Feb 16

Coffee Makes You Black Soap Box and Blueberry Pancake Moments

Our 3rd Soap Box and Blueberry Pancake Moments on May 4, 2024 found above 30 in attendance.

Seventeen orators shared their thoughts.

Virginia Small

A Soapbox Moment about Stewardship

By Virginia Small, read at this Maya 4th celebration

Dedicated to the memory of Bill Sell, Janine Arseneau and Jahmes Finlayson, and stewards everywhere.

Defeatism lurks on the sidelines. Goads passersby. Tries to hijack impulses to make things better. Threatens the commons by claiming we have no resources to keep these spaces for everyone. It’s just not feasible, we have no money, familiar refrains, cynical chants masquerading as reason.

I hear those chants and they do not ring true. Defeatism will not serve seven generations. It will not protect us from ravages of the climate crisis. Or repair patterns of exclusionary tactics. Of two-tier systems. Of separate and certainly not equal.

Just beneath the din, I hear the quiet call of stewardship. We can each help to ensure that these commons remain intact. For all humans and all sentient beings. Not privatized to serve only some. Not merely neglected.

We must protect and preserve spaces where everyone belongs and thrives.

Stewardship calls us to care about something beyond our closest circles. And to take care of what we care about. Stewards sustain places: A lake, a river, a block, a beach, a park, a city, this planet.

Stewards care for animals and habitats, for history, for culture, for treasured ideas and ideals. Stewards plant and tend trees. Sow seeds. Fix sandwiches. Write letters. Cultivate community.

Stewardship thrives through active hope, through tag-team efforts. Many stewards don’t even know others on their team. Stewards know that they are only one person, but that whatever one person does indeed matters.

I cannot do it all, but I can do something. And something is always better than nothing,

Even when broken hearted, even on gray days, I can show up and bear witness. Showing up is an act of hope. Hope is a rugged verb that makes impacts through sometimes-random acts.

Hope gets us to leave our beds. Joy, its rambunctious buddy, creates ballast, generates energy to respond to urgency. Joy hears its own music and makes us want to dance. To whatever rhythm we feel in our bones. In ever-changing moments. Even when there’s no music. Even when movement feels strained.

Even when joy feels tentative. Hope defies defeatism, stands its ground, plants its flag in the sometimes-fragile commons. Hope watches the sun peek from behind clouds. Worships the sun, even on dreary days. Joy strolls the beach in all weather. Picks up trash as a dance. Greets neighbors and strangers. Finds common cause.

Hope shows up, however it can, in finery or sweatpants. Joy rises up, takes us by surprise. Movement begets movements. Even in small, struggling steps. I came to this morning’s gathering fueled by hope. Driven by joy. The music here makes me want to dance.

Que el-Amin