Walk With Me

Las Cruces August sunset
Sunset viewed on my evening walk

I’m learning to walk again.

Relearning the power of what it means to walk with another. To show up. To connect.

Even in silence. Even in the midst of language barriers.

And discovering how vulnerable you can be in the process.

Recently I was invited to join a group of volunteers who will lead walking meditations at the CAC Conspire conferences. This weekend I’ll be co-leading my first one.

Even though my interest in walking meditation began years ago, I usually practiced it alone. On my own terms. With my heart intact.

Then last spring while attending an “intensive” with fellow Living School students in Albuquerque, I joined a morning walking meditation. We walked silently in pairs. Shoulder to shoulder. Our slow footsteps in sync.

I didn’t know the woman walking beside me, other than that she was from Wales. Not a word had passed between us prior to this walk.

But somehow, during our 45 minutes of slow, mindful stepping, I felt deeply connected to her. I prayed for her, for her needs, for her peace and happiness. And she apparently was praying for me.

Afterwards, we hugged and then she hesitantly said she had something to tell me.
During our walk, she’d had a powerful vision about me. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she figured I needed to hear it.

Clearly, she felt vulnerable in sharing the message she’d received. As I listened, so did I. She must have noticed my eyes moistening. Caught the tears I tried to swallow.

Although she knew nothing about me, this woman’s words and vision were amazingly right on target. Letting myself become even more vulnerable, I began to share a bit of my story.Brene Brown courage
Barbara Holmes, an African American theologian, author, teacher, contemplative, and a recent Living School presenter, tells us that there are stories within us. Important stories that we need to share.

“We need to spend more time telling our stories to one another,” Dr. Holmes says.

Her words, and my vulnerability on that morning walk, remind me of the connection that can happen when we walk alongside someone and share our story.

It makes me aware of the tremendous vulnerability of the migrant men and women who share their stories with me and my fellow volunteers. Stories sometimes shared on a late-night walk accompanying a refugee mom and her kids to the Greyhound bus station where they will spend the night before leaving for a very early departure. Stories shared as we accompany a dad and son up the escalator at El Paso airport.

Powerful stories that emerge from within and invite us to pause and to listen.

Linda at EP airport
Linda, my friend and fellow volunteer, walks a mom and daughter to security at the El Paso International Airport

And sometimes it’s not about talking at all. Sometimes it’s about simply coming together and listening together in stillness.

When we do this, we discover who we are.

“Listening creates a holy silence. When you listen generously to people, they can hear the truth in themselves, often for the first time. And in the silence of listening, you can know yourself in everyone.”   Rachel Naomi Remen

Will you walk with me this evening? Take my hand and help alleviate my fear? Share my joy? Feel my suffering? Know my heart?

Whether it’s walking together on a downtown street in El Paso or a dirt path in the bosque (woods), you sometimes discover “The Beloved has passed this way in haste.”

And sometimes you discover that the Beloved is you.

 

Checkpoint on Pain

new mexico welcome

Last week I drove up to Albuquerque for my annual CAC Living School symposium. That means I had to pass through a Border Patrol checkpoint.

Driving regularly on southwest Texas or New Mexico highways, I’ve gotten used to it.

I know the routine.

I slow down to a crawl until I’m face to face with a Border Patrol agent.  I roll down my window. He sees my white face, asks if I’m a U.S. citizen. I say yes. He answers, “Have a nice day.” I drive off. He never asks for my I.D. Never checks my car for smuggled goods, or people for that matter.

There’s no doubt it’s racial profiling. But that’s the way it is.

Border Patrol checkpoint

Usually it’s pretty quick. Even when the cars ahead of me are not driven by Anglos. They have to show their I.D.s or documentation, of course. Often the agent looks in the car. But there’s no hesitation.

Not this time.

This time a few cars were lined up ahead of me. The agent was slowly thumbing through the pages in his hand, as the driver waited. He looked over each one carefully, then returned to the first page and started the process over again, as if he wasn’t quite satisfied.

This agent seemed to not want to accept the documents he was holding were legitimate. Or else he wanted to make the brown-skinned driver squirm.

While waiting, the woman in the car in front of me jumped out and opened her back hatch. She pulled out a suitcase and removed what looked like two passports. The woman was Hispanic.

Finally, after fingering through the pages a few more times, the agent let the first car go. Then the second car drove up. He poked his head down, asked a few questions and let the driver go.

Then it was the Hispanic woman’s turn. She handed over two passports, for herself and her passenger. One was blue like a U.S. passport, the other dark green. The color of a Mexican passport.Mexican passport

The agent flipped open the U.S. passport, then put it aside. When he opened the other passport, he hesitated. He looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again. Then he just held it between his fingers, waiting.

By now I could feel myself growing angry.

“C’mon, buddy! Either it’s legitimate or it’s not!” I shouted in my car with the windows still closed.

He stood there for a few moments more. Not doing anything. Not asking any questions. Just holding the passport. Then he handed them both back to the woman.

Next it was my turn.

“U.S. citizen, ma’am?” With a downturned mouth, he demanded rather than asked the question.

“Yes.”

“Anybody traveling with you?”

“No.”

“You’re free to go,” he scowled. Forget the “have a nice day.”

The negativity coming through the open window was palpable.

Clearly, this man was in pain. But it upset me, how he was projecting that pain onto others, especially people of darker complexions.

He could do a lot of damage with the power and the position he had.

The thing is, none of us escapes pain in our lives. We all have places of wounding and brokenness. Oblivious to this brokenness, we inflict our pain onto others.

Right now, in our country, it feels as though we are experiencing this at a magnified level…this projection of pain onto others.

We’re having a hard time looking within ourselves. Letting ourselves feel the extent of our sadness, our hurt, our grief, our need for healing, our failure to be responsible for one another. We don’t want to feel it.

And what we won’t acknowledge and take responsibility for, we are bound to repeat. Without self-awareness, we can numb ourselves to the atrocities committed against others.

In fact, this is something we’re trying to address at the Living School. The unacknowledged painful effects of racism and white privilege. I’d say it’s causing a reaction in us.

For me, being a writer, I naturally want to write about what I witness. I pay attention to the pain and suffering I see in those I accompany at the border. In the encounters I have with others.

Hemingway write hard black
It shows me how we are not separate at all. It shows me how I feel the same fears, hide out in the same ways, and want to close off my heart to those who have hurt me. Just like most of us do.

But in writing about it and letting myself feel it, maybe I can become more aware. Soften the pain. Create my own checkpoint for the ways I block off the borders of my heart. And not repeat this very human pattern of inflicting pain.