Oz came out to the garage in sweatpants and a bright red Canadian zip-up jacket pulled over his black hoodie. He was wearing mittens and sipped on a mocha. He used his rolling walker to make his way down the driveway into the warm sun. He was wearing what looked like designer women's sunglasses. A cardinal tilted her head on the bare branches above us. Oz apologized for forgetting names, yet despite some cognitive decline, he could easily recall many of the contours of his life. His kids. His books. His beloved Bonnie. His students. His friends. The first time he showed up at a protest.
Oz lamented that his fragile state limited how he could participate with liberation movements like he used to. I told him that it’s virtually impossible to measure his impact on love and justice. During his decades in the classroom and with the written word, divine power was spreading like a mustard seed, a non-native invasive weed that can take over lawns and gardens in neighborhoods near and far. Just like Jesus said. Oz compared it to a dandelion, the bright yellow wildflowers that mature into white blowballs, a bundle of parachute seeds with the ability to ride the wind for long distances and hide in the soil until the next season.
Italians call this weed “dog piss” because it is commonly found on the side of pavements. If divine power is like dog piss, then our deepest parts call us to pivot away from what is centered in society. Collective liberation is coming up through the cracks and corners of empire: in the beauty and brilliance of Black and Indigenous people, through ancient and ancestral wisdom, in the wonder of the more-than-human world, through therapy and 12-step recovery. The day after I soaked up the sun with Oz, I drove to the Detroit River to write under the willow tree where we scattered my dad’s ashes five years ago. The dog piss was waiting for me, daring me to be more like a weed. Oz warned me that it would.
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