Monarchs, Muslims & Grocery Store Disasters

Today I saw a monarch dance is swooping patterns of ecstasy, and for one moment it flew over my head. A dragonfly looked me in the eye, tilted its head and seemed to acknowledge our very real connection. And a bird died n the arms of a little boy across the street. A circle of four young white males gathered to do their best for the little squawker - clearly a baby - who had been "gotten" by a neighborhood family's outdoor cat. I had the feeling when they called me over, knowing that I have on occasion rescued and helped revived a near death bee, that this bird was on its way to death and was not going to make it. I had competing urges to go home and tell them to let the thing alone, even to let the cat finish it so it could go quickly, and to be there to provide support in whatever way I could. In the end I let them decide what to do, counseling them on the options and stood a good distance off, at the edge of their yard, one step away from the cement circle. They soon called to me, "Alicia, Alicia, we got it! We rescued it!" And so one boy held it, I did some energy work on it, another boy got it water to sip, and one of their dads came by to make sure the boys washed their hands VERY thoroughly and to put in his two cents on "the politics of having outdoor cats." Meanwhile, the kids were not considered with judgment, but compassion. One wondered if he should wack the bird with a stick "so it won't suffer." Another gathered grass for a nest and wondered if, for the last moments of its life we should set it down, "So it can have some peace." And in the end one boy just held it kindly until its heart stopped, and then all the boys dug it a grave. Not every story has to have a happy ending to be beautiful. The beauty in this story to me is that the bird gave the boys an opportunity to demonstrate positive, healthy masculinity - courage, considered ethics and compassion. I told them I think that being courageous and compassionate are the most important things for a boy - for any person - to learn, and that they did a great job with both. They seemed sad but also pleased with how they handled situation and I watched from a distance as they sat in a circle around the tree where they'd buried the bird for a while before moving on. One of the boys in this group used to squash small bees for sport. I told him they were my friends and from then on he became a strong bee advocate. Sometimes telling our friends that vulnerable populations are OUR friends can really shift things.

I was pulling out of a parking spot today when my path crossed with a mini van containing two beautiful women in hjab. I stopped to let them go. And I smiled. They smiled back so genuinely. One of my favorite things about Islam is that smiling is considered a good deed, officially. I was born in a Sufi commune and spent the first two years of my life there. I also visited sacred Christian sights twice during my first two years - the first time when I was still in the womb. And my father is Jewish. So I am deeply influenced by all three traditions.

But the tradition that resonates with me most is the one that says, "I don't care what your religion is, I care about your heart." I know when I am meeting someone and we are relating soul to soul, heart to heart, and that is the most magical thing about being a human being capable of connecting with other human beings. I felt that with the muslim women in the mini van. And I felt it when I went to coffee this morning, and I paused just before going in, feeling the sense to wait, only to be greeted moments later by an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time who happens to be black. He told me about some health struggles and I offered him some energy healing, which he accepted, right there in the sunshine outside the neighborhood weigh station of caffeine and conversation. He said he could feel it and thanked me.

This morning my son accidentally dropped a bottle of fizzy ferment, also known as kombucha. I told him it was okay, and asked if needed any help cleaning up. He said no, that it was already all cleaned up. The bottle remained intact, but the cap broke. Like mother like son. Last week the same thing happened to me. Twice. The first time was at home. The second time was very, very public.

There is nothing like standing at the crime scene of a kombucha accident in the middle of Whole Foods. The kombucha cooler is stored absolutely directly in the middle of the front of the store where all the registers are, so everyone has to walk by you and your accident on their way to check out. Now you may have surmised by now that I had a kombucha accident, based on the scene I've set and the spoiler in the title. You would be correct. Stick around and I'll tell you not only how it happened, but the memorial service that was held for a lost scobe.

I was reaching for the top most shelf. Only the day before my youngest daughter and I had been discussing the pros and cons of being short or tall. In this case, being short was a con. I climbed up on the ledge of the cooler and with effort, grasped the Nessala Juniper rose, only it was wet, and it slipped and crashed to the ground without pausing, demonstrating that the laws of gravity are still in effect for kombucha bottle sized objects at this time. I heard a bang as it hit the floor, and as I looked down, I saw, spread out beneath me an entire lake of gold. I looked for shards of broken glass, but found none. Instead, joyfully, I located an intact bottle; the only broken thing was the plastic cap. So in essence the crash landing had simply opened the bottle, spilling its contents on the ground. Moments later a staff member, and then another staff member and still another came over. It almost seemed someone had called a code blue. I didn't know it took five people to mop up a spill, but maybe they heard me say "golden lake" in my mind, and thought "large scale accident, call in the troops." Eventually it was down to my current favorite Whole Foods employee. She has colorful rainbow hair, featuring a soft red, and we've had fun, high vibe conversations before. Now we stood watch over the disaster. I apologized, of course, and then we just stared at it for a while in silence. She then announced that someone has to "watch the spill" to make sure no one slips and falls. I nodded. We kept watching. I suppose I could have left, but it didn't seem like the right thing to do, after all, it was my spill, I felt I should see it through to it's completion. After a bit it occurred to me that it was a bit like how I imagine it would be to keep watch over a person who has passed. I said so aloud, "It kind of reminds me of keeping watch over someone who has died." She said, "Yeah, I get that." And thus we commenced a psuedo memorial service for the kombucha, light-hearted, yet in some sense also sincere. We wished the kombucha a wonderful next life, and she made sure especially to give a shoutout to the scobe, which was sprawled like a sun-colored jellyfish off to one side, and I concluded our ceremony by saying, "May everyone who walks here be blessed!" With that another employee returned with a mop and a towel, and I departed to purchase a small bonsai tree, two surviving bottles of kombucha, two basil plants and a small coconut water made by Harmless Harvest.

All in all, I took it as a good sign that although the kombucha came crashing down, the glass remained intact. Over the course of that day, I saw three monarchs, planted my basil, found a home for my bonsai and lounged at Brittingham beach with my husband and our two younger children, our oldest being in Boston.

Another thing I saw this week: two kinds of bees sharing the same flower.

And one more thing: two butterflies dancing a duet.

And one last thing: a monarch and a dragonfly doing a doce doe.

444