Last week I was writing an email to people in power, pleading for justice.  We all do that; these days there are many serious issues to plead about!  In closing my email, I found myself signing it, “In Humanity”.

I then realized, with a start, that its opposite - inhumanity -  is only a pause, only a breath away.  A space, or breath stands between the two words.  That pause….  So very essential!

When the mind is Silent - paused - we find our connectedness.  From this point of compassion, where is no them, no me, it is not possible to act in a way that is inhumane!  What is natural - and effortless!, from that vantage point, is to act in, or with, humanity. This is the value of meditation, of prayer, and other practices encouraging mindfulness.

We’ve all heard the wise maxim, “What you put your attention on, grows”.  So, at the time of celebrating Harvest, grow Compassion.  Grow humanity.  Grow in Silence, through whatever practice works for you!  It is truly a worthy endeavor.
With much Love -

and In Humanity -
Shanti Mai

Unlike so many Americans with African roots, Barack Obama is lucky to know which country his family hails from.  It’d be like knowing merely that you were European…  Italian?  Portugese.  Belgian?  Finnish! Scottish?  Not many of us would be comfortable with such vague information.

When I was in 5th grade, a relative of my father’s - perhaps a 2nd cousin, we were not at all a close family - sent us a request for information; she was doing a family genealogy. I was very intrigued, and offered to help her.  Sadly, she broke my heart by sending me a very condescending letter. What she didn’t know was that, 14 years later, I would solve the mystery that ended up stumping her.   At the time of publication, her volume left a mystery:  was the “John Harrington” on the neighboring lot indeed the father, the next link to the past?  At this point, due to a lack of paperwork proof, that strain of the Harrington tale “ended”.

For myself, I wondered why no one tried to start from the other end - to start where Harringtons started and see if they could find evidence bringing a John Harrington to that town in that time…

I forgot all about that thought until, at age 25, newly arrived in Ireland, my brand-new map in my hand, I became transfixed (without a thought in my head) with a little island off the coast of County Cork:  Bere Island. Nearly a week later, having gone to a music festival and traveled around a bit, I claimed Dublin as my own town.  Told a new friend about my neat and mysterious experience with Bere Island, to which he said, “Well sure, that’s where the Harringtons are!”  and proceeded to bring out his phone book, which actually included the professions of at least some of the listings.  The first one he showed me was (first name?) Harrington, ferryman. For a small island, there were lots of Harringtons.  I knew that, though there were lots of Harringtons in England, that my family was Irish.  Several visits to England had never brought any feeling of familiarity, had solved no personal mysteries. Discovering the Irish connection really did. (More about that later in a later post!)

It was like my cells recognized their own roots.  So….  Intuitive - or genetic?  Who cares, really?  It was a deeply confirming experience.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s like the question about the chicken and the egg.  It’s irrelevant really, which came first:  What’s important is the connection between them.  And that’s what you get when you know your roots.

I’d been so very zen in the many months leading up to the election.  Que sera, sera!  Whatever will be, will be. I was calm and surrendered - and ready! Prepared for any untoward surprise -  another stolen election, martial law…

But a different kind of surprise was in store for me:  I was anxious!  Not wanting to be by myself, waiting for the results, I looked online to find an appropriate election party.  Not hard to do, in Seattle!  By the time I got into the inner sanctum of The Showbox (scores of people were turned away; I waited…), well, by that time, CNN had called the election.  Skeptical (not wanting to be unprepared and taken by surprise), I held back until I heard that Obama Had Taken Florida.  I became unglued, crying, joyful.  HOPE-ful, and in a room filled with radiant, joy-filled strangers, all fans of, and some actually employees of - The Stranger, the host of our party.

When I left, walking the one block up 1st Avenue toward Pike Place Market, I passed a homeless man, muttering to himself. But when I listened carefully, I realized what he was saying!  It was:  “Freedom……  Real freedom……”

Within 5 minutes, though, it was too LOUD to hear anyone muttering quietly to themselves.  Cars and cabs drove by, honking, while people whooped and hollered, hugging strangers…. Then the same cabs came by again, with the same passengers, cheering, waving, over and over again.  I knew that the inhabitants of these cabs were racking up quite a tab, and that they weren’t the kind of people who could easily support such an expense.  But I also knew they would never regret their choice, this night.  TONIGHT.