What can we do when we're so far away?

 

We are over 1,200 miles away from Orlando.  On 6 | 12 | 16, one man took the lives of 49 others and injured 53 others--then his life was taken by the police officers called to the scene.  50 dead people.  

 

What can one do from so far away?

 

My friend Tonieh Welland called me with an idea.  But the idea didn't gel right away because she was racked with the uncomfortable anxiety that is a mixture of anger and dread, sadness and helplessness.  What could she do from so far away?  What should she do?  What should the rest of us do?  How were "We are Orlando" posts and "Our prayers are with you" sentiments going to change anything?  How could contacting politicians change anything--especially in the here and now--when the political process seems so impotent on gun control.  And even with further gun control, how could that bring back the 50 dead people (or the 44 shooting victims in Milwaukee or the horrific number of 1,819 shooting victims in Chicago in the past six months alone)?  Her tone was less judgmental and more frustrated, more dubious even, perhaps of her own intentions and actions (or inactions) in the past.  So we changed our Facebook photo to a rainbow or an Eiffel Tower.  So I sent my love and prayers.  So I sent money to a victims fund.  So what?  Now what?  I don't think Tonieh is alone.  But what else can we do?

 

As I began writing this, I was reminded of Søren Kierkegaard's cliffside of dizzying freedom and Camus' Sisyphus.  Venturing into my basement, I successfully retrieved my Philosophy 203 notebook.  Not only were Kierkegaard and Camus tabbed in my notebook, but Baudelaire, Camus, Levinas, Heidegger, Tillich, and Sartre, philosophers who wrestled with the absurdity of their age.  As a college sophomore, I never imagined I'd revisit this notebook after the "worst mass shooting in American history" (if we discount the Wounded Knee Massacre), if at all.  And if 49, 44, and 1,819 are not absurdity enough to call in Kierkegaard and Camus, what would be?  

According to my notes, Kierkegaard imagined a man standing on the edge of a cliff, possessed simultaneously with fear of falling that kept him from getting too close and a strange impulse to throw himself into the abyss.  He has two choices--and that possibility scared Kierkegaard: we have the freedom to choose either.  In my notes, I had drawn the "dizzying crest" with a man on the edge, with three "defiance" arrows pointing away from the cliffside, labeled "passion," "freedom," and "revolt."  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But what makes sense to me now is the idea of being available in active ways to each other even when the world seems out of control.  And not to forget about Camus' imagining of a mythical Sisyphus who realized that at the top of the hill he was, if even for a moment, stronger than the rock, king of the hill, master of his own condition, despite what had been fated him. Camus called his Myth of Sisyphus "a lucid invitation to live and to create, in the very midst of the desert."  So add living and creating to faith, hope, and love, and perhaps we have an answer to the question that began this article.

 

But what good, even, is philosophy?  Especially without action?  Isn't it easy to see the rest of the world as "out of control" at the same time we're texting away our minutes and sipping coffee after a morning workout with friends?

 

What became of my conversation with Tonieh was some imperfect clarity: she and her fellow yoga instructor Larry Bickert would offer a yoga and meditation circle on the summer solstice.  I don't think it was lost on either of us that one could say the exact same thing about a yoga and meditation circle on the summer solstice as one could say about FB rainbows or virtual or spoken prayers.  But again, what can one do from so far away?

 

Her original intention for the summer solstice was to celebrate the change of seasons with 108 sun salutations (surya namaskar), offering yoga instruction with a suggested donation to help fundraise for her traveling yoga business: mats, blocks, and the like.  However, the weight of Orlando was weighing too heavily on her; it felt selfish to ask people for donations that would benefit her when there were more pressing issues in the world.  If we were going to do 108 of anything and raise money for it, it would be for our local LGBT Center.  Her mats could wait.

 

On the longest day of the year, then, Tonieh and Larry invited the community to join them at O'Donnell Park in downtown Milwaukee, at the grass circle next to Mark Di Suvero's orange sculpture, "The Calling," otherwise known as "The Sunburst."  Both the original name and the colloquial name seemed significant, plus the park was sure to draw visitors on what would be a very hot first day of summer.  

 

Almost 40 people--including one woman who was jogging past us but stopped to join, another man who was biking past, and later a young student from Marquette who said he came down to the park every day to meditate anyway--formed a perfect circle in the middle of the park. Despite the construction and traffic noise, we spent the next 90 minutes moving through 108 surya namaskar, with nine cycles each of sun salutations A, B, and C, then a rest and meditation, then a repeat of this process three more times, for a total of 108.