Changing. Challenging. Redrafting Our Shared Framework.
Wild sprouts
They’re everywhere
We will never run them down
They’re our’s to clown
Let’s drink em down
And stagger about
Feeling stout
We decide to pout.
It can’t be long
They’ll be all gone
What will we live for then?
Image by Polish artist: Zdzisław Beksiński
Tumble down darkly
In the round remarkably
Why did you ask for time?
Why must you whine?
Would like some wine?
Ideas going up
Opinions laid down
Bare chested brawls
All over town
Swimming in the streets
Liquid dust
Brains now rust
It never really mattered before
It matters now they’ve shut the door
And I can’t pull myself up out this floor
Time is a fashion
Clouds are a trip
Railroad erosion
Rainwater sip
Psyche adobe
And riddled I lay
Staring down at the grass
I’ll wait for it to pass
Nimble as a thimble
For you I tremble
Skirt flare
Rare air
Chest bare
Here we go
And where we’ll stop…nobody knows.
*Image by Jeff Walls
Thinking about a statement I’ve heard this morning and its implications.
“Culture is a tool developed by humanity to cushion itself against the harsh backdrop of reality. In a technology driven culture we are constantly pushed to reward ourselves.” (I think I heard Jeff Bridges’ voice saying this but can’t verify).
Bullet point thoughts: This is exhausting in the senses that
• For every reward there is a cost. This kind of culture can create a drain on both tangible and intangible resources.
• It creates within us a sense of continual deficit. Our physiology becomes conditioned to believe we are always operating from a place of desolation. That creates unhealthy and neurotic strivings.
• These strivings put a strain on relationships. It can cause us to look to other humans to fill the voids we feel.
• It begets yet another culture which is a culture of distrust and cynicism. When others fail to fill our voids we then believe them to be inherently bad or intentionally harmful.
• In the advancing understanding of epigenetics it has been found that mothers who give birth pass down to their children their previous 2 years worth of emotional and mental experiences.
Whew! If ever we needed to go against the grain its now.
In all of these regards I want to be counter cultural.
You and I may not be Nobel Peace Prize winners. We may not ever travel much. But, in light of this I am convinced that we can change the world by simply acknowledging all that we are and making a habit of that.
It’s not a dirty word. I promise. In American culture long work hours, stagnant wages, political unrest, and an increase in mental health crises across our nation is taking it’s toll. It’s literally draining just to sit and watch the news these days. And, the depletion of our emotional energy has become a huge problem. It strains our relationships. It zaps our creativity. It intrudes on our quality of sleep. And, the list could go on. In such a radical climate it is imperative that we get radical about rest.
I’m not going to tell you that you need more rest. Chances are ANYONE reading this likely needs more of it. What I am going to tell you is that you do NOT have to feel guilty for setting boundaries for the purpose of rest! If you’ve ever wanted to contribute to a more peaceful society and make our world, our America great again I’d say…get some rest! That’s not something you hear everyday right? But, think about it.
When we rest life changing things happen. And, perhaps rest, rather than harder work is the key to your best life. When we rest inflammation in our bodies decrease. I’d encourage you to check into something called, “C-reactive protein.” While it is a nonspecific blood test there are a plethora of studies that implicate high C-reactive protein levels with brain inflammation, Alzheimer’s, obesity, diabetes, autoimmune disorders, sleep disorders, heart disease and anxiety disorders. But, because it is nonspecific and doesn’t really lead to diagnoses of any kind it isn’t usually discussed.
So, how do we get radical? Number one…we start saying, “no.” It really is that simple. It is okay to decline activities that you really don’t have time for or really don’t want to attend in the first place. When I first began doing this I would often decline for reasons other than why I wouldn’t be participating in the first place. Namely, rest! There was this huge part of me that felt so guilty. I felt that I would be perceived as lazy or selfish and that fear was crippling for me. But, the victory over that would come later and is something I am now experiencing. Yet, even in the awkwardness of the beginning of saying, “no” I had at least begun the journey. Yes, I was still cringing and fawning but by golly I was getting some much needed sleep as well! The empowering realization of understanding that we do not owe anyone an explanation for our saying, “no” is one I would recommend everyone embracing. It is so freeing. Trust me on this. And, more often than not…people will respect that. Believe it or not respect is the cornerstone of restoration.
It is through the lack of respect for our bodies and minds that we begin to deplete our internal resources. Are you disrespecting yourself? Did you realize that was even a thing? I surely did not. But, since I have it’s been a game changer. I now get to be present, fully present in all the situations I say, “yes” to.
So, as we move through our weeks and live for the weekends know that you have permission to rest. And, if you’re not comfortable declining all the busy-ness that your weekend may try to bring you and you feel the need to offer a reason to stay in…feel free to blame it on this blog! You can totally have plans with “The Catalyst.”
Love and light,
Cozett
Photography credit: Marta Bevacqua
I remember Mexico.
I remember your streets.
I remember the red clay dust under my feet.
Curling up around my ghostly white toes.
I’m excited to this day that I got to spend my time with you
Not as a tourist but someone to minister alongside you.
I remember walking through your streets
Seeing signs all around me indicating where I should go, offering places I may want to go,
Shining the way to places I may need to go should I find myself ill or in trouble.
Yet, I was a stranger in a foreign land. The multitude of your signs felt more overwhelming than helpful. Why? Because, I don’t speak Spanish.
But, my lack of nativity did not incite a lack of humanity in you.
Although I didn’t belong to you. And, although it was my choice to cross your border and engage your people and culture at my own risk, you watched over me.
I remember a street market. Hundreds of people flocking around tiny makeshift tables selling goods that your women and children made.
Sugar skulls.
Santeria elements.
Dried and shriveled chicken feet.
Crucifixes
Blankets
Elote
Pozole
Tamales
Butchered pigs hanging from beams
Music that sounded so festive and happy but I couldn’t understand the words and thereby partake in the joy you were feeling because of it.
Your children crisscrossed my path. Tugging on my shirt.
Laughing at me then running away to get into some other kind of fun
Your pride.
I met a young aspiring attorney.
She was also a minister.
Wanting to make a better way.
In law school and couch surfing
Fighting her government for unlawfully taking away a vitally important school for an impoverished village.
She had no where to lay her head.
We took up company and talked about God and government and speaking in tongues.
She didn’t have a firm grasp on my language nor I hers. How did we communicate so seamlessly?
Because our hearts were one.
I remember riding in the back of a camper top covered Toyota truck with about 7 other people.
My legs stretched across his legs as he made clear to all his gift of comedy.
He feverishly fired off jokes that everyone understood but me.
But, I laughed. I laughed as hard as everyone else. But, why?
Because laughter is universal. Our laughter was one.
I tramped across your creeks in your dry heat and lonely country sides.
One particularly large stream that crossed through a village was used for bathing, laundry, cooking and drinking.
I saw a man. A white American man traveling within my group fell into a sewage portion of that creek. And, your people rushed to his side to examine his legs and clean him and help him be on his way.
But, how did they know to help?
Because the need for rescue is a universal one. Their hearts were one.
On one occasion there was an expert in law. He was passionate for his country. A loud person. Passionate for people to play by the rules. He knew we were Christian missionaries.
Day after day he would question passersby, “What does the LAW say??” His voice would ring out “Have you read it?!!” “Do you not believe it!!?” “Are you guilty of breaking it?!”
He was finally confronted by a Teacher. A fellow Humanitarian. That day law squared up against humanity.
The Humanitarian Teacher asked him in front of all of us, “What exactly does the law say? How do you read it?”
The expert replied, “I know I love God!! I know that everyone SHOULD love God!! I KNOW that if we all obeyed law we would have a better world!! LOVE GOD. LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR, RIGHT??”
The Teacher that was with us replied simply “You’re right. Keep doing this.”
But, it was obvious to me the law guy wasn’t happy with his seemingly easy victory in the debate. His passion drove him. The Humanitarian traveling with us seemed like such an intellect with his simple question and answer. No arguing with the guy. Just a simple question. But, that one question must have pricked the conscience of the expert or his ego….or both perhaps.
Anyway, it led to a question from the expert to the Teacher with us. As the Teacher had turned to rejoin our caravan the expert screamed at him, “OH Yeah?? But, define neighbor!!”
Here we were in the middle of Mexico, a small caravan of non-natives. Here we were, one of our own, in a debate that seemed to be taking a turn for the worst. I was uncomfortable to say the least.
My Friend pulled up a chair and sat down. “Ok, yes. Let’s define neighbor.”
He continued, “A man was going down from America to Mexico. He got robbed. A group of bandits beat him to within an inch of his life. Stole his wallet. Left him in the hot sun to die. The man was hemhorraging from the beating. He lied alone in the road.”
My Teacher friend grew silent. One of those long pauses. He must have seen this first hand because I could have sworn I saw tears in his eyes.
He cleared his throat and continued, “A preacher came walking down the road on his way to Mexico to do a missions trip. He had good news to preach. Tell me why this preacher moved to the other side of the road when he saw the guy lying there? Tell me why when a popular worship leader from a Christian church in America came across him and wept but did nothing?? Further, why after these two VIP’s passed him by that an effeminate man and woman with many tattoos and piercings when they came upon him were horrified and rushed to his side? They were on their way to a festival. They had a couple of bottled waters, sweaty bandanas, some weed, and a flask of Jack Daniels to last their foot journey. They took their bandanas and whiskey and immediately cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up. The man and woman each grabbed his arms and walked him to a hostel across the border. There they learned of a hospital further away in a village. So, they carried him a long distance to this hospital. When they walked in he was admitted immediately. He was unconscious and therefore would never know who walked by and who rescued him.”
At this point my throat was tight. I was heaving tears and shaking because I realized what was happening. No one said anything. You could have heard a pin drop. My chest hurt from trying to keep my crying silent. I couldn’t even look up or around to assess the body language or facial expressions of those around us.
And, then…..
The silence broke.
Our Humanitarian Companion was as shaken by telling His account of what had happened as I was by hearing it. I did manage to look Him in the eyes. I felt a true kindredness with this Man. This was my first missions trip. But, I knew after hearing His story…He was a professional Humanitarian. This was not His first rodeo. He was street wise. He was rugged looking. But, wow did His looks belie His Heart.
He raised His head and eyeballed the man who was so passionate about obedience and asked him…..
“Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
The man lowered his voice and answered softly, “The ones who had mercy on him.”
Jesus said, “Go and do likewise.”
From me to you:
If you’re reading this I am intentionally leaving this up to interpretation. Your interpretation and conclusion will in fact highlight where your heart is. The wise will leave with questions. The proud will read with anger and offense.
Let them who have an ear…hear. Let them who have eyes…see.
For those who don’t know me…this entire story comprises a portion of a journey I took near Jalisco, Mexico several years ago.
My mind goes backwards into the surf
I close my eyes.
I roll my eyes back as far as I can get them to go.
If I’m going to retrieve memories
I’ll have to do it slow.
Did you miss me?
Did you wish for me?
I need to know now.
It can’t remain ethereal.
Pushing past
Shotgun blast
I’m blown away
What’d you say?
You can’t be real?
Cop a feel?
It’s all okay
It’s the only way I’ll end my day.
Figments of dew drops distill on my skin. As I open my ever wandering eyes I rise.
I kiss the sky
And wonder why
Why I’m streaked
Why I’m spotted
Why I’m speckled
Can I ever be redeemed? Is there enough in me to salvage?
What do you see? Do you see me?
Figments of good written across my body. Feeling kinda shotty.
Feeling kinda grave. Over the way I behave.
On my back looking up
I kiss the sky
And wonder why
Why everytime
Why does it come out in rhyme
Why can I not climb
Figments of wholesome tear my skin. At this point it always gets in.
Kneecapped I gaze upward and kiss the sky
I wanted to fly
Never needed a why
Until now
Cause the picture is now cloudy
And I’m always feeling rowdy
And I know why
Figments.
It was all a dream. Till I heard you scream. The torment from never being clean.
What will you do? Look inside. Pridefully chide?
Soul finger wagging
Conscience always nagging
On the outside I’m always bragging
About these figments. Dreams of goodness. Of a better world. A time that’s never been. And can’t exist because of sin.
Whose sin?
That’s no longer clear
Because they always cheer
And it’s so loud.
Now a shroud.
Drown it out.
Enjoy the clout.
Spit some dirt and watch it fly.
The earth my lullaby.
Figments. It’s where I live. My way out was to give. But, it’s all gone.
All of it
Except this pawn….
Feral, has been coming out of my mouth a lot lately. It has been the crown of my conversations lately. And, the more I say it, the more it sinks in that my entire life has been wild and uncultivated. And because of that my ontology is incurably feral. It is the core from which all my philosophy, behavior, decisions, theology and actions stem.
Before I sat down to write this post I was ruminating on an abysmally deep longing to join myself to a group of other feral women who “get it” and just go off the grid.
I want to be gone for quite some time in some wild place where I become better acquainted with the moon and befriend the constellations. I want to lie down in an unkempt field and look up at the sun and marvel at the tall grasses that sway with the breeze. I want to laugh and share laughter while submersing myself in a cold pool of mountain water. I want to stand at the cusp of an approaching storm and smell the rain coming. I want to sing, and drum and share wisdom and life experiences around a fire. I long to feel the coolness of damp moss and gritty mud on my bare feet. I want to wake up naked just before dawn breaks and feel the dew of morning all over my body.
Can I take it further? I want it to be ok to have dirt under my nails and hair on my legs.
I’m tired of the pressure. The pressure to have a customer service voice with a smile you can hear over the phone. My mental well being just really needs the public at large to be comfortable with resting bitch face.
My roots. Do you want to know a secret? I have had a horrible life. From the cradle to this now middle aged, self-actualized, and chubby woman I’ve become it has been just awful. I was nearly put into foster care along with one of my brothers as a child because my mother had a raging addiction to all things narcotic. The only thing about her that has ever been controlled were the substances she abused. I have been witness to her death dozes of times starting at the age of four until just a few months ago.
So, my grandmother and grandfather raised me on a 100-acre cattle farm. My grandmother the ever soft spoken saint and my grandfather the perpetually silent and often angry type.
The formation of the “me” that I know…has her roots in the soil of chaos. My mother a lovable yet often harmful rebel, my father absent, my grandmother the family saint, my grandfather the condemning workaholic. These, the four corners of my earth.
Now, the good that has come from this is that as I have self-actualized and done a considerable amount of healing I’ve been able to glean some beautiful things from these people who formed the four squares of the foundation of…me.
Because, of my horrible childhood my grandmother sacrificed her life to compensate for the sins of my mother. By her hands I was swaddled, toddled, and coddled. Discipline was entirely missing from my life. Every. Yes, every. Every life lesson from childhood and adolescence was caught rather than taught. While the lack of discipline has contributed to a great deal of misery in my adult life I did get to experience a gentle love and compassion that I needed in order to survive. Because of her I have carried with me an ability to nurture and restore others.
My grandfather was an engineer at Tennessee Valley Authority by day and a cattle farmer by evening. He worked gruelingly hard every single day of his life until he died. By observation I learned that he had great wisdom with finances. By observation I learned that hard work was honorable and would give you favor.
My father…whom I am now close with. I didn’t meet until I turned eighteen. He was absent. But, from chance encounters with family members on that side and from the brief conversations with my mother and grandmother I understood that he was a brawler. He was in prison for a few years because he was a cocaine dealer. In spite of the negative press about him I heard I detected that everyone had a position to not mess with him. He was rough and rowdy and dangerous. And, in the adolescent girl mind of mine I secretly loved this. I loved the idea of being the kind of person that people admired yet feared. And, trust me when I say that this root runs deep. This root was nourished by the fear that was begotten by lack of boundaries. For me, having no boundaries leaves me pushing all the time to try to find some. Even as a forty year old woman.
My mother…now firstly she definitely has been the most harmful person in my life, overtly. And, I am thankful that I wasn’t raised by her or I likely would not be alive today. I can tell you many stories later. But, from observing her life, I now in retrospect am able to identify some things about this incurably wild woman that I do love. She has always been like a wild flower to me. Her beauty in that she is wildly feminine. Long hair, fiery nature, dainty, a loud riotous voice against toxic masculinity and political corruption. Rarely do I have conversations with her these days that I do not hear some new way she is thinking on to stick it “to the man.” Mind you I wasn’t able to have conversations with her until around last year. Within a year’s time she has changed a lot. I suppose age is doing us all a favor and tempering her. Plus, she has been mostly sober this year for the first time in my life.
So, here I am shedding the final trappings of any semblance of my youth and trying so hard to face the fact that I am half way done with life and in the same amount of time that I have lived, I will also die…if I’m fortunate.
But, before time marches one more step I need a long pause. I deserve an intermission. A rewilding. An integration with all things nature…before I become nature. I want wild flowers to grow out of me now. Not just later. While traipsing the forest of my adolescence I recall picking some sticky red wildflowers. I loved them. I loved them because they were inescapably beautiful. Nearly literally. I remember laying in the fields and blowing dandelions and watching the almost fairy like quality of their seeds dance away on the wind. I remember stooping to gather dainty little purple flowers we called Sheepshare and bright yellow Dandelions and nibbling on them because my grandfather said they were edible. The Sheepshare was so sour and the dandelion so earthy and sweet. This combination was like divinity on my palate.
I don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t want to be expected to appease anyone for any reason. I have spent my life fighting, fearing, and fawning. And, all I ever really want to be is feral.
Join me?
The Catalyst 
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