Sometimes the piece is lying right in front of me, but I miss it in my impatience and narrowed vision, and I end up expending unnecessary energy searching for something that has been right in front of me all along.

Sometimes I cheat and look at the picture provided on the box, hoping to gain some guidance and direction in moments of desperation and when I'm feeling discouraged. I can think of many people in my life who I've sought and gained guidance and direction from - people that kept me going, like water stops during a marathon, and people who have unintentionally but undeniably left a deep impression on who I am today. We don't have to do everything by ourselves, and if allow the concept of individualism and self-righteousness to break down, "cheat" a little in life by accepting help, guidance and a different perspective, maybe we will be able to move forward with a renewed sense of purpose and direction, energized by relationships and diversity.

Some puzzles take a longer time than others to complete - some are more difficult than others. We may take a different approach with some puzzles - some have words, some have color patterns, some are really oddly-shaped. Each puzzle is different and unique, each puzzle has a different surprise in store for us, and at the end of each process, the sense of satisfaction is uniquely distinct. Sometimes it takes a longer time for us to find that missing puzzle piece, and sometimes we don't ever find it, so we may choose to fill it in some other way, or leave it open as a reminder that not everything in life is flawless or best-fit, and there's always something deeper we long for; some mystery within ourselves and others that we may do best to continue to live in wonder of.

Ticky-tock goes the clock

The wall clock we bought for our office is very loud... in moments of absolute silence and when I'm being fully present to the moment. Strange, how I don't hear it during most of the day, yet it is always ticking, whether or not I'm paying attention to it. It's a constant presence, steady and regular in the background, only heard in moments of silence and intentional awareness, and in such moments, it is loud, demanding our attention, refusing to be ignored. 

It's kinda like God, isn't it? 

Accepting Ignorance

“Wow, you speak English really well; you don’t even have an accent!” I always feel awkward and a little embarrassed when I respond, “Thank you, we speak English in Singapore – it’s our first language,” and add, “but we do have an accent!” to make the other party feel a little better.

I always get asked if I feel offended at people asking me questions that appear ignorant, like the example above, or others like, “Is Singapore in China?” or “So what’s your real name?” with the assumption that I adopted an “American” name upon my arrival in the United States. Sometimes, I do not even get asked - someone else, fully well-intentioned, volunteers to feel offended on my behalf. The truth is I do not feel offended when people express ignorance through asking questions, because it is humility that allows them to risk appearing ignorant, and it is an invitation into an honest conversation. More importantly, it allows me to forgive my own ignorance about issues that are currently beyond my scope of knowledge, and frees me from my pride that prevents me from admitting that I do not know everything. Really, who does?

We are all ignorant about something, whether or not we would like to admit it. Someone may have a full experience with issues of hunger and homelessness, and be clueless about issues of environmental sustainability. Someone who is well-versed in issues of racial injustice in the United States may not know much about issues of human-trafficking in Russia. We cannot know everything, and there is beauty in that, because that has the potential to bring us together so we can learn from each other. However, this requires us to start from a place of humility, which can sometimes be a huge challenge, because it demands vulnerability and trust in others.

I recently started to realize that while there are many societal issues I find to be important in addressing, I need to hone in on one or two and go deeper with them, committing to focusing my energy and my resources to them, as opposed to dabbling in the waters of a breadth of issues without really investing myself in anything. I used to want to learn about everything, thinking that hiding behind the projection of being well-informed would gain me credibility, dreading hearing the response, “How do you not know about that?” in a situation where I was forced to admit that I knew nothing about what was being talked about. However, what I soon learned was that the depth I was lacking due to the focus on breadth was leading me to place of false confidence. Information that I had was minimal and barely scratched the surface, but I misunderstood myself to be well-informed, which was more ignorant than not knowing anything at all.

The way I see it, pride is the biggest and most dangerous form of ignorance, because it keeps us blind to the complexities that exist in the world where different viewpoints, developments and subjective experiences shape and inform the multiple perspectives of any given situation, issue, or experience. It is pride that keeps us locked away in a box of close-mindedness that leads us to a refusal to learn and understand things from a different and expanded perspective. I know that for me personally, it is pride that leads me to pretend that I know things when I do not, because I am too afraid to appear ignorant. However, at times when I have chosen to risk vulnerability in saying, “Sorry, I don’t know anything about that, could you tell me more?” I have experienced liberation of spirit - the burden of willful pride taken off my shoulders. So perhaps it is not ignorance in and of itself that is harmful to the fabric of our society, but rather, the pride within us that locks us up in our own jail cells of ignorance. As Benjamin Franklin said, “being ignorant is not so much a shame, as being unwilling to learn.”  

Do you have a quarter? Can I have a dime?
To buy your attention, or a second of your time?
I'm hungry to be heard, to be cared for, to be loved,
In my questions do you hear me? Truly hear me, truly here.

My son is hanging out at home, he's waiting to be fed.
Somehow he's always lacking; waiting, longing to be led.
He doesn't look me in the eye, he looks upon the ground,
Finding quarters for the laundry, searching not to be despaired.

Can you buy a pop or soda - to color up my life?
A string of change to hold on to when I'm demoralized?
Can you see beneath my filth? Can you hear the words within -
I am worthy, I'm beloved, I'm enough for you to love.

Class dismissed.

A priest once said in his homily that we can respond to difficult experiences in our lives in two ways. We can choose to be like an egg dropped in boiling water and be hardened by our experiences, or we can be like a potato dropped in boiling water and be softened by our experiences. For the longest time, I chose the former because I wanted to protect myself, and the result was that I missed out on meaningful human connection which I have now learned is what I thrive on. Now I see that the latter is what may be more difficult at first, and it is what makes us paradoxically stronger, more grounded, and more connected.

Many people may choose to dismiss experiences in the past saying that we should "just get over it" because it happened in the past. Have we not learned that the past is what shapes us to who we are in the present? Yes, it is important for us not to harp on it and allow it to be our stopping block for the future and what we are capable of, and it is also important not to dismiss our experiences, our fears and our emotions. Rather, we need to acknowledge them and approach them with respect, gently cradling them but not babying them, and exploring them to get to the deeper question of how we heal from these wounds in our lives. Dismissing someone is easy to do and can also be the most hurtful. It is important for us to create a narrative for ourselves and give language to our experiences and feelings so we can begin to work through them in a healthy and wholesome way. Yes, we were teenagers who did not know better...  yes, we are different people now... and the wound still hurts and the memory still haunts. YES, AND. Not to make up excuses; just to acknowledge and hold up gently. Perhaps then, the ascension can happen, and we can move on with life without being chained to the post of the past.

Don't eat yellow snow

Are human beings generally harsh? Some of us strive for excellence and perfection, and while that may motivate us to be the best person we can be, perhaps that can also unintentionally create in us a tendency to be hard-hearted, as we naturally fail time and again to achieve the ideals we've consciously or sub-consciously set for ourselves, and for others.

Yes, we are called to be perfect. But that perfection isn't defined in the sense of being inerrant and flawless. That perfection is in spite of all that. I struggle at times with grasping on to this concept wholly, but the perfection that I think we're called to is to be the best person we can be, with a full use, exercise and practice of our gifts, honing them to their full potential. The beautiful thing about this perfection is that it also makes room for our weaknesses, giving us room to grow - kinda like a pair of shoes bought a couple sizes too big for a growing child - and in recognizing our weaknesses, we meet each other where we're at, and allow the strengths of each other to neutralize the acidity of our weaknesses. Our weaknesses can be a gift and bring us together in community, if we allow them to.

To allow our weaknesses to become gifts, we have to first be humble. Humility in recognizing ourselves as limited beings, who may have ideals and goals for ourselves which have yet to be fulfilled. Humility in realizing that we will not be the best in everything (or anything, really), and being okay with that. Humility in remembering that we are human beings and our lives are meant to be a process, not a point of finality, regardless of how strong or weak we are in something.

We should give credit to our past, for making us who we are today. I have recently started to see more clearly how particular bits and pieces of my past has affected who I am presently, and in all honesty, its a gift. I mean, clarity's the more preferable option than murkiness, is it not? I often have the temptation to get frustrated with the struggles of my past and my present, allowing myself to succumb to feelings of helplessness, focused on the mindset that I need to deal with it on my own to prove to myself that I am strong. At the end of the day, however, it isn't strength that I possess... its merely pride; unhealthy, stubborn pride that proclaims I need no one, I am independent, and its a denial of my weaknesses; an attempt to hide them from the rest of the world with which I am in relationship with. True strength calls for me to trust, to be vulnerable, and to share, for I know I myself desire that from others who I am in relationship with.

So I pray for humility; the trust to be in relationship with others the same way I would like them to be with me; and to remember and accept that I, like everybody else, am a mere human being.

“There is a twilight zone in our hearts that we ourselves cannot see. Even when we know quite a lot about ourselves-our gifts and weaknesses, our ambitions and aspirations, our motives and our drives-large parts of ourselves remain in the shadow of consciousness. This is a very good thing. We will always remain partially hidden to ourselves. Other people, especially those who love us, can often see our twilight zones better than we ourselves can. The way we are seen and understood by others is different from the way we see and understand ourselves. We will never fully know the significance of our presence in the lives of our friends. That's a grace, a grace that calls us not only to humility, but to a deep trust in those who love us. It is the twilight zones of our hearts where true friendships are born.”
― Henri J.M. Nouwen

That summer

That summer, I lay beside the shade of a tree, borrowing the blanket of warmth from the sun to dry off the evidence of the creek where I learned to skip my first rock. Next to me lay a little girl way beyond her years, who spoke empathy and acceptance with her eyes, compassion and love with her touch, and who taught me self-love, innocence and resilience with her laughter and her joy.

That summer, I became one with the earth as Mother Nature embraced me and cleansed me of the filth on my body, taking along my worries and my fears. Underwater, I ceased to hear the sounds and see the sights of the world, leaving me in awe of the earth.

That summer, I watched the red-breasted cardinals gather for their daily peckage of sunflower seeds lovingly put out, their treat-provider smiling silently in appreciation as they approached. I watched the hummingbirds busy themselves with the colorized sugar water, and I remember being struck by how very tiny they were, and how very quick they were.

That summer, I bathed in the rain. We embraced the rain with free spirits and with appreciation, and ran out to greet it with soap and half-naked bodies, seeing it not as a moment to fear the storm, but as a moment to be rejuvenated. We were drenched in joy.

That summer, I learned to listen. I learned to listen to the "grumpy old woman" who frowned more than she breathed. I learned to listen to the woman who screamed and yelled out obscenities; who cried out of loneliness. I learned to listen to the man who reprimanded us for not playing BINGO right. I learned to listen to the sweet woman who welcomed all with a smile and a prayer, and who owned the gift of hospitality like it was her kidney. I listened, and I heard their call to be loved, and their call to be seen for more than they appeared. As I got better at listening, I saw their smiles of being heard, and being loved.

That summer, I learned to be dirty. I learned that the best way to play was to get down on the dirt and not be bothered by it. I learned to run even when I was out of breath, to hold a child even when my arms and shoulders were sore, and to love the feeling of sweat and dirt caked under my fingernails and plastered to my body, if it meant the chance for one more small little hand to hold, the weight of one more child on my shoulders, one more cheek to kiss, and one more person to embrace.

That summer, I fell asleep to laughter, music, and chatter, smiling as widely as I ever could. That was the sound of love. I woke up tired, but wouldn't have it any other way. I was dirty, but my heart was clean.

That summer did not end - it has only gotten better since then. Thank you, Salyersville; thank you, UDSAP.

Sour mangoes in the microwave.

There are times when silence holds a sort of power that speaks a profoundness way beyond one's understanding, sings the sweetest song of a mating wren, embraces stronger than a koala, comforts better than a mother soothing her baby who wakes from a bad dream, and expresses empathy and finds connection as string instruments do in a symphony.


Then we speak, and that silence is reduced to nothingness.