It has been a tough week at work. Can't say much, other than that it can be tough working in the field of domestic violence. I don't know why I'm sitting here writing when my brain is fried and I started work at 5am this morning. Strange way to relax, huh? But before I sign off here are a few interesting tidbits to ponder. They do relate to my opening sentence, albeit from an odd angle.
Tidbit 1: While millions of families are losing their homes, jobs and health care, the military budget next year will top one trillion dollars — that’s $1,000,000,000,000. I just divided that by 60,000 to get 16,666,666 jobs at $60,000 per year.
Tidbit 2: Foreclosures are now affecting almost 1 in every 8 American homeowners.
Tidbit 3: Public pensions in the US had total liabilities of $2.9 trillion as of Dec. 16, according to the Center for Retirement Research at Boston College. Their total assets are about 30 percent less than that, at $2 trillion.
Tidbit 4: This one made me sick to my stomach: The GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of the 41 Heavily Indebted Poor Countries (567 million people) is less than the wealth of the world’s 7 richest people combined.
http://www.globalissues.org/issue/2/causes-of-poverty
With stock market losses this year, public pensions in the US are now underfunded by more than $1 trillion.
This is the next bailout crisis waiting to happen.
The economy is in a free fall with no obvious brakes in place.
Beauty in the form of Maya Angelou helps to ease my heart. My dearest friend Patricia and I went to her reading presented as part of IU's annual arts week. The woman is so damn beautiful on a level not seen in many....her mind is like a jewel. This makes what she has survived a reminder of the strength of the human spirit. She spoke about being raped as a child, and how the police officers came to her home to tell her that her rapist, released after only one night in prison, had been found apparently kicked to death. She told how she was struck mute.....afraid that her voice could bring death.
I am ever so grateful that she found her voice.
Inaugural Poem
Maya Angelou
20 January 1993
| A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no more hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spilling words Armed for slaughter. The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side. Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, Clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I and the Tree and the stone were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your Brow and when you yet knew you still Knew nothing. The River sings and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing River and the wise Rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the Tree. Today, the first and last of every Tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River. Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River. Each of you, descendant of some passed On traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, you Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of Other seekers--desperate for gain, Starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ... You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am the Tree planted by the River, Which will not be moved. I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours--your Passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced With courage, need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands. Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, into Your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning. |
No comments:
Post a Comment