The Art of Opening the Circle

The Art of Opening the Circle 

(the Food Can Wait a Bit) 

Once you’ve attended a gathering that begins with an opening circle that’s held by someone who knows its subtle and joyous power, you’ll never again be satisfied to just begin the meal, just get down to business, just start having fun. You’ll long for the moment of all-together focus that an opening circle brings, and you just may find that you’re the one who has to make it happen. Whether it’s a neighborhood potluck, a staff holiday party, a congregational meeting, or a family gathering, coming together creates a perfect opportunity to shine a light on our wholeness right there in that moment. Make use of this chance to pause together and create connection right here, right now. Opening the circle in an intentional way—be it playful, tender, reverent, brief, luxurious—creates the container of ‘we’ that ripples out for the rest of the gathering and well beyond. 

From what I’ve learned so far, the essential pieces seem to be: 

• Calling people to the circle

• Greeting each other

• Offering gratitudes

• (Perhaps some other little piece)

• Announcements

• Closing 

You need at least one person who will gladly hold the space.The host of the event might like to invite someone else to do this, for they might have been cleaning, cooking or taking care of children all day, or they might not like speaking in front of groups. Whomever it is, ideally this person will have thought about the pieces ahead of time, even if only in the bathroom 5 minutes ago because you just remembered at the last minute to ask them. This person will be comfortable—or at least willing to keep stepping toward comfort—with their own voice, and they will also know that the circle is fed by the sounds of many voices, so they will invite others to be heard. They might have given the heads-up others in advance, asking them to offer a poem, song, trick, or prayer. They will have been watching for special offerings or people to thank, special connections to point out to the whole group. They will want to set aside self- consciousness and step into their role as a servant of the whole. They will speak loudly and slowly enough so that they can be heard. 

Yet, I have led many opening circles even though I felt nervous that people thought I was taking too long; that I was speaking too fast; that I would forget this or forget that. I have looked at the floor the whole time, have gone off to cry with regrets afterwards. Nonetheless, I’m still here, alive, loved for my vulnerabilities as much as for my skills. I couldn’t have learned but by those mistakes. So maybe it could be you, tender human, who stumbles in and gives it a try for the team, who learns out loud. 

Someday soon I think that it will once again be felt so natural to open gatherings in skillful, connective, ritualized ways that anyone hosting an event will either plan on holding the circle themselves or will ask someone else to. But at this moment it can sometimes be awkward: perhaps a host does not think of it, but one of their guests does. Does the guest offer their services? And if a guest is deputized by the host, does the community accept that, or do some start making stories about how this leader is always insisting on taking the stage? On the other hand, does the community start to think that it is always the job of that one leader to hold space, so that unless that leader is there nothing happens? It’s a tender spot. 

When I’ve been asked to lead a circle or some songs at someone else’s gathering, I’ve found that it helps ease the transition if the host publicly invites me into the leadership role, saying to the whole group ‘I’ve asked Liz to....’ This can really help me to let go of the old story that someone might be thinking I always insist on making things happen my way. Ah, this is community! 

Calling People to the Circle. This might seem obvious and not worthy of mention, but if you’ve ever tried to herd 10 or 100 happily chatting people into a central space and get them to start listening, you know that it can take some skill—especially if you’re hoping to do it in a more inviting, pleasant way than your 7th grade teacher might have. One of the best ways is to use Call-and-Reponse song or chant, because it immediately engages everyone’s voice and draws them toward the caller. You can make up something simple on the spot using 2 or 3 words and just as few notes, and ask one friend to help you get it started by repeating what you do: ’Hello my friends!” ‘Hello My Friends!” “Come to the circle!” ‘Come to the Circle!” Some people call in the circle using call-and-response clapping, and though it works because the clapping cuts through the din, for just that same reason it can sometimes feel a little harsh. Other ideas: start singing a song that you know most people know, or invite someone who likes to drum to use their drumming in a calling way. Or, ask the children to run around and tap people on the arm. Use who you’ve got in a creative way. 

Form the circle so that ideally everyone can see everyone else. This is how we begin to live as though everyone mattered. A sloppy circle with some people standing in the middle unaware that folks are behind them, or with some standing around the corner invisible, makes the whole rest of the opening circle harder to weave. Even if you can’t have a perfectly round circle where everyone can see each other, you can have an intentional circle that feels like all are in. If there are more than 30-50 people, depending on how sound carries in the space, you might need to ask people to get much closer to each other, or to make a double concentric circle, or a more random-looking clumpy circle. And though they might be having a great time playing nearby, bring the children into this circle too! Later on they will surely find their way back to play, and in the meantime you’ve given them a chance to be seen as part of the whole. If you’re outside, the leader needs a big voice for a big circle. If you’re inside and sitting in an auditorium or at tables in rows, it’s trickier but you can still pull off a feeling of circle-ness by inviting people to turn and greet those in the circle right around them. The point is, put intention into the form. Make a place for everyone. 

Standing is better than sitting. Of course you’ll make a way for those who need to sit—perhaps the best way to do this is to ask a teen or young adult if they would offer that to the elders—but overall the energy is bigger if people are standing. 

How long will this circle last? If there is food waiting to be eaten, ideally it’s covered so that people who love their food hot don’t feel stressed. But even then, 5-10 minutes is about as much as people can handle. Find a few ideas to put into the general framework, and then go for it. If after the circle you reflect that it went to long, you’ll know that for next time. If there isn’t food waiting, then you can have a much more luxurious circle, maybe 30 minutes or more if you’re including a game. 

Greeting each other. This is the perfect moment, early on in the circle, to bring people fully in by enabling each to use their own voice as part of the whole. Sometimes you are gathering a group where you think most people know each other and you might therefore think that greeting is unnecessary. Why not take this opportunity to share the peace, look in the eyes of friends old and new with no other purpose than welcome? This might also be a good opportunity to engage bodies through moving, hand-shaking, clapping, or dancing, which helps even more to create a stepping-in. Depending on the size of the group, you might use this moment of arrival to invite folks to: 

• greet the 2 people to either side of them with a handshake (naturally some will hug, but in most groups I think it would be too pushy for the leader to suggest that). Expect a sudden cacophony of sound and energy, and know that you’ll need to call them back in after 2-4 minutes (but don’t use your watch,use your heart). If you wait until the sound has died down, you might have waited too long.

• find someone new to meet from anywhere in the circle, which will cause people to walk around. When you re-form the circle and behold those smiling faces, you might see a sparkling web.

• while the whole group watches, each person says their name along with some quick movement of their body that the whole group then imitates as they repeat the person’s name together.

• same as above, but also when the person is announcing their name they use voice inflections that can be copied. Some might do something that could be called ‘singing,’ and others might just tone their name simply. Others might clap their name to a rhythm. All ways are good ways.

• say your name and then, rather than telling something about yourself which is a common way of introduction but is uncomfortable for some people, say the name of one person in the circle that you’re connected to, and why. ‘I am connected to Sandy because she was my mom’s art teacher in Minnesota!’ ‘I am connected to Kaj because he is my next-door neighbor.” ‘I am connected to Kristin because last week at the co-op she helped me pick up my groceries after my bag ripped open.” Start it off yourself to set an example of simplicity or brevity, as you wish. Ideally by the end of the circle everyone would be named as a connection, but that doesn’t always happen and it seems to be ok because it’s so very delightful to hear the various random connections that each person feels part of the Big Story. Depending on the rest of your plan, this activity could get too long if you have more than 20 people.

• In my community we tend to see many generations together at events, and I love to shine a light on that. I ask who the youngest person is, and we give a cheer for that person. I ask who the oldest is and we cheer for them. I want to to celebrate the people in the middle, and one way to do that is to do some quick group math to find the median between the oldest and youngest, and see who’s closest to that age. Linden is 2, David is 76, 2+76=78, 78 divided by 2 is 39. Both hands in the sky if you’re 39! A hoot and a holler for them!

• Another way to celebrate the many ages that we are is to ask who’s in under 10 and cheer for them, who’s 10-19 and cheer for them, who’s in their 20s and another big cheer! And all the way up to the oldest decade. If there’s no one in their 70s or 80s I still name the decade and we notice together how we’re missing those people, and I know that that acts as a little prayer calling them to us the next time.

• If it doesn’t make sense to do introductions of each person, either because you are a group that knows each other well or because the group is too large (in which case you probably invited people to just meet their neighbors), still don’t miss the opportunity to celebrate as a group any special guests. Maybe someone’s grandparents are visiting, or there’s someone from another country, or whomever it may be. If you as the leader know who those people are, you might just introduce them yourself. But better yet, open the floor for people to introduce their own special guest. The more voices the better. 

• a note on sharing names and including last names. Sometimes it seems that introducing by name would be unnecessary, since so many of the people already know each other. Yet it is often the case that there are at least a few new people to any circle (and isn’t that what we’re hoping for in an open circle?) which makes name sharing worth the time. And, why not share first as well as last names? If we’re really planning to keep track of each other, aka build community, then it matters which John you are, which Kristin you are. 

Offering gratitudes and blessings...to the host/s, to the children who made the muffins, to the person who shoveled the walk, to the ancestors, to the Creator, to the soil and rain and seed... to much and many! This could take the shape of celebration and include hooting and clapping, and/or it could be more contemplative, like a prayer. The point isn’t to thank everything possible —for then we would literally be there forever—but rather to point our gratitude in a number of directions, near and far, so that we carry an attitude of gratitude to the whole gathering. This might be led by one who delights in offering prayer or in the group-sourcing gratitudes. If you open it up for anyone to add their gratitudes and you have set a precedent that anything goes, then you might learn about some really beautiful things that were hidden in people’s hearts. This is also a time when silence will feel natural and delicious, as we wait for another to speak their words. 

Other possible pieces, depending on the occasion: a playful group game; some short delightful skit or song that someone prepared in advance; a group song led by someone who can make it comfortable and easy for all; prayers, a poem or a reading; a demonstration of some skill that would intrigue and delight the group; the celebration of a milestone in someone’s life, whether or not it seems connected to the purpose of your gathering.. etc! Once you start looking, you will see that any group is rich with passions and skills to harvest and celebrate. There are people who know how to do stuff and never get the chance to share it: people who love writing limericks, who can do weird body tricks, who craft beautiful prayers from the seeds of the moment; who just moved or had a baby or returned from a trip. How about holding silence for a minute? Giving back rubs or hand rubs to each other? 

Announcements. Here’s the spot where the host can explain how the potluck line runs, where someone tells where the bathroom is, etc. Also you can ask for other announcements and then an instant audio-bulletin-board pops up where we can learn about a concert next week, the need for a ride somewhere, the give-away pile over in the corner, etc. Sometimes the group embraces this opportunity so enthusiastically that you have to watch out for too-muchness and give the ‘one last announcement’ warning! 

Closing 

This is probably brief, since the circle has already found its center. Tell the circle that you are about finish so that they stay present for this last little piece. Maybe it’s a cheer, or a singing dinner grace, or silence, or a prayer. Maybe you pass a kiss around the circle, each kissing the one to their left after the kiss comes to them. Maybe everyone puts a hand the center for a go-team cheer. Maybe the whole circle turns and faces the outside and on ‘3’ yells ‘thank you!’ However you do it, take it out with intention and joy. 

A Note to Holders of Space 

If you have your antenna up, you can almost always sense someone in the circle who seems to be wishing you’d shut up and sit down, who seems to think this is too touchy-feely, who needs to eat and get home and didn’t come for this other connect-y stuff. 

You might be right, and you might be wrong. They might be thinking about something entirely different. They might come up to you in a day or a year and tell you how much that circle meant to them. Or they might forever take issue with group gatherings that include such together- moments as these. 

Either way, why would you forsake offering something that you know to be important to the many? Here’s a chance to keep your senses open, and at the same time let go of the ego that needs to be liked by everyone. Here’s a chance to be bold and creative, and be willing to compromise, to listen to the group energy and call enough just-right when the moment hits. Here’s a chance to cooperate with the reality of your community in this moment, and also to push against the edge to introduce something a bit bigger. Here’s your chance to be coyote, making being together in this way so appealing and delightful that it’s irresistible. 

And here’s your chance to once again accept the fact that you’ve got more to learn, that you don’t always get it right, and that more chances are around the corner. 

Saving Soul Seeds

Saving Soul Seeds 
Liz Rog, Decorah IA October 2017

The Three Seeds
by Charles Eisenstein
Once upon a time, the tribe of humanity embarked upon a long journey called Separation. It was not a blunder as some – seeing its ravages upon the planet – might think. Nor was it a fall, nor an expression of some innate evil peculiar to the human species. It was a journey with a purpose: to experience the extremes of Separation, to develop the gifts that come in response to it, and to integrate all of that in a new age of Reunion.

But we knew at the outset that there was danger in this journey: that we might become lost in Separation and never come back. We might become so alienated from nature that we would destroy the very basis of life; we might become so separated from each other that our poor egos, left naked and terrified, would become incapable of rejoining the community of all being. In other words, we foresaw the crisis we face today.

That is why, thousands of years ago, we planted three seeds that would sprout at the time that our journey of Separation reached its extreme. Three seeds, three transmissions from the past to the future, three ways of preserving and transmitting the truth of the world, the self, and how to be human.

Imagine you were alive thirty thousand years ago, and had a vision of all that was to come: symbolic language, naming and labeling the world; agriculture, the domestication of the wild, dominion over other species and the land; the Machine, the mastery of natural forces; the forgetting of how beautiful and perfect the world is; the atomization of society; a world where humans fear even to drink of the streams and rivers, where we live among strangers and don't know the people next door, where we kill across the planet with the touch of a button, where the seas turn black and the air burns our lungs, where we are so broken that we dare not remember that it isn't supposed to be this way. Imagine you saw it all coming. How would you help people thirty thousand years thence? How would you send information, knowledge, aid over such a vast gulf of time? You see, this actually happened. That is how we came up with the three seeds.

The first seed was the wisdom lineages: lines of transmission going back thousands of years that have preserved and protected essential knowledge. From adept to disciple, in every part of the world, various wisdom traditions have passed down teachings in secret. Wisdom keepers, Sufis, Taoist wizards, Zen masters, mystics, gurus, and many others, hiding within each religion, kept the knowledge safe until the time when the world would be ready to reclaim it. That time is now, and they have done their job well. The time of secrets is over. Released too early, the knowledge was co-opted, abused, or usually just ignored. When we still had not covered the territory of Separation, when we still aspired
to widening our conquest of nature, when the story of humanity's Ascent was not yet complete, we weren't ready to hear about union, connectedness, interdependency, inter-being-ness. We thought the answer was more control, more technology, more logic, a better-engineered society of rational ethics, more control over matter, nature, and human nature. But now the old paradigms are failing, and human consciousness has reached a degree of receptivity that allows this seed to spread across the earth. It has been released, and it is growing inside of us en masse.

The second seed was the sacred stories: myths, legends, fairy tales, folklore, and the perennial themes that keep reappearing in various guises throughout history. They have always been with us, so that however far we have wandered into the Labyrinth of Separation, we have always had a lifeline, however tenuous

and tangled, to the truth. The stories nurture that tiny spark of memory within us that knows our origin and our destination. The ancients, knowing that the truth would be co-opted and distorted if left in explicit form, encoded it into stories. When we hear or read one of these stories, even if we cannot decode the symbolism, we are affected on an unconscious level. Myths and fairy tales represent a very sophisticated psychic technology. Each generation of storytellers, without consciously intending to, transmits the covert wisdom that it learned, unconsciously, from the stories told it.

The third seed was the indigenous tribes, the people who at some stage opted out of the journey of separation. Imagine that at the outset of the journey, the Council of Humanity gathered and certain members volunteered to retreat to remote locations and forgo separation, which meant refusing to enter into an adversarial, controlling relationship to nature, and therefore refusing the process that leads to the development of high technology. It also meant that when they were discovered by the humans who had gone deeply into Separation, they would meet with the most atrocious suffering.That was unavoidable.

These people of the third seed have nearly completed their mission today. Their mission was simply to survive long enough to provide living examples of how to be human. Each tribe carried a different piece, sometimes many pieces, of this knowledge. Many of them show us how to see and relate to the land, animals, and plants. Others show us how to work with dreams and the unseen. Some have preserved natural ways of raising children. Some show us how to communicate without words – tribes such as the Hazda and the Piraha communicate mostly in song. Some show us how to free ourselves from the mentality of linear time. All of them exemplify a way of being that we intuitively recognize and long for. They stir a memory in our hearts, and awaken our desire to return.

                                                *************

Our human family has been forgetting and fumbling for a long time now. So much has been lost and we are still losing. And yet, there is evidence all around that seeds of remembering were indeed saved, protected, and nurtured. Some are just daring to show themselves now, and some have been right in front of us all along, visible only to some. We catch glimpses through stories, songs, dances, and rituals...

Dear human cousin, what if you knew that you were born to carry some seed that that was needed right now or would be needed in the times to come? What if someone had whispered into your ear when you were an infant, and when you were a child, and when you were a teen, and when you were a young adult, so that you knew it without a doubt:

You belong to the universal soul.
You are a part of the universal whole.
You were sent here with a gift we have all been waiting for,
and we welcome now this sacred blessing we see shining from your core!
~Laurence Cole, paraphrasing Martin Prechtel

And if you were carrying a seed, how would you know? For many of us, it takes decades to identify the nature of our seeds. Sometimes they can never be named, sometimes we don’t want to name them, but still they are there, just as in need of protection as a seed that is flashy, nameable, or early-bloomed.

• If you know some feeling of aching longing, deep in your bones If your heart hurts when you behold beauty
• If your heart hurts when you behold pain
• If you can feel the beauty inside the pain and the pain inside the beauty If you sometimes cry
• If you sometimes gaze at the moon

...then you are surely carrying a sacred seed that is still alive and must be protected. For the sake of All, please dear human cousin you must carry your seed with tenderness and courage, warding off all that would harm it. If that is the only thing you do in your whole life—to keep your seed alive—it is enough and everything. The seed has its own wisdom, and will come into greening when it will, in this lifetime or the next, if only you keep it alive.

To keep our seeds alive, we first have to notice and resist the harm of our modern world—by patriarchy and the market economy, by separation, scarcity, and unkindness.

Many of us have had to put on armor to protect our seeds from assault. We hide our tenderness, we stop our playfulness, we withhold our voice, we tuck away our dreams, for they have been so often battered. This self-preservation makes sense. But we can begin honoring our seeds by noticing that we’re doing that, by feeling the pain of it, and by celebrating with those who are daring to show their seeds.

When you feel your heart hurting, it might be because someone has harmed your seed. It might be you yourself who’s done it, to yourself or to another. You might be living in the story that there is not enough space in the world for your seed or for that of another. Notice it, and then dear cousin put your arms all the way around your precious seed and hold it like you would an infant, a child, a beloved. Our life depends on you doing it.

We come from a few generations of people who’ve been living in the story that participation in the market economy is good for the nation, but it’s not true. In fact, the competition, scarcity mentality, and time-suck of the market economy is a powerful seed-crushing force. Practicing active resistance is one very accessible way to protect your seed. Know that the images we look upon are etched in our souls, and then choose which you will allow in. When you are at the gas station and a screen pops on the pump with advertising videos, look away and plug your ears, or chat with a stranger, or sing. Turn off your phone, more and more often. Talk to strangers. Give away more time and things than you thought you could. Make yourself think again, and again, and yet again before buying something that you most probably don’t need, and if you do buy it give tremendous praise and thanks for the gifts of the earth that someone turned into a tool for making life shine. Choose which way you’re willing to hear world news, even if it’s different than other people you respect.

Starting there, resisting the impersonal but ever-present forces of the market economy, you might also begin noticing and resisting the personal attacks on your seed. One day you might find yourself speaking up when another person has diminished you, and one day you might find yourself speaking to a large group on behalf of the seeds of a whole people, or a plant, or a planet. It can happen.

You must resist the harming of your soul-seeds, and then also you must feed them deliciousness, give to them like you would to a child or a lover. What are the ways to do this? The list is forever-long and it’s yours. A few ways: being in silence. journalling. being with people with whom we feel welcome and free. giving service to community. being outside and knowing

the natural world as a friend. being willing to stick out, to be eccentric...for some people are like that and we need them. being willing to be invisible, quiet...for some people are like that and we need them. moving slowly. making things with our hands. praying. singing. dancing.

Our communities are walking-breathing soul-seed-banks. The seeds in our children, if they have not already been buried deep by mistreatment, are alive and visible. The seeds in our elders are sometimes re-emerged in the forms of eccentricity and generosity. The seeds in our middle- agers are sometimes active and visible as workhorses, pumping out their callings while there’s still time. 

But the most precious and tender seeds of all, the ones we’ve so tragically forgotten and must now at all costs reach out to protect and nurture, are those of our Sojourners, our teens and young adults.

For so many decades now we’ve left the Sojourners on their own, assuming that they can get what they need by the learning that takes place in high school or college, that they can find their way ‘like we did,’ that growing-up just happens. Yet without the nurturance of community, seeds languish and die. If we want the world to benefit from the one-and-only seeds that this generation is bringing, then we must contribute to the protection and nurturance of their seeds. We must help make fertile soil, for their time for planting may well be now. We must do this even though it likely did not happen for us. Hurry—lest we forget that this is exactly what we longed for, let’s begin again now to honor our Sojourners.

Where did the notion of “pulling oneself up by ones’ bootstraps” come from? Certainly our ancestors who lived in real community would never have dreamed up such an idea that creates the opposite of community. Let’s now turn that seed-starving notion upside down. How much can we give to our Sojourners so that they can protect and, if it’s the time, grow out their seeds? For we need what they’ve got, more than ever. You know it.

How shall we do that?

They might need:

• Community. To be seen, to be known as carriers of a precious community treasure. To be
  given what they need in order that they can carry their seed in the world. To be invited into spaces where they haven’t been seen, to be listened to well and trusted to listen well. Sometimes this requires middle-agers and elders who have money to realize that the Sojourners can’t come unless we exuberantly offer free passage to gatherings where we need their voices (which is all gatherings).
  
• Inexpensive housing. For, if they must spend all of their days working at jobs simply in order to have housing, how can they live into the visions their seeds are calling them to? What if Empty Nesters offered free or inexpensive housing to young adults, many of whom have college debt or other financial difficulties that keep them from growing out their seeds? What could that do for the future, for the lives of the great-grandchildren?
  
• Access to land. Many of this generation are awakened to the need for right relationship with land and food, and we must make ways for them to live into that calling. If we have inheritances from ancestors (usually from people who benefitted from some kind of privilege) how can we share its benefits with a wider community than just our own personal descendants?
  
• Ritual. For half a century or more our culture has been re-examining our relationship with religion, and now many are re-establishing ways that are chosen from a place of self- knowing and integrity. Some are participating in existing houses of worship, some are joining their leadership in an effort to help them evolve, and some are creating new ways of spiritual community. However it is, we must honor this longing and step into it, sometimes with stumbling, humble, baby steps. Making ritual—to honor the seasons, the passages through life, the grief of living, the joy of living, or anything else—is one way to build lasting community connection with the All.

Sojourners are carrying seeds that we all need in order to survive. They are asking the right questions, remembering ancestral ways, willing to experiment, able to think and speak clearly, and ready to give to the good of All. We can’t even imagine what they will bring forth. But they need us to see them, welcome them onto the path, help them, be family with them.

*******

Dear Cousin! What if you were carrying a seed that we all needed in order to survive? What if your neighbor also was, and also your nephew, your sister, and the stranger on the street?

Don’t you want to live as though that were utterly, heartbreakingly true?
Each day is another chance. 

Funerals: Why to Go

Dear Kristin, 

Did you hear that Marie Frana died? I just read it in the paper, but her funeral is today already. I’m going. Want to ride in with me? 

To be honest,  this is more than a carpool invite. I want to tell you my thoughts about funerals, share some powerful cultural truths that I wish someone had explained to me many decades ago. Since I didn’t know, I missed out on many opportunities to be part of the weaving of community that happens in its once-and-only way at each funeral. I missed out on the opportunity to show up in a way that matters to the whole like you’ll never know until your own loved one passes. And I missed out on chances to help hold together the map of our community. 

Here you are, new to the neighborhood, bringing your children and your many gifts, ready to be wholly part of this place. I offer you these reflections on funerals as an invitation to that wholeness. Yes, it’s a straight-out attempt to convince you, my new neighbor, to come with me to this and all future neighborhood funerals!

I used to think of funerals like I did weddings. You wouldn’t just show up at someone’s wedding; you need to be specifically invited. That’s clearly true where seats and meals are carefully counted, and it’s easy to see why I conflated weddings and funerals, as they are both held (around here) in church sanctuaries and church basements, with pastors and flowers and prayers.

But of course there are no personal invitations to funerals. The invitation is broadcast to all via the printed obituary, the church bulletin, the word-of-mouth. I used to assume that I wasn’t included in that invitation, because perhaps I didn’t know that person well, or because I didn’t think I should take up space, that I would seem an intruder, an outsider, a voyeur. I’m not really from here..how could I be welcome? 

Yet, how do we become ‘from’ a place but by participating in the rituals of life? Is there any other way to learn the stories that weave us together except by showing up to listen and remember on behalf of all? Funerals bring together a particular group of people that will never again converge, their hearts all oriented in that particular direction in that one moment, telling those particular stories. If we show up, we can catch some of them. There is abundance, and all are welcome to this table of telling and remembering. 

The stories that hold our connections through generations have to be carried, and we humans are the vessels that must carry them. They are sacred relics of our culture, kept alive only by the moving breath of voice and the open heart of ear.  We can carry stories that happened long before we were born, and in the telling of them we add yet another layer of the story. The only way to begin carrying them is to begin. To begin is to become part of the warp of community. 

I think part of my blind spot on funerals came from a sense that, in order to take up space there, I needed to matter somehow to the bereaved. I needed to feel a particular connection to the deceased, or have a particular task at the funeral, else I would be invisible and thus not matter. 

But I see now how being invisible, perhaps not mattering to anyone there at all, is a deliciously humble perfect non-self to bring to a funeral. Being part of the funeral congregation, I can feel my individual presence utterly absorbed by the whole. It is important to the bereaved to see many faces, many yeses to the life that lived here among us. Showing up at funerals is an easy way to shed the need to matter for who we each are, and practice mattering only as part of the whole. Surely our ancestors knew this way well. 

If we, the random neighbors and acquaintances of the deceased, don’t show up, are we missed? No. But if we do show up, we get to instantly be part of the community soup. What’s it like to both not-matter, to not be important to the deceased or the bereaved, to not have a task, yet to live in the knowing that we truly do matter as part of the whole?  When the community makes funeral-soup, it is the bereaved who are the meat and vegetables, and we others who make the broth. It all matters. 

You want to hang around elders more, hear their stories, jokes, and ideas? There is no better place than at funerals. Because they sure would not miss it. And whether you’ve just arrived from the moon or you’re the neighbor they’ve only met once, you are welcome. They are glad you’ve come.

You want to learn the old ways and stories of your community? You don’t have to live there 30 years to earn the right to ask questions.  You don’t have to get a research grant. You don’t have to slowly build relationships through weekly coffees (though let’s do that too). You just have to show up at funerals, stay for the lunch after, linger around the coffee urn and photo boards. Your interest will feed what is wanting to be given. For those stories are longing to be told, and you earned a ticket to the grand show of life-and-death just by being here. 

At funerals you have extra permission to ask questions that can be hard to fit into other settings. ’Do you ever remember seeing your mom and dad dance together?’ ‘What was it like when you sold the cows?’ The questions almost seem to be sitting out there in the space between you, begging to be asked. For there is an open-hearted spirit pervading it all, urging ‘Now! Here, and nevermore! Listen, tell, remember!’ Everyone feels it, everyone obeys. Full participation in the sacrament is natural, unavoidable. We were made for this. 

We white people of European decent sometimes bemoan the loss of meaningful ritual that’s embedded in our lineage. It’s true that we retain only a smidgen of what our ancestors did to hold their world together. While we re-imagine meaningful ceremonial ways for our descendants, let’s also honor those that remain in place. Funerals are one of those, and they always include the essentials: folks take pause from whatever else they were doing that day, gather in reverence, pray and sing, share food and share memories. 

On top of that, there might be even more to teach or remind you of pieces of our cultural history: the white robes; the waving ball of incense; the ceremonial carrying of sacred objects by children; the sharing of the blood and body of Christ; the carrying of rose stems by teary-eyed loved ones; and the partaking of roast beef sandwiches and coffee made by women who know their gifts and know that others will do the same for them someday. Whether you celebrate or mourn the history that brought us these rituals, you have to see what they are, in the end: perfectly imperfect humans honoring life in the best way we know how. 

A few years ago when my dear father died, I learned another good lesson about funerals. His memorial was in the Twin Cities, 150 miles from the place I’ve made my home for 36 years. Dad was a public figure there for many years so of cause there were hundreds of people in attendance. But the people who meant the most to me there were the seven friends from home who surprised me by traveling all that way to attend the 2-hour memorial. Sure they knew my dad, but when I saw their faces at the door I understood that they came for me. They knew how their presence would feel to me.  My tears flow even now to remember them there. Such a gift. All I can do now is keep giving it back. Maybe this letter to you is a small part of that. 

I’m grateful for what I’ve learned through time and missed chances. I’ll keep passing it along, just in case anyone else missed this learning like I did. Let’s keep the together-fires burning in our neighborhood! Come, let’s be the broth! Come let’s be vessels, let’s catch some strands of story to help hold our community together! 

Bring the children! 

Love, 

Liz 

Weaving Community Right Here and Now

Dear Friends, 

First, a true story that I heard recently from Michael Meade, an elder who teaches about many things related to culture and mentoring. 

Two young men, passionate environmentalist activists, had learned of a native elder who lived in their community. They wanted to visit him and learn from him, so they tried to contact him. He didn’t return phone calls, so after many months they asked a mutual friend to contact him on their behalf. The elder told the mutual friend to tell the young men that before he would visit with them, they first needed to learn to steward the earth’s resources that had already been sacrificed for them. For he had seen their cars, filthy and cluttered, and their home, unkempt and ignored. He sent the message that until they understood their responsibility for those pieces of earth, how could they be ready to save other pieces? 

This story got me thinking about the longing for community that is so often named in our society, and the many ways that people set out to find it. Yet it seems that sometimes in their pursuit of community people skip right over the most accessible and necessary parts, thinking they must do something grand like move to another town, take a course, or start an organization. 

Sure, any of these can be supportive to one seeking community. But what is the parallel here to the environmental activists’ need to first steward their car and home? What are the entry-level, easy, and essential first-steps toward creating the circle of community? What opportunities might we be missing each day? 

The list I’ve begun below looks a bit like what our grandparents might have called good manners. What they truly are is  the glue that holds us to each other. 

So here begins the list of what we can do. These things are just natural ways of humans and we’re doing them all of the time, yet it’s time to shine a light on them because in a society of busy-ness and productivity we run the risk of undervaluing what is simple, free, and always available. 

Very First Steps for Weaving Community Right Here and Now 

1. See People. When we pass anyone on the street, the mall, the coffeeshop, the bike trail, or any public place, we look at them. Greet them. Appreciate them. Even if they are looking at their device. Even if we know they will not seem notice us. Even if we are in a hurry. 

As we do this, we’re re-growing our awareness of what’s moving around us, so that when we are in a public space we’ll notice someone coming our way. Then, we look up so that we can receive or offer eye contact or greeting. We don’t pretend we’re invisible, because we’re not. Our presence is felt and we affect the space we’re in, so we choose to affect it with connection. Some of us remember that this is how it was even 10 years ago...people did not ignore the presence of someone else sharing their space, no matter whether they were friends or strangers. We can easily bring this back, and why wouldn’t we? For if we feel invisible, then we believe it doesn’t matter what we do or don’t do. But when we feel seen and know that we matter, then we have the makings for community. 

A special note about children, teens, and the elderly: Because of our media-driven society, these people have become invisible to many. So we watch out for that in ourselves and resist it. We take special care to acknowledge and befriend children, teens, and elders. It can be especially hard to connect with teens, who are so accustomed to only knowing adults as task masters and judges. We do it anyway. 

2. Learn people’s names. Including cashiers, taxi drivers, secretaries, bank tellers, wait staff, and anyone else. When we can, we learn last names too—for how otherwise will we be able to realize in a year or two that we’re meeting that person’s aunt or child? We learn where they came from too, if we can. That way, someday we could realize that we’re meeting their old neighbor from their hometown. For it is on these small bits of information that we can begin to ask and tell stories, to see how entangled we all are. Entanglement is community. 

Embarrassed to have to ask their name over and over? Me too. But never once have I seen that it actually offends the other person to be asked many times. They appreciate that who they are matters to me, and they give me a pass for not having a perfect memory. It gives them permission to not be perfect either. 

3. Show Gratitude. Everyday we speak the words ‘Thank you’ dozens of times: for someone who opens the door, steps aside, serves us food, and on and on. And it’s just one notch up in effort but oh so feeding of community when we write Thank-You notes and put them in the mail. Not only to our friends and family after holidays, but also to our librarian, our postal clerk, our convenience store clerk, our doctor. If you’ve ever received a thank-you card from someone who wasn’t required to write you, you know how it can change your day or your year. So we feed gratitude to the goodness that others bring, and know that we are feeding a fire that warms all. 

4. Pick up the phone or stop by unannounced. We rediscover spontaneous, unscheduled, informal connecting that is off-screen. There’s a huge difference. We try to do it once each week, or more! 

5. Ask for help when you need it. We all know how much we love to give, but we have to do our part in the equation by also being willing to ask for help. If everyone insists on being self-sufficient, how can we practice our human need to give? So we do our part by letting our own needs show. We let go of the notion that a grown-up would hire the solution for this or that rather than ask friends to help, for that notion is keeping us separate. 

6. Look for ways to give freely. Of course we people in this society need a certain amount of money to live, and of course we must to honor each other’s needs and passions by offering money in exchange for services. But while we are doing that, let’s look for as many ways as we can to simply give of our time and resources, asking nothing in return. We start by noticing all the ways we already do that, and give honor to those! 

7. Show Up. Whether we are a extroverts or introverts, old-timers or a youngsters,  contributors or  witnesses, our presence matters. When we’ve said we’d come and we just don’t show up, our community is diminished. Our absence is felt and noticed. So if circumstances keep us away, we give a call. But most often we just come, even if it’s not wholly convenient. We honor invitations by showing up when we said we would. For how can we be a community unless we each live as though we each mattered to the whole? 

8. Notice and value all of the small and simple ways we build relationships, and believe that they matter to the whole. Going on a walk together, helping out a friend or stranger, sharing a meal, stopping for a spontaneous conversation…these small-seeming things resonate forever in our lives and in the life of our community. By them our souls are forever intertwined, and although we can sometimes look back with amazement to see some specific fruit borne of such an interaction, that’s not the point. We know the moment as its own reward. 

We are always at church, and we are all the congregation as well as the pastors. There is no place but here, no time but now.  We can be forever and hopelessly entangled in community, just by starting here.  

Detention Deficit Disorder

Can't We Do Better? 

My encounter with the best and worst of humanity 

in a visit to the County Jail

The only thing that keeps my eyes open tonight is what I saw today at the Clayton County Jail when I took my Guatemalan friend Jose' to see his friend who is a prisoner there. Even if I had no hands with which to type, I would find a way to tell you this story before I sleep. 
 

Have you met Jose'? He is one of the 9 men who have lived in Decorah since November 2008, brought here by the US government after serving 6 months in as many as 16 different federal prisons following the raid on the Postville meatpacking plant. Jose' has a wife and 4 children at home in Guatemala with whom he speaks each week. They lost their home and land as a result of Jose' being in prison for 6 months; the 'coyote' (human trafficker) who had brought him across the border claimed those things when payments to him ceased. His oldest son, 13-year-old Jaime, died suddenly of unknown causes just 2 months after Jose' was brought to Decorah to serve this additional mandatory year away from his family. Anyone who knows Jose' loves him deeply. He is a devout Christian and practices the generosity, compassion, and faith of Christ throughout his days. You walk away from Jose' feeling in love with the world. You walk away from Jose' wondering if you could somehow be so loving, sure, and humble as he.

Today I called Jose' to ask if he wanted to go on a house tour with me. Jose' is a carpenter and has shown curiosity about our home: the solar panels, the corner cupboard, the wooden ceiling. He says he’s collecting ideas to use back in Guatemala, when he next has a chance to work on the house of some Americans there. I had the idea to take him and a camera around to my friends’ houses, and today looked like the right day for it.

Jose' politely declined. He explained that he had a friend in jail with whom he still had not been able to communicate, and he needed to go visit him.

Of course. I knew about this friend; Jose' had asked me 3 weeks ago to take him to there. I had been unavailable the day he asked, and then had forgotten all about it. I’m going to be honest with you the whole time I write this story: my selfish thought after being reminded about this need of his and the long drive to Elkader was “Darn! I don’t want to drive there! I want to take him on pleasant visits to my friends’ homes!“

But of course I offered to take him there, even as I hoped that he already had another way. I knew from earlier inquiries I’d made to the jail that Jose', as a “convicted felon,” would not be allowed under any circumstances to visit with a prisoner. (All of the people taken in the Postville raid were given that conviction in the mass and fast-track trials. As of May 2009 the supreme court has ruled that it was unconstitutional to convict someone of identity theft unless you can prove that they knowingly used someone else’s social security number, but still those 389 people live as convicted felons.) I knew that he would need someone who was a US citizen to go with him and talk to his friend on his behalf. Someone who spoke Spanish. I’m not the only person that knows Jose' who fits this description, but I was the one on the phone with him, and I saw what I needed to do.

I offered to take him, and he gratefully accepted. I hung up feeling slightly sorry for myself, but also glad for any chance to be around Jose'. The prisoner in the Clayton County Jail might as well have been invisible; I didn’t even have a passing thought of curiosity about him. It was for Jose' that I would go to Elkader.

So today was Saturday, and I was to pick Jose' up at 1:00 for the 50 minute drive to the detention center. Visitation hours at the jail are Wednesdays and Saturdays from 1:30-3:30. That’s all. 15 minute phone visits are allowed, with a thick piece of plexiglass between the prisoner and the visitor, allowing for viewing but not touching. Earlier in the day, I had called the jail to double-check that the friend was still there, and they told me that he wasn’t.

Why is it that so many of the people that work in detention centers fit the stereotype for jailers? With apologies to those jailers out there who surely do much better than this, I will tell you that those I’ve experienced are horrifically infatuated with their power over others. They are cruel and cold. Even on the phone, talking to me - in good old English! - they seem to do their utmost to not help, to not allow me to feel like a capable and worthy human being. They act as though I had done something wrong. I can only imagine how they treat the prisoners. When the jailer told me that Jose'’s friend was not there, I asked how I could find out to where he had been moved. She said I couldn’t. I asked again - surely there’s got to be a way to find someone in the prison system, I said. “Wait until he calls you - then he can tell you where he is,” said she. But he has no money, so he can’t make calls! “I can’t help you, she replied.

It is easy to be lost in the US prison system. We have no idea how many are lost there now.

Since we no longer had a destination, I didn’t fret when my translating appointment from the morning bled over to 2:00 in the afternoon. I knew that I would go to Jose' and give him the bad news, and then we would make a plan to start trying to figure out where the friend was. In the cases of many others prisoners, being transferred has meant being taken far away - 3 hours or much more. I hoped we wouldn’t find this to be the case for Jose'’s friend.

At 2:15 I arrived and told him the bad news. He was surprised, and didn’t seem to believe it. We talked some, and I started to second-guess myself. The truth is, though I’ve lived in NE Iowa for 29 years, I don’t get out of Decorah much. I have never been to most of the towns around here, and have never gotten straight which one is in which county, nor where Fayette, Clayton, and Chickasaw counties lie in relation to Winneshiek and Allamakee. The ironic aspect of all that is, it is only since the raid and since I’ve become friends with a number of Guatemalans and Mexicans that I’ve started to finally become familiar with these other towns! All of a sudden there’s a reason to know where Monona lies in relation to Postville, and how far it is from West Union to Fayette. And it matters what town a person is arrested in, for unless its a federal raid, the arrestee will land in the jail of the county within which that town lies. And believe me, if you have friends from Guatemala or Mexico, and it’s the early part of the 21st Century and you’re in America, then you know people who are in prisons and jails. The immigrants are involuntarily contributing to a healthy bottom line for the prison system.

I borrowed Jose'’s phone and started another round of calls to county jails in all these counties, and soon learned that my geographic confusion had indeed goofed me up: I had called the Fayette County jail, but he had been arrested in Monona which is near Fayette but in Clayton County.

By the time I got this sorted out it was 2:30. I asked the jailer on the phone whether we would be allowed to visit just past the 3:30 end time, since we were coming from Decorah and might not get there until 3:30. I received and unequivocal NO. Not one minute past 3:30. Rules are rules.

I hung up and sadly told Jose' that I had goofed, and that his friend IS where Jose' thought, but that now it was too late to get there in time. I told him we’d have to wait until next Saturday (and, I realized, I would be out of town next Saturday, so I would need to help him find another helper). I waited for his response.

He seemed to not understand what I had said. His eyes and his body seemed to be saying “let’s get on the road!” I explained again that we wouldn’t be allowed in after hours, and it would be impossible to find our way there before 3:30. “Unless...,” his eyes somehow caused me to mumble, “...unless you think we can still make it...do you want to try?”

Yes, he did, and so we took off! I knew it was hopeless, but I was willing to do this to show Jose' that I cared about him and also as a weird apology for having goofed up my geography. I drove fast, but I didn’t take any chances passing slow drivers on the narrow county roads. We had a nice chat - about his family, about work, stuff like that. As we approached the jail I asked him what he wanted me to ask his friend. He wanted me to ask him how long he expects to be in; whether they’ve set a court date for him; how we can get him some money; how we could get him a phone card; and to give him these phone numbers so he can call me and a few others once we get him some money.

(Did you know that unless you have money, you can’t call a soul from any county, state, or federal prison? This means that many, many people are lost in the system with no ability to speak with a loved one).

Luckily Jose' knew the way. He had been there once before and remembered the winding way. Why did I imagine it would be in a town, in plain sight? It was hidden away among the cornfields, and Jose' told me that most of them are like this. As we turned into the driveway, I checked the clock: 3:27. By the time we entered the door it would be 3:28. Two minutes until closing time. Though I had come without hope of accomplishing our goal, all of a sudden I chose to do everything I could to make it happen.

We pulled on the door - - locked. We pulled again. We stood there, waiting for it to open. Unbelievably, we expected it to open. But instead a voice came from a speaker, asking what we wanted. I said we had come to visit a prisoner. The voice said the visitation hours were over. Case closed. I said I thought they went to 3:30, and it was only 3:27. I said that we had come from Decorah, and I would take even just those 3 minutes with the prisoner. And then the jailer-woman did something she is probably regretting right now: she let us in. She broke her rules. Who caused her to do it - me, or Jose'? Together we were a force. I feel sure she has never done it before, nor will she do it again. She made sure we knew that we were wrong and late and bad. “I don’t care if you come from Arkansas to see him, you’re not getting in late again.” She was hard and cold.

So Jose' was right. He knew we would make it just in time. Or maybe he didn’t know that, exactly; maybe what he knew was that he had to try, and if he tried then God would see what could be done to help.

They ran my ID through a high-tech machine, and found me to be worthy of entering. (“Does it say that I was incarcerated in the ‘80s for civil disobedience?”, I wanted to ask.) She told me to step over to the second window. I was surprised! How could I have been so naive as to think that there would be a private-seeming conversation, even if it were being secretly listened to by the jailers? But no, there are three little visitation windows, so close together that I imagine it would be hard to hear one’s own loved one through the receiver of the phone if others were also visiting just 2 feet away. And it’s right there in the lobby, where anyone would hear the whole conversation. Not to mention the fact that it’s probably recorded...

I stood there waiting, concerned whether I would be able to remember all my jobs and get them done in the 2 minutes I would have. By now I could see that Jose' was in the siteline of his friend, as there was only 25 feet, plexiglass, and me between them. I wanted to stay out of the way enough to allow them to see each other, and also to convey Jose's concern as well as his questions, and to try to repeat the friend’s answers so Jose' could hear them, and to remember all the answers correctly to report later, and to allow space and time for the friend to convey what he had to say. There was no time or space for butterflies in the tummy. Time to try, that was all.

The prisoner came toward me in his orange and white striped uniform. I have saved his name to tell you now, for it was at this moment of course that he became a real person, a real person that really mattered, someone more than just “Jose'’s friend.” His name is Davi Lopez Chala. An American first name, a second name from Spain, and a last name from his Mayan ancestors. Davi Lopez Chala. Say “Cha-la.” Then say a prayer for him.

He approached, and I swear to you it was as though Jesus himself approached. The look on his face was peaceful, and joyful, and loving. I soon realized that his gaze was fixed behind me, at Jose' who now stood gazing back, with the same joy-and-love looks. This lasted just a moment, and then Davi brought that gaze down to me. I took in all that kindness and appreciation that Davi was sending to Jose'; he treated me like the trusted childhood friend that Jose' is, and I easily returned the connection.

Though I had all those assignments in my head, I also had my manners and my heart with me, and so the first words that came out of my mouth were “How are you, friend?”

His answer was this. His hands and arms made signs of struggle and trouble, and his words did the same. He spoke briefly and quietly about how hard it was; about how he was treated, how nobody would tell him anything about what was happening to him...he mumbled these things quickly, but I had to blink to believe what I heard, because to look at his face, one would think he was gazing at his newborn babe, or some other miracle of God. He radiated peace. His words spoke of struggle, but his face spoke of light and hope.

I want to understand the look in Davi’s eyes. Would I have to be a Guatemalan in order to understand all the layers? If your family and all the generations as far back as anyone remembers have suffered endlessly, are you left with only the options of serenity or self-destruction? Is it a cultural history that brings out that look, that seems to say “I know I am not alone, that God is with me. I cannot hide my suffering, and I don’t need to hide it nor explain it to you, for I know that you too are part of the secret of God’s love.” ? You could also wonder if it’s a half-crazed look, which would be understandable. Whatever it is, you cannot feel separate from other human beings, or, if you are a god-speaking person, from God, when you are in the presence of such a gaze.

I cruised through the other questions and reported the answers loudly into the lobby for Jose'. Another jailer had walked through behind me, and, observing Jose'’s non-verbal interaction with the prisoner, said loudly in English to him that he was not allowed to communicate with the prisoner - but she didn’t stay to watch over him, so the only thing that changed was was that Jose' sat down. He still gave his whole being into Davi’s sight, twisting in his chair to face the window fully and offer gestures of support. Though I couldn’t see it with my eyes, I was aware that there was this heart-communication going on between them as Davi and I spoke.

I unfolded the torn paper on which Jose' had written three phone numbers: his own, and those of two friends in Guatemala. I faced it toward Davi and asked if he had paper and pen. He glanced to either side and said that no, he couldn’t write them down. I felt helpless there, lamely holding in front of me this small but essential piece of information that Jose' wanted to convey. It should have been a simple thing to do, but it would be impossible here and now. For lack of a paper and pencil, but what’s more, for lack of seconds and of the right to ask for what one needed, that part of my job would be left undone. Really, how much did it matter at this point? - for Davi had no way to make calls anyway.

He said that there was another Latino in the jail, the only other person who spoke Spanish. He was from Mexico. He expected to be let out soon, and told Davi that when he got out he would find a lawyer to help Davi. I know about these kinds of stories and intentions; they are good and important, and as often as not they don’t come to much, but you never know what those seeds of hope might bring about instead.

He said that there was one jailer who was kind to him, a woman.

The harsh jailer who had somehow found it in her to let us in stood just a few feet away having a loud conversation though a speaker with one of her co-jailers. To hear Davi through the telephone receiver over her voice, I needed to press my ear into the plastic and I needed to ignore the irritated voice in my head that was noting this, another behavior that seemed designed to take away power and dignity from a prisoner and anyone who cares about one.

Maybe I attracted her attention by thinking bad thoughts about her. She turned and said that time was up. We had talked for approximately 6 minutes. We hurriedly finished our sentences, stood and said goodbye. We took the extra second for a silent sending of love. As I turned toward Jose' to take our leave, I caught the quick gesture Davi sent out to him across the space of the lobby: looking right into Jose'’s eyes with that serene gaze, he pounded twice on his heart with his right fist, then held his two fists together in front of his heart, as though he were holding a branch--and then he broke it. A broken heart. Friend, my heart is breaking.

And then, as I continued that turn away from his broken heart, in the same second I caught a glimpse of Jose', standing straight and looking directly back at Davi: he, too, with serenity and surety in his whole countenance, and his palms together in the form of a prayer, and then lifted up high to God. His fist on his heart, and then the prayer again.

In two seconds it was all over. I had seen this private moment between two life-long friends. One has already known the loneliness and sadness of 6 months in jail, and much more. One is just at the beginning. They are one. What more can we have than this, and our faith in whatever we have faith in?

Before I could even take one more step toward the door the cries ripped through me, bursting out of my mouth with such force than I could not stop them. I heard them and willed myself to stop, but it didn’t happen right away. I desperately did not want this to become a spectacle of me, but the things I had seen and heard, both beautiful and evil, hopeful and hateful, were now over the top. Jose' and I turned toward the door, he dignified in his quiet power and I taking in the last glances at sights and sounds of that terrible place: the plastic window, now vacant; a prisoner in her orange and white stripes, now being led through the inner door; the jailer, who heard my cries and thought - what did she think? Does she hear such cries of anguish all the time? -and Jose'’s kind gesture of consolation as he put an arm around me. I didn’t want to need consoling, by anyone and not by someone who has suffered as Jose' has - but this is the way things go, isn’t it? He is older and wiser than I. We both have our roles to play.

Long ago, I spent 5 days in an Iowa county jail. I had participated in civil disobedience and had a choice to pay my way out of my sentence with $50 or spend 5 days in jail. The choice might seem obvious, unless you are single and childless and wanting to understand more about the underbelly of the world, as I was. And so, though my experience of the jail was utterly distinct from those of Davi and Jose' and all the rest who have no choice and no exit date and precious few people to advocate for them from the outside, I do know a little about how it feels to watch human beings try to strip away other people’s humanity. I do know a little about windowless rooms, and days that start and end in utter sameless, boredom, and tedium. But this was altogether different. This left me feeling socked in the heart, out-of-breath.

Two minutes later it was all over. Jose' and I got into the car and drove toward Postville, where he bought me a coconut drink that is a favorite around there. Driving on toward Decorah,he told me more stories about himself and Davi, and more stories about how one is treated in a jail or prison. “...like a little animal, not a person.” He talked again about his faith in Beautiful God (Diosito Lindo), and how he would not be alive today were it not for all the gifts of God. He believes - because he’s seen it proven true again and again - that when things can’t get any worse, Diosito Lindo will bring something to help you through. He counts his being able to live among and get to know the Gringos of Decorah among one of those gifts.

Of Davi he said: “Davi had a very good job with a local tradesman. He had been taught the trade by the owner of the company, and he was well-liked there. But then everything changed, as it always will for an undocumented worker. One day you’re free and making it, the next day you’re a prisoner or deported. All the days in between, you try to not live in fear of whether this is the day when everything will change.”

“Davi helped me to get to the US - he had already been here for 2 years, and he helped me find a coyote to get me across. When I arrived in Postville, he bought me clothes and food and helped me to find a place to live. When I couldn’t work at ArgiProcessors anymore because my body was in too much pain from working 14+ hour days in the cold of the kill room, he found me a job with him. Eventually I had to go back to Agri because there wasn’t enough work there. He has helped so many people in this way, but no one is reaching back to help him now in his time of need. He is a good person, and a “paizano” - a countryman. I will do whatever I can to help him, until the end. “

Back in Decorah, I invited Jose' to come with me to Matt and Randi’s where we could use the internet and phone to find out how to send Davi a phone card and money. The house was empty; we helped ourselves to some trail mix from the kitchen table and started in. There’s a company called Reliance Telephone through which you can buy minutes for people in the prison system. After many phone calls to customer service, entering my credit card, and printing off the right documents, we had the PIN number for Davi’s electronic phone card. The only way to get him the PIN and the instructions for using it was to send him a letter, so I found some paper and Jose' set about that task. I went looking for an envelope, and not finding one in the house went to neighbors’ houses. I finally found one at the Taxi garage. An hour later we were stamping the envelope and then walked it down to the post office. For me, getting that done was the perfect antidote for the poisonous sadness that had landed since Davi became a real person to me, and since I got a taste of the Clayton County Jail.

We parted at the corner, where he would walk home and I back to Matt and Randi’s to gather my things. He opened his wallet and took out $20 to give me, the amount we had started the Reliance account with. I looked around in my mind for a second wondering what would be more polite, to accept it or not. I accepted it. Then he took out more, for gas; I turned that down. He thanked me deeply and eloquently for the many hours we’d spent that day, and again told me that God would thank me too.

God thanks me every day, and gives me more chances to learn from the beautiful people that are our new neighbors. And God, in the form of Davi and Jose', asks that we not allow people to become lost and forgotten in our jails.

I am truly amazed that we got to see Davi, against so many odds. Did Jose' know it would work out? Of course not - he just knew that we ought to try, that he wanted to try. Did I want to try? No, not really. The fact is, almost every time I receive a call or request to help one of the immigrants, it is inconvenient and I sometimes wish I hadn’t picked up the phone. Doesn’t everyone experience that? -that even for things you know you want to do and also should do, sometimes you wish you be the one to choose when and how? But it doesn't work that way.

I’ve had enough chances now to learn the truth: when I spend time with these people, I always come home richer. There’s nothing better than to keep answering the phone, and keep writing down whatever I can.

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I am an average Iowa citizen. Middle class, partial college education, business professional for 25 years, now self-employed. Married, mother of two.

Why then do I keep handy a list of the names, addresses, phone numbers, and visitation hours of many county jails in our region? I do not work in the criminal justice system. I am not a prison minister.

It’s because the world has changed since you last looked. If you ever thought that the only people who served time in jail were criminals, you were always wrong and you are even more wrong now. If you ever thought that the only people who served time in county jails were people who have been convicted of a crime, you are so wrong. They wait and wait and wait for their court date, and then often they go back and wait more months.

You just might want to start noting the names, addresses, phone numbers, and visitation hours of regional jails, because if we can lock up immigrants for months to years over unproven crimes, then it is not long before it will be done to someone we know and love.

Maybe you already know that most of these Hispanic immigrants have done nothing wrong, that they have done nothing that our immigration and economic policies have not encouraged and depended on. Maybe you already know that the US prison system locks up more people per capita than any other nation on earth. Did you also know that, according to a new report by the Congressional Research Service, over the past 30 years the federal prison population has increased by nearly 790 percent? Today we imprison some 716 people out of every 100,000.

Someday soon you too may have to learn the complicated way to send minutes to an inmate so that they can make collect calls to you, or so that they can buy some supplementary food for the meager rations given them. Someday you will find out what it means to drive hours to spend the allotted 15 minutes with your loved one, looking through a plexiglass, talking into a phone receiver. Someday you will look into his or face and know the effects of months without seeing or feeling the sun.

Someday you may have to learn all of this, and maybe it will be then that you will ask for prison reform. But it may be too late. The new jails will be built, and they will need to be filled. It’s the bottom line. Business is business, and this is the USA.