Ah, strawberries! Have you ever held a large, ripe, strawberry in your hand? Have you ever placed one near your nose to breathe in the fresh strawberry scent? Perhaps, when no one was looking, you even kissed that luscious strawberry and imagined the inner thigh of your lover... and then you bite so tenderly... ah! And did you ever ponder other essential connections: like, the beauty of soil, the necessity of water, the pure wonder of sunshine and photosynthesis, and the hands that work the fields, harvest the crops, transport to market, and receive your money -- one result of your own working... Everything is directly connected to everything else: or as Rumi wrote, "How you make love is how G-d will be with you"...
But did you ever stop to consider the possibility of secrets hidden in those hills rising above the rows of strawberry fields? There were rumors going around that illegal immigrant farm workers were living in those hills: in slave labor conditions... The Bishop called me and asked if I would take him on a "tour" of those hills, and since I ran a Soup Kitchen and shelter, perhaps if the rumors were true, I might be able to offer some sort of assistance to the workers...
Now, tramping across private property can get one in trouble with the Sheriff or shot by an irate landowner or labor contractor "protecting" his investment... so we parked well away from the hills we would be inspecting and secreted ourselves over the barbed wire fence and quickly disappeared into the trees. We soon found a deer trail that led through bushes into a relative clearing with tall oak trees scattered on the hillside. Walking a bit further, we followed the curve of the hill that suddenly revealed an encampment: the rumors were evidently true...
Carved into the hillside were "pre-historic" burrows, or caves, into which one or two humans could squeeze and lie in a prone position: obviously sufficient for sleeping. A few blue tarps covered the ground. One industrious farm worker had "borrowed" a length of irrigation tubing which was placed in such a way so as to provide a little "porch" with a tarp draping... The Bishop was dismayed that in his Diocese Catholic landowners could have immigrant "slaves" working in their strawberry fields and just barely surviving -- and in sub-human conditions to boot... "Conveniently" those farm workers: those "illegal immigrants": soon disappeared from those hills...
As always, the poor keep doing whatever they can do to survive, while at the very same time, the very rich just keep on doing whatever they can to increase their margin of profit... That Bishop, with the very kindly heart, has since passed away and I am no longer running any Soup Kitchen or shelter. Now I am stringing words together in a blog, in essays and "letters to the editor", in stories and in poems: but most importantly, I remember!
I remember another time hosting a group of Berkeley middle-class "radicals" at a labor camp to talk to a real-live group of illegal immigrant farm worker women: many of whom worked in strawberry fields, in onions, and in lettuce. They wanted to hear horror stories of hardship and perhaps of the noxious effects of the poisons used to keep the crops pest free. Yes, there were great hardships, but the thing was, the farm worker women were happy: they had work, a roof above them and their families, food for their children, and their children could also go to school... And time has continued to pass: some of those folks have, like their Bishop before them, passed on. Some are still laboring in the fields. Many of the kids whom we tutored, now have children of their own. Some of them have even graduated from college and many more are afraid of the possibility of deportation...
Above all, I remember how alive the words of Yeshua -- Jesus -- became when climbing over barbed wire: when cooking and serving soup: when offering a homeless woman safe shelter: when reading a child's book with a young Mexican girl who wasn't just learning how to read, but also learning how to dream: when helping to organize a free mobil health clinic, and saving the life of a woman with invasive cervical cancer (yes, an immigrant Mexican): when taking a hundred Mexican kids on a week of "Camp St. Francis": when holding the hand of another woman dying of cancer: when awakening to the stunning and simple truth that, in both the beginning and the end, as along the way, it is only our feeble attempts at loving others as we love ourselves that matters.
Please! Now look at the above picture of that strawberry field: imagine a strawberry in your hand: imagine the face of your child or of your beloved: imagine your last kiss and your last breath: the rEvolution that matters is the alignment of our daily thoughts, words, and actions with loving with as few strings, limits, and requirements as possible... "Justice is as Loving does"... in the "Strawberry Fields Forever"... (thanks for that, John!).
But did you ever stop to consider the possibility of secrets hidden in those hills rising above the rows of strawberry fields? There were rumors going around that illegal immigrant farm workers were living in those hills: in slave labor conditions... The Bishop called me and asked if I would take him on a "tour" of those hills, and since I ran a Soup Kitchen and shelter, perhaps if the rumors were true, I might be able to offer some sort of assistance to the workers...
Now, tramping across private property can get one in trouble with the Sheriff or shot by an irate landowner or labor contractor "protecting" his investment... so we parked well away from the hills we would be inspecting and secreted ourselves over the barbed wire fence and quickly disappeared into the trees. We soon found a deer trail that led through bushes into a relative clearing with tall oak trees scattered on the hillside. Walking a bit further, we followed the curve of the hill that suddenly revealed an encampment: the rumors were evidently true...
Carved into the hillside were "pre-historic" burrows, or caves, into which one or two humans could squeeze and lie in a prone position: obviously sufficient for sleeping. A few blue tarps covered the ground. One industrious farm worker had "borrowed" a length of irrigation tubing which was placed in such a way so as to provide a little "porch" with a tarp draping... The Bishop was dismayed that in his Diocese Catholic landowners could have immigrant "slaves" working in their strawberry fields and just barely surviving -- and in sub-human conditions to boot... "Conveniently" those farm workers: those "illegal immigrants": soon disappeared from those hills...
As always, the poor keep doing whatever they can do to survive, while at the very same time, the very rich just keep on doing whatever they can to increase their margin of profit... That Bishop, with the very kindly heart, has since passed away and I am no longer running any Soup Kitchen or shelter. Now I am stringing words together in a blog, in essays and "letters to the editor", in stories and in poems: but most importantly, I remember!
I remember another time hosting a group of Berkeley middle-class "radicals" at a labor camp to talk to a real-live group of illegal immigrant farm worker women: many of whom worked in strawberry fields, in onions, and in lettuce. They wanted to hear horror stories of hardship and perhaps of the noxious effects of the poisons used to keep the crops pest free. Yes, there were great hardships, but the thing was, the farm worker women were happy: they had work, a roof above them and their families, food for their children, and their children could also go to school... And time has continued to pass: some of those folks have, like their Bishop before them, passed on. Some are still laboring in the fields. Many of the kids whom we tutored, now have children of their own. Some of them have even graduated from college and many more are afraid of the possibility of deportation...
Above all, I remember how alive the words of Yeshua -- Jesus -- became when climbing over barbed wire: when cooking and serving soup: when offering a homeless woman safe shelter: when reading a child's book with a young Mexican girl who wasn't just learning how to read, but also learning how to dream: when helping to organize a free mobil health clinic, and saving the life of a woman with invasive cervical cancer (yes, an immigrant Mexican): when taking a hundred Mexican kids on a week of "Camp St. Francis": when holding the hand of another woman dying of cancer: when awakening to the stunning and simple truth that, in both the beginning and the end, as along the way, it is only our feeble attempts at loving others as we love ourselves that matters.
Please! Now look at the above picture of that strawberry field: imagine a strawberry in your hand: imagine the face of your child or of your beloved: imagine your last kiss and your last breath: the rEvolution that matters is the alignment of our daily thoughts, words, and actions with loving with as few strings, limits, and requirements as possible... "Justice is as Loving does"... in the "Strawberry Fields Forever"... (thanks for that, John!).
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