Mindful March.

Wanted to recap March before we got TOO far into April (yes, I know it's 1/3 over)...

March 1 marked the beginning of Lent this year, and I set for myself two Lenten "goals" (if it's right to call them that): I would give up all dessert/sweets, and I would take on praying the hours with Phyllis Tickle's Prayers for Lent Through Easter from her Divine Hours collection. Both have been good in different ways, and I hope to write some thoughts about both practices during this Holy Week.

I've had a chance to serve as a Confirmation mentor to our seventh graders at church this year; not only has this experience caused me to reflect on my own confirmation 16 years ago, it's also meant that I've gotten to scratch the surface of faith and life with these great kids. Part of that included a day retreat here in Atlanta, working in the Clarkston Community Center garden in the morning, writing a creed for Confirmation Day during lunch, and bowling at the Comet before dinner.

It's far from a bad thing when you get to listen to amazing speakers for "work," and last month I got to hear from two prophetic voices of our time: The Rev. Dr. Amy Butler of the Riverside Church in New York City (that historic church's first female senior pastor), and the Rev. Dr. William Barber, president of the North Carolina NAACP and organizer of the Moral Monday protest movement in that state. Both pastors preached stellar sermons that spoke truth to power in a way that I needed to soak in, and I hope and pray that many more are exposed to their messages of authenticity, hope, and the need to dismantle systemic racism in our country.

Can't remember the last time that I went to a movie on opening day (probably a Harry Potter midnight showing), but a good pal and I took a Friday afternoon to go see the new version of Beauty and the Beast. Sang along like crazy, of course. Music really does make me well up, especially when I realize how imprinted on my brain and heart it is, even after years of not singing it. And while seeing B&B onstage in Dublin on my first trip out of the country will always be my favorite experience of it, Hermione, Matthew Crawley, Gandalf, Olaf, Obi-Wan, Professor Trelawney, Audra (doesn't need a character name because she is a legend) etc. were all lovely. Watching it also made me pretty sure that the original is where I first heard/learned the words "provincial" and "asylum." Who knew?

We got together with a group of friends that hadn't all been together in awhile for a delicious meal, laughter, and fellowship. It also happened to be the day that Sean passed his Certified Financial Planner licensing exam (woohoo! so proud of him), so that added to the celebration!

I was thankful for two more chances to get to know others in my community and talk through important issues of social justice, specifically racial justice: another Round Table dinner at Emory (subject: March? AKA, what does it mean to be an activist?) and as part of a group from our church meeting with a group from a predominantly black congregation. Both felt so important to me, the experiences themselves and beginning to process them (like I did in this post). There's so much more to be done, and I'm excited for future discussions with both of these groups. I strongly recommend--especially to my fellow white people--trying to find an opportunity like this in your own community, and pray that more will crop up for me and for you, wherever you are.

Switching from the profound to the superficial, a thrift store near us is having a going out of business sale and I got some sweet (nearly) new spring things for a VERY discounted price. Since I go shopping approximately 1.5 times per year and only enjoy it for about 1.5 hours, this was an excellent development!

My folks celebrated 32 (!) years of marriage in March, so of course a dinner was warranted. We tried out M572 and really enjoyed it--the atmosphere and the food were both top-notch!

The next day, I drove out to a double birthday potluck for two of my best friends (happy day, A&A!), and got to see one's new house. It was a perfect spring day and besides good friends, there was pimento cheese, so really nothing could have been better. 

I spent an afternoon hearing from Edward Mitchell, the executive director of CAIR (Counsel on American-Islamic Relations) Georgia, in a talk dispelling myths about Islam and refugees. It was really great, and taught me a lot about Islam that I didn't know before, in terms of the belief system itself and the origins of important practices like prayer five times a day and the Hajj to Mecca. A really great opportunity! 

I'd love to hear: what were your favorite March moments? Or any from April already?

Sit and listen, stand and speak.

Last week, I attended my third Round Table discussion (I've mentioned the other two in my monthly recaps). Students, faculty and staff from the university where I work, as well as members of local churches in Atlanta, gathered for a meal and to discuss the question: What does it mean to be an activist?

This is a question I've been internally thinking about a lot recently--since the election, mostly, which is a very white woman thing to even be able to say. Lots of people have been thinking about it long before that. I won't say it didn't entirely enter my mind on November 9, snippets of thought about how to stand and speak up have floated into my head and heart since Ferguson. But even then--others have been asking what it means to be an activist, and defining it for themselves, for decades, even centuries, before I got here.

What does it mean to be an activist?

As it was at all the tables, my conversation partners were both black and white, female and male, a range of ages--all with meaningful stories and powerful voices (even if they spoke quietly). Some of the ideas and thoughts shared:

Activism is standing up in dissent.

Activism can't happen unless we take care of ourselves, and don't burn out.

Activism means different things for different people.

Activism means using your particular gifts to stand in solidarity. (You may not feel comfortable at rallies or marches; but maybe you're an artist and you can create beautiful signs for your friends to take downtown. You may not want to go speak up at a town hall meeting, but you can have a one-on-one conversation with someone who doesn't see the same way.)

I greatly appreciated the conversation, especially the pieces about using our particular gifts, about claiming the role of activist in different ways based on our personality, our talents, our passions. That speaks deeply to me, as an inward-looking, self-aware soul who loves deep personality tests and dumb Buzzfeed quizzes equally. I savor the sense of knowing myself, and knowing what I'm good at, and applying that to my space in the world. 

But there was something itching at me as we sat around the table, and I voiced it to the extent that I knew how at that moment, and I'm writing it down now to see if anything new comes out.

The itchy piece stems from being a white woman, and being more aware of those roles--particularly those two roles smushed together--than I ever have before in my life. The itch says, Hi y'all, I'm Claire. I'm an introvert who loves cozying up on the couch with a book or a movie. I hate calling strangers on the phone and I don't love standing in crowds, or shouting, or even chanting. If it is not made easy for me to get somewhere, I will usually make the choice to stay home.

The itch ends with the question: But aren't those some pretty shitty excuses, white girl? By the way, where have you been up til now?

I feel like maybe I've been myself too much up til now; that as a white woman, existing in that demographic that so overwhelmingly voted for Trump, even though I did not, I now have to prove extra to the world--perhaps especially the black world, the Muslim world, the immigrant world, the LGBTQ world--where I stand, and who I stand with.

They're not going to know it simply by looking at me. They're not even going to know it simply by seeing the ring on my right hand that bears a cross. 

And you know what I realized as I wrote this? Maybe that's how my black neighbors, my Muslim neighbors, my immigrant neighbors, my gay and lesbian and trans neighbors--have been feeling for an interminably long time. That they have to prove extra to the world. That the world won't know or trust or see inside them simply based on how they look. Or it will be based too much on how they look, and the ones doing the looking will make up negative things to see. And so they have to try harder.

Maybe in this itch I'm sensing a small, small part of how that feels.

The voices around my table, black and white, echoed over and over again the importance of being an activist in your own individual way, and seeking self-care and avoiding burnout in whatever form suits you. And part of me--most of me, if I'm honest--clung to that, like a permission slip to work for justice in (what I think for me would mean) a quieter way. But there was/is still part of me struggling with the need for white people, women and men, to use our base of privilege--present whether we realize it or not--to speak louder, to march more, to make ourselves uncomfortable on behalf of our neighbors who need that from us in this historical moment, and have needed it long before.

Part of me wants to say it's a balance between those elements--the what-comes-naturally and what-feels-harder. But even saying it's a balance feels a little undercutting, shallow, copping out. Not saying that it is. But for me, those exist in tension.    

Bishop Rob Wright of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta was also present at this Round Table discussion. He closed us out, sharing what he thinks an activist is: "Activists quietly or loudly point out the gap between stated aspiration and current reality."

Then he asked us to think about our purpose. "Purpose" stems from a root word (in what language, I forget) that means fire, he said. It's different than passion, he said. "It's a journey to find out what you have to do to be you. Purpose gives you immediacy and authenticity."

We are "bundled with gift and capacity, but beautifully unique," he said. "Given your unique gifts, capacities, all that you have, what does activist mean for you? What's stirring in you to try or to do or to land more squarely on?"

Yesterday afternoon, I joined about 15 church members from my (predominantly white) congregation in conversation with about 15-20 church members from a predominantly black congregation. The topic? White privilege.

We all gathered in a circle of chairs in a classroom, smiling politely at one another, writing out name tags and introducing ourselves, making small talk about how many years we'd each been at our respective churches. After opening us in prayer and an introduction about why we were here, we broke into small groups and discussed several different passages from Jim Wallis's book America's Original Sin: Racism, White Privilege, and the Bridge to a New America (which is now on my reading list).

As soon as we began, I knew that this was something I had been longing for. To be in true conversation, not disrespectful, but honest and open and tough. I have spent so much time over the past year-plus reading and posting articles, maybe having a brief Facebook comment discussion, commiserating with coworkers (often very helpful) and writing posts like these--but so little time actually listening to the stories and thoughts of my black sisters and brothers who encounter the negative impacts of white privilege every day. I shared pieces of my journey as well, but I really aimed to listen and soak it up, even when it was hard to hear. And a lot of it was.

I'm still processing the experience--which I hope will be the first of many, as our churches continue this growing relationship--but a couple of items that we discussed stand out to me in this moment.

It resonated not for the first time, but maybe for the deepest time, that we really are living in more than one America--that the way I teach my someday children about how to interact with the world will be very different than how the people sitting next to me have had to teach theirs. They are having conversations with their children that we never even have with ours. "Look for the helpers," Mr. Rogers told us, and it's a quote that's always trotted out after a mass shooting or terror attack. But what if the helpers you're supposed to be looking for don't always want to help you? I always feel that I will be respected and taken care of by forces outside of myself and my family. The police officer. The store clerk. The bus driver. The hiring manager. Never once have I thought or expected or experienced anything different.

"I don't think any of these white people would want for a second to trade places with us." It's a concept that I've heard before, but I've never heard it stated directly to me, about me. And I felt ashamed that the speaker was right.

One person said that on November 9, they weren't surprised at all, just went on with their day, while a younger white woman arrived at their office in tears. I was one of those naive white women in tears, downing a doughnut and wiping my eyes, scrolling my newsfeed, still in disbelief. I got absolutely zero work done that day. 

Why does the idea of equality for all evoke such fear, even subconscious fear, within white people? Why is there this foreboding and hand-clenched sense that in order for others to gain access to equal rights and justice under the law, we must lose something? That's not the issue, that's not what is being asked of us.

The lack of white men in attendance (there were only two from our church present) did not go unnoticed, when white men are going to be central to dismantling the structures that currently hold our country's systemic racism in place.

After two hours, I was mentally and physically worn out. But I was so, so pleased and almost relieved that we had begun to have these conversations. That our black sisters and brothers were willing to have them with us, to go over experiences and emotions that they have had no choice but to carry, that they can never put down. "We know that this is a white problem," my friend (one of the two white men) said to the entire group before we closed, "And we are thankful that even as you bear the burden, you are also willing to teach us." (Paraphrasing his eloquence here, but I hope the sentiment is understood/felt.) My eyes filled with tears as my fellow church members and I murmured affirmations of his words. We held hands and prayed, we thanked each other for sharing. I was thankful, I am thankful. 

I am a listener. I am one who connects. And this was activism as I feel called to it.

As I continue to sit and listen, may I be moved to stand up and speak. 

(P.S. I'm becoming more and more convinced that these sorts of conversations should be mandatory for, like, the whole country. Just an idea...)

February Fullness.

Hi, friends! My monthly recaps have been a bit haphazard of late, but you have to start back somewhere, right? And for only 28 days, February sure was full. Here are some of my favorite moments (in no particular order)... What were yours?

#ATL4Muslims/#ATL4Refugees: On the first Saturday of the month, two friends and I took the MARTA train to midtown for an interfaith rally in support of Muslims and refugees. It was a brisk sunny day and I was grateful to be able to show my solidarity with people who contribute so much to our community. It was especially important to me to express this solidarity as a Christian, because I believe that Jesus would value interfaith fellowship and would certainly stand alongside our sisters and brothers who want to come to this country to build better lives.

I'm flying... (flying! flying! flying!): If you know me at all, you know that my church youth group's yearly musical and drama performances were integral to my teenage years, helping me grow in confidence, self-esteem, friendship, and over-memorization of lyrics that I happily/crazily can still recite to this day (did you know that Joseph's coat of many colors was red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach and I could go on but you would start to hate me...?). So it's extra fun to now get to be an audience member, and that was certainly the case for this year's production of Peter Pan. I've known some of these kids since they were toddlers, and what a gift to be able to watch them grow in the same ways I did more than 10 years ago. Plus, we were big fans of the televised Mary Martin Peter Pan when I was a child, so it was fun to revisit those (very stuck-in-your-head-able) songs.

Back to childhood: Speaking of church youth group and growing up and musicals, one of my dear friends came into town and one Sunday afternoon we got to roam around our forever stomping grounds, a.k.a. the church campus and playground, and reminisce like whoa. I'm so thankful for other people who appreciate that time in life as much as I did, and who can still feel the reverberations of it even now. It was a cool feeling to perch on the tire climbing contraption (does it even have a name?) that used to make us feel small and talk about adult life stuff. (I heart you, KTO!)

Room at the Round Table. I'm really thankful to work at a university that has so many opportunities for everyone, not just students, to learn and take part in strengthening the community. One of these is the Round Table, which I think I've mentioned before. About 70 people of different backgrounds gather for a meal and to discuss and share questions on a certain topic. February's topic was (can you guess?) love, and I while I valued having a chance to speak, I felt even more strongly the importance of listening to the others at my table. I could have stayed silent the whole time and still come away so deeply enriched.

Development without displacement. One thing I'll say for the Internet, and Facebook in particular, is that it has made me aware of specific events that I can attend in my area to better educate myself about issues that matter. An example of this is the gentrification teach-in offered by the Atlanta chapter of SURJ (Showing Up for Racial Justice) a couple of weeks ago. SURJ Atlanta holds educational events every month, and this was the first one I was able to go to. Along with a basic definition of gentrification (when affluent white people move into historically lower-income neighborhoods populated by people of color, thereby driving up prices for everything, resulting in displacement of longtime residents) and the complex myths surrounding it, we learned about how gentrification has happened in Atlanta specifically--a history that, as a native Atlantan, I'm ashamed to say I knew very little about. We also heard from representatives of two groups currently fighting gentrification in the city: one trying to secure affordable housing around the popular Atlanta BeltLine (where housing prices have skyrocketed), and one trying to work with the Georgia State University development that will take over the old Braves' stadium Turner Field and surrounding neighborhoods. If you're in Atlanta and looking for ways to get involved, I'd suggest SURJ ATL's educational programs; it wasn't intimidating, taught me a lot, and introduced me to concepts and organizations that I hadn't previously been aware of.

Saturday Seminars are the way to go. I spent one rainy Saturday morning with the Decatur Writers Studio at their first "Saturday seminar," which offered two presentations for writers--one on law and copyright presented by Deborah Gonzalez of Letterbox Legal, one on author platform presented by Alison Law. Both interesting, informative, and helpful! In the middle, we got lunch catered by Souper Jenny (yum!) and had time to connect with our fellow local writers. DWS is planning to offer these 3-hour Saturday sessions on different topics every month, and if you're an Atlanta writer, I encourage you to check them out! (I'm already signed up for their March Saturday seminar...)

[Insert your favorite Dowager Countess zinger here.] Because this was the first winter in the history of our entire relationship without Downton Abbey, Sean and I have been rewatching the series from the very beginning (we're about to start season six tonight). With a couple of exceptions (dear Jessica Brown Findlay and Dan Stevens, four years later, I'm still mad), I've been reminded how wonderful this show is, and how affectionate I feel towards these characters (in most cases).

Witnessing herstory. On February 8, Emory University, where I work, inaugurated Claire Sterk, its first woman president. I got to attend the inauguration--and bring my grandmother. Nana's presence made it extra special, because she's lived in this area since she was a small child, has a degree from Emory, and, as she told me before the ceremony, has known all of the previous Emory presidents since the 1920s. It was wonderful to be able to share such an historic moment with her. 

Coworker bonding. My colleagues and I got away for a daylong team summit at my house--it was so fun to show them our digs, and to talk through our priorities in a less fraught way than we would have in the midst of a crazy day at the office. I'm so grateful for my work people!

At-home massage is the way to go. Because he knows me well, my husband got me a massage gift certificate for Christmas, with the added plus that the wonderful massage therapist, Toni (ATL folks, let me know if you want her info), came to our house. It was so lovely to finish up and not have to drive anywhere, and instead take a hot shower, put on my bathrobe, and curl up on the couch.

Whew! This year is already flying by... can't wait to see what March brings. But first, I'd love to hear your most meaningful bits of February. Lay 'em on me!