"There's a hawk circling above my bed."

She swoops in and out of view, spreading her wings wide, showing me the soft white of her tummy feathers. I watch her from a few yards below, from the softness of my nest, as she glides across the sky, above the bare branches that frame my view through the skylight. I decide she knows best; her grace and flow call to me. I decided to make her my mentor.

"What are you looking at?" I ask her to get to know her better. "What do you see?" might be a better question.

A lifetime of effort lying in bed on a Sunday afternoon, hoping the decades haven’t been for nothing. What if my whole life was just for me, no impacts elsewhere, no one else moved by my effort? Just self-indulgence, a smallness that closes my throat. 

The hawk hears my worry. I watch as she swoops away. Maybe she sees her dinner? I examine the sky, a powder blue, a few clouds that look like my father’s hair at the end, fragile wisps of white mirroring the swoop of the hawk’s flight trail. 

Have I been a cloud this whole time, fragile and temporary, a mighty apparition? I reach around in this thought for any sign of freedom, any expansive comfort. Maybe there's a glimmer of relief to imagine I've been a ghost. 

Thirty-five years of training outlines, curricula, agendas, handouts, self-assessments, evaluations, flip-chart pages, sticky notes all piled high in the middle of the forest. A feast. A pyre. Who should I invite to the bonfire?

The hawk swings back into view and lays her best wisdom down:

Nothing was wasted. 

Every breath 

was in service of liberation. 

Every kindness 

a shift in the atmosphere. 

The ripples of every hasty

drawing, the cumulative ahas 

of each and every gasp

nod or sigh. 

Justice in the way

We sang or

Reframed

Or read a line. 

We aimed to  

to clean the bones 

of each lesson.

A tear rolls down my cheek and into my left ear. Her white stomach feathers catch the light and she’s gone again, off in the other direction, towards the road. 

I lose track of her for a bit, not exactly waiting for her, but reluctant to move from the warm comfort of my nest, from the view, from the possibility of more wisdom from above. 

She returns for a few more swoops, but she’s done with dispensing wisdom. Her wings are still as she glides and turns over in the winter sky. She’s gone the way it goes, without notice, without sending me notice. 

My heart swoops back over her words: clean the bones. 

These Are The Times We Need To Love Ourselves the Most

Winter invites me to still and be gentle with myself around the hearth. A cup of tea, a mesmerizing book, a pad of beautiful paper and some lovely colored pencils. 

I remember that working for justice is not only about the staff meeting and the streets, there is a time for sustenance and rejuvenation. I reach for friends, I cook some new soups, I make a plan to keep my heart whole.

America

By Claude McKay

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,

And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,

Stealing my breath of life, I will confess

I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.

Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,

Giving me strength erect against her hate,

Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.

Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,

I stand within her walls with not a shred

Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.

Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,

And see her might and granite wonders there,

Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,

Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Copyright Credit: Claude McKay, "America" from Liberator (December 1921).

Source: Liberator (The Library of America, 1921)

Provocations and Nourishment 

1440 Daily Digest consolidated news service for when you do not want to scroll for your news.

I loved this episode of This American Life about the Questions Underneath the Questions. 

Know your people! Book a consult with Kari Points and discover what genealogy through an antiracist lens looks like! 

My time in San Francisco recently gave me a chance to ponder the modern artist Amy Sherold’s work at SFMOMA. The bareness of how she presents her objects invites me in, asking me to consider this person in the context of my life.

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Finding Freedom: White Women Taking On Our Own 

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Collective Liberation Racial Justice Caucus

Drop in affinity space - 3rd Fridays! Join us in 2025 for a sweet space to unravel your hurts and become more clear & more confident as a white person fighting racism. 

Toward Justice,

Evangeline

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