Facebook Publication Date: 9/2/2021 9:09

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Something happened today that threw me a bit.

Collective Impact Center, the physical space where the Lace on Race Center for Racial Equity is housed, changed radically. They leased out the shared basement space to a large organization, which means that I am back to my kitchen table.

It was indeed a blow. I had grown to love the Collective Impact Center, for the space itself, to be sure, but also because of the shared ethos of Collective Impact Center, one which valued community over mere commerce; a place where creatives and artists and social entrepreneurs (like us) could thrive and collaborate and rub shoulders, and make synergy.

It will be smaller, and right now, there is no office space to move into.

So August 31st, quite abruptly and surprisingly, was our last day at Collective Impact, at least for a while. We got no notice.

Elise, the gentleman who runs Collective Impact, assured me that we are first in line for whatever office space might open up; most likely December, or even later.

So, back to the kitchen table (and the Coronavirus Couch) I go.

I won’t lie. It is a blow. I thought we would be there for a good long time. It felt, actually it feels, like something of a setback. Elise was apologetic, for the displacement as well as for the lack of notice; I was gracious, and did my best to be stoic.

Stoic, at least until Elise climbed the stairs and I heard the outside door shut. Then I allowed myself to choke up a bit. I love that place, and even the soft promise that we would be back relatively soon wasn’t enough to soften.

Having a physical space outside of my kitchen and couch was a really big deal. For the practical, sure; I can be writing at home and look up and always see something to do; to clean, to wash, to fold, to sweep. Even when I don’t see anything that needs to be done, in my mind’s eye I too often can find myself thinking about what needs to be done, and in this house, there is *always* something.

More than that though, is that it was a big deal for me that LoRCRE had a real home. And the space was wonderful; places to do videos; community when I wanted, and solitude when I needed; space for real time focus groups and LoR lives, eventually with real people in chairs so I could interact and connect with a real audience. I really looked forward to that.

And that’s gone now. It’s a loss, I won’t lie. Even more than 6 hours later, I am still grieving. I am hoping that there will eventually be space for us, but at least in the short term, the Center is back at Casa Tikka.

As I drove home, I found myself fighting discouragement.

There have been so many surprises, and even what one could call setbacks in this year; this year which was supposed to be a culmination of all the work we as a community had put in in the previous three years.

It hasn’t been that way. Not always. And I had to do some deep work, some real digging, as well as some real interrogation, as to whether these setbacks would be fatal blows, or if they would be fodder; if they would be fungal infections that sickened my tree, or if they would be compost that would strengthen it.

I am choosing compost.

Because.

Everything is fodder.

In a Tenet essay, soon to be published, I talked about one of my mentors, who we will call Courage here.

I talked about how she charged into our shared orchard in a big old flatbed truck, dumping compost at the foot of each of our trees, declaring with full throat, ‘Y’all need the good shit!’

So it is here. Choosing compost over fungus when there are hardships is a choice. It is also, by itself, insufficient.

Courage herself would agree that even as we nurture the soil that will grow our trees, we still need to accept and confront the fungus that can stunt and wither.

As with everything, we are charged and called to hold multiples in one hand. As with everything, we need to pivot from the binary.

Yes, work with the good shit. Get down on your knees; knead it into the soil, breathe in the loam.

But also. Confront the fungus; the hardships.

This has been a hard lesson for me in these tough months. I have, in my quiet and disquieting moments, despaired of the fungus, sinking into a very particular kind of pessimism and depression.

Every month has brought new challenges; not the challenges that I thought I was ready for, easy lumpy crossings to step over, but rather daunting, bulging, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, that sapped my faith, my energies, and yes, my trust in both myself and the community as well.

Dear Beloveds, it has been hard to face you. Not just the spectators in the stands, who are at best neutral, and at worst hostile, but also to my followers and faithful walkers. That you have continued to walk with me in these past months since February leaves me gobsmacked, and gratified, and oh so humbled.

That these bulging roadblocks were *not* insurmountable; that, as the ancestors said, that ‘we got over’ is a testament to the community who has stood by and with and beside me, and an affirmation of the ethos and method from which, I can quietly but proudly say, neither the community nor I have wavered.

Not Holly and her indictments. Not loss of revenue. Not losing this space.

But the lessons, the fungus from each of these challenges are still here, and must be confronted.

There is a story which always makes me chuckle in the remembering, but which has a serious punchline. Perhaps it will also resonate with some of you.

There was a young man who was shoveling with all his might, tackling a huge mound of horse manure. Each day he would shovel the enormous pile, even though more manure would be dumped on the pile every day, making his efforts seemingly futile. Day after day he would do this. One day, someone finally asked him why he continued to dig, deeper and deeper, at all angles of the pile of muck, when there seemed to be no end, and certainly no payoff. The young man looked up with a big grin on his face, and said with enthusiasm, ‘I figure that with all this crap, there *has* to be a pony under here somewhere!’

So it is with us, if we allow it. Everything is fodder. And there are gifts even in the mire.

I have sat under my orange tree, sweaty and dirt streaked, and contemplated the lessons; not in service of fixation or dwelling on the negative, but because Courage exhorts me to find the pony under the pile. And there is one, a pony, a gift, a lesson under each of our compost piles. This is our duty, to find the gifts under the merde.

And it doesn’t matter where the pile is.

I need to remember to Lean Into the metaphor of the orchard, and I also need to Come Home to my very real, struggling but resilient and relentless orange tree on the western side of Casa Tikka, and stroke the trees, and pick a couple of fruits, and refresh myself with orangeade.

Because.

The orchard was not at Collective Impact Center.

I still hope to go back there, hopefully sooner rather than later. I will wear profesh blouses, and heels that click, and good lipstick when I do. But the orchard was never there; rather, I thought about and wrote about and talked about the orchard. The orchard is here. At Casa Tikka. And in my heart. And in marrow. We will never be cast out of the orchard.

The Orchard is in all of us. And wherever we are, we are in The Orchard.

And the Orchard is Home.

Keep digging.

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