Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen

This Christmas, I got Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen as a present.  I'm never sure what came first, the chicken or the egg, writers and poets or my own interest in identity?  But Bruce Springsteen was one of those people who got me thinking as a teenager.  His Born in the USA album was something I had pretty much on repeat during my first year in high school.  The album wasn't new, but the thoughts; about war and Vietnam,  racial conflict, unemployment, what it means to live in place, and identities we are born into - were new to me.

Born to Run does focus on identity - or rather, it looks at what motivated the original thoughts, and the process of working on the various recordings.  It also focuses a great deal on relationships, what it means to be a person in a social, political, work related or family context, and the troubles we sometimes have along the way.  Bruce Springsteen has always written about relationships, but Born to Run emerged out of a long process of therapy and self-exploration.  The result is a coherent story about where he came from, the journey travelled, and those he met on the road.

We are introduced to the complex, drunk, neglectful and sometimes terrifying father, his very capable mother with her Italian work ethic, sister Virginia, who married young, and whose early life inspired song The River, baby sister, Pam, and all those friends he met along the way.  Bruce Springsteen also introduces us to his many different identities.  We get to know the sensitive child, the determined teenager, the traveller, the reflexive and politically aware young adult, the lost wanderer who searches for home, and the family man.

There's the story of broken down cars, lost dogs, and a whole lot of hitchhiking.  In some ways, the book reminded me of On the Road and I imagine Bruce Springsteen intended this, comparing himself to Sal Paradise by drawing up images of Dean Moriarty on his first trip west.   Sal's wanderings came between marriages, and he searched for the ghosts of lost fathers.  Bruce Springsteen's journey included marriage, and involved an exploration of fatherhood, Catholicism and even the great navy blue sky, seen from a stadium floor before playing to a once only imagined audience.

But Bruce Springsteen, while having the energy Sal only writes about, focuses more on his internal life.  He shares his depression, his anxiety, his search for meaning, his determination and his desire to make a difference.  Music is a passion, and he brings the adrenalised experience of playing to an audience to life, sharing the highs, the fears and the doubts of standing on a stage in front of crowds of people.  He shares the importance of getting the girls to dance, or having that one person in the audience who sings along, so that the fluid motion which occurs between a performer and his audience starts to build.  Bruce Springsteen isn't a passive observer of everyday life.  He constantly engages with the world around him.  And he wants to make a difference.

Throughout the misunderstandings his work produces, his determination to carry on, and the plotting of a path into the future, Born to Run shares what it means to have a passion, to be vulnerable (or not) and to battle your own demons in a divided world.  He doesn't romanticise everyday life in the way Sal Paradise does.  Instead, he reflects.  And as a teenager, he encouraged me to do the same.

Beauty in storytelling

I've spent the last week reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer.  I've actually had a pretty wonderful year when it comes to reading, and over the year I've read and re-read many different writers, but Braiding Sweetgrass left me mesmerised.  With a beautiful sense of poetry, the writer shows us the impacts of history, the wonders of the ecology, and the value of community and what it means to look out for each other.  She does this while sharing her own life story as an ecologist.  And at the same time, she challenges the dominance of western science, allowing the insights of indigenous beliefs to come to the foreground.

Bron Taylor (In The Dark Green Religion) quoted the Columbian ecologist, Ximena Arango's belief that "oppressive behaviours do not follow an understanding that everyone is part of the earth."  Robin Wall Kimmerer uses lived experiences, including clearing out a pond, or the picking of wild strawberries, to share the value of be - ing, and what it means to live in a more-than-human world.  There's the imagery of pecan trees, all producing nuts at the same time, the maple syrup moon, and the gift of strawberry shortcake, a present from both earth and children.

We live with a wisdom so much greater than our own, in a universe which breathes alongside us.  And this was what I loved so much about Braiding Sweetgrass. As a scientist herself, Robin Wall Kimmerer showed us how western science doesn't have the only answers.  And what it means to embrace alternate ways of knowing, so that our own beliefs can be expanded.  She does it through story telling, by embracing wonder, and by marvelling at the beauty which exists all around us.  I can't think of a more inspiring way to learn.

Fast fashion: what a shame

When I first started to explore Ecopsychology, I read Andy Fisher's chapter on capitalism, and the sense of shame it sometimes creates within people.  The upshot of the argument was really about our belief in the need to purchase more, in a  quest for deeper happiness.  Since then, I've learned about how we shop because we aspire to be different in some way.  And sometimes we shop out of a search for identity.

Naomi Klein's book, No Logo, showed how capitalism had gone onto the streets, sports fields or even coffee bars in a quest to convince us that a product could make us cooler, fitter, more intellectual, or quite simply more creative than we actually are.  Branding sought to convince us that it's the product which does the true work, and we are given that extra sense of capability by the products we purchase.

No Logo also looked at the costs of those products.  The factories, sweat shops and exploitation which came from cheap manufacturing.  I've also read about the wars, oil spills, deforestation and toxins dispersed into both the air and the water through dyes, toxic fumes and poisons which go into creating them.  The sprays, insecticides, fibre residues, and the overall impacts of transporting products makes costs to the environment huge.

Reading No Logo lead to Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion by Elizabeth Cline.  This book speaks of those ways that trendiness and, sometimes, lack of quality, leads to a perception that clothing is disposable, and that by buying regularly and changing our clothing frequently (very often donating the items we reject from season to season) we are merely expressing ourselves, with no harm done.  Cline focuses on fast fashion outlets such as H&M, and on our unwillingness to spend money on clothing which will last.  Although H&M are now offering the opportunity to recycle old clothing, this is still with the intention of making new purchases, and from a fast fashion shop.  By continually following trends, rather than developing a sense of personal (and consistent) style, customers are constantly making purchases based on the whim of buyers, merchandisers and (multi) seasonal trends.

I was astounded by how deeply we've bought into the belief that fashion should constantly shift and change when I read an article on the closure of a clothing group in Cape Town.  I used to buy from a shop which formed part of this group.   I also like many South African designers  and I'm hoping they are able to keep working.  

Last year, the shop closed down, and I wondered why.  Then a business day article explained that the shop hadn't managed to keep turnover up.  New fast fashion outlets, and some of our local shops, with  a faster style turnover had made the shop 'irrelevant' said an independent consultant.  The shops had battled to purchase new stock.  This consultant also said that the styles were 'outdated'.  Nobody is really interested in the 'white linen dress' or striped top when trends change so rapidly, he shared.

I was sad to read this.  I'm not very aware of trends.   But I've always been of the opinion that women who have their own flair stand out most.  That doesn't mean adhering firmly to a certain look, shop or merchandiser.  It's just that the person behind the clothes, and the combinations s/he makes are more interesting to me than the trends of the moment.  I'm not particularly great at styling, but I do appreciate this ability in others.   And I was astounded by the belief that good quality 'classic' style is irrelevant to modern day customers.

I'm also astounded at how the so - called 'look of the moment' and the ability to fit in with this is held up as some sort of achievement.  I remember being on holiday one rainy weekend, and sitting inside with my daughter and watching one of those makeover shows.  I really do believe that stylists who help people find a good fit, or get proportions right can make a big difference.  But in the show I was watching, the make-over gurus were pretty much about obliterating the personal (70s bohemian) style of the client.  Instead of helping the woman to add new touches or update what she'd done for so long, the stylist humiliated this woman by declaring she'd never get promoted or achieve anything by presenting herself in the way she did.  She then dressed the woman in some generic and trendy clothing, and declared her cured of whatever style ills she'd wandered onto the program with.  I personally thought the client looked better before she'd met the style consultant.  She certainly didn't look like she was about to burst into tears.  

I wonder why we think it's okay to humiliate people for being either 'out of date' or 'too trendy' and why we allow a couple of global brands, merchandisers or buyers to tell us how to express ourselves. If we are to work towards re-forming our awareness of environmental rights, perhaps it begins with re-forming or at least questioning why we allow ourselves to be dictated to by so-called experts.  What is so wrong with our own ideas on life, the environment, or fashion?  Why should we feel ashamed if we stand out, show a sense of individuality or refuse to buy into a culture which exploits both the environment and our humanity in a quest to make a new sale?

Winter thoughts

I've spent the last little while re-reading The Darma Bums by Jack Kerouac, and then realised, much to my fascination, that Japhy Ryder, the inspiration for going, not on the road, but into the mountain, was based on Gary Snyder, whose work I love to read, and who has shared an understanding of oral culture, the importance of the commons, and what it means to be a person living in a more than human world.  I loved Gary Snyder's exploration of deep ecology as more than the wonders or beauties of the natural world, but also the horrors, the maggots, the underground life of forests, and what it means to hold a saw as a ten year old.  He also speaks of getting to know all of our neighbours in this world, including the plants and animals we share our lives with.

Linking back current ideas and inspirations to teenage inspirations and dreams feels quite wonderful, as though it is possible to thread new ideas into old, and see where some of the seeds were perhaps planted.  It's also been a good time for reflections.  Winter in Cape Town is cold and wet, and often the time I like to think through old work or ideas rather than try to work towards new ones.  I tend to find I like to think or dream during winter, and as we head towards spring, I start to wake up, and find the idea of new thoughts (and new writing) more appealing.

We live close to table mountain in Cape Town, and the beautiful mists are a part of life.  We also get to see what is called the 'table cloth' or the clouds coming in over the mountain.  In winter, the shadow from the mountain means that the sun goes down early and the feeling of being in shadow can be quite solid.  Being away from the mountain can sometimes feel quite liberating towards the end of winter.  The shadow can feel quite heavy.  At the same time, I tend to find that working within this space of deep shadow can be interesting, a space of deep thought rather than a quick jump from one idea to another.  Winter's also the time for fires, a time when I catch the scent of woodsmoke when I walk to pick up my daughter from school, and a time when long walks are a welcome relief from being shut inside.

I'm starting to look forward to spring, even just for the opportunity to start wearing short sleeves again, and to get to feel the air on my skin.  The winter fires have been wonderful, but the chance to sit outside in the morning sunlight, to properly awaken from winter shadows, and to start to explore new aspects of my work feels exciting.  I think I am starting to wake up again.

Radical Imagination

When I share my interest in imagination and its role in creating change, I sometimes get the response that imagination is unhelpful.  Not only that, but working with imagination is unhelpful too.  In a world where there is a terrible sense of social injustice, it can sometimes seem as though a focus on imagination means denying that problems exist.  If we can wish our troubles away, after all, why would anybody want to work towards a more just society?

However, imagination can help us see that the world around us doesn't exist as the only possibility.  Instead, it was once imagined (and then set into place) by those who have gone before us.  What we have inherited is a material reality which impacts upon the lives of many.  But these realities are not the only possibilities.  Instead, some theorists (such as poststructuralist or social constructionist theory) argue that if we come together and recognise the difficulties 'we' (as a non-hierarchal humanity) face, and work towards exploring possibilities for a better world, then perhaps we can work towards increased social and environmental justice.

Alex Khasnabish and Max Haiven have a book called The Radical Imagination:  Social Movement Research in the Age of Austerity, which focuses on how to harness the imagination in order to work towards a more just society.  They explain that:

• Imagination means visioning a different future, and then bringing these ideas back into the present so that we can inspire both solidarity and new plans of action.
• Drawing on the past (and the complexities of the present) in order to understand the struggles we face.
• Imagining the struggles of others allows us to work towards a more compassionate world.
• Understanding the way that power works, and the systems and beliefs which uphold this enables us to work towards a stronger civil society.
• Sharing experiences, stories and what it means to be a person in the world helps to add to a wider and deeper definition of being human.
• New ideas help towards building new future stories or ways of understanding.  
• Imagination is constantly in flux, transforming or changing constantly.  This enables to see that reality is in flux, and our own contributions can add to a greater whole.
• Radical imagination means looking at the roots of power imbalance which have lead to social and environmental injustices.  This can include racism, neo-colonialism, sexism, and oppression based on religion, sexuality health or (dis)ability.
• These beliefs are reproduced over and over again via actions or words which exist between us. By increasing our awareness of these actions or beliefs, we are able to work towards change.
• Social movements are sometimes able to work towards a different society (although they do not create utopias).
• Members of a social movement do not share set perspectives or identical ideas.  The multiple perspectives or contested ideas provide insight or new ways of seeing the world.

Working with dialogue very often means that those people who have the most insight into social struggles, the people who have faced oppression or difficult circumstances, are the people who get to talk.  Marginalised perspectives offer a great deal of insight into how to work towards transformation.  Tim Brown in Change by Design, gives examples of the hospital patient who understands the loneliness and isolation of staring at the ceiling or being pushed through corridors while in a vulnerable state.  Likewise, it is the person who cannot read who is most able to assist with signage, or a woman who walks through a deserted park after a long day who is most aware of safety or security.  People who have been forced outside of the system often understand best those areas of injustice, oppression or struggle, and how best to work towards change.

Radical imagination, which works towards acknowledging injustices, often offers insight into areas where change is most needed.  In a world where knowledge places us on a hierarchy, and often means talking about, for but never with 'others', imagination and dialogue is empowering.  It means acknowledging the agency or insight of the 'other' and using this to build a better world.

Writing with care

I woke up this morning to a song by Sade, with the lyrics "It hurts like brand new shoes..."

The song is called pearls:

There is a woman in Somalia
Scraping for pearls on the roadside
There's a force stronger than nature
Keeps her will alive
That's how she's dying
She's dying to survive
Don't know what she's made of
I would like to be that brave
She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives a life she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes

Hurts like brand-new shoes

The song stayed with me until I started reading.  I started with  some of Susan Griffin's work.  Our Secret looks at the ways in which our lives interconnect with the world around us, a world we both inherit and create via our own contributions.  Susan Griffin is an Eco-feminist, but one of her passages focused on art, poverty, and the terrible fear of having a baby whose health is fading.  Griffin explained how poverty seems to expose the rawness and vulnerability of what it means to be a person in this world.  She also explained that art may sometimes be used to challenge the social norms of the time.  Explaining that poor people were (are) sometimes seen to be both less valuable, and less threatened by the loss of a child, Griffin explained that this artwork shows something different:  the fear of a mother for her baby, and the anxiety of the baby's father and sibling, who linger in the background.

Some of Griffin's work focuses on war, and while I was reading, I thought about Rollo May's work on care, and the story he shared of images returning from the Vietnam war.  These images no longer showed the heroics of soldiers.  Instead, May explained that they were images of care.  In a very beautiful paragraph, May explains a scene he had observed on the television of a camera man at a scene where a child comes out of a tunnel which has been gassed by marines.

May explains that the child emerges in a state which is beyond crying.  Instead, he is bewildered by a world which could contain such horrors.  And the 'black' marine, aware of the mistreatment and oppression which exists in his own homeland, possibly sees his own oppression and pain in the face of the child:

"While the announcer of the program rattled on about how the gas is harmful for only ten minutes and then leaves no deleterious effects, the cameraman kept his camera focused on the face of the marine...I think he sees there another human being with a common base of humanity on which they pause for a moment in the swamps of Vietnam.  His look is care.  And the cameraman happens to see him - happens almost always now to see them so - and keeps his camera trained on his face; a subconscious reaching-out only for human interest, rendering to us an unconscious expression of the guilt of us all.  And...keeps his camera pointed at the face of the large 'black' man starting down at the crying child, nameless in the whole sad quicksand of modern war..."  (May, 1969, p 289).

May explains that this image is a simple illustration of care, a state in which something does matter.
He lets us know that care is 'the dogged insistence on human dignity, though it be violated on every side..."

Last week, English journalist, Giles Coren, wrote with a great deal of tenderness and sensitivity about the need to break the cycle of violence or harsh treatment of children in a very moving article which related to a seven year old who was lost in a forest.  The article comes from the London Times, which is usually protected by a pay wall, but can be found here.

He explains how "Mr Tanooka told a Japanese television channel, "I said to Yamato, "Dad made you go through such a hard time.  I am sorry." And then my son said, "You are a good dad.  I forgive you"."

He then shares that "That is how it goes when fathers punish their children.  The violence happens in the heat of the moment and then the burden of forgiveness is placed, almost immediately, upon the child.  The power to make everything okay in the family again is placed in his tiny hands."

And that "The chain has to be broken.  it cannot go on.  The violence and punishment that begin in the home go on to ...cause all of the misery in the world.  And if this chain is to be broken it has to be broken by us.  Me.  You..."

These writers are teaching me about aesthetics or soul, about putting care into action so that it can resonate with others, breaking down the hierarchies which harm other people, and giving us images which embed themselves into the minds of others, offering an awakening or a deeper sense of consciousness.  This, I think, is what it means to work with warmth or soul.  It's what I would like to do too.

Re-veiwing peace

“For freedom is honed in the struggle with destiny.  The freedom that develops in our confronting our destiny produces the richness, the endless variety, the capacity to endure, the ecstasy, the imagination, and other capacities that characterize the world and ourselves as conscious creatures, free but destined, moving in it.”

(Rollo May, 1981, p96)

(I Found this post while searching through some old documents.  It dates back to December 2013, and while a lot has changed in South Africa at the moment, particularly with the Rhodes Must Fall movement and it's emphasis on reflexive learning, it still feels relevant when discussing how to work towards 'peace').

Nelson Mandela’s memorial service took place today, and amongst many of the comments which I read one in particular pointed out that freedom was (and is) a process rather than an end result or a destination.  Perhaps, as Rollo May argued, once we give up fighting for freedom, we have lost our place on the path we use to search for it.  Although we live in a country that has political democracy, we live with the terrible impacts of human rights abuse still visible in the form of poverty, lack of adequate sanitation, the struggles for adequate education, high rates of infant mortality, illness and high levels of violence.

South Africa had the vision of a Rainbow Nation, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) and a story of forgiveness, and yet there is quite clearly work to be done.  I would like to argue that peace is not sentiment.  More importantly, working towards peace is not about dominant groups or belief systems retaining power while ‘other’ people peacefully accept this.  Peace, I would argue, is an act of rebellion, a refusal to fit in with dominant norms, if these norms marginalize or oppress populations or groups of people.  Peace is about exploring history, evaluating who has been harmed, and using our freedom to work towards new possibilities while refusing to stand by belief systems or value systems which harm others.

I would like to argue that the very beginning of human rights work means looking beyond ourselves, our ideas and our perceptions of the world, and into the wider collective of the human family, seeking out those beliefs or spaces which allow abuse or human rights violations to thrive, and searching for new options.  In working towards freedom and a society that is safe from abuse, we, as a society have to continually question our perceptions of the world and the blind - spots we have acquired over time. We have to work, continually, to challenge set theoretical notions that we believe make the world safe and predictable, exploring our freedom to re-view the world continually, casting ourselves into the chaos of not knowing so that we can embrace the dynamic flow of ideas or shifting realities with courage and a willingness to learn.  

To do this, we have to recognize the boundaries of our existing worlds, and where the limits are.  We need to acknowledge the reality of the present, and use the limits people face as a means to working towards deeper human rights.  Exploring the limits within the social world is important because it exposes privilege.  As Goffman argues, we sometimes only become aware of the rules or boundaries, which limit us when we come up against them.   When we are aware of how our own behaviours construct and re-construct reality over and over again, we are more able to see the limits we place on ourselves and on ‘other’ people, and how we interpret the world or ourselves because of this.  

Perhaps one of the most moving examples towards a protection of human rights came from World War II, where citizens of Denmark all wore golden stars after Germany issued instruction that all Jewish people wear one.  With the declaration of a human family living in Denmark rather than separate groups of ‘us’ and ‘them’, Jewish people remained safe.  This action was an act of defiance, an awareness of the power which comes with unity, and showed an understanding of the dangers of social categories and divisions.  It was the awareness of the social norms used to discriminate, and the refusal to comply, which brought about the compassionate rebellion which saved lives.

CUT OFF: The artist IMPREINT and perceptions of homelessness

The cardboard sign sitting outside of a red telephone box looked curiously lonely.  Where was it's owner?  I searched for him for a few moments, looking for his outline inside the box.  Was he making a call?  Did he choose to go to sleep?  Where was the man who had prepared himself to go out for dinner at an expensive restaurant?  Why did I assume he was a man?  

IMPREINT, the artist behind the signs, in a project called Cut Off, succeeds in making normality strange when he presents us with the image of a homeless person's sign.  This sign refuses us the right to the gaze.  Sometimes we gawp at homeless people, wondering what has happened.  Sometimes we choose to look away.  But the choice is always ours.  I thought about how often I have looked at homeless people, questions in my eyes, but no real words of acknowledgement.  And I thought about how furious or enraged I would be, if the situation was reversed.  

The homeless live amongst us, often cast into shame filled spaces where begging for change comes with an apology.  IMPREINT draws attention to the social norms which cast homeless people into the margins, into shelters, soup kitchens or street corners, but never expensive restaurants.  In a world where we think of work as making a profit, people who are not able to generate income are very often seen as failures, drunks or addicts, deserving only the very least.  We draw on the myth that the poor are lazy in order to lessen our own guilt.  

Are poor people lazy?  Men who work in the hot sun for very little money work hard.  Sometimes, they are unable to make ends meet.  Sometimes work is irregular.  What do we call work anyway?  What do we call failure?  Why should people who have very little be cast into marginalized spaces?  Why should we able to gawp rudely, prejudices written onto our expressions?  

Who is this homeless man?  He is unseen.  Any impression I had of him was created by my own stereotypes and pre - judgements.  IMPREINT brought up the face or the image I gave to 'the homeless' and forced me to confront my own preconceptions.  I questioned what I believed, and why I thought this.  I questioned my right to stare.  All that seemed normal to me, or common sense, came into question.  I questioned my own hypocrisy in deciding what poor people need.  

Finally, I thought about the request for food, and not money.  IMPREINT shakes up our perspective on what a homeless person deserves, but the sign still asks for food.  Money helps when it comes to transport, shelter, health, and the opportunity to wash or shave in order to be treated as fully human.  A homeless person would be far less likely to acquire a good meal if he was unable to wash, after all.  It would be harder still for him to find work.

By throwing all of our assumptions up in the air, and asking us to reflect on our own reactions, IMPREINT asks us to reflect on our prejudices, and to question whether they are really harmless?  Is it okay for me to define my humanity as so different to that of another person's?  Is it okay to look at a set of circumstances (which may happen to anybody, but are more likely to happen to people without social support) and declare somebody else as  'other' or less worthy of a meal?  Is our everyday way of seeing the homeless the only way of seeing?  

IMPREINT showed me that my narrow definitions or ways of seeing were not the only ways.  Perhaps next time I gaze at a homeless person, I will do so differently.  Perhaps, if we learn to see ourselves as interconnected, capable of seeing the world as we wish it to be, and of making an effort to bring this world to life, our gaze will be less harmful.  Perhaps, as Impreint's beggar shows us, the only way of creating a new reality is to imagine a less discriminatory world, and work hard to bring that world into reality.

The spaces between us

One of the things I enjoy most about taking part in the Agents of Change project is the visual example that the spaces between us are those points or places where conversations can occur.

Agents of Change focuses on how imagination enables us to create the world around us.

In the words of Peter Gabriel:

Looking out on empty streets, all that she can see
Are the dreams all made solid, the dreams made real,
All of the buildings, all of the cars, were once just a dream
In somebody's head

(Lyrics from Mercy Street)

The world around us was imagined, shaped via thoughts which would later shape the realities we see around us.  These realities sometimes present as the only ways of being, but Agents of Change shows us how our own thoughts, words and conversations are able to evoke a connected and creative energy that helps us to re-view the world and ourselves, in order to shape new possibilities.

Our thoughts go from the inner world of thought, back out into the outer world of sharing, conversation with others and awareness of the environment, and back into the world of insight or reflection, forming a continuous and fluid process which brings new ideas to life.

But we stand on the beach, we become people in bright orange jackets.  The process creates a sense of equality, taking us out of our social and professional identities and often creating a sense of curiosity.  If members of the public approach us, we share our questions rather than try to provide any set answers.

This openness to sharing and equality has been a relief for me.  I've learned that by taking myself out of my professional identity, and the jargon or technical language which sometimes accompanied this, I've been able to form deeper and more open conversations with others.

I studied critical theory because I wanted to work towards a deeper sense of human rights.  This would eventually move into an awareness of the interconnected social and environmental ecology around us.  I was only able to do this, however, when I learned to listen, share and respond.  Before this, my professional language had often formed a barrier between what I wanted to say, and what was actually understood.  The problem with technical language is that in situations where people face difficulties and want them to be heard, expert language or technical knowledge often provides a painful barrier that blocks out those communities of people who most need to be heard.

I often used technical language when I felt most vulnerable, and wanted to be precise.  Through taking part in Agents of Change, I've learned that it is most helpful to listen, shaping new ways of seeing the world by participating in the conversations people share with me.  We have the language of poetry, an embodied language of thinking and feeling together, and the language of imagination, metaphor and possibility.  Our sense of togetherness, when sharing our questions or insights, means that we shape new ways of seeing the world, offering up different realities or possibilities, and exploring different ways of being.

By awakening a radical sense of imagination, I've learned that I no longer need to offer answers or re-frame the world in technical language.  Each person is able to speak and share what s/he believes in, and each person offers up new insight.  It's been helpful for me, because technical language, born out of an urge to be inclusive, often leaves others more excluded than before.