What happened to my environmental commitment? Do I really actually have one? It feels...lost. Insubstantial. Fraudulent. Not really a commitment. A promise I didn't keep. Do you see what's happening here? I'm beginning to feel bad about myself. I believe I know why; it's something I learned from my anti-racism work—it's easier to feel bad about myself, to infuse my nervous system with the familiarity of guilt, fear, shame, and doubt, than it is to feel grief.

My interest is the mattering of all people. This is tender terrain; everyone hurts in a society where some people matter more and some matter less. We know that the pain of that hurt lands differently on different bodies. There is the pain of not being seen, or acknowledged, or regarded as a human being, tender under the skin as we all are.

In the context of my anti-oppression work—or more positively, my work toward liberation and human rights—I've been thinking about what I do. Although I don't tend to walk in the door announcing that I'm an educator and a writer, that's actually how I think of myself and what I do. What's interesting is how long it took for either of these deeply held impulses—intertwined loves, I would even say—to come to mind as something I could offer in my commitment to everyone mattering.

My one night in a hospital, appendectomy included, came to $35,000. My share came to $6000. I felt really pouty about this; outraged, actually, and definitely deserving of financial assistance. As I filled out the hospital's aid application though, a few minutes of vulnerability math tempered my sense of entitlement. Over 60 + Jewish + a cancer survivor + female = a really low vulnerability to oppression score.

The term 'social justice steward' is new to me, and I'm intrigued. It sounds more appealing than 'social justice warrior', a term that to me evokes a picture of someone so dedicated to a movement that their commitment becomes a detriment to their well-being (physically, emotionally) and relationships (family, others in their movement). While warrior evokes a combative posture, steward makes me think of the tenderness I felt when raising my kids, or about the three very small trees I recently planted.

Many years ago I met a mindfulness teacher/nutritionist/improv artist who shared my love of games. Parlor games, board games, crafty games, running around games, word games. I mentioned that for me, there's nothing like the feeling of joy, exhilaration, and embodiment I experience when I play. She explained, "Games hold our attention. When we play them, we give them our singular focus, like in meditation. The benefits are the same."

When I first heard that Israel declared war on Gaza in response to Hamas' horrific attack on Oct 7, I felt (among other things): concern (for lives lost), frustration (for violence being considered a viable option), and detachment (I don't know a lot about what's going on over there; I don't have a stake in this).

Then the body count grew, the neighborhoods crumbled, the safe zones were bombed. It didn’t take long for my feelings to change.

All lives matter. I believe this, fervently, and regardless of how the phrase has been used by others.

I believed this before the tragedy of what's happening in Palestine/Israel, yet the situation there and what I'm learning about it is heightening my perceptions of mattering, and sensitivity to it.

I'm seeing a pattern: in myself, with my friends and acquaintances, and in the folks I work with. It goes like this:

  - An act of oppression, harm, or inhumanity happens. We want to Do Something about it.
  - While we contemplate what that action is, we find ourselves awash in guilt, shame, fear or doubt.
  - And then, we end up doing nothing. Except perhaps to feel bad about ourselves.

While I still experience some combination of guilt, shame, fear or doubt regularly, I’ve figured out how to not be paralyzed; how to Do Something anyway.

Today, October 1, is the 20th anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. On that day, my kiddos were 14-months and 4-years-old. I didn't know then that I'd have to wean my baby so my milk ducts could shrink enough for a mastectomy. I didn't know I'd go through four months of chemotherapy. Or that twenty years later, I'd be a healthy 61-year-old disinclined to wearing what my kids used to call my Foob—my prosthetic false boob.

I also didn't know that I was white…

Recently, I found myself in a situation that called for an apology. The one I got surprised me. It was…perfunctory. Rushed. Delivered with downcast eyes. And totally dissatisfying.

This wasn’t a racialized moment or an interaction that had anything to do with racism. My surprise, however, was because of my racial equity work.

I’ve always been drawn to geometric order. When I see colors repeated systematically within shapes across a surface, I get a warm, soft feeling in my sternum, somewhat fluid & definitely comforting, surrounded by a deep breathy “ahhhhh”. I get the same sense of comfort from the smoothest, lowest physical effort to move my body—which also makes for speed. Do I love a low effort sequence of movements because it feels good, or because I’ve received so much reinforcement about the glory of productivity, the joy of efficiency, the beauty of a smooth running system?

Recently, I have been asking “white” coaching clients as well as caucus, circle, and workshop participants how many times a day they think about being “white”. I posed this as the Anti-Racist Action in a newsletter a few months back. Responses have been fascinating. This little research undertaking is helping me better understand how to cultivate a practice of attention to "whiteness", and the system of white supremacy culture, in all its wily ways.

The trifecta of white supremacy, capitalism and patriarchy work to keep us apart: the rich from the poor, the privileged from the disenfranchised, U.S.-born from immigrants, aggressors from victims, young from old, me from my Black neighbor.

Together, these three forces form white supremacy culture, and through this culture, we disconnect from each other.

The trifecta of white supremacy, capitalism and patriarchy work to keep us apart: the rich from the poor, the privileged from the disenfranchised, U.S.-born from immigrants, aggressors from victims, young from old, me from my Black neighbor.

Together, these three forces form white supremacy culture, and through this culture, we disconnect from each other.

I am part of a recent phenomenon: the burgeoning of white anti-racist "practitioners”. It's an imperfect label, but I like how it suggests the minute by minute practice of staying awake to the obfuscating racist structures of our culture.

You’re probably familiar with some of the risks associated with this new industry…