My day started with the cat jumping onto the electric cooktop from which I had just pulled the kettle to pour my tea. She is one tough cookie and had no interest in having me hold her paw on an ice cube. The smell of singed fur and foot pads still lingers.
It’s an acrid smell and my stomach churns slightly. I am carrying around “the despair of the world” this morning after a weekend of senseless violence and hate crimes. I know I should limit my exposure to the news, and yet I do not want to be hiding my head under the blanket. These are real events and real people whose lives have been abruptly ended or forever changed.
I know it is my job at the very least to hold space for and bear witness to the grief of shattered lives. Even if I don’t have the energy to start a revolution today.
So I go seeking solace, maybe mercy, in the poetry books on my desk: Alice Walker, Mary Oliver and Seamus Heaney borrowed from the library last week. And Parker J. Palmer’s Facebook page - he is a good culler of meaning-making poems (among other things).
Looking out on our back patio - I see our tipped over table, surrounded by a circle of glass. The wind unceremoniously toppled the table over the weekend. Shattered glass like shattered lives.
This is what poetry helps me to do - find the metaphors in my life. I cannot hold all the grief that seems to be surging through our world these days. But I can go outside and get down on my knees.
I will pick up shards of glass and drop them into a paper bag. I will think of the lives lost and the lives changed forever. I will pray. I will let my tears mix with the raindrops.
And perhaps, then, I will be ready to face a world that desperately needs me, needs each one of us.
What’s yearning to be named inside of you? What might be ready to be released?
It’s an acrid smell and my stomach churns slightly. I am carrying around “the despair of the world” this morning after a weekend of senseless violence and hate crimes. I know I should limit my exposure to the news, and yet I do not want to be hiding my head under the blanket. These are real events and real people whose lives have been abruptly ended or forever changed.
I know it is my job at the very least to hold space for and bear witness to the grief of shattered lives. Even if I don’t have the energy to start a revolution today.
So I go seeking solace, maybe mercy, in the poetry books on my desk: Alice Walker, Mary Oliver and Seamus Heaney borrowed from the library last week. And Parker J. Palmer’s Facebook page - he is a good culler of meaning-making poems (among other things).
Looking out on our back patio - I see our tipped over table, surrounded by a circle of glass. The wind unceremoniously toppled the table over the weekend. Shattered glass like shattered lives.
This is what poetry helps me to do - find the metaphors in my life. I cannot hold all the grief that seems to be surging through our world these days. But I can go outside and get down on my knees.
I will pick up shards of glass and drop them into a paper bag. I will think of the lives lost and the lives changed forever. I will pray. I will let my tears mix with the raindrops.
And perhaps, then, I will be ready to face a world that desperately needs me, needs each one of us.
What’s yearning to be named inside of you? What might be ready to be released?
 | Jessica Curtis is a professional coach who helps people cultivate intention and live from a place of meaning and authenticity. If you think you could benefit from working with Jessica or want to invite her to work with your group, reach out to start a conversation. |
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