photo by Cami Flake

I received a Google Alert in my inbox this past week. It informed me that I was dead. At first I thought it might be true. I’ve been feeling a little dead these past few days. So much sadness and strife in the world.

Beirut. Paris. Mali.

My tender psyche has trouble dealing with not only the tragedy of these horrific events, but the fallout as well. I’m like a sponge; I absorb all of it. I think I inherited the sensitive gene from my dad. He had a tender heart, too.

I wasn’t kidding about the Google Alert. I opened that email again, this time on a larger screen. It turns out it was Sheila Ann Gleason who died at the tender age of 48. It turns out I am very much alive, even in the midst of existential guilt, sadness and grief.

 I suspect you’re feeling some of this, too. I am going to share with you some of the poetry and practices that have kept me from sinking into despair at a time when it takes every resource I have to keep my head up and my heart open.

Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, author of Women Who Run with the Wolves, offered this beautiful piece of advice. Upon waking: “I suggest strongly today, you hold in your eyes and ears, FIRST, an image from nature, no matter what else enters later. FIRST SEEING, FIRST HEARING.”

That feels so doable, yes?

Some turn to prayer. I turn to poetry.

Hoar-Frost

by Amy Lowell (1875-1925)

In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying;
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.

Thanks
by W. S. Merwin

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

And art. . .

I came across this article on the web this week. I can’t stress this one enough. Find a creative project and get lost in it, if even for just twenty minutes. Psychologist Dr. Dacher Keltner, of California University in Berkeley, says this: “That awe, wonder and beauty promote healthier levels of cytokines suggests the things we do to experience these emotions – a walk in nature, losing oneself in music, beholding art – has a direct influence upon health and life expectancy.”

This week especially I have found solace in artful endeavors, my camera, my kitchen.

image source: Art Journaling Magazine

Comfort food. . .

Let me pause here to say I am a big advocate for preparing and eating foods that bring us comfort. In a good way. I have been preparing a lot of those foods this week; most of them take me right back to Grandma’s kitchen. I’m guessing you, too, might enjoy a bowl of Zuppa di Josephine. Enjoy.