“Preservation of one’s own culture does not require contempt or disrespect for other cultures.” ~ Cesar Chavez

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“I am convinced that the truest act of courage, the strongest act of manliness is to sacrifice ourselves for others in a totally non-violent struggle for justice. To be a man is to suffer for others. God hep us to be men.” ~ Cesar Chavez

I found myself thinking about Cesar Chavez today, mostly because of the continued assaults on immigrants and migrants being perpetuated by this administration, the most recent of which is the abolition of the medical deferred action program (more on that later).  Chavez was an American labor leader and a civil rights activist who firmly believed in the efficacy of non-violent protest. And yes, his quotes are dated in that they use men/them, man/him, etc., but he was a product of his times, so I don’t read him as being sexist.

Anyway, Chavez is actually one of the first civil rights activists whose name I learned in my youth (aside from King, Kennedy, etc). I remember reading about his hunger strikes in 1968 and 1972, and the last of which was in 1988. That last fast was big in the news as several famous individuals took up the fast once Chavez completed his 36-day Fast for Life on August 21, 1988: The Reverend Jesse Jackson, Martin Sheen, the Reverend J. Lowery (President SCLC), Edward James Olmos, Emilio Estevez, Kerry Kennedy, legislator Peter Chacon, Julie Carmen, Danny Glover, Carly Simon, and Whoopi Goldberg.

Chavez regarded fasting as both a personal and public protest. Of fasting, he said,

A fast is first and foremost personal. It is a fast for the purification of my own body, mind, and soul. The fast is also a heartfelt prayer for purification and strengthening for all those who work beside me in the farm worker movement. The fast is also an act of penance for those in positions of moral authority and for all men and women activists who know what is right and just, who know that they could and should do more. The fast is finally a declaration of non-cooperation with supermarkets who promote and sell and profit from California table grapes.

Not sure why Chavez popped up on my internal radar today, but I’m going with it. If you want to learn more about him and the American Farm Workers union, go here.

(Note: I couldn’t decide on a poem for today’s post. Most of the ones that I liked are still under copyright, and I couldn’t find a poem that was specifically about Chavez.)

“If I had not immersed myself in books, in stories and legends, in newspapers, in reports, if everything communicable had not grown up in me, I should have been a nonentity, a collection of uncomprehended events.” ~ Ingeborg Bachmann, from The Thirtieth Year: Stories

Multi-hyphenate Austrian writer Ingeborg Bachmann

Saturday afternoon, sunny and warm, 88 degrees.

Today is supposed to be the last day for a while in which temperatures approach 90. That’s a good thing. I need to get back into the habit of walking the property, and because of my weird, new reaction to bug bites, I’m looking forward to the cooling temperatures and the reduction of no-see-ums buzzing and biting me.

As today is the last day of August, I thought that I’d share this passage from Austrian poet, essayist, lecturer, and author Ingeborg Bachmann. Bachmann was a member of the literary circle Gruppe 47 or Group 47. To read her biography, go here.

August! There they were, the days of iron made red-hot in the forge. The times resounded.

The beaches were besieged and the sea no longer rolled forward its armies of waves, but feigned exhaustion. deep and blue.

On the grill, in the sand,  roasted, moiré: the easily corruptible flesh of man. Before the sea, among the dunes: the flesh.

He was afraid because the summer squandered itself so. Because this meant that autumn would soon come. August was full of panic, full of the compulsion to snatch at life and hurry to start living.”

~ Ingeborg Bachmann, from The Thirtieth Year: Stories


Music by John Prine, “Summer’s End”


A Kind Of Loss

Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.
I’ve fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, wiht summer.
With Village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed.
Kept a calender cult, declared promises irrevocable,
bowed before something, was pious to a nothing

(-to a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper) ,
fearless in religion, for our bed was the church.

From my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting.
From my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbors.
By the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest hue.
The ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.

It’s not you I’ve lost,
but the world.

“At every moment of our lives we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss.” ~ Paul Coelho, from Eleven Minutes

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Today is the birthday of author Paul Coelho (1947), Stephen Fry (1957) author, actor, and comedian, John Green (1977) author, and one of my favorite gingers, Rupert Grint (1988).

From John Green’s Looking for Alaska:

. . . we had to forgive to survive in the labyrinth. There were so many of us who would have to live with things done and things left undone that day. Things that did not go right, things that seemed okay at the time because we could not see the future. If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless. . . .

Before I got here, I thought for a long time that the way out of the labyrinth was to pretend that it did not exist, to build a small, self-sufficient world in a back corner of the endless maze and to pretend that I was not lost but home. But that only led to a lonely life accompanied only by the last words of the already-dead, so I came here looking for a Great Perhaps . . .