A Snapshot of Kansas City

     The skies had been gray for days, and the threat of rain hung heavy in the air. It was the last day of my visit and I found myself sitting at the River Market Emporium. Exhausted, I stared in no particular direction waiting for my friends to join me. As I sat with my hands wrapped around a hot coffee mug, my attention was drawn to a young family seated at a table to the right of me. The man is barely twenty with his hair pulled back in a long, dark braid, a star tattoo visible on his neck. Anger is emanating from him like steam from dry ice. The woman, presumably the mother, sits across from him completely mesmerized by her cellphone and seemingly oblivious to the children. Next to the table is a double stroller. I thought what a clever design it was. The older child, a girl of no more than two, was sitting in a basket next to the man and was elevated higher than the younger child who sat in a basket facing the older sibling on a lower level. My awareness was pulled to their table by the stirrings of the older child in the stroller. In my sleep deprived state I felt nostalgic and wistfully watched the needy child with a certain expectation.
     The sweet scene is suddenly shattered with a horrible flick of the hand. As if in slow motion, the child in the elevated seat moves her hands to hover over her ears; eyes wide, a shudder moves from her head, vibrating down the length of her body. A sudden picture of Munch's Scream flashes across my mind. The man’s hand has come and gone so fast I thought for a moment I had imagined it. I jerk my head in his direction and we make eye contact. His disdain for my judgment, my shock, my gender, is palpable and I glance away in fear. My eyes move back to the child, her mouth is quivering, her eyes are filled with tears and my heart breaks. The man leans over and yanks the bonnet down on the stroller to shield himself from the child he has just punched in the ear. With the movement I hear “Don't you cry” and he gets up to leave, my assumption is to go to the bathroom. I'm stunned at having witnessed such a twisted, intimate scene when I remember the mother. My hopes are suddenly buoyed for the child as I look to her for some kind of justice, but I quickly see that will not happen.

“The eye never forgets what the heart has seen.”~an African proverb

I will not forget that child.

The Werewolf

     I have been running as long as I can remember. Age is catching up to me now though, and, after a long bout of resistance, I gave in and purchased a road bike. Now I find myself cruising the streets of Redlands three nights a week for cardio. I'm a creature of habit and quickly fell into a routine route. Each night I head up the steep roads that lead to Sunset, a windy path that skirts a ridge around the south side of town. On one side of the street there are well appointed houses filled, in my imagination, with doctors and college professors and on the other side of the street there is a steep drop off to the canyon below. I ride at dusk, timing carefully so as not to be out in the darkness, as the prolific stories of mountain lions are probably wildly exaggerated, but I'm not taking any chances. I stop at the top of the hill and pull over to the side of the road for a water break. As I pull my bottle out of it's holder something catches my eye from down in the canyon. The irrigation system has just turned off and the remaining light is catching the water laden oranges reminding me of glitter-covered Christmas orbs. A train speeds toward the crossing below, slicing through the groves as it blasts its horn in warning. For some reason a chill runs up my spine as the horn blows.

     As I drink I realize it's been a quiet night. Normally I see a plethora of other bicyclists on the route, but tonight has been exceptionally lonely. I glance to my left and notice the ancient cemetery that sits high above our town. I haven't given it much thought in the past, but tonight it draws my attention. I remember reading in the paper that the cemetery is the source of many of the purported mountain lion sitings. I'm a reasonably seasoned outdoors woman and I know that animal encounters, especially in a city, are rare, but I'm feeling on edge tonight. I slide my water bottle back into the metal holder on the frame of my bike and begin to make my way home. I peddle toward the end of the cemetery wall where it ends at an awkward four way stop. As I approach the stop sign I begin to notice a strange sound coming from the other side of the cemeteries boundary wall, something I think might be mechanical, yet seems strangely human.

     When I reach the four-way stop there are no cars around, yet the noise grows louder. I swing around the corner and notice another cyclist heading up the steep hill. The noise seems to be coming from his bike. I wait at the stop sign for a moment as he approaches, thinking I might need to offer him some assistance from the sounds of things. As he gets closer I can see he's in his late twenties, he's fit, and his bald head is glinting with sweat. He has a long, bushy beard that seems somehow incongruent with the picture. I sit at the top of the hill as he draws nearer, and once more I notice the strange unease that has plagued me the whole ride. I suddenly realize the noise is not coming from his bike, but he himself is emitting a loud guttural sound. He comes to a stop just below me on the other side of the road. He sets his feet down on either side of his bike and raises his arms skyward, he looks into my eyes, his mouth drops open and he spews out a ferocious howl. His face is contorted in anger, at what I don't know. I'm filled with sheer terror as I picture the werewolf of my youth and I begin to peddle like hell down the hill to get away from him. My adrenaline is pumping and I ride hard, glancing back every so often to make sure I'm not being followed. I pull into my driveway and open the back gate sliding my bike through. I slump over the bike and suck in a huge breath, sighing it out, I rise back up. I'm not sure what I just saw, but I'm once more sure there are things that I will go to my grave not understanding.

Newton's Third Law

I believe hate fuels violence. This morning I woke with a deep sense of sadness as my thoughts drifted to the Las Vegas shootings and the hate that fueled them. I often practice the metta meditation (a Buddhist style of meditation that means loving kindness) in the morning before I get up and get going, probably an excuse to linger under the covers longer, but it's a good way to spend my time excuse or not. I traditionally start with Pete and Jayne and then move on to the people in my life that might be struggling. This morning I chose to send loving kindness to all those involved in the Las Vegas shootings, including the shooters.

As I lay in bed my thoughts drifted to how the gun wielding, anti-government couple came to be in Nevada and that thread lead back to the Cliven Bundy standoff with the BLM and then a little thought bubble rose up, “For every action there is a reaction" or so says Isaac Newton's Third Law. 

Had Mr. Bundy paid his fees for using public land to graze his cattle would this have happened? In my opinion, probably not. The Miller's perceived that Mr. Bundy's protest was a way to further what they called “the revolution” and they seized the opportunity. I realize that the Bundy family kicked this couple off of their land citing them as “too radical”, but still I find them, at least in part, morally culpable. For every action there is a reaction.

I know that had it not been Mr. Bundy there very well may have been another catalyst for this hate fueled couple, but then again they may have died in a fiery car crash before the opportunity arose.

Instinctually I know this might be a divisive blog, but that is not my goal. My goal is to get each of us to think about our actions. For each of us to understand there is a ripple effect that moves out from our actions, from our words, and to consciously choose positive, to let go of our fears, and to allow love to fuel our actions.

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects.” ~Herman Melville

The Coyote

He steps into the street and wavers

Mangy, matted, alone

We make eye contact

I reach toward him to touch his fear

and he is gone

Back into the tall grass where he will huddle 'til nightfall

Scared and pack less he waits for death

As I drove my usual route to work today I ran into a detour. The road I normally take is closed for repaving so I take a right and head for the highway. As I come around a bend in the road a coyote, he's in bad shape and it takes a moment to register what I'm looking at, steps out from the grassy open space and stands in front of my car stunned by the traffic. We make eye contact for a moment and my heart cracks with overwhelming sadness. Tears roll down my face as I head toward the next class I am scheduled to teach. Once more I find myself engaged in a one person conversation about what just happened. I must get it together in order to be there for my students, yet the helplessness I feel for not being able to help another creature in pain lingers. Then I remember a quote I read recently,

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle." ~Philo of Alexandria  

And so my day marches on.