I’m glad it resonated with you. I’m writing a piece, currently entitled “The Impulse to Pray,” that arose under your influence. It will appear on my Substack on Wednesday.
Kate, it is good to connect here. I saw a Note from you about you all clearing your roads in Black Mountain. If, now that you can get out, you make runs to Asheville, DM me, and perhaps we can meet for coffee. I understand that All Day Darling is open with potable water being shipped in.
Renée, your entries today, once again, are powerful and so very human. I deeply appreciate what you say about the need to fully grieve our losses and not rush the process. "Moving on without “what is felt to be real and . . . really done”³ fails the need to metabolize our personal and collective “wild edge of sorrow.”⁴ Unmetabolized sorrow is sorrow thrown into the dark corners of the unconscious, and it does not sit still and it does not stay quiet." Beautifully said Renée. As painful and overwhelming as grieving is, it is an emotion that compels us to be fully present; it will not allow distraction or avoidance; and it is so necessary for healing. Our culture is so avoidant when it comes to grief. Everyday we hear of more deaths from shootings, and we're told to mourn briefly and move on. Perhaps in the violent society we live in, we become inured to all the suffering; jaded and fatigued by it; ready to forget about it all. As you say, not metabolizing the grief, only pushes it deeper into our unconscious. When I think about our history of slavery and genocide of the indigenous peoples of this land, there is a collective grief that has never been experienced as a society. And as we all know, when we don't confront our past, we are destined to repeat it; over and over again. Reading your journal entries today brought my grief back to the surface to be felt. When we feel the grief, it allows us to empathize that much more with those who have lost so much. We can then more fully be the loving beings we want to be. I offer this poem from Mark Nepo, that reminds me that even in grief, there is always the light; which can be so reassuring that grieving is safe and does have an end. "The poplars are reaching for the sun. The taller of the two is leaning more toward the river than a year ago. I wonder what they can teach me now that I'm leaning more into life. I still struggle with being who I am without shutting out others, and being with others without giving who I am away. Surely this must be doable; to be who we are, anywhere, everywhere. The poplars lean as all plants do toward water and light. But we resist. When in pain or overwhelmed, we turn from the light and push things away; when it is that there is no end to light, that is the teacher. There's something reassuring about the poplars leaning. When in grief, I can't take all the light, though it is the relentless way that light keeps filling dark places that keeps everything possible."
Ed, thank you for sharing these reflections, especially that your own grief had opening to surface, and with it compassion and empathy. These moments of feeling are precious to bear and behold.
Thank you for taking us on a ‘walk about’ through these days of inconceivable happenings. The ‘trail of tears’ come again and we are all dwellers in the wasteland now with no way forward but to remake ourselves in the image of truth.
I try, making only baby steps, to shed my shameful addiction to comfort knowing it robs me of self mastery and resiliency and reality.
I will enter the silence at the sounding of the crystal bowl.
Cheryl, the increasing frequency and strength and devastation of these climate events do seem to be an invitation, ever urgent, for us to say yes to the Great Work of our time (Thomas Berry, "The Great Work"), the "reinvention of the human" from the wild depths of soul, and every step matters, whether 'big' or 'baby'. Thank you for taking steps. And thank you for joining in silence, as important a step as any.
It is good to connect here and appreciate you reading and sharing. 🙏
I read this holding back tears (just) until I arrive at this;
"A car collision westbound on I-240, the rear passenger door pried open by first responders. A lifetime of belongings and a sleeping bag spilled out onto the freeway.
A thirty-foot-long tree trunk raised by a crane from a fifteen-foot distance between two homes. Neighbors gather around and watch without a word as if the body raised is a human body." whilst these are far from the worst of the tragedies wrought by Helene, it was the point where I think 'No, please, have you not suffered enough...' belongings saved and then once again dispersed, a tree, like so many others but the one that reminds you of such heartbreaking loss...
Your words portray the every second of suffering we cannot imagine just by peering at an image - Bless your solidarity of mind and body dear Renée, with all my heart I wish I were closer - I would stand by you and with you all.
Dear Susie, thank you for your heart full of presence. Truly. I do believe it is a precious gift in such times. You have written in recent months about devastation and climate events. Evermore, these moments become very personal.
I am sad that I read this post a day too late to join you in silence but please know I am always there in spirit. This essay draws us closer, it helps us see the toddler carrying the water and the belongings spilling from the van to the street. It makes it harder but more real.
You are amazing Renee, please don't forget that❤ Your city is amazing and will, one day, be restored.
Ah, the grief of which you speak is so palpable, profound and yes must be felt to be moved ‘from the dark corners of the mind’.
Thank you for sharing your words to give all who read a window into a world we are not physically present to. Your writing paints a picture, so fragile and yet powerful.
I keep having to remind myself to breathe as I read.
May you have wisdom at your ear each step of the way as you go through these days. May your tears give permission to others to shed theirs. May your light reach to those deep recesses where those you meet stash their trauma. May the Spirit who lives in you bring hope to those who feel hopeless.
Thank you for time-traveling us to your landscape and heartache. We need the intimacy of your notes to keep the stories alive and real and close.
“It is in brokenheartedness that we come to the bare naked receptivity out of which is born hope and reverie and a way forward.”
Kimberly, thank you for sharing this reflection with me.
". . . the intimacy . . . to keep the stories alive and real and close."
Thank you for letting us mourn with you and slow down to your human pace (or van pace, as the case may be). I'll be with you in spirit at noon.
Thank you, Tara.
Your notes are making all of this real in a way that conventional news accounts do not. This is very important work you are doing.
I’m glad it resonated with you. I’m writing a piece, currently entitled “The Impulse to Pray,” that arose under your influence. It will appear on my Substack on Wednesday.
Susie, thank you for sharing this. I have not had my eye on much on Substack these past weeks. I will look forward to your piece as a balm.
Thank you for sharing this, Susie.
“Tears knock.”
Kate, it is good to connect here. I saw a Note from you about you all clearing your roads in Black Mountain. If, now that you can get out, you make runs to Asheville, DM me, and perhaps we can meet for coffee. I understand that All Day Darling is open with potable water being shipped in.
Renée, your entries today, once again, are powerful and so very human. I deeply appreciate what you say about the need to fully grieve our losses and not rush the process. "Moving on without “what is felt to be real and . . . really done”³ fails the need to metabolize our personal and collective “wild edge of sorrow.”⁴ Unmetabolized sorrow is sorrow thrown into the dark corners of the unconscious, and it does not sit still and it does not stay quiet." Beautifully said Renée. As painful and overwhelming as grieving is, it is an emotion that compels us to be fully present; it will not allow distraction or avoidance; and it is so necessary for healing. Our culture is so avoidant when it comes to grief. Everyday we hear of more deaths from shootings, and we're told to mourn briefly and move on. Perhaps in the violent society we live in, we become inured to all the suffering; jaded and fatigued by it; ready to forget about it all. As you say, not metabolizing the grief, only pushes it deeper into our unconscious. When I think about our history of slavery and genocide of the indigenous peoples of this land, there is a collective grief that has never been experienced as a society. And as we all know, when we don't confront our past, we are destined to repeat it; over and over again. Reading your journal entries today brought my grief back to the surface to be felt. When we feel the grief, it allows us to empathize that much more with those who have lost so much. We can then more fully be the loving beings we want to be. I offer this poem from Mark Nepo, that reminds me that even in grief, there is always the light; which can be so reassuring that grieving is safe and does have an end. "The poplars are reaching for the sun. The taller of the two is leaning more toward the river than a year ago. I wonder what they can teach me now that I'm leaning more into life. I still struggle with being who I am without shutting out others, and being with others without giving who I am away. Surely this must be doable; to be who we are, anywhere, everywhere. The poplars lean as all plants do toward water and light. But we resist. When in pain or overwhelmed, we turn from the light and push things away; when it is that there is no end to light, that is the teacher. There's something reassuring about the poplars leaning. When in grief, I can't take all the light, though it is the relentless way that light keeps filling dark places that keeps everything possible."
Ed, thank you for sharing these reflections, especially that your own grief had opening to surface, and with it compassion and empathy. These moments of feeling are precious to bear and behold.
Thank you for taking us on a ‘walk about’ through these days of inconceivable happenings. The ‘trail of tears’ come again and we are all dwellers in the wasteland now with no way forward but to remake ourselves in the image of truth.
I try, making only baby steps, to shed my shameful addiction to comfort knowing it robs me of self mastery and resiliency and reality.
I will enter the silence at the sounding of the crystal bowl.
Cheryl, the increasing frequency and strength and devastation of these climate events do seem to be an invitation, ever urgent, for us to say yes to the Great Work of our time (Thomas Berry, "The Great Work"), the "reinvention of the human" from the wild depths of soul, and every step matters, whether 'big' or 'baby'. Thank you for taking steps. And thank you for joining in silence, as important a step as any.
It is good to connect here and appreciate you reading and sharing. 🙏
I read this holding back tears (just) until I arrive at this;
"A car collision westbound on I-240, the rear passenger door pried open by first responders. A lifetime of belongings and a sleeping bag spilled out onto the freeway.
A thirty-foot-long tree trunk raised by a crane from a fifteen-foot distance between two homes. Neighbors gather around and watch without a word as if the body raised is a human body." whilst these are far from the worst of the tragedies wrought by Helene, it was the point where I think 'No, please, have you not suffered enough...' belongings saved and then once again dispersed, a tree, like so many others but the one that reminds you of such heartbreaking loss...
Your words portray the every second of suffering we cannot imagine just by peering at an image - Bless your solidarity of mind and body dear Renée, with all my heart I wish I were closer - I would stand by you and with you all.
Dear Susie, thank you for your heart full of presence. Truly. I do believe it is a precious gift in such times. You have written in recent months about devastation and climate events. Evermore, these moments become very personal.
I am sad that I read this post a day too late to join you in silence but please know I am always there in spirit. This essay draws us closer, it helps us see the toddler carrying the water and the belongings spilling from the van to the street. It makes it harder but more real.
You are amazing Renee, please don't forget that❤ Your city is amazing and will, one day, be restored.
Sending love and prayers.
Donna, thank you for your kind words, your prayers, and your love. 💖
Ah, the grief of which you speak is so palpable, profound and yes must be felt to be moved ‘from the dark corners of the mind’.
Thank you for sharing your words to give all who read a window into a world we are not physically present to. Your writing paints a picture, so fragile and yet powerful.
I keep having to remind myself to breathe as I read.
May you have wisdom at your ear each step of the way as you go through these days. May your tears give permission to others to shed theirs. May your light reach to those deep recesses where those you meet stash their trauma. May the Spirit who lives in you bring hope to those who feel hopeless.
Dear Erma, thank you for these reflections and this tender prayer, which I receive with the tenderness from which it is offered.
With you on the silent vigil PT Time.
Mary, thank you.