First, I Got Arrested—

Then I Escaped

Does anybody know when 1983 happened? Seriously. When was that? How many lifetimes ago?

I like to choose topics for these weekly blogs that are relevant, applicable, maybe even be helpful for navigating our wild and wacky world. This blog offers none of that. Zero relevance. Apologies.

Although I’m not sure why, I find myself thinking about this time in my life and feel compelled to write about it.

Back to 1983. I was 35, profoundly committed to my monogamous relationship with marijuana. I had been declared and out as a lesbian feminist separatist for about 100 years by then—no, probably not 100. Maybe 10. I was teaching at Malcolm X Shabazz High School in Newark, living in Manhattan, and finding my preparatory education in education fully useless. I could teach Hamlet to anybody. But how to teach high school kids how to read? I didn’t know. And couldn’t figure out that I could figure that out.

Anyway.

It was summer. Summer for a high school teacher. Heavenly. Through my “politically affiliated” groups, I found out about a Women’s Peace Camp in upstate New York. Camping! Lesbians!! Protesting the deployment of nuclear weapons to Western Europe!!! Sounded like a perfect summer for me, cashing my every-two-week-paychecks, hanging out.

Please note: confronting the military-industrial complex was not high on my summer hang-out list. But somehow, challenging the patriarchal order at the Seneca Army Base seemed personal and juicy.

So off I went, Ruby the Volkswagen and me, north to upstate New York, to the Seneca Women’s Encampment for a Future of Peace and Justice.

Suffice it to say, women did powerful, valuable, and useful work there. I did not. Women created and studied together in workshops, in teach-ins, learning, for one of many things, the potentiality and impact of civil disobedience. I did not. I must have done seva, the required work shift, but have absolutely no memory of it—not a highlight or remembrance.

Highlights? What do I remember? Hanging out with young—even younger than me—women from Greenham Common, the English mother of women’s peace camps. Smoking a lot of pot, as I continued to believe in the power of marijuana to make any political demonstration more viable. Going to breakfast at the local diner, enraging the locals even more than they already were.

I had a girlfriend for a few tiny moments.

Suffice it to say, I hung out. If my Present Me could see that Past Me, I would not have liked myself very much. I’m sure I probably didn’t like myself then.

I did fully relish the Actions that we staged regularly around the gates of the next-door army base. I rattled my rattle, demanding the patriarchy to evaporate. I wailed and wept and demanded justice. Pot helped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Center, with headband

The summer drifted by me.

The big march took place in August, as I remember. I had enough sense to leave my stash of Hawaiian bud at home in my tent. I don’t think I was stoned during the march, concerned about the heat and the length of the march. Good call, ya think?

It was a long march and a hot day. There were no dramatic overtones; time was heavy and long, almost boring, but there was a subtle overlay of quiet, potential anxiety. We hit no counter-protestors until we got to the tiny (and I add, now unforgettable) town of Waterloo. Preventing us from crossing the bridge stood a group of most unhappy and riled-up counter-protesters, all angry, all men, all demanding in loud voices that we go back to Moscow to sleep with our compatriots there.

We, as a group, sat right down. I sat down because we sat down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m first row, fourth from the right

It was terrifying. I absolutely left my body.

 

I have now no sense of time, then or now, no idea how long we sat there. I continued sitting there because the women around me continued sitting there.

I was numbed out and brain-fogged with fear.

Out of nowhere, police in riot helmets and clubs surrounded us, circling closer and closer, tightening their hold on us.

I remember the male voices, loud and furious. I remember cops trying to get us to retreat. They surged again, closer this time. This went on. Finally, the police swooped in. I remember being pulled on my back across the ground. I remember being heaved, flung like a chicken (I thought) into a police wagon. I could hear my father’s voice exclaiming, a paddy wagon! It was airless and dark; I didn’t recognize the few other women who sat on benches around me. We sat in silence.

After an eternity of bumpy, weaving travel, we came to an abrupt stop. The doors swung open, daylight streaming in. Blinded by the glare, I held my hand up, protecting my eyes, protecting myself. More faceless policemen pulled us out. My right foot was asleep, my legs exhausted and trembling. I limped forward, a policewoman escorting us now.

We were in a huge outdoor compound, part of the Waterloo County Jail.

There were peace camp women already milling in the compound, which was bright with sun and shadeless. More kept streaming in. The benign and wordless officers gave us lukewarm water in waxy paper cups, and eventually told us we would, at some point, be processed. I leaned against the three-quarter concrete wall, no roof above us, pulling my body into a tiny sliver of almost-shade. Meetings were held—of course, it was the women’s movement; it’s what we did. I sat on the outskirts of one and tried to concentrate, tried to listen. Consensus was reached. We would all hold our anonymity and claim Jane Doe status. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. I was beyond bewildered, had to pee, and had a nasty hangover headache.

Several hours somehow passed. We were given baloney sandwiches on white bread with stale potato chips, served on limp paper plates along with more lukewarm water. It all tasted like cardboard and gummed up the roof of my mouth mercilessly. I spit it into my plate, stood up, and walked over to the large trash can, threw my garbage in, and wandered around the large open-air compound, now filled with lounging women.

The sun had slanted away from us, basking us with some relieving shade. I wandered around some more, looking for a place to sit. Around the corner of the complex, unoccupied, I saw a large wooden door running from the ground to the top of the wall, and went over to this quiet spot. The door handle caught my eye–it was shiny and black metal. I will never forget what it looked like. I looked around me, and then tried the knob. To my astonishment, it opened. I pushed the door effortlessly forward, took a step, and found myself standing outside. The door swung closed behind me. I was free!

HEY EVERYBODY, I wanted to yell, COME ON, WE CAN GET OUTTA HERE!! I tried the door. It was locked. Did I just lock myself out of the coolest demonstration, probably of my lifetime? It continued to sink more deeply in, what I had just done. I tried knocking, and then banging on the door. LET ME IN. Nobody heard me. No response.

I had successfully escaped. And then I realized even more deeply, OH SHIT. WHAT HAVE I DONE? DID I JUST ESCAPE?

Yes, I had indeed not-intentionally escaped. Escape is not a tactic of civil disobedience. Even I knew that.

Now I was alone, without a cent, needing to pee, and wandering around enemy territory, literally behind enemy lines. A wave of another flavor of terror flashed over me.

Thankfully, my survival instincts kicked in. I shook my head, somehow waking up a bit. Somehow, I found a pay phone (remember them?), called the peace camp collect, and eventually got a ride back home.

Humiliated and exhausted, I made my way back into camp. I was embarrassingly “debriefed” by an organized woman taking notes, and dejectedly made my way back to my L. L Bean green moldy tent.

While The Jane Doe-54 prisoners stayed in jail for about a week—I guess I would have been The Jane Doe 55—I joined outside actions to protest. Bella Abzug (remember her? A US representative, open to progressive causes) supported the group’s process. The Jane Doe-54 were eventually released, charges dropped. I am sure Seneca County was delighted to be free of them/of us.

Throughout the rest of the summer, a cloud of inadequacy and shame followed me. Not a surprise reaction for those days. I began longing for my East 5th Street apartment, a return to more predictability world without obviously screaming men. As Ruby and I pulled out of that familiar gravel driveway, tires clicking over it for the final time, we watched the Peace Camp’s farmhouse get smaller and smaller in our rearview mirror.

Back to New York City, back to Malcom X. Back to all that.

The Peace Camp slowed down, closing after Labor Day. Eventually, the Seneca Army Depot closed down in 1995.

Cruise missiles? Nuclear deployment? Dismantling the patriarchy? Where do you think those issues stand today? I’ll leave that to you.

~~~

For me, the question remains: why did these memories surface so loudly this week? What’s up in my present life, right here, right now, early July 2026, that is reminiscent, that echoes of those days?

This past week, I had a very intense commitment to Kripalu to host a retreat of past ashram residents. I had to burn through a lot of feelings, a lot of push-aways, a lot of fear to walk in and pick up that microphone.

And I did. And I did. And it worked, what a surprise, swimmingly.

Perhaps I feel like I escaped those challenges, that potential slippery slope that wasn’t really a slope at all…???

Whatever.

Perhaps I needed to remember how far I’ve come, what a life I have been given? As we say in 12 Steps, a life second to none, my life, in which I can show up for others.

Whatever.

Or maybe it’s just a story. Just a summer story. To share. From my heart. To yours.

Music. Here is Nina Simone, composer, singer, songwriter, activist. Who else to follow that story? Thank you, Nina, for your brave heart.

 

~~~

Dear Friends,

May we be present.

May we be whole.

May we ride the waves of our lives.

May we live in peace

No matter what

We are given.

May we trust the process of transmutation.

May we continue to grow into the people

That we meant to be.

May all beings benefit from our shared words.

With gratitude,

With possibility,

With wise hope—

Blessings, Aruni

P.S. Folks! Let me know how this story landed for you. Do you relate at all? Was there any value in your reading it? All voices are welcome, please.

Sometimes the Moment Just Sucks

Sometimes too much stimulation demands our attention, and dries us out.

Sometimes shitty things just happen. Because they happen.

Sometimes our capacities, our flexibilities are drained, compromised.

Sometimes the moment just sucks.

Sometimes, right?

 

This past week wrung out my kishkes.

You know the Yiddish word, kishkes?

If you don’t, here is a really, REALLY good word:

(Yiddish—KISH-Kuhs), deep feelings, a person’s core.

My beyond-beloved little Niki-the-Dog had her yearly gastro-intestinal attack from hell, this one reaching new heights. Or new lows? Stomach led to other things.

Which led to other things. Which, of course, led to other things.

Sounds like life to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was really sick, up all night, having to go outside on the hour. Which, of course meant I had to go outside on the hour. Throughout that long, long night. But she would do it for me. She would take me out, stand by me, in my gastro-intestinal hell-zone, if our roles were reversed. It’s the least I could do. I mean, I don’t have to send her to college, put braces on her teeth, or help her improve her SAT scores.

We both are recovering slowly, the Patient and Me, the Invalid and the Attendant, the Canine and the Humanoid. It was a hard week, because she wasn’t responding to treatment. The usual medications didn’t take; she got worse, I got frightened, and on and on, the days unraveled.

It was hard on the Kishkes. My innards were rattled, unsettled. TIRED. I am/was deeply, deeply tired. And now it’s improving and shifting. Eight days later, long one.

I used to believe that being an adult meant literally keeping the hard things away. Literally. Keeping them from happening. Having a life of roses and sunshine.

I now believe there are “no bad parts”*, all of what we receive is carefully curated for each of us, for our own personal growth and healing.

Damn it. I do believe that.

~~~

So how do we do it? How do we be with the hard stuff?

What do we do?

How do we ride the waves of the hard moments, the heartbreaks, the challenges that hunker down inside of us? How do we live with and move through the inevitability of loss, of transition? Of people breaking our hearts? Of world circumstances getting wilder and wackier?

Life on life’s terms, as we say in Twelve Step.

We intervene.

We intervene with kindness. With ourselves.

We intervene with a prayer. A blessing. A tapping of our tender hearts.

We intervene with a phone call to a member of our choir, the people who sing our tune with us.

We intervene with a walk, a bath, hugging a kitty, playing with a dog.

We intervene with nature. With music.

With intervene with lovingkindness.

Lovingkindness.

To ourselves.

And practice leaning in the opposite direction.

~~~

Here is a fabulous intervention, seven minutes of The Great Bell Chant: A Prayer for the End of Suffering– with chanting by Brother Phap Niem, the spoken word by Thich Nhat Hanh.

Thích Nhất Hạnh, beloved Vietnamese Thiền Buddhist monk, peace activist, prolific author, poet, and teacher, who founded the Plum Village Tradition, is generally recognized as the main inspiration for Engaged Buddhism, the movement that applies ethics and compassion to social, political, economic and environmental suffering. Known as the “father of mindfulness”, Nhất Hạnh continues to be a major influence on Western practices of Buddhism.

Give yourself this seven-minute intervention

Listen Here

~~~

Friends,

Give us the courage

And the strength

To keep practicing presence.

Give us the willingness

And the flexibility

To keep coming back.

Give us the kindness

To be tender

With our humanness.

Give us the rigor

To keep going.

May all beings benefit from our time together.

Blessings,

Aruni

~~~

*No Bad Parts, book title by Richard Schwartz, Internal Family Systems creator

 

Eventually. And. Inevitably.

PART ONE:

I remember. Then I forget.

Then eventually, I remember again. For while, maybe.

Then, guess what? Yep. Once again, I forget.

This is my practice—

To allow the forgetting, to not make it wrong,

And to keep coming back to the remembering.

For me, remembering is a deep and sure knowing that, no matter what is unfolding, ultimately, eventually, inevitably, all will be okay. I am not alone. I am not at risk. I am held.

No matter what happens.

For me, forgetting means, F—k this shit. I hate this shit. This shit (fill in your specific brand of shit) isn’t okay. I’m scared. I’m furious. I’m screwed.

Slight exaggeration here, but not really.

CASE IN POINT:

Today, this very moment.

I live on sub-par dirt roads, not supported by the town. Our association is responsible for our own plowing, and limited road maintenance.

Because of the warmer days and cold nights, we have melting, then freezing up overnight.

Right now, my road is nightmare-ish caldron of frozen impassable ice/mud, with a layer of water on top.

Grrrrr.

Nik the Dog has a vet appointment at 11:00.

It’s 8:00 now.

An internal bitching session begins in my head, a conversation with the guy in charge of our roads, a harmless and good man named John L.

John, blah-blah, needs to be stronger with the plow-guy, I think to myself. Roads suck. It’s unsafe. Won’t get Nik the Dog out by 11:00. Blah-blah-blah.

The conversation externalizes a bit, as I start mumbling to my wife, who is fully uninterested and does not, absolutely DOES NOT engage.

An intervention to my forgetting comes from a friend via text, reminding me (after my blathering to her) that the temperature is going up to 42 today. There will be melting. I kind of remember that now. Oh. I also remember that the vet appointment isn’t so important, I can easily reschedule.

I remember. Perspective returns. I soften. It’s so much easier to not fight what’s happening.

At 10:30, Nik and I leave effortlessly leave. The road is melted and muddy.

Eventually.

Inevitably.

It’ll work out.

Eventually.

Inevitably,

As I let go,

It solves itself.

No matter the solution,

It works.

There isn’t a situation that I might face that this truism won’t hold. For me, that’s what I must believe. It’s too terrifying to not believe this. For me.

Most importantly, I do not say any of this to deny us our feelings. I say it to help us to feel our feelings, to give us a courageous and gentle practice for living our lives. By feeling what is, by allowing it to be (taking right action, when needed, of course), and letting go, it is truly the easier and softer way.*

I share this practice to give us the courage to keep going,

To keep feeling,

To keep living life as it is.

Eventually and inevitably.

~~~I

PART TWO:

It is March. That means April is indeed the next month. That must mean, no matter what the damn groundhog says, SPRING IS COMING.

In the Berkshires, this winter has been long and cold, snowy and icy. I’ve been sick multiple times, perhaps my reaction, my defense against the heaviness of the world around me. Cabin fever is settling in. How about you?

I know there are people reading this who love winter. There are people who love rolling in snow and flying downhills on tiny, seemingly treacherous skis, and the like. Congratulations to all who enjoy winter. For all of us, who enjoy it or not, I am here to say—

Eventually and inevitably, spring is coming!

Here are some deep spiritual teachers, giving us the inspiration to keep going. There are some cultural generalizations, apologies. Please watch. It is laughable, and that is good. Join this sing-a-long, I double-Dutch-dare-you:

 

 

~~~

Friends,

May we be present.

May we be whole.

May we ride the waves of our lives.

May we live in peace,

No matter what we are given.

Eventually and inevitably.

With kindness,

With courage,

With ease.

Eventually and inevitably,

May we be restored,

Back home,

To ourselves.

May all beings benefit from our words.

Stay blessed,

Aruni

~~~

*a 12 Step slogan

“Closer to Fine”*

Day #8.

Still in bed, and appropriately so.

I’m sure you can hear my coughing, no matter your location.

It’s been MOST humbling, to be this ill.

I’m of the Russian peasant stock, have baby in field, eat kasha.

I don’t get very sick.

I bounce right one back.

 

Not this time.

 

Summary of the week:

I’m addicted to The Closer on Netflix.

I’m wildly and unpredictably napping.

I’m sleeping up and down and in and out, regardless of day/night.

I’m able to read a few pages at a time and wonder why I am.

 

All this to say—

Most simply, dear friends—

Please accept these few words,

From my heart to yours:

~~~

Thank you for everything you have given us.

And bye-bye to you, 2025, you ass-kicker you.

 

Thank you for everything you have taken from us.

Eventually,

Inevitable,

May we see their gifts.

 

And for everything up ahead,

Give us the courage and the strength—

And the KINDNESS to find our way.

 

Welcome to you, 2026.

~~~

Friends,

I remembered this song and find its video delightfully comforting.

Comforting.

That sounds about right for now.

 

Here are the magical Indigo Girls with their smash, Closer to Fine.

 

May we all be—

Closer to fine.

 

All blessings,

Aruni

 

~~~

*by the Indigo Girls

 

To A New Year of Grace

 

No Matter What is Happening

As the New Year opens her arms for us, as the light returns, as the daylight stretches wider and longer, as the sun makes her way back to us—

Dear Friends,

For all that we have been given,

Hallelujah.

We are blessed.

For all that has been taken from us,

Hallelujah, eventually,

Help us to see the inevitable blessings.

For what might be in this wildly wacky world of ours,

Help us to find our way,

One step at a time.

May we walk with kindness,

Inch by inch.

When we can.

May we look around and receive the blessings,

Breath by breath.

When we can.

And when we cannot,

May we return to the arms of kindness,

Settle on it,

And just keep breathing.

Dear Friends,

To a New Year of love, of light,

Of kindness and connectivity.

To a New Year of Grace.

May all beings benefit from our time together.

~~~

Here is the perfect song for this moment, lovely and celebratory. Thanks, dear Erika, for singing it all day. And always, for sharing so much with me.

Here is the Solstice Carole

By the Wyrd Sisters.

 

 

All blessings,

Aruni