a crown of thorns/ a basketful of flowers*

Dear one,

There are moments throughout these days when such sadness rises up in me that I have to leave what I am doing and go sit down with it. It seemingly comes on suddenly, the feeling rising from my heart, but  if I pay attention I can usually trace it’s source. It might be an image of bodies in bags that I saw 30 minutes ago on the news. Or a phone call with my daughter. Or a harsh word from a stressed loved one. Or the sadness of a friend.

This morning, it was vegetables. And soil. And the physical intimacy of growing things.  I was looking up information on a small local farm, whose young couple are offering to drop off boxes on doorsteps, in lieu of setting up their stand in the market. Drinking in the photos of their organic garden plots, their boxes full of color and texture, I could almost smell the soil. You know what they say about the sense of smell, how it brings with it memory. And so, my body was immediately brought back to the visceral experience of tending a garden, the way it helped me through difficult times, like some primordial embodied prayer.

Digging.— for the root of the matter

Sowing,— dreams of a different way

Thinning— seedlings of dreams that were not mine to grow

Supporting/protecting — the fragile, the predated

Weeding — (often more angrily) that which was threatening, hurting,

Watering.— pouring myself out

Tending.— my heart

 Perhaps the morning’s feeling was merely/mostly this last one , the longing to tend something, at this time when I am feeling so restricted from physically doing so. Or perhaps it is the hope that a garden represents — food for tomorrow. Perhaps it is more simply the quiet belonging with and to the earth that I am reaching for, when I fear the holy place, my Algonquin, where I have known such healing intimacy with Her, is slipping from my fingers.

Anticipatory grief, my friend suggested.

Perhaps it is merely the simplicity of physical tasks, the need to get out of my head and into my body, to work the trauma of these days through it, from it. That is also the gift that Algonquin has brought through these years, after all. A place to simply be, to disconnect and to re-member.

Of course, there are stretches where I feel at peace too. Oh yes, something has most certainly settled in me, descended from head to heart. Those restless days of that first week, where my mind was so swirling that it couldn’t sit still are passed. Now I am able to pay closer attention, to feel all that is within me— the sorrow and the hope (more sorrow, at present), the worry and the wisdom. I have not experienced panic, but I have experienced sobering grief. And I also have known that all will be well.

Jack helped me a bit this morning, reminded me how to steady my heart, to ease its fluctuations, or at least to hold them within its vastness; reminded me how to dive into its deeper wisdom, its courage , and its hope; reminded me that my heart also contains the strength and the love of my ancestors, who survived great eras of difficulty. That strength, that wisdom, that courage, that love is within me too. 

My heart can embrace it all.

Jack told the story, which Thich Nhat Hanh has shared, about the Vietnamese refugees on the boat. How it was that, when confronted by pirates or storm, if everyone panicked all would be lost, but if just one person remained steady and calm it was enough. That steadiness showed the way for everybody to survive. He reminded me that I too can be that One on the boat. Even as I can hold the collective anxieties and fears, the confusion and sadness, which I see and feel, so can I hold hope and love and peace.

This perhaps is the way I can help (as you know, I have been feeling so utterly helpless) by remembering this. That I am stronger than I think. That my heart is more capable than I believe. That my people need someone that can hold them; perhaps this is the way that Julian eased hers.

Going out to donate blood this morning also helped. There was something about leaving my house (going out from my self), driving down out of my little village into the valley below, into that bright dome the sky (into the light) and then literally pouring out my blood for the sake of another. I prayed that someone might be healed by this pouring out of my heart.

I came home exhausted. I was told to rest and to eat. A lesson for me- after pouring oneself out take time to rest, to nourish.

A phone call with a friend in Canada. How has it been just a month since we were together. It feels like the world has turned over 30 times since those precious days. A group conversation with my ‘sisters’ this evening. Such a full spectrum of humanity, shared. So much fullness. So little time. Later, a text from a dear friend who had needed to contact Crisis Intervention for her child. Another phone call from my daughter…

All of these

Life-giving. Heart-breaking. In the same breath.

Time to rest.

*title refers to this poem, written in 2007, around my first reading of Etty Hillesum, at a retreat, when the I repeatedly saw the painting on the wall at the periphery of my vision as a crown of thorns, when it was in ‘reality’ a basket full of flowers.

A crown of thorns, a basketful of flowers

Oh you wounded God,

You come to me

with your yearning

            to be seen as beauty

with your longing

            to be held

just as you come

in your contorted face

in your scarred and twisted body

you can no longer hide

i see you

your crown of thorns, a basketful of flowers

my glands producing tears and milk, the same

this copious flow of blood,

concurrent dying, birthing

sacred and profane

these drops of pain, compassion

which your hungry mouth now opens to receive

from this, my breaking open heart,

a womb

to receive your penetration

oh

i tremble

at the terror of this tender touch

as i open wider to receive

the whole of you

and stretch to deliver you

in this pregnant moment

full of pain and joy

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