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So today is the day they’ve been waiting for. 3,543 bear hunting medallion holders will set foot on designated lands in the sate of Florida today to seek out their kill. Sounds like fun. Sounds like murder. Sounds like the news we all shudder about when we hear there was a bombing in a public square. A young student opening fire on his classmates. A father killing his entire family and then turning the gun on himself. A terror plot finally unveiled after years of planning and taking the lives of thousands of innocents.

When we step out into the world with the intent to kill we bring violence into this world. Violence does not discriminate. When it’s carried out against children, adults, or animals – it’s still violence. When there’s no purpose behind it, when it’s senseless, or worse yet, when it’s for sport – that’s when it’s even harder to forgive.

Today armed men and women, for the love of sport, for the thrill of the game, will kill living creatures in the midst of having their breakfast, foraging for food for their babies or finding a cozy spot to take a nap. Some nervous hunters with rusty bear hunting skills will kill mothers, leaving their young behind to fend for themselves. Soon after those babies will die too.

These men and women will get all dolled up in gear. They’ll drink some beers and eat some snacks they bought at the gas station when they filled their trucks up this morning. They’ll pull out their maps and plot out their course. It won’t be hard. These bears haven’t been hunted in over 21 years. The bears will be curious, calm and often in plane site for these armed men and women. The kill will be easy depending on the skill of the so-called “hunters”.

When the bears die, it will be really painful. These animals are large. No matter how big the gun, the bullet is merciless. The hunters are looking to kill in a spot that the taxidermists can work with. These will be long, painful deaths for all of them. With bow hunters it could potentially be even worse if they don’t hit the right vein – which most can’t. You’d have to be an Olympic level archer to kill a bear painlessly.

Once the bear dies. The hunter will pose next to their kill. They will likely post the photo on Facebook or Instagram. Some may fear the backlash of tens of thousands of people in protest of this hunt. They may have some sense and just text it to their friends or family members. Then they’ll attempt to drag the body out, but it will be damn heavy. They’ll need help.

At this point somewhere inside of them a small voice will speak up and say “Why the fuck did I do this? What the hell am I going to do with this goddamn bear?”

Some even smaller voice, which will grow louder will say “I feel kinda shitty for doing this. Was this right?”

It’s not right. It’s not cool. It’s murder. I’m not an extremist. I’m not some fanatical animal rights hippie person. I am a person who knows the laws of truth. What we bring into this world effects all of us. So I believe in choosing wisely and compassionately.

It’s been 21 years since bear hunting was permitted in Florida. There are only 3,500 bears in the entire state. Hunting was banned to allow their endangered population to come back. Why is it that humans seem to love to build things up and then tear them down. Today each medallion holder is permitted to kill one bear. With 3,543 medallion holders, that’s more bears than the 3,500 bears that the state has in existence. The state ruled the kill quota to cap at 320 bears. It’s going to be interesting figuring out how to enforce a cap at 320 kills among 3,543 men and women in very spiffy camo gear bearing arms hellbent to kill the bear they paid for.

In case you want to play their game too. Here’s their very complicated, well-thought-out strategy for their games this hunting season. Looks a lot like premeditated murder to me. http://myfwc.com/hunting/by-species/bear/rules/

If you want to stand behind non-violence, please choose compassion in each moment. I send my prayers to both hunters and bears today.

I wish the hunters had chosen peace and compassion today too. I fear a society where children are raised by men and women who choose to get dressed in gear and bear arms to kill for sport on a beautiful Saturday morning.

I was once asked, “Does being vulnerable get easier because you write non-fiction each day?”

The answer is no.

Does falling out of love get easier, just because we’ve done it once?

Does dealing with grief become easier, just because we’ve had someone else close to us die?

Every single day I feel a little afraid to hit the publish button and share my transparent truths with 30,000 people.

I speak of rejection, I speak of a grief that haunts, I speak of shame with sex and masturbation, I speak of finding my father for the first time, the process I had in my abortion—and it’s scary every single time.

I don’t grow a skin and get tougher.

Vulnerability doesn’t get easier.

I just shut my eyes, squirm and as Elizabeth Gilbert poignantly put, “Do my dance anyhow.”

Being a transparency teller doesn’t mean I’ve figured out a way to beat the fear.

I just tell my fear when it’s not welcome and ignore it when necessary.

Sharing truth, authenticity and transparency in our world is worth the fear.

I was asked by a reader on Instagram last week if I would start a thirty day vulnerability challenge.

Instead of doing yoga, juicing, or not drinking for thirty days, the invitation was to start a movement where people commit to sharing something vulnerable every day.

Peel another layer back and let it breathe into the world—wide open for all to see.

I loved the idea.

By being our authentic selves, we give other people permission to do the same.

Being vulnerable for thirty days can benefit not only ourselves but all the people around us to have “me too” and “I’m not alone” moments.

Every morning I’ve been waking up and choosing things that give me the vulnerability squirms and share them specifically.

The crazy thing is, most of our shames and fears are universally shared and will be connected with.

Often the thing we are most afraid to say out loud — because we fear judgement from those around us—is something the people who love us won’t even raise an eyebrow to.

I remember telling a dear friend on a long walk in the woods something I hadn’t told anyone before—something that was so scary to say out loud it made me cry.

I was afraid if I said it out loud, he would think poorly of me or never want to talk to me again.

He listened gently and immediately responded with a similar experience he had.

He made fun of me a little for thinking it was something so big that he would think less of me, or not want to be in my life.

He hugged me and we carried on—that was it.

My big, scary, shame-filled thing was something he experienced–and many others had.

We repress these things. We hide them.

The big scary monsters in our closets and our purple shame elephants often visit the hearts of people we walk beside.

Something interesting that happened so far was a few people participating in the challenge wanted to start a private group to share posts in.

To me this defeated the point of the entire thing.

Vulnerability isn’t private. It isn’t safe.

It’s scary and open and real.

This challenge isn’t about being conservatively vulnerable–it’s about being liberally out loud vulnerable.

I don’t want to sit in a group and be vulnerable privately with other people being vulnerable.

What’s the risk in that?

This challenge is a space for some of the squirms to be said out loud.

To practice rawness, nakedness and to show our bare beating hearts to the world.

It’s scary and it’s rewarding as all hell.

To take my layers I’ve peeled back and show them to the world.

To be vulnerable in new experiences with new people.

I want to breathe vulnerability into the entire world and let the world hide, squirm, stare, gawk, shout and cheer me on.

I’m here to cheer all of you on too.

You can join me in the challenge and share your posts on Instagram (or Facebook) with the hashtag #30daysofvulnerability. You can also add #experimentswithlove to partake in Red Flag’s “love laboratory” to expand awareness of love in its many forms.

We join our voice with the collective voice of prayer for the lives lost, injured and shaken by the bombings in Turkey. Our prayer is always for peace. No matter how much injustice and violence we face it is important that we never let the light of peace within each of us grow dim.

Image by John Bice (Young Turkish girls hands after helping with the Henna at their aunt’s wedding.)
© John Bice. All rights reserved.

Mexican artist Gabriel Orozco is most recognized for this simple set of self-portraits titled “My Hands Are My Heart” (1991). The images are meant to be shown together, as a diptych. Side by side they tell a story.

With this series Orozco’s story is simple, but potent. He stands naked before us with a tiny lump of clay in his hands. Gently, but firmly, he grasps the earth, holding it to his chest – as if the sound of his beating heart could mold the clay into the shape of its own image.

In the second photo, Orozco opens his hands. The gesture is both revelatory and generous. The color of the clay matches so perfectly the color of his skin – you can almost imagine it filling slowly with blood and building to an actual pulse.

Finally, Orozco places the clay in the kiln to be fired. The clay heart becomes a hardened relic.

“My Hands Are My Heart”, speaks of the humble act of love. Orozco’s love is expressed through his art. His hands are the instruments by which he creates — the sensors by which he experiences the world. The vision of his mind and the intention of his heart are communicated through his hands.

The story told through these images is timeless. Before love we all stand naked and vulnerable. The act of love requires us to make a generous offering, but when we offer our heart we must be prepared to let it burn in the fire. Sometimes we are left with a hardened heart. When our heart grows hard – like the clay after the kiln – it is more likely to crack and break.  When we are soft and surrendered, like the raw lump of clay, love can mold us in its image.

Image details: Image 1 and 2: Gabriel Orozco. “My Hands Are My Heart”. 1991. Two silver bleach prints, each: 9 1/8 x 12 1/2.

Image 3 : The clay heart after it was fired in the kiln

However you show up today, the world can take it.

Today, some of us can’t sleep.

Tomorrow some of us will walk this earth with less energy in our bones.

Yesterday some of us were cheated on by partners, and our hearts crack in our chests with each footstep we make.

Some of us are battling depression.

Some of us carry a weight that dares us to lift our feet and get out of bed in the morning. Our pride and shame make us afraid to tell others in case they think less of us.

Some of us are on horrendous diets in order to lose weight because we’re blinded by perfectionism and the scars of the cruel words others have said–words that sprung from empty hearts.

Forgive them, for they do not know you. They had no idea of the impact that these words had.

Some of us are broke.

Some of us are eating peanut butter and jam sandwiches on Wonder bread, waking up each day chained to scarcity and a fear of being homeless.

Some of us are grieving, staying up until 3am speaking words to someone who will never speak back, letting the transparency of salty tears stain our white sheets.

These people will walk beside you today.

They may smile.

When you ask them how they are, they may reply “good.”

Because we live in a society where we are afraid to be anything but “good.”

We are even afraid to tell this to those who love us when we are weak.

Almost four years ago I found my father, my parents split up, I left my relationship, and my roommate said she was moving out in a month.

I was processing some emotions of being left by my father–feeling the non-rainbows and non-buttercups.

I was sleeping until 3pm because I found nothing worth being excited about when my eyes would open.

I enrolled myself in a self-growth course and I called up a friend who I admired greatly–an accomplished chef with a heart as big as the earth.

I decided to tell him how I really was.

I thought he was so awesome. I was afraid after I told him I felt within reach of depression that he would not think I was awesome.

I thought that I would lose him as a friend.

We met in Remedy, a chai shop in Edmonton and sat upstairs with mugs of sweet and spicy milked tea. I told him what was going on and I asked for support.

He showed up for me. He didn’t run away from my heavy.

We went to yoga together.

I had somebody to call and speak to.

If you are battling from depression, insomnia, a broken heart–I implore you to tell someone who is close to you.

If they are willing and able to share your burden, to carry you for a while, let them.

Let that someone be the wind beneath your wings.

We truly need people who can be accountable for our well being on those days that we simply can’t.

I lost someone close to me to suicide this year.

On my sad days, while I’m grieving, I will write a friend and say, “I need a hug, a coffee and for you to take me for a hike today because I don’t know if I want to leave my bed.”

Plastering perfect on your face as a mask doesn’t serve anyone.

However you show up today, the world can take you.

by Janne Robinson

This photograph, titled “Me Kissing Vinoodh (Passionately), 1999”  is one of the most iconic images from the collective body of work created by the photographic team and couple Inez Van Lamswerde and Vinoodh Matadin, since they began working together in 1986.

The image starkly reveals that space we create for another when we allow a lover and a partner to enter our lives and even our physical body. The shadow of Vinoodh once he has been removed from the kiss – a physical equation of their union – leaves Inez truncated and somewhat severed. Of the image Inez has said, “Taking Vinoodh out of the kiss shows how destroyed I’d be.” Deep connection always carries within its shadow the fear of loss.  There is a heroic beauty in the danger we tread and the risk we take to enter into relationship. Inez offers these words to explain the emotions embodied in the context of the image: “…devastating, mesmerizing, awesome, unexplainable, untouchable, painful, transporting, never enough…” The offering of self – body and soul – is both terrifying and transformative. The image of Inez – like a perceptual illusion – is either one of lack or metamorphosis depending on the eyes of the beholder.

Inez and Vinoodh met in 1983 while they were both attending Akadamie Vogue, a fashion school in their native Amsterdam. Since coming together to work on a collaborative project in 1986 they have created hundreds of fine art photographs and images for fashion magazines and ad campaigns. Throughout the years their work has remained integral to the dialog on contemporary fashion with a unique style that has reflected a raw, edgy, real and impassioned side of humanity.

As a couple Ines and Vinoodh remain strong. They still live and work together and are based primarily in New York with their son Charles Star Matadin.

This image is the first of a series of artworks we will be featuring throughout the Love Issue as we celebrate and highlight artists whose work adds a creative dimension to our ongoing journey into the topics surrounding Love. “Me Kissing Vinoodh (Passionately)”,  has been in the Red Flag files since we launched in 2009 in anticipation of curating the image into the Love Issue. We featured it today to wish Inez and Vinoodh Happy Birthdays as Inez celebrated her’s on Sept 25th and Vinoodh today, Sept 29th. The second image is a self portrait of Inez and Vinoodh as a (complete) couple taken by them in their studio.

“Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” – Rumi

I believe this field that Rumi, the great Persian poet is presencing, is Love.

A client once called me a sherpa–the sherpa knows the story and the wisdom of the mountain’s terrain and can get you to the top safely. As a relationship therapist and guide, each day, whether the relationship is between myself and an other or myself and a couple, I get invited into the most sacred space there exists between two people : the intimate space, or in-to-me-see space–a space within and between.

There is no greater privilege than to be welcomed into another’s world and to share in their experience. My mentor and teacher, Hedy Schleifer, who trained me as an Imago Therapist (see TedxTalk) calls this encounter “the visit”. We visit each other by building the bridge of empathy. Empathic connection allows us to receive, understand and reflect the essence of another. Empathy allows us to be truly present and to witness with love the unfolding story of another’s life.

Relationships are the laboratory for our development. Each one of us has our individual struggle to keep becoming our healthiest, most authentic and fulfilled selves. Whenever we are struggling with another, we are struggling with a part of ourselves that is in need of love and understanding.

Developing the skills and language of empathy–which seeks to understand and has no need to make another’s experience wrong or right–not only allows us to connect and relate with genuine care, but it allows us to retrieve, through our acceptance of another, the disowned parts of ourselves.

Love connects and unifies us. Love feels safe. Love embraces our differences.

Each one of us is experimenting with Love.

This issue of Red Flag is the place for us to share in our experiments to gather and offer as resources.

This is our place to offer up our Love Stories.

This is our place to commit to Love.

When we choose empathy and love we choose to live in that field of Rumi’s vision.

Love gets me up in the morning. With love as my practice I look forward to each encounter with another, beginning with my beloved who sleeps next to me, looking myself in the mirror and dressing myself with Love; greeting my neighbors in the elevator with a smile in the energy of Love as I make my way to my office where I sit in practice as an Imago Relationship Therapist and Love Coach.

Love and its divine purpose brought Nicole, the editor of Red Flag into my life as a young girl, and gave me the opportunity to witness, support and guide her as she grew into an extraordinary woman and heart-warrior devoted to “Inspired Activism”.

It feels so perfect that she would invite me to hold, in relationship with her, the sacred space for her readers and community to experiment with love.

My commitment to partnering for Issue Number #9, is both very personal and very global.

My promise to Nicole is for this issue of Love to be the journey to the altar for her.

My promise to our global community is to help build a resource center accessible to all devoted to healthy love.

My promise to myself is to renew my vow every day to serve as a Sacred-space-holder, curator of relational wisdom and teacher of Love.

The Love Issue is now open for all of us to share our stories and wisdom. Meet us in the field.

Receiving you with Love,

Rachel Levy, LMHC
Guest Editor, Issue No 9: Love
Founder, Healthy Love Program, Prayerdanse and The Love Lab Experiment

It’s Suicide Prevention Week.

If you battle depression or suicidal thoughts this is for you:

I want you to live.

I want you to grey, and wrinkle, and fall in love.

I want you to walk beside me on this earth.

I want to run into you in a grocery store line–when your hair’s a mess, you haven’t eaten all day and there are bags from not sleeping for two days under your eyes– and have a conversation with you where you can show me how you really are and don’t try to put on a face. 

I want to breathe but a moment of joy into your heart.

What is happening for you is real–it is not a story.

There are people who love you who will always listen.

They will still love you after they know.

Give someone the opportunity to know.

Give someone the chance to take care of you.

To pick you up on the days you cannot pick yourself up. 

But more than that I want you to forgive yourself on the days you feel you cannot lift your body up from your bed. 

Knowledge comes from a secondhand experience, wisdom comes from experience.

I have no wisdom here–I do not walk in your shoes.

I know that sometimes it helps to be held while you cry. 

I know sometimes you might need to say, “I can’t keep living like this,” out loud.

I know I cannot make the choice for you to live–but I want you to know a stranger is rooting for you today.

(*Someone that I love dearly took this photograph a week before they take their own life.)

My world is standing and tall

I am an old cypress tree

I do not shake by the opinions of others

I do not bend at their whispers

I do not stretch to hear their approval

nor hide from their judgement

their thoughts are theirs alone

My power is here

in my belly

roaring with all its might

swing, swing, swing

raging through the night

and the sunlight

but you cannot take my power

it lies here

inside of me

I choose to walk smaller

I choose to walk taller

I choose when I kneel

I choose when I fall

you may swing left

you may swing right

you cannot hit me

you see?

I was never a damsel in distress

do not project your need on me

I will not flee

nothing you can say will diminish my existence

walk away and leave me be

I wanna fall in Love at 85

Go on shuffleboard dates and dance to hip-hop from ‘95

Our song would be Staying Alive, but only for the message

Otherwise we’d keep away from disco, it’s depressing

We’d rock matching tracksuits and rope gold chains

We’d look like Run DMC but in their old age

We’d take aerobics classes

And wear bifocal glasses

And eat at I-HOP

And hold hands at Sunday masses.

And when it comes to the bedroom?

Well, nothing much would happen in the bedroom, because were 85

But we would still be down to take a walk, or take a drive, or sit and talk, and have a drink

And watch the passers by, and ask each other why

And how, and who, and where, and when

And then we’d laugh and cry again

About the people we had been

And I would touch her withered skin and comment on how thin it is, to keep in something infinite

And she would smile sweet and blush then tell me that I think too much

She’s right I think too much

It’s always been a problem

But then again that’s how I made my green like the goblin

When I was in my 20’s I was eating Top Ramen

Counting up my pennys, saving up to go food shopping

But now I’m 85, and somehow I feel more alive

I turn my hearing aid up and bump Jurassic 5

I read the sports page while she peruses classifieds

We like antique stores, garage sales, and barter buys

We got the box set of Louie at a bargain price

We’ve watched it so much that we have the lines memorized

We sip on my Mai-Tai’s and sunbath at public pools

We both have season theatre passes to the sacred fool

And when it comes to the bedroom

Well hopefully, every once in a while, I knock her boots into the floral patterns of our bedpost

Then hold her head close, like death isn’t chasing us

Planning on erasing us and replacing us, with better versions of us

Re-shaping us, re-making us, then re-creating us, with new identities so we can make new memories

Hush, little baby

Learn to walk, and talk, and feel, and lie, and think, and fight, and fuck, and die, and never get the answers why

She dips a joint of grass in wheatgrass and we get high

Her hair is silver as the moon in the Miami sky

We still pop pills

But it’s not the Xanex anymore

Whenever we can’t sleep we listen to the ocean floor

She got a Sound of the Sea CD for me from the Brookstone store

And ever since I’ve been snoring like a… 

What’s that word?

Oh, a buzz saw

Sorry, I go blank sometimes

But hey I’m 85

I’m not complaining, I’m just happy that I’m still alive

And happy that I have my better half by my side

Super fly

She doesn’t look a day over 65

When I first saw her, I was totally in awe

She was classical, so I was like Yo-Yo Ma

And that was all it took, a single look and I was shook

I fell for her like some loose shingles from a Spanish roof

And I’ma Love her till she loses every last root

And has to glue dentures to her gums to chew solid food

Oooo

Now that’s real Love dude.

That’s some push comes to shove Love.

Not when it’s convenient Love.

Hospital bed Love.

Feed her ice chips Love.

Never leave the room Love.

Sleeping in the chair Love.

Pray to up above Love.

Have to pull the plug Love.

Miss her in your bones Love.

Everything about her Love.

Die within a month Love.

Can’t live without her Love.

Love.

The only reason that we are alive

And none of us should have to wait until we’re 85

* This poem was written and performed by IN-Q * Photo by Zach Allia @zachallia

One of the things I’ve realized in grieving is that for the first time since I was a child, I’m completely codependent on others to take care of me.

I grew up saying “I’ll do it myself”.

Sucking at receiving because I was so stubborn that I was able enough to do it alone.

I haven’t ever lived with a boyfriend. Hell, I’ve never even thought about living with a boyfriend.

I remember telling my only long term boyfriend from years ago “I think I’m going to move to BC” and he said “I could live in BC” and my brain went “Oh, I meant alone.”

I don’t see marriage in my future.

If I do we will all be naked, and donate the money we would have spent on flowers, wine bottles with our names on them, fluffy dresses, a ten story white and pink cake to orphanages, or nonprofits who work to educate women.

I had my astrology read in Guatemala and he said, “You aren’t really spiritual.” With a cocked eyebrow and then began,”You don’t prioritize marriage or family. I see you ending up with a man who is grounded. Who will cook you meals, and take care of you.”

My track record of broke musicians made me laugh out-loud.

Stability could be nice, I thought.

Since being hit by grief–I’m unable to take care of myself alone.

There are two kinds of people on this earth—survive to eat, and eat to survive.

I would happily take a pill for nutrients and sustenance each day.

I’m a creator with an abundance of ideas—there’s not time to cook for hours each day, even when I’m at the best of my self care.

I’ve cooked three meals in the past six week (eggs, toast, cereal and low maintenance foods don’t count as cooking).

I’ve paid people to make me food.

I eat alone in restaurants every day.

“You’re our newest most dedicated regular” the server replies cheerfully as she refills my coffee.

Go death, debilitating our ability to function therefore feeding the economy.

I’ve camped out with friends and family.

My mom forced plates of beautiful food in my face as I try play catch up on life, making me feel like I’m six and I’ve been at the playground too long.

“Eat, little.” She says.

I think in moments of pain and turmoil our appetite is either liquidated to 5% or sky rockets to act as a vice.

When my heart is broken and I am in pain, lacking enthusiasm for living—this manifests in my appetite for life.

I avoided booze, men, sex, and any companionship for the first month of grief.

I was aware of how nice it would be to collapse into someone and also how I didn’t wish my emotional garbage bags I was pulling around with me, on anyone.

I believe when we sleep with someone we get naked, in entirety—meaning we take off our emotions and play around in all of them, too.

Sleeping, sex, shopping, eating, TV, drugs and alcohol are all vices we turn to in depression, sadness or lows.

They all provide endorphins, escapisms and shut offs.

After the first month passed I met a really beautiful man.

It was my birthday.

I  drank champagne and ate oysters before going out dancing.

My friend and I stepped over grief and talked about love and sex. We ate oysters, of course we talked about sex.

I met Andre while crying—literally.

I was on the dance floor, at a bar some friends were playing at.

I had tried to celebrate myself wildly all day—with the presence of death came the immediate knowing of the fragility of life and urgency to live.

Yet as I blew my candles out on my chocolate mousse cupcake that morning—I felt sadness. I felt it was like me blowing out a light.

Any metaphors for death brought me back to the sadness alive in my heart.

So I stood, crying on the dance floor—in my white birthday skirt. No longer giving a damn about celebrating—feeling my still broken, fresh open, grieving heart.

I felt a big hand on the small of my back.

The night ended watching a sunrise on the white sandy Mexico beach of Victoria. There were orange and yellow splashes of golden light across water that held its breath.

We sat on a grey blanket and I was held.

I let myself collapse into arms that were capable of holding me.

The next day I went to go move into a place.

I found out some last minute deal breakers on the space, and wound up sitting in my car at dusk, with a car full of my belongings and plants—with no idea where to go.

My fight or flight kicked in.

I almost drove to an airport and bought a ticket to New York—to drown in blues and drink heaping glasses of wine in dark bars. To Costa Rica—to wake up and drink salt and smell wax as I dropped in on the waves and let mamma earth heal me. To Greece—to visit my father, sit on the chairs he made from his sunned brown hands and drink coffee as thick as soup and listen to Led Zepplin on his small radio that cuts in and out from the mountains.

I picked up my phone and called Andre.

“Come here, I’m buying you dinner and a bottle of wine.”

So we ate fine French food and cold Chardonnay and talked about how unpredictable and fucked up life was.

I knew two people in Victoria, both were out of town.

“You can stay with me. In the guest room.” He said.

Every bone in my body said, “No, I’m fine.”

But, I wasn’t fine.

I was grieving. I was without a home or a clue of where to go. My car was full of boxes. I was tired.

So I brought my plants into his apartment on the second floor, my white suitcases that are hip and beautiful but too heavy.

I couldn’t find my toothbrush—so I just used his, for a week.

Yep. Codependent.

In the course of eight days—his friends helped move my things into storage, he emotionally supported me through my story being misrepresented by a large magazine, moments of pits of grief, a situation turned sour that became one of the most mentally abusive things I’ve experienced yet to date..

He helped me find a filmmaker for some extra footage I needed for a project I began in New York.

He made me coffee every morning.

He made me five star breakfasts of grilled broccolini on hash browns and poached eggs.

Halibut crusted with wasabi peas.

He went with me to buy thank you flowers, get groceries.

He let me use his laptop and phone to do business.

He let my clothes demolish his apartment while I chose what to wear for the video.

He ironed my clothes at 11pm while I flailed around in my creative blur.

Filled the coffee pot up the night before, and left a green MEC canister beside it for me to wake to at five am to go shoot.

He would wake me up, say “Let’s go” and take me to wake up in rose gardens, the morning after I stayed up until 2 am crying.

He would send me ads for house rentals, while he was at work.

Call friends about cabins too rent.

He would pick me up after a long day, all one hundred and five pounds of me and put me in his lap and put on a movie about Gustav Klimt—after seeing my care and love for a print of his I have.

He tenderly took my clothes off and loved me—touched my skin, kissed my body and held me close.

Let me sleep in while CBC radio played and his day began.

And I knew it was codependent, and I knew I wasn’t yet able to carry my own mountain, let alone another’s—but I stayed.

We talked about it, too.

Before we kissed. Before I brought my plants upstairs. When I tried to leave after three days, five days.

He had just finished a six year relationship.

I washed my hair with his ex-girlfriends pink Kevin Murphy shampoo and blue ouchless brush.

He dove into the distraction that I was.

I collapsed right back.

I left the slice of time we spent together telling him I needed space to continue to heal, to be able to carry my own mountain.

“Fuck mountains”, he said smiling.

Relationships take energy, they take output.

I’m still just inputting. Squeaking by, speeding up, taking large steps back.

Grief is a wrecking ball that hits you from all sides.

It’s so important to me that I show up able and well in relationship.

To walk beside someone, and give energetically equally.

I am continuing to walk forward and to heal.

I am continuing to check in and know if I encompass the capacity to be in relationship.

The answer right now is no.

I am so grateful for this experience of codependency, and also aware how more efficient love is when we are walking and loving on our own two feet.

It’s where I will always meet my lovers and partners.

My first love, according to my father, were my hands. He and my mother separated the year I was born, but in those first few months of my life he said I spent hours lying on my back in the crib, staring at each of my hands as I opened and closed them over and over in front of my wide eyes.

My second love was my sister, or perhaps I was her first love. The moment I came home from the hospital she didn’t leave my side. Three years older and already too clumsy for a crib, she managed to climb into mine everyday and just hold me like I was her personal doll.

Then a few years later our babysitter woke us up in the middle of the night and brought us to the back porch. I saw the sky turn every shade of pink as it played off the streaks of white clouds and turned the trees from black back to their rightful shades of green. It was my first dawn, and from that moment I fell in love with the world.

In a perfect unravelling, our love stories would unfold just like that – starting with a solid footing in self love, providing the roots for healthy relational love and branching out to the space beyond ourselves – into the world, the whole of humanity and even further into the universal and spiritual realms.

A year before I launched RedFlag.org, I read Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography “My Experiments With Truth”. I learned the intimate story of Gandhi’s journeys through self love, relational love with his family, and his deep love of humanity. He had to go through many trials and encounters with the authentic and inauthentic before recognizing the difference between the two.

One story in particular stands out. Gandhi loved his mother deeply and was raised in a traditional Hindu household that observed vegetarianism. When he left India for England’s colder climates to study law, he was warned by many that he would not survive the winters without eating meat. Despite these fears Gandhi made a promise to his mother that he would not stray from their shared value. Yet, once he arrived in England (in 1888) he found himself giving into curiosity and fear and ate meat. The regret was an instant recognition for him of a violation of truth and love. From then on he never ate meat again. Shortly thereafter he discovered the London Vegetarian Society and joined their movement.

As I prepared for the launch of the “Love Issue” a young woman asked me, “What are your thoughts on love?” I had been researching the great voices on love both past and present, yet hadn’t actually articulated my own beliefs. We were alone and her eyes were so open and non-judgmental that I found myself telling her my truth. A truth I didn’t even know myself. 

“I believe to be loved you must be truly loveable. Love is something you need to earn and something you need to learn. It’s a state you reach, like the summit of a tall peak, but not just any peak – the tallest peak. And like Everest, only the most fearless can ever get there. To be honest love gives me a lot of anxiety.”

When I finished her eyes were much wider and filled with tears. “My word,” she said, “that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I knew when she finished speaking that everything I said was a lie – a lie I truly believed –  and that her eyes staring at me with so much compassion and acceptance was the proof that love is generously and patiently always there waiting to surrender itself to us without any struggle. 

This is our focus for Issue Number 9 : Love. We are here to bust the lies we tell ourselves about love and the illusions we create that block love. With our “Experiments With Love” campaign, like Gandhi’s “Experiments With Truth”, we will fumble through the dark together and shed light on all the facets of love as it touches our hearts in so many different ways each day. In this way we will learn about love from each other and allow ourselves to love more deeply than we’ve ever loved before – without struggle.

To join the movement add the hashtag #Experimentswithlove to your photos on Instagram or post your love stories directly to our Facebook page.

With Love to All,

–

–

Nicole Davis

Founder, RedFlag.org

*Meet Me On The Mountain…image by Zach Allia @Zachallia

“Vulnerability doesn’t get easier. I just make the choice not to let fear of judgment or shame win.” 

Last May we teamed up with Janne Robinson, poet, writer, and activist to create “This Is For The Women Who Don’t Give A Fuck”, a video portrayal of Janne’s poem of the same name. The video, which launched last week is an anthem of radical self love and authenticity.

This month Janne joined the Red Flag family as a contributing voice. We’re excited to continue to collaborate together and to feature her insightful and starkly human voice.

In this interview Janne tells us about the making of the “Women Who Don’t Give A Fuck” video, her writing process and what she gives a fuck about.

RED FLAG: Tell us about “This Is For The Women Who Don’t Give A Fuck”. When did you write it? What are you saying with this poem?

Janne Robinson: I wrote “This is For the Women Who Don’t Give a Fuck” in the parking lot of the Langdale ferry terminal on my laptop. I just returned from acting in a music video for Jay Sparrow where I spent a week with a woman who was a single mom, makeup artist, stylist, entreprenuer and essentially a super hero. I felt very inspired by her ability to do it all, and do all well.

It is written about multiple women in my life who inspire me, not just one. 

RED FLAG: What are some of the issues you give a fuck about most?

Janne Robinson: Women’s rights, street dog overpopulation, gender equality, homophobia, body shaming.

RF: Why did you decide to turn this poem into a film and what was that process like?

JR: If you’re an artist in the twentieth century, you’re also an entrepreneur. My first mentor Dianne Whelan was incredible at multi-platforming her work. She would write a feature article, film a documentary, create a multimedia presentation and write a book on the same story.

“This is For the Women Who Don’t Give a Fuck” was received very well online–I wanted to give it a voice.

I was feeling inspired by the magic of New York, driving with, Nicole Davis, the founder of Red Flag, a new sister who I had just met, talking about what was next and I mentioned wanting to do a spoken word poetry video. She said, “Why not now?”

I put a call out to the women of New York on my social media asking if they wanted to be involved in a spoken word video of the poem that night and had an overwhelming response so I decided to just do it. The entire process happened within 5 days. It was chaotic, inspiring, and reassuring that if you want to give birth to a project–you can create it (with an army of support). 

RF: That was your first time in NYC – what was that like?

JR: I was completely overwhelmed for the first day. I came from living in a community of two hundred people in Costa Rica for four months to being smack dab in the middle of Times Square in Manhattan. I was turned off by all of it and then something switched.

I was sitting eating lunch one day and watched a man in his thirties walk by holding a bouquet of yellow sunflowers, he had a train of little girls holding onto one another’s shirt behind him as they crossed the street. The next man to pass had a “Pro-choice. Pro-feminist. Pro-dinosaur” shirt on. (That man may very well be my soulmate.) I left loving the energy — the hum of stimulation that is in the streets. It definitely calls you to move and love and create.

RF: Poetry is so rare to come by these days. What would you say in defense of poetry and what place do you think poetry has in a digital world where language continues to be truncated and deep emotions are being conveyed through emoticons?

JR: Charles Bukowski said that poetry should “…be exciting, it should upset the grandmothers and make strong men puke. Make the spiders laugh and the sea shit back.”

A wise Italian once told me there is very little between good poetry and bad poetry. A typewriter doesn’t make a poet, nor does writing a poem. Poetry is a different breed of writing and our generation hasn’t birthed many poets I’m fond of (other than Tyler Knott). We’re too busy Tindering and watching cat videos. 

RF: In what ways do you think poetry can be a vehicle for change and activism?

JR: Poetry can successfully say something pungently in very few words. We have less of an attention span than gerbils right now, so poetry can be enticing with its simplicity and highly effective in making us stop and listen. 

RF: When did you start writing? Was there a moment or a piece of work you can recall when you first recognized the sound of your true “voice”?

JR: I’ve been writing since grade three. I had a short story about a hamster with three wishes that was published in Stepping Stones. My grandma told me she remembers the day I wrote my first poem. I began with “roses are red, violets are blue” until she told me that poems could rhyme. Then I spent an entire day at the kitchen table writing “sat, hat, fat, mat, rat.” 

My voice was softer and fluffier until I was about 24. The first things I wrote were soft and sweet but lacking any huevos or might. In the last year my voice has gained backbone.

RF: When did you make that first step in sharing your voice publicly?

JR: Facebook status and notes. People used to tell me Facebook was the wrong platform and to get a blog. Facebook was my blog, and a way I connected with others–still is.

RF: What’s your writing process like now? How often do you write? Are there any special times of day or rituals that get you started– What are some of the impulses and influences that spark your pen into motion?

JR: I write everyday. I am inspired effortlessly. My process is like a whirlwind. If the words come I’ll stop someone mid-sentence and run for a pen and paper–and I’m the worst writer I know, I never carry a pen or paper. 

I wrote a poem in the hospital once. The first two lines came right after an exam with my gynecologist. I wandered down white hallways in a blue assless gown hunting the nurses down for a pen.

I write when I’m in love. I write late at night. I write at dawn. I write to process pain. I write after sex. Human connection and love–not men, but love are my greatest muses.

RF: “To the women who curse like truck drivers…” you’re not the type of writer to shy away from profanities. What has been the backlash, if any, of being so raw and unfiltered.

JR: Less Christians read my work. 

RF: Do you ever hold anything back when you write — is there ever a part of you that comes to the surface to be expressed but you choose not to reveal it?

JR: I am pretty much naked with my writing–90% is nonfiction and about my life.

Whenever I want to hold back sharing something, it’s often because it’s incredibly intimate and vulnerable. The things that are raw and from my core are always worth saying.

Vulnerability doesn’t get easier. I just make the choice not to let fear of judgment or shame win.

RF: What piece of your writing is out there today that makes you feel most exposed?

JR: “Aborting Shame One Woman’s Experience Within Abortion.” 

RF: Who do you write for – if anyone?

JR: I always write for myself. I only write about things that I am inspired to talk about. I am a feature columnist with elephant journal and I also contributed to Folk Rebellion, Meraki, Wild Woman Do, and Yogi Approved. All of my work is freelance and I am polyamorous with my voice. 

RF: What’s one of the greatest compliments you’ve ever received?

JR: A woman in her fifties once told me she wanted to be like me when she grew up.

RF: A moment you’ve been humbled?

JR: I remember the moment where my first article online had one share and I almost peed my pants in excitement. The first time one of my articles hit one million views, I was humbled.

RF: What’s next – what are you dreaming about doing and creating?

JR: Self publishing my first book of poetry. Writing the book and film script of my journey in finding my father five years ago. Opening and creating an artist residency in Costa Rica, with a yoga instructor, recording studio, community garden, surf racks, a chef for cooking lessons — if you like cooking — and a chef to cook for you if you don’t. That’s a big time dream of mine. A white cafe with twenty foot ceilings, orange pink and red pillows, freshly squeezed orange juice, trees growing inside, stained glass. 

RF: Is there a motto, mantra, life philosophy or raison-de-etre that you live by?

 JR: “What other people think of you, is none of your business.” ~Paul Cohelo

Dear activists and leaders and movement makers,

If you’re not going to be a lemming, you’re going to have days where you get beat down.

People are afraid of change.

People are afraid of asking for change.

People are happier to allow the thoughts and beliefs of the past satisfy them then stand up and shout, “I have my own idea! I have my own thoughts!”

Aristotle, Einstein, Joan of Arc, Darwin, Plato, Martin Luther King, Socrates, Nelson Mandela, Winston Churchill, Eleanor Roosevelt, Anais Ninn were brilliant—they are also dead.

We need new ideas.

We need new leaders.

People who aren’t willing to stay seated in the ways their parents were accustomed to, and assume that since that’s how it’s been–it’s best.

We need new free thinkers.

Who do not quote the past, but quote themselves.

Who are brave enough to say, “I believe in my idea. It’s worthy.”

To stand up and give the world hell with their fire and not worry if it’s been done or people will like it.

We need to quit reading the greats of our past and become the greats of our future.

We need you.

What’s your idea?

Why are you sitting down?

If you are standing up, what do you have to offer our earth?

How can you heal, empower, ignite change?

People are happy to enable immobilism to avoid the confrontational conversations and situations.

People are happy to stay silent.

It is easier to stay seated.

It is easier to be an impressionable sheep, and follow mindlessly without stopping to ask, “Is this my truth?”

And once you are standing there is something incredibly important you should know.

If you make the choice to try and change the world, know that the world won’t always support you back.

The percentage of humans taking a bat to the injustices of our planet is small.

There are many humans supporting those taking a bat, but those carrying the bat and taking swings may lie somewhere around the 2% line.

If you make the choice to be in that 2% I want you to have some days where you rage at those unwilling to see your big heart tearing at the things that need light and a voice.

But more importantly I want you to allow some days where you throw the white flag over a cliff and curl up in a ball and hide.

Yes, I want you to be defeated.

I want you to realize how big our world is and the size of your hammer and throw in your activism cards.

The world won’t change overnight and all warriors, and heroes have days where they lose.

Be defeated, then wake up tomorrow, and give the world hell–because we need you.

Our world needs saving.

Our world needs you.

We can’t have too many greats, too many free thinkers.

There is space for you.

Love,

A fighter.

We join our voice with the collective voice of prayer for 148 lives lost in Kenya.