The Why... - 1/29/2023
Sitting with our demons was born from my innate curiosity to understand the deep sadness that laces every moment after surviving a lifetime of abuse and trauma. Throughout my life, I was told repeatedly that I was too sensitive and cried too easily, but I felt such great release whenever I cried or sat with my fears and hurts; it never made sense to me why this act that felt so good and holy was often discouraged.
As a child, whenever I witnessed those who succumbed to their tears, they often expressed shame and embarrassment afterward, quickly attempting to return to a productive state of being. The same people were often angry, bitter, and harsh towards me, confirming that I could not trust their handling of these complex emotions, so I became an intentional seeker of wisdom and truths that did not induce hate for natural human responses.
This is not necessarily a new concept. According to 11th-century Tibetan Buddhist teacher Machig Labdrön (1055-1145), she believed that anything that drains our energy and inhibits us from self-awareness is a demon; they aren’t bloodthirsty evil creatures with horns but wounds within us that have been left untended. Rather than struggling against them, feeding or tending to the demon by deliberately paying attention to its needs may reveal what you need to become an ally to yourself.
Since I resonate with these demons as inner wounds, I like to imagine sitting with them, learning about their needs, and responding accordingly.
So I say to you, hey, you can sit with us.
Author's Intention
Through carefully chosen words, I explore and attempt to describe the human experience to encourage us to remain attentive and curious of our internal and external lives.
Doubt - 12/27/2022
You pace in the back room of my mind
Loudly stomping down the hallway of my throat
You've nestled under the warmth of my breasts
You sleep and wake
Shout and pray
Like a sort of quiet hurricane
We move our stiff hips on this harshly lit dance floor
Your shadow is just out of reach, just out of focus.
You are a haunting
An invisible, looming figure, opening and closing the creaking cupboards of my Spirit house.
You are a possession speaking through my mouth. My clumsy tongue smacks against the flat, dull bones of my teeth.
- Melissa Rivera 2020
What is this new skin I am in
tailored to fit the only body I own
a sack of bones
a mind contemplating new thoughts
my mouth reciting new scripts
I stand on the stage,
a personified monologue constructing my best lines
I see the mess, the shattered glass. I take a breath
The wind blows down all the doors
I am the wind; I am the breath
I am the rhythm beating fire into your chest
What new song can you sing today
In what ways will you touch me
The world around us will tire, but you and I will conspire to climb the last mountain left on the east.
What is this new skin I am in?
tailored to fit the only body I own
A sack of bones
A mind, a mouth, a heart,
All wailing, ready to fight,
fighting to dream,
birthing unloved seeds
placing them in coffins
never to be seen
I stand on this holy ground.
To inhale the sweet mix of air and light
You stand so bright; you blind me
Invite me to your home
Feed me from your lips
I am dependent on what we grow
My belly is full of the searing love you give.
There is no one that you owe.
- Melissa Rivera 2022
Yearning - 1/29/2023
I forget your given name, but I remember your face.
You are my favorite book
Your viscera spread on every page
You left the room and took the world with you
tucked humbly underneath your coat.
I followed you home that night
Seven steps behind because you asked me too
I opened you up and exposed you to the light.
You faded
like phantoms in old polaroids.
You faded all of your hues.
Here comes the wave of dissonance.
The desire for innocence
The silent scream
The world under your feet
I walk in the rain until dawn
I wait beside the hollow tree
I slept alone
You are my polarity
- Melissa Rivera 2021
To Savor or to Fight, perhaps they are the same? - 8/26/2023
I have my qualms with positive thinking. It's not healthy to treat deep-seated emotional and psychological pain with superficial positivity. Rather, I am practicing to remain curious about it without judgment.
There is a time for profoundly appreciating the good around us, but forcing ourselves to feel better will delay the release that pain requires; sometimes, we can only accept that it hurts. Toxic positivity is a form of gaslighting ourselves and each other to think everything will be okay by denying our grief. It's a way to ignore the systemic issues contributing to the discomfort of marginalized communities.
The depression, anxiety, and slew of mental illnesses that plague us can mostly be traced back to the unspoken caste system in place, which disregards the humanity of all - rich and poor; however, for the rich, it is a lack of true joy and honest community, but for the poor, it is a lack of resources that impact all aspects of our lives and wellbeing.
I seek to understand the root of all things - I tend to dig deep to find the antidote that could rid such poisons. The deeper I dig, the more I find that the antidote is to live as humanly as possible, which feels anti-climatic. Many elders who have already lived before us offer the advice of savoring all good moments, slowing down, meeting the sun in the morning, and greeting the moon at night. However, the suffering in the world is so overwhelming that my mind gets bogged down by the great desire to problem-solve, fight, and confront. Many of us who feel this deep sense of injustice in the world and the responsibility to respond to it all - find ourselves in the trap of never resting, ignoring our humanity, either because of guilt, anger, or both. We must realize that the state of our society is unnatural, with capitalism being the child of colonialism, and at its core is fear and greed - it influences all of our current societal systems to be off balance and compartmentalizes the services rendered. It's why many reasonable efforts feel so delicate and fleeting; it rids itself of the roots so far and deep that the younger generations struggle to trace the origins of their lineage and brokenness, which lead to self-loathing and self-blame.
Self-loathing and blame keep us stuck and blind to how we got here - it destroys the ability to seek and find the antidotes.
What are the antidotes? The savoring - the walk inward where we treat every moment as a privilege, not to be confused with complacency, but rather to not allow our ability to feel joy to be taken from us. We are forests; we are ecosystems, not machines or temples. Many think that the antidote is to be more like the rich and powerful - and who can blame them? We want endless resources, pleasure, fun, and power. We deserve to feel joy, have fun, and have resources, but how do we acquire it without repeating the same mistakes and perpetuating the same death of our inner forests - we are all susceptible to becoming power-hungry and greedy - hoarding too much because of fear. There is a difference; some rich and powerful do not know what it is like to need. However, I can't tell you whether that is good or not, but I can tell you that it is not the antidote.
Back to savoring every moment in our lives - though it helps us fend off desperation and depression, can it flow and reverberate through our communities to heal us?
I try to savor; it's hard work to intentionally see the meaning behind all small moments - to be grateful that though my hands are at times plagued with arthritis, it is a gift to still be able to feed myself and then do the dishes. But then, remembering the nagging truth that though I work hard and live responsibly, more significant societal problems still disrupt the fabric we so tightly and tenderly hold together - it's all we have.
At times, I fantasize about revealing the roots and birth of our "ghettos" to those suffering within them - I become annoyed when the aunties, grandmas, and janitors are grateful for the small things, saying loud and proud, "I am grateful for another day," I want them to want more, I quietly blame them at times for being complacent and settling for the few good things they have. But who am I to assume they do not already know? Maybe I am the one who still needs to understand.
Anger is a purifier, but it can also be a wildfire; it must be guided and honed to allow for strategic and purposeful passion directed at the giant dragons of greed. If I am going to make them angry by pointing out the injustice, where do we direct the anger? How will we not allow ourselves to be consumed by it?
Writing inspired by:
https://hiddenbrain.org/podcast/you-2-0-slow-down/
The book The Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire
https://education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/ecological-benefits-fire/
Kin - 8/30/2023
My people have a complicated relationship with freedom and independence. We know we deserve liberty. We know it's inherent to our well-being. But when the sacrifices required of us in exchange are unfathomable, the flame of our humanity begins to burn out. Some of us retreat into the boxes and cages we've been told we belong in because freedom's price seems too high to pay. What is even the point of being free if you can't bring the entirety of yourself with you?
Freedom and independence are synonymous with adventure, but the experience is expensive; it costs time and money and typically requires a destination. In the age of self-care, we are encouraged to indulge in "adventure" to escape our daily lives. But I can't afford to go.
I've carved out a good life in a modest row home with my life partner, two kids, and a dog to complete the idyllic family life. Six years ago, in my early thirties, my body felt heavy with the need for adventure. Remember, I never learned to drive; however, I became an avid urban bicyclist dodging vehicles in a crowded grid city. It was about survival, but it was also about adventure.
Biking around the city and negotiating the terms of my life with SUVs and public transportation vehicles gave me a sense of accomplishment. I began seeking these minimal adventures to feel free, powerful, and capable. Long walks are also in my repertoire, but I would hop on my bike when I needed to feel something more. Biking is a full-body active meditation, rhythmic movements of my legs pushing the pedals as I inhale the stale city air into my lungs and exhale my greatest fears and vulnerabilities. I enjoy the juxtaposition of knowing that I am free to move toward my chosen destination while also understanding that the only body I own could cease to exist if a car made the wrong turn. Sometimes, I would imagine my indigenous ancestors riding horseback beside me. Colonization gave me my present circumstance, removing me from horseback adventures across the green landscapes of Pennsylvania.
I took a break from biking while juggling college as an adult and a parent of two young kids. My day-to-day routine was so repetitive that my body became heavy with the need to push pedals again, bike pedals, to be precise. Still, I wanted to test my capability to ride a longer distance away from this brick-and-mortar city until towering trees, and the smell of wet, fertile soil surrounded me.
It was 2016, and I decided not to enroll in classes that summer; its end was approaching, and I had to decide on an adventure quickly before academics took up all my free time. I proposed to three of my friends, Ama, Beatrice, and Jasmine, two of whom were avid bicyclists, to join me on this 45-mile adventure to French Creek campgrounds near Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. Ama refused to bike; she was who we referred to as the "Princess" of the group. She's a fast-talking, intense, extroverted personality who is always down for fun. She avoided most physical efforts that involved sweating, except for running. She loved to run, but we weren't running 45 miles to the campgrounds. She volunteered to drive and take all the items we could not carry on our bikes. Beatrice was a straightforward, reliable friend; she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; she was calm but grounded and secure in herself. She volunteered to navigate for us; she embodies the essence of a guide. Jasmine is a warm friend who affirms and encourages you when you feel your lowest. Her identity is the comforter in her family; her voice always sounds unsure, but she has nothing to feel uncertain about.
The day arrived for us to set out on this adventure. It was early morning in August, hot and humid, and the sun seemed eager to brighten the world. The three of us met at my house. Ama packed up her car with our items, "I'll start heading out about 2 hours after you guys, so I'm not arriving at the cabin too early!" she said. We estimated it would take Beatrice, Jasmine, and me about 4 hours to arrive at the campgrounds, giving us plenty of daylight to explore the area before nightfall.
Ama went home to walk her dog while my other two friends and I began the bike trek. I hopped on my bike, confident and eager for this to be the most fantastic story I would tell the dearest people in my life for years to come. We rode through tight city areas, weaving through traffic, and the hot morning temperature was still bearable. As we approached the city's edges, we biked along the Schuylkill River; the breeze from the water cooled our warm bodies. 2 hours into the trip, we stopped by a patch of grass by the river to have lunch. We ate quickly, discussing the next half of the journey. As Beatrice reviewed the route on her phone, she informed us that we would have to take a slight detour due to construction. I did not pack enough lunch and ate about 6 "Lara bars" in one sitting, which I would later regret!
We are now 4 hours into our trip and haven't reached the campgrounds yet, but we have reached the outskirts of Philadelphia, where homes are not lined up in tight rows but surrounded by green open spaces, and you must drive several miles to get to your neighbor's house or find a grocery store. I grew weary; we were all running low on water, but I was also fatigued. Jasmine tried to encourage me to keep going; I could hear the worry in her voice, but we still had several miles to reach the campgrounds. I pushed for one more mile when I saw that we were approaching a big hill. I knew I didn't have the stamina, strength, or experience to get there. The three of us dreaded the upcoming hill and the need for more water. I also felt ashamed that I wasn't physically strong enough to climb that hill like I knew my friends were. Beatrice and Jasmine guided me to the side of the dirt road, which zigzagged through a large piece of green land with average size family dwellings in the distance. Only us around, I laid my bike down and sat on the cool grass next to it. Beatrice and Jasmine decided to ride over the hill and see if there was a "rest stop" on the other side. As my friends disappeared over the hill, I felt an eerie sense come over me. I realized I had no idea where I was and knew no one around. I understood I was at the mercy of my friends to come back with water. I sat looking at the clear blue sky in the silence that only exists on the city's outskirts. I tried to distract my worried mind by naming the shape of the clouds. I reminded myself this was the same sky my ancestors sat under on sunny days like these.
Suddenly, I heard barking in the distance. I looked behind me, and several German Shepherds were walking on the property where I rested. They seemed to be looking for a "trespasser." Then, two older people who seemed like the typical suburban folk, a couple with agile aging bodies and grey hair, were aggressively walking toward me. When they were about 50 feet away, they began to yell and threaten me, saying, "Get off our property!" "We have guns!" "Our dogs are loose and trained to attack!" My heart was ready to jump out of my body. I don't remember when I felt invisible, vulnerable, alone, and scared. The adrenaline kicked in, and I began walking my bike toward the hill; I wasn't strong enough to hop back on. I feared that they feared me. I feared they would follow me, or more of them would surround me like a mob of hungry zombies. After I reached the top of the hill, I saw Beatrice and Jasmine riding back toward me. "Melissa, what's wrong!?" "Why didn't you wait for us on the grass?" I didn't know how to respond. I was shocked that those strangers had threatened my life without probable cause. I knew it was because I'm brown. In fact, I was the only brown person in our group. I tried to explain what had occurred, and my friends reassured me it was a misunderstanding. I swallowed back my tears and accepted their explanation, but this chipped away at my soul, my dignity, and humanity.
"We found water!" Announced Jasmine, and they led me to the bottom of the hill. The road was narrower now, and the one home in that area was to our right. It was like a small cottage surrounded by trees and the dirt road to its left. A man in his 30s, with dirty blonde straight hair loosely tied in a ponytail, stepped out of the house. "Oh, so you found your friend?" He was speaking about me. He told us his name was Jeff. He was curious about our bike ride. He seemed impressed with us but also needed clarification about three city ladies enjoying such an arduous trek. I heard clucking nearby; it sounded like it was coming from a surround sound speaker, and then these beautiful, confident, vibrant small hens were walking out of the woods. The chickens were crossing the road back to Jeff's front yard. Jeff grinned and greeted the feathery ladies. He stated these were his babies, who were back from foraging in the woods. Apparently, they do this every day.
I still felt shaken by the contrasting experience I had 20 minutes ago. But I also was enamored and entertained by Jeff and his chickens. The sky was darkening, but he assured us we were less than a mile from the campgrounds. We filled up our water bottles and began to say goodbye to Jeff when he said, "Wait, I have something for you." he hobbled quickly into his house and returned with three dozen eggs from his happy hens. I was astonished by his kindness and generosity. It was like a bit of salve on a fresh wound; it wasn't enough to heal it, but it did what a hydrophobic substance like a balm does: it provides a layer of protection so new skin can grow. My friends and I moved forward silently like we were in a procession. They could sense that I was not fully present and needed time to process. They rode ahead slowly, and I walked my bike the rest of the way. The cabin stood before us like a lit lighthouse welcoming us inside a safe space. Ama stepped out of the cabin; she had arrived a few hours ago in her safe car but couldn't contact us because of the limited Wi-Fi. Our friend, "Princess" Ama, had unpacked most of our items, showered, and read a portion of her book while I encountered large dogs and inhospitable country folk. But she also indulged in these pleasures while my friends and I experienced Jeff's generosity and his brood of magical hens like two parallel timelines converging.
We made breakfast for dinner, peach cobbler, and drank beers that night. We laughed and talked late into the night. I wept and lay there in complete darkness when it was time for bed. My shoulders shook, and my chest trembled. The horror of what I had experienced earlier that day had resurfaced, yet no one in that cabin could understand. I don't remember how I fell asleep. Still, I dreamt that night of a time before the land around the campground, the land of Pennsylvania, was still unclaimed by self-professed followers of God's destiny, where I was part of a tribe of people who honored the ground they stood on. They shared their resources so that no one went without unnecessarily. In this dream, the land is free of borders. I'm on horseback, weaving through the trees; I arrive at a clearing where the suburban folk from my terrifying encounter are marching on "their" land with guns in hand, chanting, "Get off my land!" Repeatedly. I hop down from my horse. One of the dogs charges at me but then suddenly stops in its tracks and makes eye contact with me, reading each other's thoughts. She senses I am someone who only kills when I need to eat, and she deducts that she is safe. The suburban folk look stunned that their dog is no longer threatening me. I address the dog first because her spirit has visited this earth a thousand times before, and I say, I see you and welcome you. She licks my knee. Then, she tells her owners that they have nothing to fear but themselves. I then repeat the exact words to her owners, "I see you, and I welcome you." A cast of ice melts around their bodies and drips down to the ground, where the dry soil soaks it up and immediately begins to sprout strawberries. In Native American folklore, strawberries are a symbol of forgiveness and unification. They look at me and say, "We forgot who we are. Do you know who we are?" And I responded with, "I've always known you."
I woke up to the smell of bacon, returning me to this reality. After a weekend of hikes, roasted marshmallows, and swimming, we began our journey differently than it began. Beatrice decided to ride her bike back alone; none of us doubted her ability to do so safely. She needed this active meditation to transition back to her reality. Jasmine and I rode home with Ama in her air-conditioned "chariot." My thighs still burned from the initial bike ride there. I tried to sit as still as possible to relieve the tension in my thighs. The humming of the vehicle lulled me to sleep. The nap and the car ride served as teleporters because I returned home with my family when I awoke. I stepped outside of the car and hugged my friends goodbye. I looked down at the ground and up at the sky, the same earth and sky my ancestors once enjoyed and then was claimed by scared, frigid "suburban folk," living in fear of lands without borders.
As I stepped into the front door of my home, my younger son's brown face was stained red from the strawberries he was shoveling into his mouth. I recited these words in silence as a prayer for him: May you weave freely through life's struggles as if on horseback, riding alongside your kin in the present as in the past.