The world has tilted far from the sun, from color and juice…
I am waiting for a birth that will change everything.
~Hilary Llewellyn-Williams

Darkness. It surrounds us. The darkness arrives long before dinner time and stays with us until what seems like mid-morning. It is palpable. Over the last weeks, I have taken to asking Alexa what time the sunset will be and what time the sun will rise. I am not sure why I am doing this. Perhaps there is some assurance in hearing a voice..even one created by AI… say that there will be light…sometime…just not yet.

As I write this I am looking forward to marking the Winter Solstice on  December 21st. This has not always been a practice. In fact, I lived a large part of my life not even being aware of this day which others have celebrated since…well, for a long, long time. The ancient ones certainly noticed that the Sun was retreating in ways that we more ‘modern’ beings mostly just complain about. They took in the mystery of the Universe and marked their lives by the times of light and dark, of the ways the seasons unfolded, by the slant of shadow cast by trees or animals on snowy, white fields and forests. When you live close to the Earth these are the patterns of living that emerge. I long for more of this kind of wisdom.

In anticipation of the Winter Solstice, I began searching many of the Celtic books I have accumulated over the years.The Celts seem to have honored this time of the year when darkness became a companion. The quote above comes from one of these books, The Celtic Spirit by Caitlin Matthews. In another of her books she writes this welcome to the Winter Solstice:

Brightener of Darkness, hail!
Keeper of Clearness, Opener of the Depths.
Gifts of plenty are arising,
Winter wonders, white snows’ fall.
Joyful be the heart within us,
Open wide the guesting door,
Wisdom waken in abundance,
Warm our beings to the core.

Darkness is both reality and metaphor. There is darkness that seems to walk with us in new ways these days. The many places around our world where injustice and violence is a way of life casts its shadow far and wide. This week, once again, our children and those who cared for them experienced the darkness of fear as shots rang out in the hallways of their school. This shadow hangs over us all with a cloak of powerlessness and anger. When will we do something as a country to stop this madness? When will we light the way for change in our gun laws so that this darkness will no longer hang over us?

The Winter Solstice is a teacher that reminds us that even in the darkest day the light will loyally begin returning. There is comfort in this. It is a threshold time…reseting the darkness that has held us in its grip. Slowly, if we notice, each day the darkness will recede and more light will appear. This threshold asks us to rest in the sacred, constant rhythm of the Universe. 

Those of us in the Christian household will celebrate the birth of Jesus just days after the Solstice. Like the poet we are ‘waiting for a birth that will change everything.’ On this December 21st may our hearts be open to the ways the light…the Light…can give birth to the change the world so desperately needs. May the Winter Solstice find us with joyful hearts, open to the doors that awakens wisdom. Wisdom in abundance.

On the day before the election I was walking with a friend on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. This is a favorite walk as you pass by the magnificent homes whose original owners were those that helped shape the city into its identity as Minnesota’s capital. Not long into our walk we came upon a flock of turkeys making themselves at home in the front yard of a beautiful mansion. Oddly, this is not an unusual sight. As the birds pecked their way in the grass I remarked to my friend that these creatures could have been the symbol of our country instead of the eagle. We laughed at this given that the knowledge comes not from any history book we studied but from the Broadway musical ‘1776’. In one scene our founders argued over the legitimacy of the two beautiful, yet very different, birds to become the star symbol of the experiment of this democracy.

The day after the election I took what has become a favorite trip down the Wisconsin side of the river to try to make sense of the choices our country had made and my own feelings about it. This drive was one I took many times during COVID and there is something about the rolling farm fields and the flowing river that I find very comforting, that helps me gain some perspective. After going as far as Nelson, I turned toward Wabasha and crossed back into Minnesota. All along the way I split my focus between the road and the sky as I watched for that national symbol, the eagles, that I know soar above this part of the state. Driving into this river town,I followed a pull that I couldn’t explain and walked into the  National Eagle Center, something I hadn’t done in years.

Standing with a group of folks that represented several generations, I listened to a young man talk about the two majestic birds in the room. He talked of how we nearly lost the presence of this symbol due to the use of harmful chemicals. They were nearly extinct but are now visible across the country. Several times the birds would let out a screech that was startling. The handler assured us that they were not squawking at us but at something they could see far out the window and down the river, something maybe miles away. That whole ‘eagle eye’ thing is real! 

As I observed these magnificent birds I was reminded of the ‘1776’ conversation from the days before and how it felt as if so much had changed in such a short time. On one of the placards in the museum it was explained that the eagle, known as ‘wambdi’ to the First People, the Dakota, was honored because they represented honesty, truth, majesty, strength, courage, wisdom, power and freedom and they carried the prayers of the people to the Creator. I sat with that for awhile. My prayer in that moment was that all of those attributes would be infused in, we the people, as well as the winged ones. I prayed that our collective prayers for our country would be carried on their strong wings.

Then I remembered this poem by Joy Harjo, the first Native American to become the Poet Laureate of the United States. It is simply called “Eagle Poem”.

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

I was reminded that the eagles I observed at the Eagle Center were tethered inside a building but their eyes could see life far out the window, down the river and they called out to what was unseen to us. This election has the power to tether many, those on the margins and those that have been demonized by horrible political rhetoric.  It also has the power to hold our hearts and collective, creative spirit in a grip that will keep us remembering that we, like the eagle, can circle those most vulnerable in utmost care and kindness. We must all rise up with the strength of the eagle. And we pray that it will be done…in beauty…in beauty.

**If you are interested in the song from ‘1776’ please see this link.

During the lock down days of the pandemic I went to these words by author, farmer-poet Wendell Berry quite often:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

The wisdom of these words grounded me, caused me to take a deep breath and to remember my place in the family of things. How there are creatures whose knowing is often richer and fuller than my human abilities. I would read them and imagine that body of water, those winged ones, the stars that are there even when I cannot see. It became a sign of the ‘grace of the world’ when grace often felt in short supply.

These last days in anticipation of this very consequential election that looms, I have been drawn back to them. And it has pushed me to envision what I can do in the next hours, days and probably weeks to rest in that kind of wisdom. I have been thinking about what I can do to relieve my anxiety and to help me rest in the grace of the world which once again seems to be a shadow on the edges of our daily lives.

So, I began to make some lists. Here goes. Every day I will remember to take deep, long breaths preferably of the fresh air outdoors in an autumn that is simply warmer and more beautiful than is usual. I have decided to make something every day…even if it is a sandwich…some act that brings to birth something that wasn’t there before and was created by my two hands. If it is music or art or a poem, even better. Reaching out to friends and making human connection will be very important so I will do that as many times a day as seems necessary. I will drink plenty of water remembering that I am made up mostly of this life-giving liquid. I will read beautiful words and listen to inspiring music. I will watch only what uplifts and brings me joy. If this includes a Hallmark movie or two or three, no judgment there. And I will recite the names of people I love and have loved and whose presence has shaped me and instilled a vision of hope in me. I will find ways to laugh, hopefully fully-body laugh, tears down your face laughter. I will spend as much time outside as possible unplugged from the media sources whose job seems to be to stir up fear and the anxiety I am fleeing. And I will walk…and walk…and walk some more holding close the Latin words “solvitur ambulando”…it is solved by walking. 

In thinking about what the next days will offer up I was also reminded of a short Colman Barks poem that always made me laugh and also rang with such truth: 

A child stood on his seat in a restaurant,
holding the railing of the chair back
as though to address a courtroom.

“Nobody knows what’s going to happen next.”

Then his turning-slide back down to his food,
relieved and proud to say the truth,
as were we to hear it.

Indeed, no one does know what will happen next and we have very little power to influence it except to vote. HAVE YOU VOTED?! Yet we do have choices about how we will traverse this time, how we will seek out the ‘grace of the world.’

What are your plans? I invite you to share them. They may help some one else which is grace in and of itself, isn’t it?

These words have been growing in me for several months yet I have not taken the time to set them down in print. For me the last months have been a time of many life events…those times that lift humans above the ordinary of laundry and shopping lists, of making dinner and vacuuming the carpet. Over the last weeks and months people in my life have celebrated significant birthdays and there are still some to be sung into a new decade. People I know have brought babies into the world with all the joy and promise that always accompanies such a miracle. And it has been a privilege to witness as two lovely young couples in my life walked down an aisle to be married as those that love them deeply and fiercely beamed the light of love and hope upon them. We often call these ‘life events’ as they become markers for a new chapter, an opening, a turning, a time of what was before and what will come after.

What has been growing in me as I have been present to all these is how each life event is certainly about what is happening in the present moment and yet carries with it so, so much more. In each of these transitioning times there is also a sense of those who may not be physically present but whose spirit hovers near. In the minds and hearts of those who are living the life event there exists the flicker of light of those who have gone before, those who inspired and supported, those who cautioned and cared. And of course, each person who walks into the room has bags fully packed with joy and sorrow, disappointment and desire, dreams realized and those dashed… all that life has thrown their way. I have come to think of it as this vast tapestry of the vulnerabilities and triumphs of humanity, a cloak that draws around whomever is the focus of the event itself, a crazy quilt of embodied love. It is a joy to behold.

Perhaps it is the season of autumn that is drawing these thoughts together for me. Looking out my window now the trees are the visual reminder of cycles etched deep in how life works.In my particular yard, many have let go their leaves while others hang on for dear life. Scattered in the nooks and crannies of my deck some of those leaves have already turned brittle and brown. They carry what they knew of their green, verdant hue while preparing to be the mulch that brings the new life that will emerge in a few months. Their beauty is perhaps no longer visible yet their ability to bring life still exists. This represents their own ‘life event.’ 

The poet Lucille Clifton wrote this about this time of the year:

the lessons of the falling leaves

the leaves believe
such letting go is love
such love is faith
such faith is grace
such grace is god
i agree with the leaves

While we mark certain times as ‘life events’ the reality is that we walk through all our days with the spirits of those who are not visible as companion, their words of encouragement urging us on. We make our way through each day flanked by people whose pain and happiness, whose grief and goodness helps fuel our next steps. And like the leaves of the trees around us we are letting go in the hopes that what falls away may give birth to a newness we have not yet imagined. Love. Faith. Grace. God. 

I agree with the leaves.

In my high school days I watched a soap opera whose tag line was “like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Watching the lives of those portrayed in the 30 minutes of television that housed the program, it was clear to me that the sand flowing through the lives of these  characters was much more dramatic and interesting than mine. The stories allowed me, for a small commitment of time, to glimpse complicated, complex, edgy lives, people with incredible clothes and mind bending relationships. It was fantasy and a welcome respite from an ordinary, small town,teenage life.

I thought of that quote a few weeks ago in an unlikely place. Having been bombarded by the usual noise of the day that is so prevalent right now, I headed to the Minneapolis Institute of Art to observe a group of Tibetan nuns creating a mandala with sand. Walking into one of the rotundas at the museum, I walked toward the center to see women leaning over an elevated table. Just near them were two other tables…one with their supplies of small bowls of colorful sand and the metal tubes they used to move the sand into place. Another was adorned with flowers and other things that constituted what I assumed to be a shrine of sorts. This defined the space for their work. Their movements were slow, smooth, nearly balletic in nature. Somehow the shaking of the metal tubes allowed just the right amount of sand to find its place in the beautiful, intricate pattern of the mandala. They did not speak to one another but seemed to, in some intuitive way, know what their role was in the creation of this art. Other people watched from one floor up, peering over the balcony. Others walked along the outside of the invisible circle the nuns had created and filled with the intensity of their work. 

The whole experience moved through me creating a sense of calm and peace. Somehow by being witness to their work I felt part of it. The noise and clatter of all I listened to on the radio or read in the paper melted away. For a short time it was like being transported to a time and place where the grains of sand reflected the wisdom that had been a part of time eternal. These women who have dedicated their lives in ways that are mysterious to me exuded the message that even in the midst of what often feels like chaos and uncertainty, it is possible to take something as elemental and small as grains of sand and use them for beauty, for good. 

As I stood there watching their work, I wondered what was going through their minds. Was there worry about the future …the kind that has been gripping my brain these days? Were they thinking about the many places in the world erupting into violence daily? The lives that have been lost with no end in sight? Were they lamenting our warming climate? Were they thinking about what those of us watching were thinking about them? Did their minds travel to what they were going to do that evening after their creating had come to an end? Were they thinking about supper? These questions say more about me and them I’m sure.

It is probably true that their meditation life is so deep that the ability to be fully, fully present is all that is needed. They were most likely focused on the grains of sand, their brilliant colors and the steadiness of their hands as the sand was added to the patterns. Though it is from a different tradition, a writer in the Hebrew scriptures in the book of 1 Kings writes about king Solomon:”And God gave Solomon wisdom and understanding exceeding much, and largeness of heart, even as the sand that is on the sea shore.” Perhaps that same fullness of wisdom and understanding and largeness of heart lived within these women as they did the work they were called to do.

Standing to the side of their workspace a young woman  quietly answered questions. Though I knew the answer to the question about the ‘what next?’ of the mandala, I asked anyway. Yes, it would remain in the museum for a week for people to enjoy. Then it would be dismantled and for those who wanted sand it would be placed in small vials for people to take. And what was left? It would be poured into the Mississippi River so “its gifts could continue flowing.”

Crossing that mighty river as I do nearly every day, I am imagining the wisdom, the largeness of heart and the peaceful calm that was created and exhibited by these small, dedicated women. The work they do has been done for centuries and will continue after all the chaos and uncertainty passes over us. Like sands…flowing down a river…so are the days of our lives.

It’s over. And I had meant to share this little gift of a poem much earlier that was left on a table at the Hamline Dining Hall at the Minnesota State Fair. Over the course of the seven days I volunteered there I cleaned trays and plates from tables over and over again. It is a messy job and you have the chance to clear lots of strange things, lots of surprising things. But a poem? That was a first. Because I needed to move quickly I glanced at it and stuck it in my pocket. There was no poet/author just a title, Get-Together, and #statefairpoetry. Coming across it today I thought that, even though the Fair is over, it is still worth sending out into the Universe.

Current wisdom and tired cliches
Say we are divided. Polarized
Like opposite ends of magnets
Leaping away the closer we come.
Young/old, Black/white,
Blue/red, left/right.

We cannot talk, share, see
Why any would believe the unbelievable.
Yet here we are. All in one place
If only for a few short days, hundreds of
Thousands lining the streets,
Sharing the shade, tasting the sweets
We dreamed all year to eat again.

We watch the same parade,
Hear the same shows,
Stare down the slow fish circling
The same old pond. We will never be singular,
Always many. But herein lies our hope
And beauty: the power to be more than us.

What could be greater
Than the chance to come together
And remember we cannot do this much alone,
Never gather magic in this wonderland
Of spinning possibilities? Today we might
Try to smile, not scowl, hold the door,
watch for those on wheels, offer a hand,
laugh with a stranger, wait with patience.
You could not make this on your own.

Now I know that the Great Minnesota Get Together is not everyone’e cup of tea…or all you can drink milk. But it has always been a highlight of the year for me and for my family. When pressed by the sceptics as to my undying love of those 12 days that herald the end of summer, I always reply that, for me, the whole experience is about possibility, the human possibility of creativity, the amazing possibility that coming together with people who are alike and also very different which provides a canvas on which to have my eyes opened, my heart stirred.

This happens when I walk through the Creative Activities building and see the countless objects people make…sweaters, stained glass, quilts, wood carvings, handmade kayaks, cookies, cakes, pies, jar after jar of pickled vegetables and colorful jams. Or when I walk through the Fine Arts Building and see the amazing expressions of art offered by artists from around the state. And don’t even get me started on the 4H Variety Show that never ceases to bring me to tears with their earnest, enthusiastic songs and dances capped off with the final song: “Our State Fair is a Great State Fair!” All this says nothing of the many animals raised and shown by young people, all their hard work and dedication held in pride by their families and communities. 

Yes, it’s about all the possibility that we as humans can muster when we put our minds to it. Even the various political parties manage to coexist with a certain decorum despite questionable t-shirt slogans and points of view that present a tugging at the seams. Walking among them all I am always reminded to be a little more open to the ideas and experience of others whose lives I simply do not understand but who on that particular day is eating a chocolate chip cookie and drinking a malt with the same enjoyment I am.

Yes, it’s over this Get-Together. Now we go on to the school year and an election that is shrouded in so, so much. Yet like the poet says: Try to smile, not scowl, hold the door, watch for those on wheels, offer a hand, laugh with a stranger, wait with patience. You…we …cannot make this on our own. Herein lies our hope and beauty: the power to be more than us.

***A special thanks to the unknown poet!

You’ve probably seen them. People wearing t-shirts that say some form of “Be a Good Person.” Or another version “Just be a Good Human.” Or, “If you can be anything, be kind.” Each time I encounter someone wearing this adorning their chest it lifts my spirits and reminds me once again that, mostly, people really want to put their best selves into the world. And they want to encourage others to do the same. Though what we read or see in the news accounts of our daily walk is often to the contrary, there are people walking around who have made it their mission to say, “Hey, wait a minute. There’s another way.”

I thought about this message when reading about Joe Mauer, a favorite player for the Minnesota Twins who was recently inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For those who have followed him and like to wave their Minnesota pride at any opportunity, Mauer is a St. Paul boy who played his whole career for his hometown team, and this honor seemed so deserved.. I remember seeing him play once when he came back after an injury that had sidelined him for a long time. When he walked onto the field the crowd went ballistic as he came to the plate. He did not disappoint as he hit a home run first thing. I can still get a little emotional thinking about that moment. 

But what struck me in the newspaper account of his career was that his Mother, who has always been a significant influence in his life, always told him two things: Be a good competitor but first be a good person. From what I read and hear about him, he has embodied that message and sends that goodness into the world. Well done, Mom.

Last week I was sitting having lunch in a favorite cafe. I was reading a book that was really engaging and eating a sandwich, drinking an iced tea. I was pretty engrossed in my reading and not paying full attention as I sat my glass down on the edge of a tray. It tipped sending tea and ice onto the table, the opposite chair and the floor. Before I could even get to my feet to begin clean up, a young woman who had been sitting nearby jumped up, grabbed extra napkins and started mopping up my mess. All the time I was thanking her she was saying”It’s okay. It’s okay.” We both righted the situation and sat back to finish our lunch as I looked around at all the other folks who had also witnessed my faux-pas. Perhaps one of them would have joined in to help me but this young woman had acted so quickly in her effort to be a good person that they didn’t have the chance. Needless to say, my sense of the goodness of humans was lifted high that day.

Later that day as I was cleaning and organizing some papers, I came across this poem I had kept from a journal of my college alma mater. It is titled “The Whole Shebang Up for Debate” by Laura M. Andre:

Today I gave a guy a ride,
caught in a cloudburst
jogging down East Mill Street.
Skinny, backpacked, newspaper
a makeshift shield, unsafe
under any circumstances.
I don’t know what possessed me.

I make bad decisions, am forgetful,
cling to structure and routine
like static electricity to polyester,
a. predicament of living under
the facade I always add to myself.

Said he needed to catch a GoBus,
shaking off droplets before climbing in.
He gabbed about Thanksgiving plans,
his mom’s cider basted turkey,
grandma’s pecan crusted pumpkin pie.

It was a quick masked ride.
Bless you, he said, unfolding himself
from the car. No awkward goodbyes,
no what do I owe you? Just Bless you
and a backward wave.

At the stop sign, my fingers stroked
the dampness where he sat minutes before.

Sometimes life embraces you
so unconditionally, it shifts
your body from shadow
into a full flung lotus of light.

We could argue at the wisdom of such an encounter yet what is clear in this story is that the writer chose not only to see the goodness in another but also to send goodness into the world. The young woman who helped clean up a mess I had created chose, quickly I might add, to act out of goodness. In a time when competition can lead people to not only use hurtful, unkind words and actions, may we all err on the side of being good humans, shifting our bodies…and perhaps the whole world… from shadow into a ‘full flung lotus of light.’

Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in.
Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.
Breathing in, I see myself as a flower.
Breathing out, I feel flesh.
Breathing in, I see myself as a mountain.
Breathing out, I feel solid.
Breathing in, I see myself as still water.
Breathing out, I reflect things as they are.
Breathing in, I see myself as space.
Breathing out, I feel free.
~Thich Nhat Hahn

It is taking a lot to breathe these days Or at least it is taking intentional effort on my part to do so. With the world whirling so fast and in such a chaotic fashion, I find myself actually holding my breath quite often. Never a good thing. Which may be the reason that this poem by the beloved Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hahn, floated to the surface of my consciousness earlier today. I actually didn’t remember whose words they were but knew that I had to find them to see if they were speaking to me as I thought they might be. A quick scan of my book shelves unearthed this gem. Ahhhh…

These words along with a particular image have been bringing some solace to my days. I shared the image below with some friends on Friday saying how it seems to represent how I feel., how I am trying to be in the face of it all. The image is of a statue found in Savannah, Georgia one of my favorite cities. The statue gained fame for being on the cover of a book later made into a movie: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt. At one point it stood in a cemetery there and featured prominently in the movie. It had to be removed and placed in a museum after the movie as it was feared it would be damaged by over-interested visitors. Its original title is simply Bird Girl and the way she holds out her arms, two vessels balanced by her straight body and ever so slightly tilted head seems to create the posture I find myself wanting to take. 

Breathing in, I hold all the turmoil that swarms around. Breathing out, I gaze out at the beauty of my summer garden. Breathing in, I wonder at what seems to me the drive to divide people into categories that are dehumanizing, are not only unkind but also unjust. Breathing out, I marvel at the kindness that I encounter ever day from friends, family, neighbors, strangers. Breathing in, I grapple with despair and fear for what seems to be happening to our country, our world. Breathing out, I look with awe at the faces of the babies, the toddlers, the children that weave in and out of my life. Breathing in, I read or hear words that are mean and cutting and even cruel. Breathing out, I read poems and stories so filled with beauty and inspiration that my spirit is given to floating above my body.

Bird Girl reminds me that I, that we, live in a both/and world and that to live wisely, sanely, means to hold all the beauty and the terror in our outstretched hands…every day…every moment…with every breath. When I gaze on her slightly bent head I imagine what that bend means. “Really?” she might be saying. Or “Look at this.” Or even “Please.” My need to create a story for her is pretty strong.

Perhaps all that bent head is portraying is the truth that holding that balance is difficult work. Sometimes sorrowful work. Almost always courageous work. And then just when it all seems too much to bear, a tiny bird lands on one bowl and sings there a song so beautiful, so pure that hearts are broken open at the miracle of it. 

Breathing in…breathing out. Both. And. So it goes. So it goes.  

Intention. I have been thinking about intention over the last weeks. How to live intentionally, kindly, sanely, in the midst of all that is churning in every direction in our country and the world. I have been trying to come to some inner understanding of how it is best for me to be aware of what is going on without giving in to despair and fear with the uncertainty that grips us.The word intention keeps coming to my mind as if placed there by an outer force and I have decided to pay attention to it. 

Mulling over this word, intention, I was reminded of the author and poet Ross Gay who wrote a book of essays called The Book of Delights. One year on his birthday he decided that he would write a short essay every day for the next year about something that delighted him during the day. He is a writing professor and set this intention for himself amongst all the other writing and teaching that must have filled his life. Krista Tippett has interviewed him and he talks about how the intention he set…to watch for and experience delights…seemed to actually give rise to even greater delights. Sounds like a pretty good thing to me. He has since published another book, The Book of More Delights. It seems that delight must breed delight!

During April which is National Poetry Month, I set an intention to write a poem a day. I stayed pretty loyal to the daily practice though some days I wrote only a haiku. Still a poem, right? And though none of the poems were good, what I found was that the intention had me thinking more poetically. I would notice something…a flower or the smile on someone’s face…and short, descriptive phrases would pop into my mind, a snippet of a poem. It brought a kind of gentle lilt to my day and made my mood lighter.

A true poet, Molly Fisk, wrote this lovely reminder entitled ‘Against Panic’:
You recall those times, I know you do, when the sun
lifted its weight over a small rise to warm your face,
when a parched day finally broke open, real rain,
sluicing down the sidewalk, rattling city maples
and you so sure the end was here, life a house of cards
tipped over, falling, hope’s last breath extinguished
in a bitter wind. Oh, friend, search your memory again –
beauty and relief are still there, only sleeping.

Reading her words and Ross Gay’s reflections on delight have instilled in me the intention to pay more attention to those experiences of gentleness and beauty that are the gift of every day. As I did one morning this past week when I sat at my local coffee shop and watched the sunlight pour into the window illuminating the lovingly planted flowers that were waking up again and directing their faces toward the new day. What lessons were they holding out to me?

There is much in our world over which we have little control. We do what we can…contribute, have conversation, contact those in office, learn as much as we can, make our voices heard, vote, and, if you are praying person, pray. I do not want to give myself to the intention of despair. Instead I want wake every day and set an intention to search for what brings beauty and relief to a fractured, hurting world. Perhaps if we all search our memories we can wake that spirit of hope together. 

“You belong to the world, animal. Deal with it.”
~Carrie Fountain

Last week William Anders, died, and left this Earth. He had actually left the planet before but as an astronaut on Apollo 8. Anders was the photographer of the photo we now call ‘Earthrise’, the first color image of our home…the place on which we live, travel, work, disagree, war, create, reproduce. The photo was shot on December 24, 1968, a day when those who celebrate would have been knee deep in Christmas preparations. Yet, this photo stopped many of us in our tracks and we paused amidst the baking and the wrapping to glimpse the beauty of this whirling blue sphere floating in space.

In listening to people talk about the experience of seeing this photo for the first time, someone said it was a time that changed how we saw the Earth. This is true, of course. But still others, myself included, would say it changed how we saw ourselves. As humans. As those hurtling through the Universe. As those who are so tiny in the grand scheme of things. As those who are sharing this place…no one more, no one less, all vulnerable, all connected by the very fact that we swim together in this amazing blueness.

The year the photo was taken was 1968, and though I was just a young one, I knew that we were living in troubled times. Our country was embroiled in a far-away war that was tearing our country apart. Protests raged on college campuses and at town centers. Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated. The Civil Rights movement was at the forefront of headlines that, thankfully, resulted in the Civil Rights Act. Families disagreed about all this, my own included. The Viet Nam War remains the only thing my father and I ever argued about. There was distrust and turmoil everywhere. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

And into all this arrived this photo which reminded us that we are all in this together, connected by land and water and gravity that holds us all from floating into the skies. It provided, for those with eyes to see, a profound lesson in humility, in compassion, in reverence, in awe. Some say it helped to strengthen the young environmental movement and gave birth to Earth Day. Yet its lessons continued and continue, to elude us. The blindness to human connection and the threat that division brings is still rife on this beautiful planet. As people we so easily forget or choose to live in denial of all that binds us together. 

Anders death precipitated this amazing image being in the many places we now receive news. Like it did in 1968, it was sandwiched in between the many ways we struggle and are prone to chaos. I was reminded of a poem written by poet Carrie Fountain. It begins:

You belong to the world
as do your children, as does your husband.
It’s strange even now to understand that
you are a mother and a wife, that these gifts
were given to you and that you received them,
fond as you’ve always been of declining
invitations. You belong to the world. The hands
that put a peach tree into the earth exactly
where the last one died in the freeze belong
to the world and will someday feed it again,
differently, your body will become food again
for something, just as it did so humorously
when you became a mother, hungry beings
clamoring at your breast, born as they’d been
with the bodily passion for survival that is
our kinds’ one common feature. You belong
to the world, animal. Deal with it…

Seeing that floating Blue Marble once again gave me pause to ask myself how I was dealing with it. Do I take my gravitational walk each day with an awareness of all those others grounded by the same force? Do I send them compassion? Do I hold all those fractured places, those equally fractured people, near and far in my heart? Do I do everything I am able to honor those invisible lines of connection that I share with my fellow Earth travelers? Do I guard our one common feature…survival? It is the work we’ve been given and mostly I fail but endeavor to try.

You belong to the world. I belong to the world. Blessed be the memory of William Anders who showed us how precious our Earth home is. May we deal with it with as much care as we would offer our children, our grandchildren, the children and grandchildren of all our fellow travelers. And to all those with whom we walk this day, may we spin more graciously as if the very world depends on it. Because it does.