GOLES One Day Drive for Puerto Rico

UPROSE is shipping necessary materials requested by on the ground organizations in PR through a Greenpeace Arctic boat. UPROSE’s shipment leaves NYC this Friday November 3rd!

Drop off items at GOLES to get them on the boat to Puerto Rico.

Needed ONLY!!:

Food Seeds (non-GMO preferred), Water Filters, Tarps, Solar Powered Devices, Bikes & Bike Parts, Work Boots, Work Gloves, Face Masks, Saw Blades.

LES drop off  GOLES 169 Avenue B between 10th/11th Streets NY NY

Thursday November 2nd 10am-6pm

Friday November 3rd 8:30am – 12pm

Halloween in M’Finda Kalunga Garden

We held our annual Halloween yesterday with visitors from the neighborhood and from all over the world – as is the beauty of NYC.

We had Muslims, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Buddhists and atheists (and others). Languages ‘spoken’: French, Spanish, Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and American Sign Language.

 

In the words of our terrific organizer Jane Barrer, Co-Chair of M’Finda Kalunga Garden:

Today we had a sweet Halloween party for the neighborhood children…and in the light of the dreadful events that also took place today it was wonderful to see innocent little ones, gentle parents, giggling girls and boys, helpful teenagers and, as always, the awesome gardeners of M’Finda Kalunga who never stop giving of themselves.

 

 

Our Condolences Tonight

We were in the M’Finda Kalunga Garden celebrating Halloween when we heard.

 

 

Tonight our thoughts are with those who lost their lives today and with their families and friends.

 

Two poems. Barbara Kingsolvers written after 9/11 and Alice Walker on where we head after this.

 

A Pure, High Note of Anguish by Barbara Kingsolver

 

TUCSON — I want to do something to help right now.

But I can’t give blood (my hematocrit always runs too

low), and I’m too far away to give anybody shelter or

a drink of water. I can only give words. My verbal

hemoglobin never seems to wane, so words are what I’ll

offer up in this time that asks of us the best

citizenship we’ve ever mustered. I don’t mean to say I

have a cure. Answers to the main questions of the

day–Where was that fourth plane headed? How did they

get knives through security?–I don’t know any of

that.

I have some answers, but only to the questions nobody

is asking right now but my 5-year old. Why did all

those people die when they didn’t do anything

wrong? Will it happen to me? Is this the worst thing

that’s ever happened? Who were those children cheering

that they showed for just a minute, and why

were they glad? Please, will this ever, ever happen to

me?

There are so many answers, and none: It is desperately

painful to see people die without having done anything

to deserve it, and yet this is how lives end nearly

always. We get old or we don’t, we get cancer,

we starve, we are battered, we get on a plane thinking

we’re going home but never make it. There are

blessings and wonders and horrific bad luck and no

guarantees.

We like to pretend life is different from that, more

like a game we can actually win with the right

strategy, but it isn’t. And, yes, it’s the worst

thing that’s happened, but only this week. Two years

ago, an earthquake in Turkey killed 17,000 people in a

day, babies and mothers and businessmen, and not

one of them did a thing to cause it. The November

before that, a hurricane hit Honduras and Nicaragua

and killed even more, buried whole villages and

erased family lines and even now, people wake up there

empty-handed.

Which end of the world shall we talk about? Sixty

years ago, Japanese airplanes bombed Navy boys who

were sleeping on ships in gentle Pacific waters.

Three and a half years later, American planes bombed a

plaza in Japan where men and women were going to work,

where schoolchildren were playing, and more humans

died at once than anyone thought possible. Seventy

thousand in a minute. Imagine. Then twice that many

more, slowly, from the inside.

There are no worst days, it seems. Ten years ago,

early on a January morning, bombs rained down from the

sky and caused great buildings in the city of

Baghdad to fall down–hotels, hospitals, palaces,

buildings with mothers and soldiers inside–and here

in the place I want to love best, I had to watch

people cheering about it. In Baghdad, survivors shook

their fists at the sky and said the word “evil.” When

many lives are lost all at once, people gather

together and say words like “heinous” and “honor” and

“revenge,” presuming to make this awful moment stand

apart somehow from the ways people die a little

each day from sickness or hunger. They raise up their

compatriots’ lives to a sacred place–we do this, all

of us who are human–thinking our own citizens

to be more worthy of grief and less willingly risked

than lives on other soil. But broken hearts are not

mended in this ceremony, because, really, every life

that ends is utterly its own event–and also in some

way it’s the same as all others, a light going out

that ached to burn longer. Even if you never had the

chance to love the light that’s gone, you miss it. You

should.

You bear this world and everything that’s wrong with

it by holding life still precious, each time, and

starting over. And those children dancing in the

street? That is the hardest question. We would rather

discuss trails of evidence and whom to stamp out, even

the size and shape of the cage we might put ourselves

in to stay safe, than to mention the fact that our

nation is not universally beloved; we are also

despised. And not just by “The Terrorist,” that lone,

deranged non-man in a bad photograph whose opinion we

can clearly dismiss, but by ordinary people in

many lands. Even by little boys–whole towns full of

them it looked like–jumping for joy in school shoes

and pilled woolen sweaters.

There are a hundred ways to be a good citizen, and one

of them is to look finally at the things we don’t want

to see. In a week of terrifying events, here is one

awful, true thing that hasn’t much been mentioned:

Some people believe our country needed to learn how to hurt

in this new way. This is such a large lesson, so

hatefully, wrongfully taught, but many people before

us have learned honest truths from wrongful deaths. It

still may be within our capacity of mercy to say this

much is true: We didn’t really understand how it felt

when citizens were buried alive in Turkey or Nicaragua

or Hiroshima. Or that night in Baghdad. And we

haven’t cared enough for the particular brothers and

mothers taken down a limb or a life at a time, for

such a span of years that those little, briefly

jubilant boys have grown up with twisted hearts. How

could we keep raining down bombs and selling weapons,

if we had? How can our president still use that word

“attack” so casually, like a move in a checker game,

now that we have awakened to see that word in our own

newspapers, used like this: Attack on America.

Surely, the whole world grieves for us right now. And

surely it also hopes we might have learned, from the

taste of our own blood, that every war is both

won and lost, and that loss is a pure, high note of

anguish like a mother singing to any empty bed. The

mortal citizens of a planet are praying right

now that we will bear in mind, better than ever

before, that no kind of bomb ever built will

extinguish hatred.

“Will this happen to me?” is the wrong question, I’m

sad to say. It always was.

 

 

 

Turning Madness into Flowers -Alice Walker

It is my thought that the ugliness of war, of gratuitous violence in all its hideous forms, will cease very soon to appeal to even the most insulated of human beings. It will be seen by all for what it is: a threat to our well-being, to our survival as a species, and to our happiness. The brutal murder of our common mother, while we look on like frightened children, will become an unbearable visceral suffering that we will refuse to bear. We will abandon the way of the saw, the jackhammer and the drill.

Of bombs, too.

As religious philosophies that espouse or excuse violence reveal their true poverty of hope for humankind, there will be a great awakening, already begun, about what is of value in life.

We will turn our madness into flowers as a way of moving completely beyond all previous and current programming of how we must toe the familiar line of submission and fear, following orders given us by miserable souls who, somehow have managed to almost completely control us. We will discover something wonderful: that the world really does not enjoy following psychopaths, those who treat the earth our mother, as if she is wrong, and must be corrected, in as sadistic and domineering a way as that of a drunken husband who kills his wife.

The world – the animals, including us humans – wants to be engaged in something entirely other, seeing, and delighting in, the stark wonder of where we are: This place. This gift. This paradise.

We want to follow joy.

And we shall.

The madness, of course, for each one of us, will have to be sorted out.

 

 

End Racially and Class Loaded Planning and Development Terms

Add “revitalization” in low-income communities and “we are for affordable housing – just not here” in high-income communities.


Battery Park City Butterflies and Flowers

Audubon Bird Walk This Saturday Morning!

The Hort and Emma Lazarus will be moving their excellent Gardening skills to nearby Emma Lazarus High School. So glad to have them near Hester Street being stewards nearby their own school!

 

And a reminder of some of their work in front of the BRC senior center (including a pathway around the tree there!).

A Little History About Allen/Pike Street Mall…

Thanks to Allen Street advocate Justen Ladda:

An excerpt from “The Street Book: An Encyclopedia of Manhattan’s Street Names and Their Origins ” by Henry Moscow( Fordham University Press 1990):

Allen Street
The Namesake: Captain William Henry Allen, youngest skipper in the Navy in the War of 1812, and one of the most gallant. He died in action at the age of 29.
A midshipman at 16, Allen first served in the war of 1812 as a lieutenant to Stephen Decatur. New York gave him a hero’s welcome on New Year’s Day, 1813, when he brought the British ship Macedonian into the harbor as a prize. Promoted to command the brig Argus, Allen transported William H. Crawford to France to serve as American minister there, then roamed the English Channel for enemy craft. He captured twenty in a month, the last, unfortunately, a wine ship. When the British brig Pelican caught up with Argus on August 14, 1813, Allen’s crew had a monumental, mass hangover. The first ball fired by Pelican carried away one of Allen’s legs, but he refused to go below. He died the next day.

Learn more here!

Beautiful Day

People using in the park today. Exercising, basketball, walking the dogs, bike riding, Tai Chi, laughing with friends, sitting, working in plots, getting ready for Halloween!

A Map of Free Meals in Manhattan

 

M’Finda Kalunga Halloween Postponed Due to Weather – Now 2-4pm Tuesday Halloween!

Prepping for Halloween Now on Tuesday October 31st from 4pm-6pm