/reader

That’s how I felt reading Matthew Desmond’s Poverty, By America. This is no dreamy communist manifesto, no incoherent rant that leads to nothing but sadness and frustration, but a shocking book full of actionable, kind ideas entirely backed by careful study of a complex problem. Desmond makes his argument clear through this complexity though: the reason why poor folks are poor is because rich folks are rich.

Here’s my notes.

Poverty isn't simply the condition of not having enough money. It's the condition of not having enough choice and being taken advantage of because of that.

(I remember being caught in a web of overdraft fees when I struggled with money. There’s still this lingering feeling fifteen years later where I doubt every time a check will clear, a credit card will go through. I still assume that banks have caught me in some great trap beyond my comprehension. There’s a spider lurking behind me, ready and waiting to devour every paycheck that clears my account. This is not a healthy way to run a society, or a healthy way to live. But tens of millions of Americans do.)

When we are preoccupied by poverty, “we have less mind to give to the rest of life.” Poverty does not just deprive people of security and comfort; it siphons off their brainpower, too.

(I remember being shocked by how similar poverty felt like a sickness, as if I had blinkers on, as if a strong vignette had been applied to my vision. Money was all I could think about. I would count the pounds and pennies, counting and counting and counting at night. I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t think about a 401k or future investments because I was so paralyzed by Today, this big and brutal and terrifying thing. What if someone after work asked me out for a beer? What if we walk passed a shop and my credit card fails when trying to buy water? What if someone finds out how much is in my account?)

(And yet! I was one of the lucky ones to have family to bail me out, as embarrassing as it was to ask them over and over again. Most folks however don’t have people to help them. This is what the government should be. And, currently, what it is not.)

(But we can fix this.)

A higher minimum wage is an antidepressant. It is a sleep aid. A stress reliever. Vocal segments of the American public, those with brain space to spare, seem to believe the poor should change their behavior to escape poverty. Get a better job. Stop having children. Make smarter financial decisions. In truth, it’s the other way around: Economic security leads to better choices.

(I remember my first real paycheck. The one where I didn’t have to struggle. The one where I was lifted out of worrying so much. I could suddenly go out and buy food and start going out for dinner or the pub intermittently without feeling anxious the whole time about embarrassing myself by my card failing. I could make rent. But it wasn’t all these material things that money gifted me: it was sleep. With the sudden turn of a week I could now make predictions about my future. Mere days before my life was broken up into excruciatingly long weeks. Paycheck, no-paycheck, no-paycheck, no-paycheck. This is not a healthy way to run a society, etc. etc.)

Somehow, the United States has the unique distinction of lacking universal healthcare while still having the most expensive healthcare system in the world.

(One time back in the UK I had 40 quid in my bank account but found myself with a serious and embarrassing medical emergency. At midnight I went to the hospital and I suddenly found myself begging a doctor for help in a corridor outside his office. He told me the STD clinic opens in the morning, come back then. In agony I laughed and said “I might not be a doctor my dude but I can GUARANTEE that isn’t the problem here.” A few days later, the embarrassing surgery is over, they tell me to go, and I simply walk out of the hospital. There’s no pay station, no worry about handing out cash or finding myself slammed with debt because the UK has a modern, humane health care system. When I moved to the states I learned that how much money I make doesn’t really matter. One foul move, an uncontrollable accident like the one I had back in the UK, and that’s all it takes to lose your financial footing. And, because of this, poverty haunts everyone in America.)

(But we can fix this.)

(I think this is why I loved this book. It’s angry but not cynical. Desmond argues over and over again that we have fixed the balance of power in this country before and we can do it again. Poverty is not a hex, a curse,a chronic condition or necessary evil. It can be fixed!)

(We just have to make it so.)

A song I’m loving:

September’s turning of light is bringing a veil-is-thin energy to my spirit. This sense of, something is ending and I don’t yet know what that something is. This sense of, things are changing and I don’t yet know where the change is leading. This sense of, it’s time to release, release, release — it’s time to let go, set down, be done — it’s time to shed the skins that have been hanging on too long, the ones that have been begging to be left behind so something more true can take their place This sense of, it’s time to let the discomfort do its work, rather than avoiding it and thus avoiding the changes your soul is longing for. This sense of, it’s time to bring your fear with you instead of letting it keep you stuck in what is asking to be broken open, felt, composted, and turned into something more alive …is it the same for you, or is it just me (I know it’s never just me, thank goodness)?

It’s a tender place to be, standing on the precipice of an uncertain next season. It’s a tender place to be, dangling between past versions of you that have served you well and new versions that are ready to burst forth with autumn’s hues. It’s a tender place to be, wondering if you’re really ready to embrace the changes your body, heart, relationships, work, and life are asking of you — not to mention the changes a more beautiful world is asking of all of us. It’s a tender place to be, the unsureness. The wobbliness. The Beginner’s Mind. The I’m out with lanterns, looking for myself feeling. The knowing something is asking to die, but not yet knowing how to surrender. Or perhaps knowing what needs to die, but not quite feeling ready to acknowledge it to yourself. It’s a tender place to be.

We are all always standing on some precipice, aren’t we? Always in motion, ever-changing, forever morphing into some new shape, some new way of being. And yet the fear of these changes, of the endless and inevitable unknown, doesn’t seem to go away. No matter how ripe I am for something different, I still find myself clinging to the branch, desperate to hang onto where I’ve been instead of letting myself free-fall into the next necessary place. No matter how ready parts of me are for change, I still notice myself gripping onto old patterns, old ways of seeing, old strategies, old refusals, old versions of me that still aren’t sure I can be safe without them. No matter how welcomed something fresh and more aligned is, I still witness my desire for comfort often ringing louder than my desire for truth, for congruence. Can you relate?

As I find myself in another place of feeling like something is about to change but not quite knowing — or perhaps not quite being ready — to name what that change will bring, I am telling myself I can’t force letting go. My protectors might need more time being reassured it’s safe to step out into a new sky, a new way. My younger parts might need more tender strokes of the hair, whispers of “it’s okay, we’re okay”, reminders of just how much safety we’ve built for ourselves. My current self might need extra gentle care, right beside some firm nudges out of the nest of What Has Been and deep trust in my capacity to meet whatever may be coming with wholeheartedness. I try to offer myself what I need before ripping off the doors and pushing myself out. I try to let the unfolding take the time it takes, nurture my impatience with love, tend to my desire to know with the kind of compassion that bolsters my courage and strengthens my flexibility. And I try to do all of this while honoring the ways my slow, gentle tending can sometimes be another form of extending waiting, another way of avoiding what must be done.

If you find yourself on a precipice, standing at the edge of something unknown, stepping out of the cave into a new way of being and seeing that still feels far too vulnerable to truly take on… know the vulnerability of it is a through-line to your heart’s longing. Know you get to take all the time you need… and also, sometimes the most compassionate thing you can do is stop waiting. Know there is wisdom in discerning between necessary slowness and avoidance. Know there is such beauty in your willingness to listen to the nudges, to step out of comfort and into wobbly resonance, to allow yourself to be shaped by what is being asked of you. Know stepping into something new might bring the very thing you’ve long been trying to find in the outdated, stale ways of being that are now begging to be released. Know it’s okay to be seen trying, to be seen in your earnestness. Know you don’t need to get it right. Know there are pockets of safety you can access inside and outside of you. Know there is no arrival, but there are layers of presence available all along the path and endless places to land for respite and beauty. Know there is deep courage in your listening to the call and answering it, even without knowing where it will lead.

It is not easy to let go of what has been comfortable in order to embrace what is needed now. It is not easy to confront what is ready to be composted and trust the letting go will create space for something more true, more you. It is not easy to hold awareness within a world that makes numbing feel rewarded. It is not easy to stay close to your own heartbeat, your own desires, your needs. It is not easy to peel back the layers and let who you truly are underneath reveal itself… over and over and over again. It is not easy to imagine what life will look like on the other side of the shedding, on the other side of the unknown.

And yet it is in the willingness to stay with the unease and let it move us toward aliveness that we find our own courageous spirit. It is in staying with the discomfort that life reveals what’s next to us — that we access our clarity and trust to move forward. It is in staying close to the inner nudges toward what’s next that we deepen the language of our own trust, our own fortitude, our own ability to catch ourselves as we leap again and again. I see this courage everywhere: in nature, in all who are weaving change, in all who are choosing to free-fall into an unclear knowing, in all who are facing their own precipices heart-first. I’m with you in the free-fall. I’m with you in the choosing to listen. I’m with you in the wobbly step after step after step. May it lead to the next truest place, to the next truest version asking to come alive.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ The gift of love

△ Your phone or your life?

△ This beauty

△ A new album on repeat

△ “The problem is not friction itself; it’s what we do with it.”

△ A thousand tiny goodbyes

△ Awakening trust in a fractured world

△ Learn to be still

△ Peering out at the world with her

With care,
Lisa

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Now I’m part of this chain reaction too. A beautiful example of the community side of blogging. A digital picture of the internet as one giant web, a connection reaching past the physical realm.

But that’s not quite what I want to bring to the discussion. I agree with Manu’s advice about linking and commenting, and I practice it too, yet my thoughts on logliness (from the ancient Latin loglinus) wander elsewhere.

The first thing that comes to mind is that loneliness isn’t a measurement. Someone might feel lonely at a concert with tens of thousands of people. Someone else might sit alone in a hotel room and feel in great company, just by thinking of their book circle back home.

Just because we can’t feel the company doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Just because people don’t upvote, share, or comment on our posts doesn’t mean we don’t have a grateful audience. We may not hear the applause, but that doesn’t mean no one’s watching.

Perhaps it’s the loud rush of modern life that turns silence into loneliness. We’re haunted by validation. Stalked by likes, stats, ratings, follower counts, scores.

Maybe embracing the silence is the group hug we need to feel a little less lonely.

Update: Sacha Chua has written a beautiful follow-up: Writing into the quiet.