Power to the People?

There’s a wind farm in rural Indiana; you can drive right through the middle of it.  There I was driving south on I-65 headed from Chicago to see my family in Tennessee for Christmas.  Just as hills begin to roll gently and I’m sighing, sentimental at the sight of the heartland, they appear.  Windmills!  Giant windmills, to the left and to the right as far as the eye can see. 

Every time I drive through, I’m stunned into silence. I want to be glad and have moments of saying "Good for you Indiana; good for us people, making this wind farm!"  But, I get an eerie sensation like I’ve stepped too far into the future; like I’m a character in an early chapter of an Octavia Butler novel. I can’t remember if Ms. Butler wrote about windmills but if she’d seen this she’d have been as compelled as I am. By their size and due to their number, they are the definition of awesome.  I look in all directions but there aren’t any trees of similar grandeur left in the area.  And there’s something eerie about the barns and houses so close to them.  I wonder/worry about the people and the animals living and growing in the midst of this farm.  What happens when you live on a farm that raises wind?

Raising wind?  Now that’s power. 

I know a little bit about power. In sacred circles I’ve drawn down the moon and used that power for personal transformation. In response to injustice I’ve raised my voice with others and used that power to compel change socially.  In classrooms I’ve raised consciousness; in social settings I’ve shifted perceptions; in the face of rudeness I’ve raised hell.  

But raising the Wind?  This sort of stuff falls into the jurisdiction of the mightiest wizards and witches.  Raising the wind…who is raising this wind and don’t they think that they need to ask somebody?  Alternative fuel is here.  I know. I am suddenly living in the future. But I wonder: Don’t we need to ask somebody about this powerful, powerful magic?  Did anyone ask the birds and the leaves what they thought about raising all that wind?  Do we have any idea how long it takes to raise wind?  When is it ripe; when  is it ready?  Does it need a fallow season? 

How can we call on the power that we want and need? What is the price of that power?

 Time will tell.  We will witness.

Can You Feel It: The Reunion

It must have been the Spring of 1982. It must have been late Spring too, because I wore my Easter dress again-pale aqua polyester with a pleated full skirt. My Mama let me wear low heels and lip gloss. And my best friend in the whole world, Francine Bragg, had twirled a few strands of my hair around her fingers and patiently held it there until curls formed which could be pulled down over my ears into the perfect ringlets we called kiss-curls. I think Francine wore eyeshadow. (She was always a little faster than me.) We had to look fabulous because Mama and Mrs. Bragg were going to take us to see the Jackson 5 at the Municipal Auditorium in Nashville. Nashville. This was THE Jackson's Can You Feel It Reunion Tour. It was my very first concert, a very special night. We rode all the way to Nashville squealing in that way that transports little girls to states of transcendence. At the concert we clutched one another's arms, shoulders and hands while crying and screaming. And then for the rest of the year (and most of the next year) we would stretch our arms out, peck our necks like chickens and sing, "can you feel it? can you feel? can you feel it?". We'd look into one another in the eye, really wanting to know if the other person could still feel it. For a long time we did.

This very morning Sandee and I were in the car around 7:30 am. Sleepy still; still dream-filled. While we sat at a light on Grand Ave a brother in a dark suit and a darker SUV pulled up beside us and yelled "Have you got your lighters up? They're doing an MJ mix on the radio!" We fiddled with the stations until we found it: Oooo! There it was--Michael and all the Jacksons singing, Can You Feel It. I could. The brother in the SUV could.

I ask my Adult pre-GED reading and writing students what they think the future will be like. They, they are not optimistic. Visions of robots, greater unemployment (because of robots), hunger and violence dominate our conversation and end up being the topic of their practice paragraphs. To them I preach the gospel of a good book, not The Good Book. I offer, okay assign, young- adult sci-fi, 19th century lyric poetry, and Internet articles to improve their reading comprehension. As we read together I learn that comprehension skills improve when I ask 'How does this feel?' instead of asking what did you read. Feeling is the deepest knowing. With feeling, by and through feeling comprehension expands.

I talk to an old friend who is jubilant; filled with a type of joy I haven't felt radiating from him in years. I ask a lot of questions so that I can listen and bask in the beauty. " I was depressed," he confesses, "but it's over." I agree. I can feel it.

There's war and an oil spill in the Gulf. But the tide has turned. And maybe its an oily tide but it has turned. I can't point to economic markers or any concrete evidence; I'm not working out any flow charts or spread sheets showing how the whole world is getting better incrementally, but, hey... I just feel it. Somebody might try to roll up on it me now and pull my sour-puss papers, and then we'd have to scrap a little, but once I calmed down, still, I'd feel it. And I did just spend sixth months writing poetry with young people and the violence in and around their lives was a constant subject. I'm not unaware of what's real; I'm not some sheltered lady . But it's still there. There's beauty and redemption; there are wells of grace waiting for us to divine them from the depths of human division. I don't have concrete evidence but I have bone evidence. I feel it vibrating on my skeleton! It has me excited, a little uncomfortable; it has me tickled.

Michael Jackson died a year ago today. I've been thinking about him as I prepared to write this message. He was a brilliant musician, an incandescent performer. He was a less than perfect man though and, yet in his imperfection he still wrote hopeful and hopefully prophetic songs . Check out these Can You Feel It lyrics:

If you look around
The whole world's coming together now, babe

Feel it in the air,
The wind is taking it everywhere, yeah

Now tell me can you feel it,
can you feel it,
can you feel it

A friend whispers to me 'Now is the time...", affirm my feeling with his own. Almost all of my friends and family members get up everyday and continue to commit their lives to healing, change and transformation. I pray that they all can feel it, can feel their work making a difference. Often, I think of Francine singing with me in tobacco fields, in front of hog pens, by the rocky banks of the river. I send her prayers of thanks for helping me learn to feel. But mostly I thank my body for being the place where I feel the tingles, the anticipation, the gut instinct, the surety, the deep resonance.

Here's a little recipe for y'all. I made it for a friend who wanted to feel---passion again, hope again, peace again.....I call it the-

Can You Feel It Reunion Tea
2 parts Damiana
1 part Comfrey Leaf
1 part Green Tea
1 part Red Rose buds
1/2 Scullcap
a pinch of Jasmine
a pinch of Cinnamon

Boil some water then let that sit for a few minutes. Put about a couple of hearty teaspoon fulls into a strainer for a cup. Put a couple of hearty tablespoon fulls into a pot. Pour the water over the herbs and let it sit for 10-15 minutes. This is good hot or iced.

Sip, drink.
Can you feel it?

Our Lady of Guadalupe-Dec. 12 2009

She was brown skinned & perfect
Like the woman who walked a while
beside me when we marched
for our lives on Washington in 2004
saving babies, Protecting the Unborn.

She was brown skinned & direct
Mexican- American, like my student
who needed her GED so that she
could become a Marine and help
preserve our freedom, Patroness of the Americas.

She was brown skinned & glorious
Like the woman I love who sings
when she sees me first thing in the
morning before she makes impact
getting grants of hope, Empowering the Downtrodden

I dreamed her once:


She was brown skinned, an astronaut
(Mae Jamison in a blue bath-robe?)
Standing on the moon with an American flag,
a crown of stars and all this Celestial beauty
bringing awe and peace, Apocalypse Figther.

scent of rose
ice rosary
a blush of innocence
tears from joy
fierce grace

I thought she was my Granny
come all the way from Glory
with memory gifts
and secret recipes
I thought was lost.


She was brown skinned & wise
like the woman who sits across from me
as we chew over well done truth
as I learn how to be good
and to be all right at the same time.

Blue Moon

This is a once in a Blue Moon moment.

This month there will be two full moons....

Any time there are two full moons in a month the second one is known as a full moon)

Tonight is the first of the full moons we will have in the month of December. The second full moon, the one that is actually called the Blue Moon will be on New Year's Eve.

Mmmm hmmm.....Now that is going to be some kind of something.

But until then.


Take a peek at the moon tonight.

Take a picture of it. Draw a picture of it. Make a wish upon it. Sing to it or of it. (Blue Moon....)

Sit a little glass of water or wine outside for a few minutes and let is soak up the beams of this Full Moon. Drink it down. Of course I will probably use moon shine to collect the magical rays. A little shot will do me.

While drinking you can...

Celebrate yourself and all of your hard work.

Set some intentions for the coming month.

Just appreciate it all.

Enjoy!

I will be praying while sipping :

Creator of the Universe, Artist of Beautiful Creation
Thank you for the signs and symbols that guide me
on my dazzling and sometimes crooked path. And excuse me
as I kiss the sky, taking my eyes for a while
off of pure purpose.
Bless my hedonistic heart
As I feast on Your good old undeniable Goodness
and stare without shame at your Glory.

Observing Advent

For people who don't know Advent is the season of anticipation and quiet hope that proceeds Christmas. For all of you who don't 'do' Christmas this is still a powerful time to invite the same sense of quiet hope that you feel because something good is about to happen.

I wanted to focus on Advent this year for a few reasons. Firstly, I lean towards sarcasm, which can foster some cynicism. I want to feel fresh and new, now. I want to gasp at sparkles every time I see them. I want to feel awesome because I feel awe. Secondly, I want to welcome A Miracle. I want to prepare myself physically, mentally and emotionally for Miracles in the upcoming year. I want to see the miracles and get close to them. This year I will follow a star and prepare gifts. I want to shift my lenses. I want to buy some rose colored glasses and view the world through them.


This is my challenge. Join in and be amazed....

Shape Shifters--Don't Go Changing

I spent most of the morning in the car repair center getting my steering fixed. (Everybody who feels like every challenge is some deeper than deep symbol can go ahead and laugh right now. Do it now and get that over with.) While I waited for my car I spent hours, yes hours (4.5 hours!) trying to ignore endless episodes of The Transformers, Sonic the Hedgehog and Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles. I did not consider how this Saturday morning programming was in accord with the post I was planning to write today. All of the animated stars of these shows are themselves shape shifters. In fact they are all shape-shifters who use there ability to change to thaw rt crime, help the innocent and repeatedly save the world.

So, it's Halloween today. I love the way the air feels. Early yesterday, I stood in the street for a long moment and tiny golden leaves swirled around me, rustling and airborne, spirits of the trees that gave up the ghost touching me, singing. My skin tingled with anticipation as I wondered about the ancestors who come a little bit closer than usual at this time of year. I planned to cook them some pole beans and corn bread. Then, still in the street like a shocked squirrel, I saw the children rushing to school in their costumes. Witnessing their excitement added to mine. I thought about candy and said grace for this time when we get to celebrate feeling fear. Our city has been scary lately. But, more than these things I've been thinking about shape-shifting this year.

Who are the shape shifters and why are they important? Shape shifters are people who are willing to surrender their apparent identity for a good reason. Shape shifters are important because they can walk between worlds, bringing information, wisdom, aid, traditions, etc. from one place to another. By shape-shifting they can share gifts from their world with the residents of their new world. If they did not shape-shift but tried to share such things they might be rejected as a stranger. The shape-shifters are pioneers. They learn quickly-new languages, new customs, new terrains and climates. They are very adaptable mainly because they aren't afraid to be schooled or to look like fools.

The trick is that shape-shifting can be frightening. Firstly is the un-grounding loss of identity. It's hard to keep your feet on the ground if you find that you don't have feet anymore, just some flippers in their place. Next, shape-shifters don't usually travel in packs; it can be lonely-all that walking between worlds. Plus, frequently, when you shift back and you try to tell your folks about the adventure their aren't even words to communicate what you've been, what you saw, tasted, listened to, braved. And then there's the inevitable difficulty that some shifts leave a mark and you never are quite the same. Everybody notices the change and might not accept the shifter back into the fold.

So, this post is my holler out to all the shape shifters. To all the kids going into communities other than their own for better schooling, safe travels. To all the beautiful folks changing their gender identity, you are the brave ones. To all citizens newly naturalized, you are welcome. To all the black girls and boys who are frowned upon for talking white, you are heard. To all the ministers I know minding the spiritual gap between sects and denominations, you are blessed. To the missionaries and relief workers leaving hearth and home to help, thank you. For every woman who walks into a board room and is mistaken for someones assistant, you are powerful. For people who saw themselves as rich but have lost some of their perceived wealth, you are overflowing. To every chub on a low-fat diet,at the gym, or struggling to change your body, you are perfection. To all the cosmetic shape-shifters, eye-lash gluing, wig/weave workers, go-head with your bad, bad, self, you walk in beauty. The drag queens, actors, role-players and ren-faire goers, thank you for being fearless. To all the other shape-shifters, I see you. Your capes and masks, your super, super powers are the change we want to see.

Disguise is not a challenge. The truly brazen option is to become the Other. The shape-shifters are the ones who will lead us beyond tepid tolerance towards hot, passionate love for what is Outside. I don't agree with people who feel that we need to encourage tolerance...What is that? ( I tolerate tight pantyhose!) Love is the Challenge. The Ten Commandments charge us to Love our neighbor; it doesn't say to dredge up some tolerance. The act of shape-shifting breeds the compassion that will allow us to finally Love one another.

What is the Bountiful Bone Pot?

The Bountiful Bone Pot is

*the cauldron of magic
*deep creativity
*good ideas
*over-flowing
*licked dry
* always full
* the potential in emptiness, the void
*always simmering
*slow cooking
*always bubbling, somethings always cooking
* a place for experimentation and science
*filled with food
*where medicine comes from
*an incubator
*a place of transformation
*where stone soup is made
*where nothing becomes something and something boils down to nothing

The Bountiful Bone Pot is the name I give to my work and to the process that evolves as I do that work. The products that result are feasts, sometimes just little morsels, sometimes delicious or piquant bites that all have been baked up in my proverbial bone pot. When I embark on the creation of something new--- a class, an artistic project, a rehearsal process, the building of a ritual, writing a poem or story, the preparation to share healing--- I think to myself, "Okay, let me dip into my Bone Pot. Sometimes when I put labels on cosmetics, potions, medicines, or fashion accessories the labels will read "The Bountiful Bone Pot". When I say the words they sound like a bit of a mouthful but that seems somewhat fitting.

A friend actually came up with the term. She sent me a thank you note in response to a letter of condolence. (Yes, I have friends that I exchange actual letters with regularly. Old fashioned, we are!) In her note she referred to my words of comfort, couched in a compliment, couched in a joke, as being 'just one more from Kim Crutcher's bone pot!"


The Bountiful Bone Pot is my pet name for my creativity. I adore my gifts and and shouldn't everything that is adored have an adorable pet name? I do a lot of work in the kitchen and want everything I make to feel luscious, nourishing, life-affirming. So pull out a spoon, sometimes you'll need a knife and a fork to really get it. There now. Taste.