Embodied Equity

I noticed a difference in our strategies, the water and me. In my life, I was denying a lot. I was taking the path of much resistance.

I was trying to force my way through life’s boulders because I believed they should not be there. Water was accepting and adapting to the reality of boulders to accomplish its goal. But beyond that, the water was playing. It was splashing along, crashing up against a rock and giggling down. Rolling up on a human’s unsuspecting leg and skipping around.

There was lightness, ease, and playfulness to the water’s approach. In my life, there was heaviness, fighting, and very few giggles.

To me, it often seems like I have to fight injustice. It really does seem like fighting will accomplish my goal. I fight racism, cancer, and poverty. I fight everything and everyone I don’t like.

I “fight the good fight.” It is hard and vigilant work. I feel the sting of losing the fight each and every. Every day I fail to overcome racism, cancer, and poverty. These boulders are still with me despite all of my “good fight.”

Looking back on my life I have to admit to myself that working harder but alone, and fighting what is does not get me where I want to go.

I have burned out 3 times in my life and found myself stranded on the shallow pebbly shore, stuck and exhausted. I was forced to rest until the tide of wellbeing rose to carry me forward once again.

It is said you cannot get a baby in one month by getting 9 people pregnant. Some processes take the time they take.

So I admit that denying reality, working vigilantly, and working alone won’t end oppression faster. If I look to my more successful friend water as a guide, what do I see?

I see that resting today equips me to be more skillfully united tomorrow.

I see that projects that utilize my playfulness and tender humanity touch people more deeply than fearful facts and staggering statistics.

I see that writing about what I notice in myself feels more honest than telling people what to do. After all, if we are united then any reflections of myself will reflect the humanity we share. 

‘Embodied Equity,’ a limited-series guest blog authored by Leanne Alaman, focuses on deepening our understanding of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) by deepening our listening to the teachings of Mother Nature, our wise and humble teacher.

Hi, I’m Leanne! I provide paradigm-shifting equity support to organizational leaders and well-meaning individuals to move past well-meaning into well-doing. There are many ways to build your DEI capacity by working with me.  Learn more here.

The answer is I can be. Whether or not I will be is another question…

Manifest destiny was my failed attempt at gentleness.

I wanted a life that was gentler than the one I had. I craved the power to own my life so I could force life to be gentle to me. I ventured out into unfamiliar landscapes to conquer “new” worlds. I went out in search of ownership.

I did not realize that ownership did not require an outward journey. What I longed for was already housed inside of me. An inner landscape I could mold and shape as I saw fit. An inner landscape of interpretations I could mold to be the coziest home. An inner landscape of beliefs I could shape to be gentle in every way I needed.

The challenge of owning landscapes outside of myself is that the land is not mine alone. I can not own them. They are the commonwealth. The commonwealth exists for all to benefit from, enjoy, care for, and tend to.

When I focus on everything outside of myself, I lose focus on everything inside of myself. Everything inside of me does not seem like much inside a traumatized worldview, a colonized worldview. Inside my colonized worldview I experience the deficit of everything I have lost. So my everything seems like nothing.

I play out this deficit with imposter syndrome or arrogance; the act of over-performing my value to prove it exists. The root of the experience of deficit snakes back to where I lost the land where my people are buried.

But I am looking outward…

Having run out of land to conquer on Earth, my hungry eyes turn towards the stars. I will make it to Mars, and then everything will be better. I chant it until I believe it. The chant builds into a religious fervor. I am enraptured by everything I will find in this newest “new” world.

I have forgotten the many final frontiers I have already conquered. I have forgotten that I never find my prize in the new “new” worlds.

I conquered “new” worlds as many cultures in many times.

I was not taught history. I do not know the wave of devastation that washed over my battle-hardened skin each time the newest “new” world did not give me everything I hoped it would.

I learned through my own devastation. I do not find what I truly want outside of myself.

I gently turn my focus from the zealous drive outward to the abandoned landscape within. It is time to go on a quest through this inner landscape, unwrap my terrifying gifts, claim my prize, and level up.

I wrap my courage in a cloak of forgiveness. This adventure will not be perfect.

This adventure will be worth it. On this quest, I will win more than gold I leave behind or my place in a history that won’t be taught. I am on a quest to win the gold that can never be taken from me. 

I win a sparkling clarity about my sacred place of honor in the universe and the sacred place of honor reserved for those around me. I find sacredness.

My gold shines like the sun.

‘Embodied Equity,’ a limited-series guest blog authored by Leanne Alaman, focuses on deepening our understanding of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) by deepening our listening to the teachings of Mother Nature, our wise and humble teacher.

Hi, I’m Leanne! I provide paradigm-shifting equity support to organizational leaders and well-meaning individuals to move past well-meaning into well-doing. There are many ways to build your DEI capacity by working with me.  Learn more here.

Authored by Leanne Alaman of Embodied Contribution

Winter is coming, and the leaves are painted with their imminent death. A patchwork of orange and red, flashes of green overtaken by browns, greys, and spots of black.

We give dying flowers, not flower buds, as a sign of love. We give flowers closer to death because that is when they are most beautiful. I live in a society that fears death; thinks it’s ugly and unclean. We do our best to hide it and hide from it.

Despite our fear, the process of transformation that includes death is so beautiful we are mesmerized by it, enchanted by it, drawn to it. We drive for miles to watch the leave “change.” To watch the leaves die.

Dying leaves are in process, in movement. As orange overtakes green, we hear the whispers of ancient stories of cycle, change, and transformation. We are soothed as we watch the leaves die. Soothed by the truth of their story. Truth is beauty.

The truth is life will change and transform.

It may hurt or take me to an outcome I do not understand, like death. But something is going right when life changes, not wrong. The leaves remind me of the beauty inherent in the aspects of life I do not like or understand.

Despite my protests, life changes and transforms. To life, change is movement and movement is good. Stagnation, the lack of movement, might be considered bad. If such binaries even exist.

Stagnation is putrid; the place wounded skin turns green, and slime gathers. My unhealed trauma cannot see this. To my unhealed trauma, stagnation feels safe. I slow life down. I freeze it. I keep it still. I keep an eye on it…

I keep digging because I know that something is right. I am cleaning the wound so the process of change will seal it closed completely. Later, I will marvel at how smooth the scar is. Barely noticeable.

Today, the shards I find in my wound are my fear about the fragility of my human body, my shame that I am not good enough and never will be, and my panic that I am utterly and unfixably alone.

Today, I am with family. As someone with an unhealed wound full of piercing shards of fear, shame, and panic, I become a dangerous and oppressive person in an instant.

Living with glass in an unhealed wound is an intense way to live. When someone innocently touches my arm, I yelp in pain and smack their hand away. I feel involuntary and intensely defensive.

I promise myself I will stay calm. I mediate. I am going to succeed this time. Then, it happens: someone shares a belief.

The argumentative and self-righteous tone of my voice is deafening. I barely hear what happens next. I watch the trainwreck, bewildered by how quickly I lost control. My ears are ringing.

When I find myself again, I am sicked by my aggressive expressions of pain. I retreat to a dark, quiet room to sort out what happened. I sift through the wound, find each shiny splinter, and cry.

My defensiveness feels involuntary. A family member tells me what they believe about life, and I yell before I notice I am yelling.

Over time, as I remove the glass and the wounds begin to heal, I become less and less injured. I am no longer reactive when people share their beliefs.

When the wound is healed, there is nothing sharp in me to poke. I do not yelp when someone’s life touches mine. A loved one believes something and I am unharmed. There is no shard of panic to be poked. I do not feel unbearably alone, so I do not feel desperate to force agreement and avoid the pain of isolation.

I have a spacious and rational inner dialogue about how I want to respond. Sometimes I respond simply by feeling the grief, fear, or alienation that arises when I notice that they believe what they believe.

The time, space, and safety to heal was not available for my ancestors, or for yours. There was survival to do and kids to feed. The losses, grief, fear, and shame were overwhelming. It takes time in a dark, quiet room to sort out what happened and begin to heal.

Our ancestors could not heal quickly just because they needed to. They could not stop the movement of life just because they were not ready. They did their best. They stifled their feelings and needs and slaved away. They became tough as nails.

They offered their labor as a human sacrifice. A living prayer in exchange for a future blessing: A better life for their children and grandchildren.

It worked. We reaped the blessing of time, space, and safety that they sowed. A cushion of privilege they never had. We used it to heal and become artists instead of doctors.

They do not understand us now, and we do not understand them. As children and grandchildren, we see our grandparents’ toughness and their refusal to accept help and we think they are too hard. Our grandparents see our expressiveness and our ability to rest and they think we are too soft.

‘Embodied Equity,’ a limited-series guest blog authored by Leanne Alaman, focuses on deepening our understanding of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) by deepening our listening to the teachings of Mother Nature, our wise and humble teacher.

Hi, I’m Leanne! I provide paradigm-shifting equity support to organizational leaders and well-meaning individuals to move past well-meaning into well-doing. There are many ways to build your DEI capacity by working with me.  Learn more here.

Authored by Leanne Alaman of Embodied Contribution

Let me tell you about the time I fought the squirrels for sole ownership of the backyard persimmons. 

At first, the persimmons were barely visible–smooth, green orbs perfectly camouflaged in the leaves. Then one day, they ignited in a flame of orange. I noticed them. And so did the squirrels.

One by one, I began to notice holes in each persimmon as the orange brightened into ripeness. In their acrobatic attempts to eat the hanging fruit, the squirrels knocked partially-eaten persimmons to the ground. They were swarmed with ants or rotten in the sun by the time I noticed them.

My annoyance and anxiety grew with each lost persimmon. I mean, they didn’t even enjoy them. They just let them rot in the sun. ‘Entitled,’ I called them. ‘Ungrateful,’ I called them.

I started chasing them out of the tree when I saw them. I pondered buying a fruit tree net. I was starting to care a lot about persimmons.

I’ve been called entitled and ungrateful in my life. People called me this when I did not reciprocate in the ways they wanted me to. We sometimes call it giving even though we expect something in return.

I was given $20 by a relative once. My only thought was, “well, this doesn’t even help.” I had a long list of necessities I needed to pay for immediately or face consequences.

At that time, I was lost in a labyrinth of trauma and the logistical nightmare of racism, classism, and ableism, to name a few. The tightness in my throat was so dense I felt like I was choking most of the day. I knew I should feel grateful, but I could not think of a single grateful thought.

Worse still, that drop into my ocean of need only served as a reminder of how vast the need was and how unequipped I was to address it. The gift only made me feel sick to my stomach. I do not remember how I responded to the pause that was gently inserted for me to express my gratitude…

Entitled, they called me. Ungrateful, they called me.

We all know what it is like to be tired. Especially now, almost two years into this COVID-19 expansion in the game called life.

What a gift it would be to take the burden of our entitlement off those around us. Especially those weighed down by systems of oppression. When I imagine this collective shift of entitlement, I feel weight roll off my shoulders. It feels easier to breathe.

I asked myself why I felt so entitled to the persimmons.

I have lost a lot since the beginning of COVID-19; My health, my housing, my home, my friends, my colleagues, the woman I was dating, and the person I was when I had those things. I am still sad and reeling from the shifts.

Part of me had had enough. I am tired, it said. I cannot feel this anymore, it said.

The refusal to feel my grief feels like a constriction in my body. It gets hard to breathe. Each subsequent loss of a persimmon ignites the feeling of loss that was already there. I tighten and constrict about each new loss to avoid feeling the reservoir of stagnating grief about my losses. I don’t actually care about persimmons, but I have started plotting and chasing squirrels.

Things get off track when I refuse to feel my feelings. I could feel and release the grief, or I could start a war with an unsuspecting population over a resource that suddenly feels desperately important.

I see the dynamic stretch out behind me, across time and human history.

What if my coworker had been willing to see and appreciate himself for how hard he worked for our client? If he needed to be seen a little more, what if he asked us, his coworkers and supervisor, to see it too? We could have celebrated the determination and love we saw in him together. I think we would have been happy to.

I say to myself, “Leanne, I see how much you have lost. I am so sorry that it feels like you have lost everything. I see how hard you worked for so many years to cultivate that life. I know it feels hard to start over. I see that you miss what you had. I see that you are so very tired. What I like about you is that you never give up. And you have learned to rest along the journey, so I know you can do this. I am here whenever you need to talk or feel sad.”

I curl up in the lap of the kind words and snuggle into a calm, grounded feeling. It is nice to be seen when people like what they see. I can give myself the gift of liking what I see in me.

I fear being seen because I am worried people won’t like what they see. They haven’t always. I haven’t always. But when I tell myself the supportive words I want to hear, being seen feels pretty great.

I have the opportunity to be the audience that gives me a standing ovation or the interviewer who is impressed with my responses. I can give myself the experience of being seen and liked.

For a while now, I have been the only slave driver, rapist, and warlord in my life. I relentlessly drove myself to work harder and longer. When I asked for rest, I lashed myself with shame and judgment. I forced my body to do things she did not want to do and told her she should be grateful for the opportunity. I waged war on those around me who accidentally reminded me of the trauma I would not feel.

But this month, by feeling my feelings, I naturally and easily became less entitled. I became less oppressive. I found greater liberation.

I hope you find it too.

‘Embodied Equity,’ a limited-series guest blog authored by Leanne Alaman focuses on deepening our understanding of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) by deepening our listening to the teachings of Mother Nature, our wise and humble teacher.

Hi, I’m Leanne! I provide paradigm-shifting equity support to organizational leaders and well-meaning individuals to move past well-meaning into well-doing. There are many ways to build your DEI capacity by working with me.  Learn more here.

Authored by Leanne Alaman of Embodied Contribution

In my garden, there is a strawberry plant.

The strawberries appear, quite magically, like little red, sparkling rubies in the sun. When I notice them sparkling there, I feel a desire to possess them. I look around to make sure no one else has seen them yet. I feel ashamed that I want them for myself. Perhaps my neighbor also feels longing and excitement about ruby red strawberries magically appearing in the sun.

I began to think that I should have asked the plant if I could have them before I hungrily snatched them up. It was a quiet thought in the back of my mind that my hunger refused to entertain. It changed the subject or made sure I “forgot” to ask until I had at least one jeweled prize in my hand.

“It would be silly to ask now,” my hunger taunted.

I’ve watched my own multifaceted response to this question when seeing several glittering jewels I follow on social media. Joyful, multi-patterned clothing, freedom to mix a beard with a ball gown, a fluorescent wig some days– because why the hell not?  My response to their freedom is a combination of profound respect, a bit of awe, and underneath those feelings something else that was hard to admit. A mixture of fear and anger. Thankfully, I’ve worked through the shame enough to admit to, and tend to, what lies beneath.

It takes courage and self-love to talk to that part of me that is afraid. To listen to what is happening inside of me rather than shame it. Because that part of me must be hurting. Hurt people hurt people… Self-hating people hate people… Self-fearing people fear people.

I listened to myself and the truth unfolded. The light of self-expression illuminated a place in me that had been hidden in darkness. A place where I could not — would not — go. The expressive clothes I would buy but never wear; the things I would think but never say. The light illuminated a reality. The rainbow cornucopia of expression that I am was stifled, muted. And my dull tones of grey looked even greyer next to the full-color explosion of a human being who is being true to themselves.

I noticed my own longing for more freedom with new eyes.

These are the options I choose by default when I refuse to take responsibility for what is being illuminated in me. Upon meeting those indigenous people on Turtle Island and Alkebulan (Africa), and having some aspect of their own greyness illuminated, Europeans used these tactics as well.

Instead, what if they had just said, “I want what you have. I want it so badly it hurts in my bones. I think I used to have what you have. I don’t know what it is, or when I had it, or how I lost it. I am angry at you for making me notice. I am enraged with envy and I am scared of you and what you possess. I am scared to ask you to share because if you say no, I will feel like I have lost it all over again. But… Can you share with me?”

How different things could be.

In this dynamic, we can be aggressors or students. We get to choose which skillset we strengthen. We get to live in a world that reflects our choices. Now, it is not always appropriate to ask strangers to educate us. But, we always have the power to learn from those who shine a light on our darkness.

We can notice what is illuminated. We can let ourselves feel our own desire to have what they have and notice what stops us. Once we see what stops us, we can ask for help. We can Google it, read a book, or hire those who teach. We can feel gratitude for these unexpected teachers who teach just by existing. How generous!

So, I took a breath and I asked the plant for a strawberry. Grinning, she said “Of course! That’s why I grew them.”

I don’t remember eating the strawberry. But I do remember the freedom, exhilaration, and power of finally asking the impossible question. I do remember the taste of asking for what I really want.

‘Embodied Equity,’ a limited-series guest blog authored by Leanne Alaman focuses on deepening our understanding of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) by deepening our listening to the teachings of Mother Nature, our wise and humble teacher.

Hi, I’m Leanne! I provide paradigm-shifting equity support to organizational leaders and well-meaning individuals to move past well-meaning into well-doing. To learn more, visit my website and support my work.

Header photo credit to Amy Alaman, @afroblooms on Instagram
Authored by Leanne Alaman of Embodied Contribution

This new limited-series guest blog ‘Embodied Equity’ will focus on deepening our understanding of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) by deepening our listening to the teachings of Mother Nature, our wise and humble teacher.

In a world of misinformation and deception, it can feel difficult to discern the truth. But our dear Earth Mother never lies. By listening to this primordial mother, we deepen our lived experience of the truth of ourselves and each other.

This lived experience is true wisdom. Mother Nature wants to gift us everything we need, including wisdom–all we have to do is listen, deeply. How lucky we are to have this limitless and freely given resource!

Hi, I’m Leanne! I provide paradigm-shifting equity support to organizational leaders and well-meaning individuals to move past well-meaning into well-doing.