Golden Echoes

The elite establishment in our country has been under increasing pressure to release the reins of power. As a result, and they have been using fear and hate at higher and higher levels in order to divide and subdue the populous. Recently it seems they are losing control because the violence is moving toward reaching a tipping point. Something that no human with any concern for their fellows wants to see.

We have seen this play out before.

In 1994 the elite establishment in Rwanda was losing their chokehold on power.  As a result, they unleashed the fear and hate which they had been fomenting for years in the form of violence.  They utilized the media to great effect in justifying the violence, sighting past wrongs of the others, and dehumanizing them as “inyenzi”, cockroaches.  The result was a tragedy that ranks high among the annals of man’s inhumanity to man.

Fear and hate is an easy thing to foment, but not such an easy thing to control.  In the end, the elite establishment of Rwanda failed, but not before almost a million people were bludgeoned and hacked to death. They failed because their violence reached a tipping point of horror that stirred a mighty backlash.  Had it not been for wise counsel, that evoked teachings of forgiveness and reconciliation, the horrors of the escalating retaliation would have been far worse than the original horrors.

In both cases, there are wrongs in the past.  In both cases, forgiveness and reconciliation is the answer not further division and certainly not fear and hate.

The elite establishment in our country has been under increasing pressure to release the reins of power.  As a result, and they have been using fear and hate at higher and higher levels in order to divide and subdue the populous.  Recently it seems they have lost control because the violence is very close to reaching a tipping point.  Something that no human with any concern for their fellows wants to see.

We have seen this play out before.

In 1994 the elite establishment in Rwanda was losing their chokehold on power.  As a result, they unleashed the fear and hate which they had been fomenting for years in the form of violence.  They utilized the media to great effect in justifying the violence, sighting past wrongs of the others, and dehumanizing them as “inyenzi”, cockroaches.  The result was a tragedy that ranks high among the annals of man’s inhumanity to man.

Fear and hate is an easy things to foment, but not such an easy thing to control.  In the end the elite establishment of Rwanda failed, but not before almost a million people were bludgeoned and hacked to death. They failed because their violence reached a tipping point of horror that stirred a mighty backlash.  Had it not been for wise counsel, that evoked teachings of forgiveness and reconciliation, the horrors of the escalating retaliations would have been far worse than the original horrors.

In both cases there are wrongs in the past.  In both cases forgiveness and reconciliation is the answer not further division and certainly not fear and hate.

After throwing off the horrors of genocide the people of Rwanda reached into their precolonial past in search of structures and practices to rebuild their society.  Before their world was interfered with by outsiders from another continent, Rwanda had a geopolitical element called the Umudugudu.  Being the “Land of a Thousand Hills” it usually consisted of all of the families on a hill.  It was their concept of neighborhood.  Also, Rwanda had a practice called Umuganda whereby, on predefined days, all of the people of the Umudugudu gathered to perform work that improved the Umudugudu and to discuss issues important to the families of the Umudugudu.

Part of the rebuilding of Rwanda included reinstituting the Umudugudu and Umuganda.  If you happened to be in Rwanda on the last Saturday of any month you will see the people gathered to work and meet together.  It’s very inspiring.

Our neighborhood had a workday yesterday to clean up some common areas and to chat about things in the neighborhood.  It was wonderful.  We are blessed to have so many good neighbors who really do care about one another and show that care with actions.  We shared tools and water, and after the work was done some wine.  But mostly we shared time together.

Thank you Rocky Creek Ranch neighbors.

It has now become an element of our society that expressing truth which is outside the narrative defined by the elite establishment will result in censorship, ridicule, and banishment. That, combined with the fact that there is very little truth in the narrative defined by the elite establishment, has left truth lying desperately wounded, outside the field of discourse.

Our interactions with one other are guided by presuppositions, formulated by the experiences and prior learnings of the parties involved.  This adds a level of challenge to communications, only partially helped by non-verbal clues.  A micro expression here an eyebrow movement there, unnoticed by the more cerebral processes of the observer but recorded by the precognitive and communicated internally.

But to truly understand what someone is attempting to convey often requires deeper knowledge about the other person.  This is why developing relationship is so important in the quest for civil discourse.  Too often we hear or read something, apply our own presuppositions, and proclaim judgment without seeking to understand what is really being said.

“I am so glad that the whole video was made public and has been viewed by so many people”

The reference was to the video of the horrid taking of a life by an authority whose mission is supposed to be to protect and serve.  The speaker was someone with very different experiences dealing such authorities than the listener.

The listener has a choice.  Focus on the statement and spin into a fact-finding mission to uncover the sordid details leading up to brutal event.  Or, see the pain of the past, mixed with the relief of the possibility that maybe now that pain will finally be believed.

In this case, the listener knew the speaker and was heartbroken for having not seen the pain before.  The speaker wasn’t asking for favors, platitudes, or special treatment, simply to be believed.

Dad was not tall, but he was dark and handsome.  He was also very charming and had a natural care for, and interest in other people.  Born in Mexico, Spanish was his primary language a fact that was evident when he spoke.  His accent was exotic, and his speech flowed with a light and rich air.  It was very pleasant to just sit and listen to him talk.  It helped that there was always a smile in his talking, just below the surface.  And, he told stories, wonderful stories, made more wonderful by his telling, always with laughter along the way.  Dad was easy going, very bright and an artist – he designed buildings and homes and furniture and who knows what else.

Regretfully he was not in my life much of the time.  Marriage had become less permanent by the time of my birth and Mom and Dad went separate ways when I was young.  An occasional trip and one long stay are all the time I had with him.  But that was enough to know how special he was, and to miss him, and to be grateful.

7 was the count.  She didn’t know it was 7, she only knew that after those rapid pulls at the air with her wings she was soring into the sky.  She knew that the ground below included ribbons of black that affected the way the winds moved over her wings.  She saw one of those ribbons and curved her wings to send herself floating over the nearest edge.  The tiny feathers on her face and neck, normally held down by the force of air as she flies, stood up just a tiny amount in response to a change in air pressure.  She knows nothing of air pressure, only that such a feeling signals the moment when she must open her wings wide.  As her wings fill with air she bounds up, up, up at an astonishing rate.  She knows nothing of up or down, she knows only the exuberance which accompanies the change in altitude as she soars effortlessly into the ether.

There exists within our social and political structures a cadre of being which serves itself more than the community it is engaged to serve. The feeding of its own pleasures and power is the primary concern of this cadre and its influence and impact seems to be growing by the day.

There is a book, written in the late 1950’s, which exposed one American version of this cadre to a populous eager to know the truth. “The Ugly American” catapulted to the top of the best seller list and, for a moment, sent a shock wave through the cadre. Had the impact been longer lasting we might never have pursued that misadventure in Southeast Asia which saw my brother, brother-in-law and thousands of other men and women, foisted into bloodying the jungles only to be vilified and told to be ashamed of what they had done.

The cadre survived even that, survived and thrived. And today it grows at every level. In our schools, in our cities, states and in every aspect of the federal government.

Acknowledgment of the existence of this cadre is important now that we consider how to rebuild our communities. One brief example:
Do our school systems really need to be so top loaded with administrators and bureaucrats? Do our children benefit when teachers are underpaid and undersupplied while, at the same time, new buildings and levels of overlords are erected around them? We already know what doesn’t work, systems bloated by edifices and overlords, how about trying something new – cultivating the joy of learning.

Best of all, opposing the cadre is done outside of the partisan malaise that so clouds discourse in our country. The cadre cares not for party or politics, Machiavellian to the core, it cares only for its own flourishing.

“Would you have time to cut the west field?” she said, “the grass is getting really high.”

The tools that give a tractor purpose are heavy, made of steel and chain. Some do work powered by the same diesel energy release that powers the machine. Some accomplish their task through their sheer weight as the machine pulls it on its way. A tool of the later sort was attached as I strolled behind the barn.

Changing the tools on a tractor is a fickle affair. Sometimes one slips off, you back the tractor up to the other and slip it on. Sometimes there are bruises, sometime there is blood, of the skinned knuckle variety. Often there are words, not pleasant words, but the tractor and the back of the barn keep your secret tantrums to themselves.

This time there were bruises and words. Off with the box blade, bruises, words. On with the brush hog, more bruises, more words. On to the tractor and off to the field.

Tallgrass and wildflowers. So many wildflowers of every color and hue. Bees and butterflies busy about their labor. The brush hog had just begun to ply its trade when I saw her waving from the drive. Remove the power from the brush hog, lift the tool and drive over to hear what she is saying.

“The wildflowers are so beautiful, maybe we should give them a week or so, what do you think?”

More bruises but no words, just the remembrance of the look in her eyes as she watched the butterflies.

End of Wusolation

The days of Wusolation have ended, by our accounting.  We’ve been to City Club to work out, we’ve started having family and friends to the house and church is restarting, sort of, this Sunday.  Not sure what to call the next phase of our interrupted global experience.   Let me know if you have any ideas.