Living Waters, Living Stones

For the second time this year Kay and I joined a massive stream of people on Boston Common with concerns about community destiny. But the throng counter-marching to the Free Speech event last Saturday reflected an entirely different mood from the proud buoyancy of the Women's March in January.

We couldn't find the Veterans for Peace contingent right away, intending to be present for the Constitutional principles that were being boisterously debated today. VFP couldn't elevate its white dove flags visibly because public safety officials forbid anyone from carrying sticks that might become weapons in a melee.

In the wake of seven months' tumult with the Trump administration, and the recent disturbance in Charlottesville, the Boston crowd was edgy. They were determined to resist any extremes of intolerance or nationalism proffered in the name of Free Speech. City police cordoned off a wide protective zone around the gazebo where a right-wing rally was expected.

Tens of thousands of counter-protestors pressed in with various voices from shrill to prayerful. The living waters of civic engagement surged over a turbulent streambed of stones. The tiny group sequestered in the crucible became a non-event when their public address failed to materialize. No one knew who exactly those reprehensible elements in the gazebo were, nor what they stood for. But they were a discharge point for the general worry and wrath.

Apparently nice neighbors carried signs with four-letter words denouncing Nazism in America. Many of the imprecations encouraged violent counter-attack. Group chants of "We hate you, we hate you!" and "Shame! Shame! Shame!" were launched across the DMZ toward the gazebo. The mood turned sour.

We found the Veterans for Peace when a phalanx of members, recognizing an opportunity for which they were uniquely qualified, pushed their way by escorting a 'pariah' to safety when the crowd turned on him dangerously. In company with several dark-skinned men in Black Lives Matter shirts we formed a cordon around the offensive individual and moved him to the outer perimeter.

Many people said "Thank you" for the non-violent intercession.  A man in civilian clothes stepped forward to say he had enlisted 22 years ago to protect the founding principles of his country and found it necessary to keep doing it today.

In the streambed of Living Waters were signs of Living Stones, timeless reminders of humanity and good order. The congregation bubbled around them.

Part of that good order came from sensible planning by the City Administration. When they determined that the event had achieved its limit of civic benefit they directed the Riot Squad to extract the Free Speech contingent from the agitated crowd.

As a demonstration of hope, anger, and resolve the gathering was a success. As a venting of crude frustration onto segments of the political body cast as evil, it was a painful failure. It reeked of 'superiority' if not 'supremacy.' Frenzy swirled here and there to pummel an indistinct enemy. Parts of my tribe wrestled with tension, fascination, and barbarism. Perhaps we all did.

I had to check in with uncomfortable feelings. Was I open to looking past the discordant drums and costumes, to listening through clamor for universal dreams? Was I caught up in the forehand embrace of creation or the backhand swat of reaction?

I've returned daily to the easy rhythms of Halibut Point, to open spaces and the sea, where green darner dragonflies are now massing for migration. On Monday a shirtless, shoeless fellow lent me sunglasses to enjoy the eclipse.

Water and stone make up the character of the place beneath a vast sky. It's my practice field for composition, a quiet membrane to the rhythm of encounters with Living Waters and Living Stones. I breathe and write.