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There's this:

So stand by your glasses steady,
This world is a world of lies,
Here's a toast to the boys dead already,
And here's to the next ones to die.

RCAF toast, WWII, author unknown

And there's this:

I am the woman of the great expanse of the waters
I am the woman of the expanse of the divine sea...
It's that I'm a saint woman
It's that I'm a spirit woman
It's that I'm a woman of light...
Because I am a woman who lightnings
I am a woman who thunders
I am a woman who shouts
I am a woman who whistles...
I am a woman of good words, says
I am a music woman, says
I am a drum woman, says
I am a woman of clarity....
…I am a woman who gives life
Woman who sees
Whirling woman of colors
Woman of clarity
Woman who goes through the waters

Excerpts from Mazatec Velada Prayers, Marina Sabina

....I'm just asking you to think about it...

Advised by the bus monitor who supervised us elementary school children, I lowered my body under the window as screams and gunshots ricocheted around us. Our bus moved like a hunted animal through downtown Athens, 1963. Something about the king, or Cyprus, and political change. I was nine years old , and only understood the bricks crashing against the windows came from people who were very, very mad. Home in Glyfada, my family listened to girlish sobs and gave thanks for my safety, but no one could accurately explain why the bus was targeted.

Years later, I ducked more bullets and flying debris as violence erupted in the streets of Jamaica during an important election. While hitchhiking in my flower child days, a stranger’s gun pointed directly in my face forced me to jump out of a moving car to save my own life. The horror of that moment was significant. But certainly it’s more vague than the memory my father carried of coming face to face with an "enemy" soldier in VietNam who presented the it’s either him or me scenario.

Dad defended himself as all good soldiers are taught to do. When the other person’s body fell to the ground, the helmet rolled off and a beautiful cape of long, black hair tumbled into the blood-stained grass. In the blink of a survivor’s eye, my father realized he had killed a girl of about my own age at the time. Dropping to his knees, he wept for a long, long while, wondering why he was there at all.

Though my father exchanged internal organs and a calm mind for silver and other medals from that war, the hero’s life soured. For years after his return to the US, he drowned his grief in alcohol, sweated through nightmares, and misdirected his anger. He died the night before his 60th birthday, alone, in a country that didn't care. His last remaining friend was an Australian soldier who'd fought in the same war. David died soonafter Dad, and was buried nearby.

My mother lost her first love to the Korean War, and I’ve occasionally wondered what life would have been like had that gent been my father. Mom talks of days during World War II when she and my beloved grandmother hung heavy blankets over the windows in case of air raids. Hiding under her desk in a school in Georgia, she practiced with classmates for the feared bombings, and listened to radio reports of unreal happenings in distant lands. America would remain safe - the shortage of sons a statistic.

I have spent time, even cold nights, in dangerous places with homeless people and victims of racism, rape, and other violent crimes. I’ve stood vigil with thousands of others over wrongful deaths, including the one for Matthew Shephard in Washington, DC, 1998, and the one at the Seattle Center Fountain after 9/11. I've said prayers with mothers who held dead infants unable to recover from limbs broken by negligence.

I’ve seen gay bashing, poor bashing, black bashing, white bashing, wife bashing, religious bashing, political bashing. I’ve seen ignorance manifest in my own life and have shielded myself and others from vengeances which would be wrought by people who knew no better method than to inflict their own inner pain onto others in ways that cannot be undone. This past autumn, I locked my doors to the man who left two dead and two injured a mile from my Seattle home, lending fear to our normally quiet streets. As of this writing, they still haven’t found him.

I’ve seen the AIDS quilt. I’ve cared for infants abandoned by addicted, infected, or poor parents who could offer no love, no security. I’ve seen animals tortured and land scarred. I have survived racial riots in Georgia, street violence in several states, and violations of my own person by strangers. I have visited limb-less veterans, sat in tavernas and coffee shops with poets who wrote missives about war. I’ve stood in wildlife sanctuaries trying to discern the hateful birds from loving beasts.

I write because I am addicted to Life.
I write because it brings me Peace.

In this waning northwest light, I watch the last maple leaves sift gently from the branches onto the quiet waters below and wonder: Is it absurd to imagine a world where everyone is good to one another? Where everyone moves through his or her life path with the awareness that each of us is entitled to the peace that comes with a nourished body, warm and dry shelter, and simple needs met such as clothing and education.

Peace is a choice. Choosing to refrain ourselves from judgment, harsh words or behavior, requires steady, ongoing action. How many of us walk that walk daily? How often do we write checks to support organizations with whose purpose or platform we agree? How often do we act kindly toward a frightened child? Yet, how often can any of us say that this day has passed with only good pouring from us? Tolerance is a choice.

Through art, and creative endeavors, through sport and exploration, I believe alternative approaches can allay the fear and ignorance which undermines peace. Daily I wake with the trust that peace is possible, where no heart or country knows boundaries. Ah, yes, the cultural and ethnic delights reflecting our histories may abound, but must these differences lead to conflict of ANY kind?

War, whether urban or international - via bombs, chemicals, or microbes - offers nothing good. The destruction of any one person or of entire civilizations in turn rents even the tiniest being. To glorify anger, hate and injustice is to counter every thing the human soul is capable of. There is NO justification for any form of violence toward another living being. No justification for any mistreatment of the fields and valleys, mountains, deserts and rice paddies that, as peaceful panoramas and backdrops, decorate what we call home.

I have come to learn that all the outer semblances of war in its many forms are merely a multitude of hearts crying for love. I have come to learn that these outer appearances are but reflections of the pain and trauma held in human hearts that are founded upon fear. And I understand how fear can be a force that obliterates its opposite: Love.

When we let go of all fear, Love can enter. The sacred place that is each person's heart - no matter how blinded by fear-driven ego - can meet God at the center. God without rules, regs, or dogma. God without judgment or blame. God with the perfect answer. If only we are brave enough to let go our fears, and ask.

I have come to learn that Peace indeed begins with me.

Each of us has her own reasons for seeking peace. Though I prefer solitude, I do at times find refuge within community. When the world's rafters begin to tremble, I join women - for talk, for drumming, for sport. For beauty, and meditation. For soothing song, and stories that touch the heart. Women have historically held the role of caretaker - nurturing loved ones, mending the sick and injured. Midwives of humanity, it is the wise women who are left to reweave the tapestries shred by confusion and hate. Modern day women are attempting to realign with the archetypal goddess from ancient times. Cross-culturally, women around the globe are moving subtly toward unification, oneness, and peace. Toward restoring a balance of energies. Toward remembering who we really are.

Look around. Pay attention. It’s there. And though many think the odds are against us, we continue. Creating. Through birth, through silence, through art, through love, and through the possible perfections contained in words.