When Both Are True
I’ve attempted a newsletter for this week many times. There’s so much swimming through my mind.
I first wrote a piece on the new flower I learned about on a walk with my friend Grayson called “Snowdrops.” They are these lovely little white flowers that fit their name quite perfectly. The title of the newsletter was Delight for Delight’s Sake. Grayson and I walked a path dictated by the flowers. It’s something I love about Grayson—she has an eye for beauty, and I always learn something new to pay attention to that I had not yet known before whenever we are together. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Snowdrops since our walk.
I also wanted to share about the gorgeous Alexandria magnolia flowers blooming again and how, at the end of February and beginning of March, these flowers put on a show of pink before becoming a leaf. Then, there is the winter jasmine with its vibrant yellow and delicate flowers along the long stems, the poet’s daffodil, and the Lenton roses, all bringing some color back into our days. Each one of them could be a newsletter on their own.
I have wanted to share how these flowers both announce spring's arrival and remind us that beauty rises in the winter, too; much has been occurring beneath the surface—a classic metaphor I love to revisit at this time when we are in the winter/spring in-between (in Georgia, at least).
Yet, I haven’t had it in me to write a piece on these winter flowers solely because there is a heaviness within me and the city I reside in as we continue to sit with the weight of loss that occurred this past week—suicide and murder.
I cannot write about the delights of a walk with a friend without acknowledging the fact that we were not feeling safe enough to walk alone in our neighborhood where, a few days prior, life was taken brutally. We were delighted to walk with one another. We also needed to walk with one another. Both are true.
…
The snowdrops have a few more weeks left in their season of blooming; soon, there will be a plethora of new flowers to pay attention to and to name. Soon, the news headlines will shift, too—highlighting more recent atrocities. I hate that this, too, is true.
Time doesn’t pause; life continues to happen, and the seasons around us continue to change. However, grief does not operate within these same structures. Grief can freeze time, take time, or even somehow seemingly bring us back in time. Grief is robust, and though we can place labels of “stages” on grief, there is no true timeline or way of grief needing to be. Grief is and does what it needs, most often in a way that is deeply personal to each person it meets.
…
Today, I sit in one of my favorite seats in town. The window yields great natural light; the day, however, is bleak—it’s cold, rainy, and grey.
Today is the first day I have had the capacity to grieve in a way that tears can fall in accordance with the rain happening behind the window behind me. I see no flowers outside this window. I need to see them later today, for delight’s sake.
For grief’s sake, too.
Sometimes, often, in times of great atrocities and grief, words simply cannot convey and carry the comfort others need.
Sometimes, often, we each, in our own way, need to say to another, “I don’t have the words. I wish I could take the pain away and bring the comfort you need. I love you. I am so sorry.”
To any of you hurting while reading these words today, whether I know you personally or not, I love you. I am so sorry.
I weep with you.
Words I Have Been Paying Attention To:
I started a Trauma-centered class this week for my graduate program. It is the first class I have had in a few months where I felt my passion swelling up overwhelmingly inside of me. Trauma is one of my most significant areas of interest when it comes to counseling. I recognize that is a strange comment to make. However, it is in the classes where we discuss the hardest topics that I also see the most hope and immense power of healing. Somehow, the professors who are deeply entrenched in the field of trauma seemingly are the ones with the most hope, perhaps because they bear witness to people’s utter resiliency daily as they watch people move toward healing through pain none of us would ever want to comprehend. I leave these class sessions seeped in both/and—the heaviness of humanity alongside the hope of healing. In that, I also grow a deeper acceptance that the healing doesn’t necessarily bring a full resolution or reconciliation to the heaviness. This week, I find comfort in this.
In class, my professor shared a Toni Morrison quote that has been sticking with me:
“Certain kinds of trauma visited on peoples are so deep, so cruel, the unlike money, unlike vengeance, even unlike justice, or rights, or the goodwill of others, only writers can translate such trauma and turn sorrow into meaning, sharpening the moral imagination.
A writer’s life and work are not a gift to mankind; they are its necessity.”
I’d argue we can replace “writer’s” with “creative’s” life. I’d also argue that the word “creative” embodies each of us in our own way. I
t comes back to Sulieka Juaoad’s words that creating is a survival act; on the flip side, surviving is a creative act, as well.
Create on, my friends, in whatever way you and mankind need.
Prompts/Questions:
You may be in a place of delight this week, a place of grief, or maybe both have consistently co-existed within you. Wherever you are, create into that space.
Take a walk this week simply to follow the path where flowers bloom and lead—enjoy delight for delight’s sake.
Reach out to a loved one who you know is hurting. Share with them that you may not have the words but that you are thinking of them and love them.
Find a flower on a walk that you do not know and learn what it is. After that, write a poem in honor of the flower.
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Words for Your Week:
As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.
May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.