Tag

hope

Solstice.

Posted by — No Comments

I tried to write a new post. I really did. But I have nothing to say about Solstice that I don’t say every other year. (Previous years are here, here, here, and here.)

Last year’s post said:

Turns out that despite how much I love writing a new solstice post each year, my thoughts don’t change much.

Last year, I wrote:

The Winter Solstice is here.

Oh, how I love this day.

Today, after six long months of turning towards the darkness, we began to turn towards the light.

We gain a minute of light each day – and in a time where life can feel very dark, each minute makes a difference.

The earth begins to propel us towards the light, just as the waves in the ocean propel you to shore. We now ride the wave of the earth, as it cradles us and gently moves us towards hope, and energy, and life.

All of those are still truths I hold firmly in my heart.

And now, there are sunflowers too, in my head and on the wallpaper of my phone, reminding me that even before solstice, even before the world pushes us toward the light, we can move ourselves. We can stretch and grow so that even in our darkest moments we are always, always, always reaching for the sun and any light we can find.

This year, my beautiful baby has been my light. When darkness has surrounded me, in any manner, her smile, her laugh, her pure essence and existence has been all I needed. She isn’t bothered by the darkness. She just lives each moment in the here and now. If we are outside, she’s happy, but when it’s dark at 4pm, it doesn’t faze her in the slightest. It doesn’t stop her from playing with her toys, eating her solid food, giving me hugs, or trying to crawl and stand up. It’s funny – motherhood has simultaneously made me a crazier/busier, AND a more mindful person. We could all learn a lot from a 7-month-old.

Happy Solstice.

Towards the Light (author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
following the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can—
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep your faith,
keep always
towards the light.

Fear.

Posted by — 1 Comment

This will not be well-written. Or profound. Or unique.

I don’t care.

I’m afraid. And heavy. With a pit in my stomach.

My heart starts to race each time I see a news alert on my phone. What now? I wonder. I don’t feel like I can go more than an hour or two without checking Twitter, in case something has always happened. And something has always happened.

And it’s only been a few days.

And it’s not one of those times where I can say to myself, I’ll step back from the news. Give myself a break. The way I have before in stepping away from horrific coverage of a natural disaster, for example. No, it won’t do me any good to not be aware of what’s happening right now.

Lies are being told. And luckily, we are all calling them for what they are: lies. We have to do this. Because years ago, lies were spread, and horrible things happened because of it. Like: slavery. Like: the Holocaust. Like: hatred of minority groups. But what if people stop realizing that they’re lies? Start thinking, Well, if they’re being told over and over again, they must be true. What if we stop getting access to the truth?

I’m afraid because he/they are already trying to quiet our voices. What’s to stop them from blocking our ability to communicate? Will we wake up one day and newspapers won’t exist anymore? Twitter? The internet?

I’m afraid because even though we can march and we can fight and we can make calls and we can write and we can protest, we CAN’T stop all big legal things from happening. The things that, only a few days in, are already happening. And that’s not pessimistic, that’s just the truth. It’s not to say that we don’t have power, because we do, and I firmly believe that, but there’s also certain executive power that’s beyond us, and it feels helpless.

I’m afraid because this sounds like the beginning of many of the dystopian books I’ve read and used to love. How at the beginning, someone comes to power. And then they make certain rules. And all of a sudden, society is completely different. And we read those books thinking, Wow. That’s so crazy. Thank goodness that would never happen to our world. Except. Could it?

I’m afraid because that isn’t too far-fetched. And the thing is – this isn’t anything that anyone else isn’t feeling. These aren’t unique worries. Most people I interact with on a daily basis feel the exact same way. But instead of feeling reassured that others feel the way I do, it just feels disheartening. Because secretly I think we all want someone to hug us, to hold us, to say to us, Oh, honey, don’t worry. Your worries are just worries. But you can let them go, because they’re not going to happen. They’re not real. Observe them and let them go.

Except nobody can say that to us this time. Because they’re real worries. Real fears. Real things that could happen.

And there’s not a lot we can do about it. Except cling to each other. And hope. And tell the truth until they sew our mouths shut. And refuse to go down without a fight.

Where we go from here

Posted by — No Comments

One of the greatest lessons I learned over 10 years ago is that emotions aren’t just an “or”. They’re a “but/and”. One of the most wonderful things we are able to do is feel two things at once. Think two things at once. Do two things at once. I can feel tired and still go to work and do my job. I can start laundry but also start dinner. And I can feel terrified and devastated beyond words, and feel hopeful.

Yesterday, in the midst of tears, of fear, of panic, of spinning about what-ifs (something I’ve spent years un-learning), I had moments of hope and of clarity.

Things sometimes – often – get worse before they get better. I sure did. And maybe our country will be the same. People come together in a tragedy. People come together during a hard time. People come together when there’s heavy emotion. And people are coming together right now. If you have ever gone through a hard time, you know that though it may seem odd, there’s something special about a hard time. Hard times mean closeness, an ability to freely express emotions (we always have that ability, but it becomes universally more acceptable), more hugs and love, people checking in on you, and an intensity that is actually pretty special.

I feel afraid for what’s to come – and I feel hopeful that things will be okay. I feel sad for myself, for loved ones, for so many individuals out there for various reasons – and I feel that we will move through this and ultimately emerge stronger. Already many of us feel a sense of a community, of being less alone, of belonging.

I have hope for our kids. I have hope for the next generation of young ones. I have hope that people are starting to Get It. I have hope that people will understand the “both/and”. I have hope that amidst our despair, we will trust. I have hope that we can take this one moment at a time. I have hope that we are much more resilient than we think. I have hope that We Belong To Each Other.

And I have fear and panic and worry. They co-exist. And isn’t that a beautiful thing?

We can sit and hide – and sometimes we’ll need to do that. Sometimes, that’s what self-care looks like. But we will also have moments where we will know:

Nothing lasts forever. Not fear, not hatred, not the tides, not the moon. And things especially don’t last forever when we stand up, take a breath, hold hands, and walk forward. We can do hard things. We WILL do hard things. And we’ll do hard things together.

sunrise

Paris and Plants (guest post)

Posted by — No Comments

This morning I woke up to a message from an old friend, asking if she could send me something she wrote, something that she didn’t feel ready to publish with any identifying information, but something that she would love to have “held” for her, in this space. I told her to send it along, meaning it completely when I said that I would be happy to read anything she wrote. I will let her words speak for themselves, but I just need to tell you how much my heart warmed when I read her reflections. Because, despite themes of sadness and grief, it was just so real and relatable, and that’s the goal, right? To say the things that are hard to say, because we are not the only ones who feel them.

Paris and Plants (by Andie Kates)

I’ve been spinning my wheels this week. I’ve been trying to hold in one hand current events and the necessity of being an informed citizen—while in the other hand clinging tenaciously to the personal need to keep myself grounded. Interestingly, a main source of hope this month has been my much-adored spider plant. I haven’t been able to put this sentiment into words, though, especially against the backdrop of recent global politics. I want to try and translate the connection that only seems clear in my head. Not sure how this will work, but figure I may as well try.

—-

I was buried in work on Friday, November 13th; when I first heard people talking about the attacks in Paris that evening, I had no idea what had happened. In all honesty, I felt no shock with the news. I felt no outrage. I felt a tired sense of, “Oh, again. Oh, this again.” It didn’t sound like cynicism inside, but a desensitized self-protection. Oh, this again—in Paris, so we notice more than when this happens in Beirut. Oh, this again—a sense of safety shattered in a second.

I have resistance to follow the news these days. My desire to be an active, compassionate citizen is no match for the heaviness of loss that seems too familiar. I hear the echoes from last year when Michael Brown was murdered and Ferguson, Missouri erupted in pain. The calls for justice and change spiraled across the country, aftershocks of outrage and solidarity permeating conversation and consciousness. Black lives matter. Syrian refugee lives matter. All tragedy seems connected in emotional memory. Another example: while the Western world holds Paris in its heart this week, I find myself back at the Boston Marathon. That afternoon, we used Facebook to tell our loved ones we were safe and alive because reception for phone calls was impossible in the immediate aftermath of the explosions.

And Paris also brings me back to years prior— when the phone call came on a sunny Saturday morning in January saying a close friend was dead. And I laughed because I had just talked to him yesterday, and seriously, this isn’t a funny joke. And it wasn’t. An icy blue morning, a phone call, and then nothing seemed clear despite the sky.

Unexpected loss and a struggle to understand the why –it may be November 2015, yet I circle back to that May afternoon. That May afternoon I came home and found his body on my bedroom floor. A logical part of me knew immediately he was dead; my body went into shock. Other parts of me could not comprehend the split second in which life divided into a before and after. It has taken the better part of eighteen months to understand that his death wasn’t my fault.  

This week, too, a teenager drowned in the local river and a family friend died from complications of alcoholism.

I want to say to France, and to the world—these are moments when feeling connected hurts too much to stay with it for too long. These are days when every moment, every loss, seems connected and I find myself unable to let another tragedy into my heart. Paris—I know you’re hurting, the whole world is hurting. Our human capacity for cruelty is too real. And in raw honesty, I’m trying to stay grounded this week. That’s pretty much it. I’m also trying to figure out what my role is as a white woman laden with privilege in a world where it’s only too easy to ignore others’ pain. How do we reconcile privilege and responsibility with raw humanity? –and know it is a privilege to step back and say I can’t feel another tragedy today.

In my dreams this past week, I had the opportunity to say goodbye to him. In this dream I was not too late; though I still couldn’t save him, I could hold him as he died and he was not alone. It was the first non-nightmare I’ve had of him since that May afternoon. Twelve hours later I’m riding the train with a coworker when the real memories come without warning. His body—lifeless, still as stone. That intestinal fear and urge to flee.

Paris, to be honest, feels far away and impersonal.

Paris, is it arrogant and selfish to say that I am not a stranger to our quotidian human pain? I find myself unable to be present for yours. I avoid the news with compunction. I find myself unwilling to talk about it with coworkers and friends. Despite the reality of Syrian refugees, I find myself unable to separate loss from loss, memory from memory.

I hate acknowledging this. I know it is selfish and arrogant, albeit self-protective. I do not enjoy recognizing that I cannot disentangle myself this week. I know that on other days, other weeks, it feels easier, and I can more strongly turn outwards to embrace the rest of the world. I do not enjoy admitting that I feel too scared to do that today. Or, that I do not want to try.

In the same breath, gigantic loss can begin to heal in the smallest of moments.

My spider plant has had an offshoot for months. In the past week, small root buds have started to poke their heads out of the baby. In my morning plant-watering autopilot, I almost walked past it without pause. But I did a double take on Thursday, turned around, and cradled the tiny green leaves in my hand. This is life. This is life growing in my living room. Can you believe how incredible it is? In the face of destruction, exhaustion, and fear, this little spider plant is ready to take root and grow. It’s thriving.

I don’t consider myself a gardener, and while I love the outdoors I wouldn’t say I have a green thumb. The animals and plants I’ve loved have so often died suddenly, unexpectedly. I don’t always trust myself to care for others.  But this morning, a few days after spying the roots, I went to the hardware store. I bought more potting soil, came home, repotted the larger plant, snipped the baby from its offshoot, and buried its rootbuds in new soil. I put both pots near the window and am now watching the sun shine down on them. I’m waiting for growth, eager as a child. I also notice a fearful part of me hiding in the back of my heart waiting for it to just shrivel and die.

The story I hear in the back of my heart is that those I care for and love most deeply all die. Such is life—it does tend to end in death. Younger, hurting parts, however, believe that those friends and loved ones died because of me. I was the poisonous common denominator, the notorious cause of death. The trepidation I feel watching the plants this morning is real—but Adult Me knows that as elegant –and negligible—as my own existence may be, I’m just not omnipotent. And certainly not responsible for the entire universe, or capable of innocuously causing such destruction. Our loved ones die no matter what we pray; tragedy happens sometimes and we don’t know why. Today I know that my spider plant—my spider plants—are green and strong, watered and soiled, soaking in the November sun. This single moment feels like a miracle and the rest is not mine to know.

I wish there were a clear cut way to close out this reflection. It’s safe to say that I can find no resolution, no summary, no epilogue. Life goes on. Spider plants give me hope when humanity doesn’t. I have a newborn plant growing in the living room: small solace to global grief, but simultaneously hopeful. Will the plants thrive? I have no idea. Maybe they’ll shrivel up in the next week and I’ll be left with pots of dirt and regret. Maybe the spider plants will continue to propagate and I’ll give them away as Valentine’s Day gifts because our apartment simply can’t hold that many babies. I have no way of knowing.

What I do know: the sun continues to rise each day. The temperature continues to drop. The leaves are all but gone and December arrives in nine days. There’s no backing up or starting over—there’s just here and now. I can, and do, ride waves of helplessness at times and on heavier days, nihilism. I alone can do nothing to heal Paris, the world—not one person alone can do this work. Yet I also know that on a sunny morning in November, I can dig my hands into potting soil, water the plants, watch the sun, and see what comes next.

Andie Kates is 25 and currently living in Boston. She is grateful to Jen for the opportunity to share her writing!

 

Five-Minute Friday: Hope

Posted by — 4 Comments

(Today I am linking up with Five-Minute Friday. This week’s word: Hope.)

You may not know this.
Or you may have forgotten.

That: hope doesn’t mean rainbows and butterflies and sunshine and blue skies.

It doesn’t mean laughter and stillness and smiles and energy.

It can. But it doesn’t always.

Hope exists when you imagine those things. Hope is present when, despite the swirling tornado of grief, the burning flames of trauma, the ankle weights of despair, you remember that butterflies exist. When you dream of stillness. When you imagine that one day, the skies will be blue again, even for a breath.

Hope isn’t perfect. It’s not an idealistic Disneyworld where nothing is wrong and smiles, cotton candy, laughter, and fun are present at all times.

No.

Hope is real. As real as sadness, as fear, as panic.

You can feel two feelings at once.

Hope exists when we remember this. And we believe that they exist. And we hold onto them like a life vest, an anchor, and we think, yes. There is a reason that I am breathing through my storm, breathing through these feelings, breathing through the thick air. Because I can imagine. I might have forgotten what it’s like. But I can imagine a moment where a butterfly flies by. Where my body relaxes. Where the sun comes out. Where I might smile. Yes. I keep breathing through it because I believe. 

Hope is belief. Hope is imagination. Hope is real.