On Bolivia, Mother Earth, and Religious Tolerance

I have just engaged in a long thread of facebook comments about this article. Bolivia is set to enact a law granting rights to mother earth. They include: the right to life and to exist; the right to continue vital cycles and processes free from human alteration; the right to pure water and clean air; the right to balance; the right not to be polluted; and the right to not have cellular structure modified or genetically altered.

And it's really got me thinking, not particularly about the article itself, or even the issue therein (though—and let me interject my own political agenda here—good job, Bolivia!) but instead about belief and about respect.

It just so happens that this particular article was posted on someone's page who comes from a very conservative religious background. Fine. Here's my chance to put my money where my mouth is, walk my talk, (insert any further preferred figure of speech here): Be positive, check; assert my beliefs while being transparent that they are my beliefs and therefor subjective, check. But what followed was painful.

The tone that struck me, the one that always wrenches me, was the one of dismissal of others' beliefs, the One True God mentality. Casual comments like "Welcome back pantheism!" and the utterance, as if it were the one and only true truth that "God created ALL the world... [and]modern man [is] now trying to personify 'Mother Earth,'" felt like violence, though I know they were not intended to be. I know that those speaking were defending what they believe to be true, but there is something deeply upsetting to me about mocking what others' hold dear. Now, I am not a Pantheist, nor am I a Pagan, but I have a right to be, should I so choose—as I have a right to be Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Agnostic, or Atheist.

I, personally, do not see a personified Mother Earth as any stranger of a notion than a personified Father God. As a matter of fact, recent research points to the fact that human's first deities were female rather than male, that the creative force was seen as female. Makes sense—as life emerges, literally, from the body of a woman... but I digress. Because these beliefs are mine; they are personal and they are intimate, and I don't need you, dear reader, to believe them. What I do need, is for you to respect them, for you to respect my right to have them.

The truth is, most of us think we're right. Whether we access our Truth through logic, ancient texts, science, or via our own hearts, most of us think we are right. My particular truth tells me that we can't know the provenance of the divine, that we can't know what happens after we die, because, well, none of us here have done it yet. I don't believe in a gendered or personified God—because when I have tried to imagine such a God, it seemed arrogant to me to assume that the greatest power out there looks like us (I mean, why not a bird, a tree, an elephant?)—but I do believe in powers far greater than me. I also believe that we, ourselves, have more power than we often allow ourself to believe, and that inherent in that power, in that privilege, is a responsibility. I believe in an Interconnectedness that transcends what we can see. To quote Carl Sagan: "We are a way for the cosmos to know itself." I believe that we are all made of energy, that energy goes on eternally, and that our being unable to know in what form it does so, doesn't make it any less beautiful. And with all of this, I know that if I allow myself to remain open, if I continue to turn toward that which I do not know, turn toward it with an open heart, my beliefs will evolve as I do. For me, that's an important part of it. These are the things that I hold dear; this is the structure of my belief.

And so it is that we all think our perspective has particular and unique merits. I am not exempt from that, but if we are to make peace in this world together, if we are to find a path to consensus, we have to learn to be increasingly open to one another, ever-more-respectful. It is a challenge I am still facing, a challenge I imagine I will likely face more and more deeply as I learn to allow my voice come forward. Because I think we need to talk about this, and I'll admit it's hard, but I don't want to feel diminished, and I don't want to allow others to feel that way either. In a political and cultural climate that is feeling increasingly more polarized and less and less tolerant, I believe it is more important than ever to find common ground, to make room for each other.

All I can do is try to balance integrity and peace, learn to speak more honestly with more love and compassion, and to temper any disagreements and differences in viewpoint with a deep and abiding respect.

Learning to See, Learning Not to Shut Up

Daytime is for writing; my alarm is set; the evening hours pass quickly, and I dawdle, and soon (now) I reach the wee hours of the morning. I know this will affect my day, but I can't seem to turn off my brain, or turn it fully on, either. I am beset by insecurity; I feel dislocated, nearly dizzy, yet somehow eerily still, unmoving. She says there is still something missing. And she's right. But isn't that how I always feel, how it always is—as if there is something still missing? I am perpetually one revelation away from figuring it all out.

But what to do about that? I am full of revelatory moments, full of paying attention, full of learning to let life roll over me, roll through me. I know these things. I live them. In this, at least, I walk my talk. I am the living breathing unknowing. But how many times must I bite my own tongue just to remember the iron taste of my own blood? When will it be enough? At what point may I open my mouth and speak instead?

I think art changes people, changes people's hearts. That's what art is; that's how I'd define it now, anyway—at this hour, on this day. That's what it's done for me; art has changed my heart. But what about beauty? It is not always lovely, what I have to say, what I have to hear. It is not always even palatable. And yet. And yet. There are these things that need saying, these things that desperately need saying.

I know, and have known for a while now, that I can't shut up. Not to say that I haven't, because often I have, but that I mustn't. I'm pretty sure, too, that that's something of the job description of an artist: learning not to shut up, even if you can hardly breathe, even if there are tears streaming down your face, even if you are saying things no-one wants to hear.

Yes, I need to learn not to shut up. And it's harder than I thought it would be, especially for a girl who everybody thought would be a lawyer for her incessant arguing. But that's not me, not really, because I can't bend the truth, and I can't make a point for a point's sake. I am always seeking the truth. Concealing is not my profession; it is revelation. Sometimes I am pulled to call it epiphany, but it is less like something landing from above, and more like learning to see.

It's painful though. That's the part no-one tells you. Learning to see is painful. Because it takes a willingness to be ever-vulnerable, be always proven wrong. And when, if just for a moment, I let the defense clap shut, the fall is sharp, the waking stark.