Wow. Powerful image captured so honestly by your words. To be loved and seen without turning away, to love the aging body as much as the youthful one of memory, to want the person inside who is all the ages we are or were.
There's a moment that breaks me whenever I revisit it. On September 4, 2014, my husband and I were prepping coffee in the kitchen. It was a day like any other until the words spilled urgently out of my mouth: "I can never drink alcohol again." My husband paused for a moment, locked eyes with me, and said, "I'll stop with you." Not because he needed to, but because he knew this moment could change everything. And it did. Eleven and a half years later and his understanding, his steady accompaniment, remains the greatest generosity I've ever received.
Oh! This spoke directly to my heart. That love and devotion is precious. Treasure it, Dear One. And blessings of peace and resilience and steadfastness on your sober journey. 🙏
Due to several long mental health crises over the years, my nervous system has lived in survival and dysregulation for really long phases. Very recently, I found myself going back to a short video snippet I saved from the very tender Thich Nat Hahn years ago, where he talks about awareness— “no grasping, no fighting, just allow it to be there and acknowledge it — hello fear, I know you are there and I will take good care of you.”The kindness, groundedness, and almost maternal tone of his voice speaks to the most frightened childlike parts of me. Every time I go back to listening to his little snippet, I feel deeply seen and cared for.
Poonam, what a precious gift…..that phrase from beloved Thich Nat Hahn. From someone whose first reaction is almost always fear, this is a real blessing.
It was at a station in Boston, full of other new high school graduates, engaged in various forms of goodbyes. We were all new recruits, off to serve our country. I suspect many of us shared the chaotic feelings of pre-homesickness, sad to be leaving our homes and friends, and at the same time we were humming with electric energy at the thought of the adventure ahead. Oddly, I don't remember my Dad being there to send me off- though I am sure he was. In the swirl of farewells occurring all around me, my Mom, with whom I had a challenging relationship my entire life, and from whom I was running away, in a rushed firm pull to her breast, held me just long enough to whisper in my ear, "to thine own self be true". Maybe she knew me, saw me with much more clarity than I saw myself. Not only was this the first day of military service, but I was also embarking on a lifetime adventure of self-discovery that led to an eventual realization that the dissonance I felt in my body was related to a queer gender expression. She was not long dead when I began living in truer authenticity. It's a shame she didn't get to see how I heeded her whisper, a whisper I heard over and over across decades of my life, and still do to this day.
Jae, seems like just as we are unable to decipher our dreams, we are unable to grasp the love of family until we are much older. Yes, to thine own self be true. Thank you.
Other writers have, without knowing it, borne witness to me time and time again. By turning the experiences they themselves have witnessed into characters, stories and poems, they have brought those events and experiences I have struggled to articulate to myself out of the darkness of confusion and into the light of understanding. It is a rare and delightful moment when we read something on a page that truly expresses what we ourselves have felt, helping us to feel both understood and less alone in our suffering. Even when we are unhappy or in despair, it can be comforting to know that someone else has walked this path before us and managed to keep going.
And that comfort can be found in the most surprising places - as that very wise creature, Winnie the Pooh once observed: “Well then, would you be so kind as to find a sustaining book such as would comfort a wedged bear in great tightness?”…
Yes! This is so deeply true. We are each so alone within our suits of skin, and to feel recognition in that way is air. As a Black adoptee with a white adoptive mother growing up in Boulder, Colorado, one of the most sustaining and inspiring things in my life was learning about another world through Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and on and on. On those pages, I felt myself reflected far more clearly than I did in the place where I resided, and that literary witnessing helped me keep going.
Beautiful, Lisa Marie. My favourite James Baldwin quote is this one, which he wrote in a letter to a friend in 1957: “The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it…”
Good morning Friend. I was privileged to dwell in Fourmile Canyon for a season of my life. It was while living there that my children’s mother asked me to reconsider fatherhood. I’d had a vasectomy. It was both a wonderful life at the time, and as I look back in hindsight it was also a time of my personal inner turmoil and emotional stuntedness. That ungroundeness eventually led to an ugly divorce from her, but also from my twins for whom I was full-time Dad. I have fond memories of backpacking all over Northern Colorado with her, watching our twins, Noah and Sarah, play with friends and throw rocks into Boulder Creek, and many enjoyable evenings spent at the Gold Hill Inn.
Thank you for putting THIS into words! So very true! I feel the same way about music. It is a powerful and meaningful way of being held in the interconnected web of being.
Many years ago I attended a dinner in NYC that was part of a literary festival. I had been to many of these and found that I often just got lost in the mix and became part of the scenery. On this night, randomly seated next to me at our 10 top, was a lovely bespeckled British guy named John. Easy, affable, and agile, our conversation meandered around topic after topic. It was one of those lovely, rich connections that happen, but rarely. John, it turned out, was the curator of MOMA and at some point during food, drinks, reading, he invited me and my dinner companion to the de Kooning retrospective he had just installed at the museum. Of course, we said yes. Who would decline? And then, for the next couple of days, I fretted. Turns out I know NOTHING about modern art. Had to look de Kooning up to find out who he was. Taking a taxi across town to MOMA two days later, I felt sick about my ignorance and embarrassed about what I imagined were going to be hours of my feigning being cultured and intelligent. We walked in to the museum where John was waiting. And, to the blustery mortification of my companion, I blurted out, "I'm afraid I know nothing at all about de Kooning. I really know very little about modern art." John turned to me, and in a statement that has become a guiding principle of my life, he said gently and graciously, "Oh, my dear, how can you know until you learn?" And then, painting by painting, John taught me the life and art of Willem de Kooning.
Rest easy. Be you. Be not afraid. We cannot know until we learn.
Love this! And it is worth mentioning that artists know (better perhaps than anyone) that we are all works in progress. The only real error is to stop enlarging.
How perfectly expressed this is. (I need to study Willem de Kooning!) Especially in light of finding empathy—we cannot even know ourselves until we experience, accept, and understand our own emotions by learning from them to find our way forward.
What a moment! John was the picture of grace. I once heard that a gentleman is someone who makes everyone in the room feel welcome. I love everything about this story...
Lyn, how wonderful to be in the hands of someone who was anxious to offer their insight and knowledge for your enrichment. It kind of parallels how I experience Padraig bringing us Life Lessons from the poems he presents on Poetry Unbound.
Hi Patty. I was thinking during the night of the double gift of John. The first was just "being seen" in a setting where I generally was not. Then there was exactly what you said. Being in the hands of someone who, oh so generously, shepherded me. I will be forever grateful for the gift he was to me.
In my late twenties I too lived in Australia. I went there initially on a great adventure - a late gap year, or early midlife crisis, depending on how you look at it. I had money saved to travel, but after a couple of weeks I panicked and got a job at a horse transport company. I had worked with horses all my life, but it had gone deeply sour, and I was supposed to be working out what to do with the rest of my life. A couple of months later, my best friend Victoria came over from the UK. When I picked her up at the airport, she took one look at me, saw me in my breeches and said, despite having been on a plane for 23 hours, 'My God Tina, there's more to life than horses.'
Within a fortnight I packed in the job and set off round the country. On the way I became a writer. Seven books, five theatrical shows, hundred of students and mentees; the best times and friendships of my life.
Victoria died in 2024, aged 56. Same age as me. We had not seen each other for about 20 years. Her husband told me that one of the last things she heard was a WhatsApp voice note from me, telling her how that one spontaneous comment from her changed the course of my life. She squeezed his hand and smiled.
How incredibly moving, and what a testament to how our honest, offhand kindness can work wonders we may never even know about. I love that her “there’s more to life than horses” rippled out into books, shows, students, and friendships. The beauty that she got to hear, right at the end, how deeply that one sentence shaped your life. The image of her squeezing his hand and smiling is such a tender piece of witness in itself...
Thankyou for taking the time to write this thoughtful response. Writing it out here has made think about it all week, and has sparked rush of gratitude every time. Pádraig is a clever man, setting us these prompts!
Isn’t he just! I am so inspired by them each week. This week sparked a reflection that was too long to post here, and I’ve got it up on my page if you’re so inclined!
A close friend - my Anam Cara- always bears witness to me at the moment. She lost her precious son to cancer at nineteen, three years ago. She is able to be present to me during my own terminal cancer journey. A gentle presence who -despite her own grief- is a rock in my life. I have a beautiful husband, children and grandchildren, who all are totally travelling with me. However, the times I unburden myself to a long lasting friend , frees them up for a while from all the sadness.
Julie it seems that you are completely surrounded by all the love you have given to others. I cannot think of a life better lived. All blessings abounding and shining above.
Dear Julie, may the Peace you exude continue to bless your family and friends. I am glad that death has not come like a thief in the night to catch you unawares. Bask in the Love of all those who know you, Julie. And blessings on your journey.
In 2005, I landed at Fr Benning, Georgia, as part of a protest to close the School of the Americas, where the US was training paramilitary groups to terrorize campesinos fighting dictators in Central and South America. My friend Lynn and I arrived early to help the Puppetistas complete the project of creating seven-foot replicas of the Madres, the mothers of the disappeared and murdered. When a caravan of FBI agents showed up with their bulletproof vests, I felt myself go numb with fear while the activists around me joyfully planned acts of disobedience, such as jumping the compound’s fence, for which they would be arrested. That evening, I walked over to the old warehouse where the silent puppets stood like sentinels in the dying light. Suddenly, I found myself crumpling to my knees, crying. Their large eyes took me in. They saw me. In our mutual grief, they comforted me, they who had suffered so much. The next day, the Madres floated among the crowds that swelled to over 20,000, their long arms reaching over our heads, providing protection.
I'm struck by how the witnesses in this story - the puppets - were created, co-created, by your own hands. We have more power than we know, sometimes! They brought benevolence and comfort, they reminded you of your lineage, your connection to others who have borne witness to injustice. What a beautiful image, those soulful madres afloat above river of people marching...
I love the way you describe the gentle witnessing of the Puppets, acknowledge your pain. Being seen and feeling understood can happen in the most mysterious ways.
Marijo, what a priceless story! Those protests were essential and unforgettable. The human rights killing forces are alive and well in our current administration. May we be blessed with the warrior energy to continue to disrupt and expose their cruel and misguided efforts. Protesting, on the streets, is SO NECESSARY to embolden work for dignity for all persons. I am so grateful for your courage in going to be there, and your wisdom in reflecting on the experience. Thank you!
I found this quite difficult to think about. There have been many moments of chaos that surrounded me over the years: family deaths for example, but also times whem the chaos has been other people's in my jobs as police officer or nurse - and that created a sort of problem for me. Throughout chaos I have always been the sorter-out of things, the pragmatist while it all swirled. And the way to navigate the chaos personally was to push it aside. So it has taken time, often years for my own dealing with chaos to seep out. The times when I can't quite figure out why I feel a certain way until after reflection I realise and sort my way through feelings I maybe should have had back then.
Thank you for sharing some thoughts about the you felt in the midst of others chaos. I can not imagine how difficult it is for persons in medical and emergency professions to deal with the volume of other people's trauma they experience on a daily basis
This feels so familiar to me. It seems some of us are "wired" to do better under pressure, and in crises as we step in and sort things out to a hopefully best case outcome. I expect this may be a survival mechanism handed to us through many generations of survival.
I find this a blessing. It prevents paralysis in a time when that is the worst course of action, typically. It only hits us much later, the internal processing, but the flip side (at least for me) is sometimes the stupidest little non-critical events can just turn me upside down for a bit.
Dear Steve, I bless Heaven that you were the one to care for others, to meet their chaos/pain with some sort of healing or resolution - or the best you could muster. Now, it’s only fair that you aim that love at yourself. Take good care of this special person, a treasure for the community. Padraig’s poems celebrating his own healing are such precious lessons.
This week my son and I were evacuated by the civil protection agency in Portugal and displaced because of a series of horrendous storms. Thank you for this timely poem. I feel this, needing to speak love to my son when I'm scared, asking myself why is this happening to me and the crushing cloud of shame at having to need so much help.
Sending you love and a gentle reminder (as I have often needed and gotten from kind people) that we all need help sometimes, and often for storms — literally! — that are outside our control. I hope you and your son have all the help you need.
Candace, it’s utterly frightening to be faced with deadly powers of Nature, and more so when having a son with you. I hope you are both safe, and I’m grateful that the Portuguese authorities worked for your welfare. In retrospect may you devise fantastic stories of your adventures.
My mother, was always the arbitrator in family conflicts. She would begin with "Do you love this person, ie.(your partner,, child, etc. Even in the worst conflicts she insisted that love ultimately is the bind that ties all people together. And just solutions are only found in negotiating from that point of origin. She used it not only to protect me from my own failings, but to teach me how I must live my life.
It was a very cold February. Temperatures had been below zero.
The hospital had adequate heat, and neither my body nor my heart could feel it.
The hospital had adequate light, and I felt a deep deep deep darkness. People talked constantly. Medical jargon was all around. Other people's chatter scattered across waiting rooms and hallways and elevators like skipping stones across frozen ponds. I heard the sound of two hearts breaking. I heard my say Dad he had to cry. It was the second and last time I heard him cry. He lived 36 more years, and I never heard him cry again.
In the mess of those few days of waiting for my brother's organs to be harvested and sent to persons who wanted to live and wondering if my mother would survive congestive heart failure, someone stood beside me and held my hand.
The hand was warm and firm. It was the only warmth and comfort I felt for days. Was it seconds or minutes that we stood palm to palm with fingers holding us together? It was warm and firm.
Was it a man or woman? Was it a nurse or aid or social worker or doctor or janitor? It was warm and firm. It was mystical. Was it god?
It was one hand, for one small time and with great clarity I can recall the warm and firm comfort of that one hand.
When I was going thru the struggle of leaving an abusive marriage yet feeling guilty about not being able to honor the "til death us do part," there was a friend who had gone thru a similar struggle eight years before me who shared faith & wisdom from being on the other side of the devastation. (Even in writing this post, I realize that although a physical death had not occurred to lead to the legal dissolution of my marriage, there had definitely been emotional death in me.) This friend shared generously & hopefully from her own wounds, accompanying me thru what felt like "the valley of the shadow of death" - promising life on the other side. And there most certainly has been!
My mother. Simple. Direct. Uncomplicated. She loved humanity. A good breakfast started you off in the world. Love your children above anything. Love yourself. Pick up trash off the ground. Leave the counters tidy before you go to sleep. She died at 94. I talk to her everyday.
In 1996 I prepared for a MFA graduate student thesis group show as part of our graduation process. I had been a student of ceramic arts for 6 years. One day walking into town from delivering my car to the garage for repairs, I walked by a small bookstore. In the window, midst other books, was “Everyday Sacred”. This book called to me, I bought it, read it, and knew hence what my thesis and show would be about. From the book I learned about Takuhatsu and Oryoki. “To show the bowl” and “just enough”. I created a card to accompany my MFA show, a simple ink/brush drawing of a bowl and the words “just enough”. I brought my kitchen table into the gallery. A table set for a simple meal with my personal plate, bowl, and cup. The book “Everyday Sacred” and other important books sat on the table. Three cedar shelves on the wall held my ceramic bowls as part of the show. I set up the show, chose to sit all day for a week with the show. If someone appeared interested in the show I would ask if they would take a card and write a note to themselves “what was just enough” for them at that moment in their lives. I didn’t read the note. It was for the viewer to take home. If a person was willing to do this I would ask them if a particular clay piece resonated with their thoughts on “just enough”. As they pointed out a specific bowl I gave it to them as a gift. I gave away my MFA show. Every person who so responded became a witness to my process. This set a theme for my life: what does Takuhatsu and Oryoki mean to me in the 20-21st century, in America? We can design a lifestyle that bears witness directly to our values and gives others the opportunity to bear witness to a relationship growing out of our interactions. 🏮
Oh this beautiful paragraph begins a theme for the whole entire planet to embrace David! If we all bore witness to one another and to our needs as individuals, our world would be rid of divisions and competition, corruption, false egocentricity, even war.
I loved that book! And I had forgotten all about it until I read your piece. Thank you for reminding me and I’m going to hunt shelves for it. It is time to be it again!
Being Seen
I am an old woman.
I cannot leave my glass house,
Nor can you enter it.
It seems at times it is a
Staring contest
Through the glass.
(I always blink first.)
Time and time again,
I tell you to go. To close
Your eyes to the
Shame of my body.
You shake your head,
A small smile lights
On your lips.
Knobby knees struggle to hold my bulk
A Stooped left shoulder invites a humped back.
Gnarled feet demand limping—
All require
Isolation.
My house is empty.
You take a deep breath,
Lean back into your chair.
Demand I remove my shoes.
Don shorts to reveal swollen knees,
A fitted tank to see my sloping shoulder.
I fold my hands across my chest,
Eyes downcast, I can only
Cry.
I raise blurry eyes
To meet your own.
Wow. Powerful image captured so honestly by your words. To be loved and seen without turning away, to love the aging body as much as the youthful one of memory, to want the person inside who is all the ages we are or were.
Whoa! I feel this one that sees not only you, but me.
The BEAUTY of the aged.
Thank you for this. The depth the movement.
This is so moving and resonates deeply! Inside, I still think I’m 19, yet...
What a blessing to be seen with loving eyes!
Oh such endearing love.
Beautiful.
There's a moment that breaks me whenever I revisit it. On September 4, 2014, my husband and I were prepping coffee in the kitchen. It was a day like any other until the words spilled urgently out of my mouth: "I can never drink alcohol again." My husband paused for a moment, locked eyes with me, and said, "I'll stop with you." Not because he needed to, but because he knew this moment could change everything. And it did. Eleven and a half years later and his understanding, his steady accompaniment, remains the greatest generosity I've ever received.
What a great Man, partner, soulmate.
Oh! This spoke directly to my heart. That love and devotion is precious. Treasure it, Dear One. And blessings of peace and resilience and steadfastness on your sober journey. 🙏
That’s a good man and a wonderful relationship!
You are a very lucky woman.
Due to several long mental health crises over the years, my nervous system has lived in survival and dysregulation for really long phases. Very recently, I found myself going back to a short video snippet I saved from the very tender Thich Nat Hahn years ago, where he talks about awareness— “no grasping, no fighting, just allow it to be there and acknowledge it — hello fear, I know you are there and I will take good care of you.”The kindness, groundedness, and almost maternal tone of his voice speaks to the most frightened childlike parts of me. Every time I go back to listening to his little snippet, I feel deeply seen and cared for.
Poonam, what a precious gift…..that phrase from beloved Thich Nat Hahn. From someone whose first reaction is almost always fear, this is a real blessing.
He really does evoke such gentle kindness.
Thank you for that snippet-I will carry it with me in this challenging time.
It was at a station in Boston, full of other new high school graduates, engaged in various forms of goodbyes. We were all new recruits, off to serve our country. I suspect many of us shared the chaotic feelings of pre-homesickness, sad to be leaving our homes and friends, and at the same time we were humming with electric energy at the thought of the adventure ahead. Oddly, I don't remember my Dad being there to send me off- though I am sure he was. In the swirl of farewells occurring all around me, my Mom, with whom I had a challenging relationship my entire life, and from whom I was running away, in a rushed firm pull to her breast, held me just long enough to whisper in my ear, "to thine own self be true". Maybe she knew me, saw me with much more clarity than I saw myself. Not only was this the first day of military service, but I was also embarking on a lifetime adventure of self-discovery that led to an eventual realization that the dissonance I felt in my body was related to a queer gender expression. She was not long dead when I began living in truer authenticity. It's a shame she didn't get to see how I heeded her whisper, a whisper I heard over and over across decades of my life, and still do to this day.
What a gift that whisper was.
This is a gorgeous reflection. So striking, the depth of sometimes unconscious knowing that love affords us about our loved ones.
Jae, seems like just as we are unable to decipher our dreams, we are unable to grasp the love of family until we are much older. Yes, to thine own self be true. Thank you.
Other writers have, without knowing it, borne witness to me time and time again. By turning the experiences they themselves have witnessed into characters, stories and poems, they have brought those events and experiences I have struggled to articulate to myself out of the darkness of confusion and into the light of understanding. It is a rare and delightful moment when we read something on a page that truly expresses what we ourselves have felt, helping us to feel both understood and less alone in our suffering. Even when we are unhappy or in despair, it can be comforting to know that someone else has walked this path before us and managed to keep going.
And that comfort can be found in the most surprising places - as that very wise creature, Winnie the Pooh once observed: “Well then, would you be so kind as to find a sustaining book such as would comfort a wedged bear in great tightness?”…
Yes! This is so deeply true. We are each so alone within our suits of skin, and to feel recognition in that way is air. As a Black adoptee with a white adoptive mother growing up in Boulder, Colorado, one of the most sustaining and inspiring things in my life was learning about another world through Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and on and on. On those pages, I felt myself reflected far more clearly than I did in the place where I resided, and that literary witnessing helped me keep going.
Beautiful, Lisa Marie. My favourite James Baldwin quote is this one, which he wrote in a letter to a friend in 1957: “The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it…”
Perfect quote. The wisdom of that man!!
Good morning Friend. I was privileged to dwell in Fourmile Canyon for a season of my life. It was while living there that my children’s mother asked me to reconsider fatherhood. I’d had a vasectomy. It was both a wonderful life at the time, and as I look back in hindsight it was also a time of my personal inner turmoil and emotional stuntedness. That ungroundeness eventually led to an ugly divorce from her, but also from my twins for whom I was full-time Dad. I have fond memories of backpacking all over Northern Colorado with her, watching our twins, Noah and Sarah, play with friends and throw rocks into Boulder Creek, and many enjoyable evenings spent at the Gold Hill Inn.
David, thank you for sharing those memories.
Thank you for putting THIS into words! So very true! I feel the same way about music. It is a powerful and meaningful way of being held in the interconnected web of being.
Absolutely, Jen!
Anne, what a beautiful and wise insight into what happens INSIDE me when I experience a story! It is so true! Thank you, thank you.
Many years ago I attended a dinner in NYC that was part of a literary festival. I had been to many of these and found that I often just got lost in the mix and became part of the scenery. On this night, randomly seated next to me at our 10 top, was a lovely bespeckled British guy named John. Easy, affable, and agile, our conversation meandered around topic after topic. It was one of those lovely, rich connections that happen, but rarely. John, it turned out, was the curator of MOMA and at some point during food, drinks, reading, he invited me and my dinner companion to the de Kooning retrospective he had just installed at the museum. Of course, we said yes. Who would decline? And then, for the next couple of days, I fretted. Turns out I know NOTHING about modern art. Had to look de Kooning up to find out who he was. Taking a taxi across town to MOMA two days later, I felt sick about my ignorance and embarrassed about what I imagined were going to be hours of my feigning being cultured and intelligent. We walked in to the museum where John was waiting. And, to the blustery mortification of my companion, I blurted out, "I'm afraid I know nothing at all about de Kooning. I really know very little about modern art." John turned to me, and in a statement that has become a guiding principle of my life, he said gently and graciously, "Oh, my dear, how can you know until you learn?" And then, painting by painting, John taught me the life and art of Willem de Kooning.
Rest easy. Be you. Be not afraid. We cannot know until we learn.
Your honesty matters! What a perfect story.
Love this! And it is worth mentioning that artists know (better perhaps than anyone) that we are all works in progress. The only real error is to stop enlarging.
How perfectly expressed this is. (I need to study Willem de Kooning!) Especially in light of finding empathy—we cannot even know ourselves until we experience, accept, and understand our own emotions by learning from them to find our way forward.
What a moment! John was the picture of grace. I once heard that a gentleman is someone who makes everyone in the room feel welcome. I love everything about this story...
Lyn, how wonderful to be in the hands of someone who was anxious to offer their insight and knowledge for your enrichment. It kind of parallels how I experience Padraig bringing us Life Lessons from the poems he presents on Poetry Unbound.
Hi Patty. I was thinking during the night of the double gift of John. The first was just "being seen" in a setting where I generally was not. Then there was exactly what you said. Being in the hands of someone who, oh so generously, shepherded me. I will be forever grateful for the gift he was to me.
In my late twenties I too lived in Australia. I went there initially on a great adventure - a late gap year, or early midlife crisis, depending on how you look at it. I had money saved to travel, but after a couple of weeks I panicked and got a job at a horse transport company. I had worked with horses all my life, but it had gone deeply sour, and I was supposed to be working out what to do with the rest of my life. A couple of months later, my best friend Victoria came over from the UK. When I picked her up at the airport, she took one look at me, saw me in my breeches and said, despite having been on a plane for 23 hours, 'My God Tina, there's more to life than horses.'
Within a fortnight I packed in the job and set off round the country. On the way I became a writer. Seven books, five theatrical shows, hundred of students and mentees; the best times and friendships of my life.
Victoria died in 2024, aged 56. Same age as me. We had not seen each other for about 20 years. Her husband told me that one of the last things she heard was a WhatsApp voice note from me, telling her how that one spontaneous comment from her changed the course of my life. She squeezed his hand and smiled.
How incredibly moving, and what a testament to how our honest, offhand kindness can work wonders we may never even know about. I love that her “there’s more to life than horses” rippled out into books, shows, students, and friendships. The beauty that she got to hear, right at the end, how deeply that one sentence shaped your life. The image of her squeezing his hand and smiling is such a tender piece of witness in itself...
Thankyou for taking the time to write this thoughtful response. Writing it out here has made think about it all week, and has sparked rush of gratitude every time. Pádraig is a clever man, setting us these prompts!
Isn’t he just! I am so inspired by them each week. This week sparked a reflection that was too long to post here, and I’ve got it up on my page if you’re so inclined!
I wondered why I couldn't find a comment from you on this thread. I will definitely give yours a read.
A close friend - my Anam Cara- always bears witness to me at the moment. She lost her precious son to cancer at nineteen, three years ago. She is able to be present to me during my own terminal cancer journey. A gentle presence who -despite her own grief- is a rock in my life. I have a beautiful husband, children and grandchildren, who all are totally travelling with me. However, the times I unburden myself to a long lasting friend , frees them up for a while from all the sadness.
Julie, blessings on your journey. I am glad you have companions to walk with you.
A friend is the greatest gift. God bless you, Julie.
Julie it seems that you are completely surrounded by all the love you have given to others. I cannot think of a life better lived. All blessings abounding and shining above.
You remind me of how important my own Anam Cara is to me and I will tell her that tomorrow. Thank you for inspiring this.
Dear Julie, may the Peace you exude continue to bless your family and friends. I am glad that death has not come like a thief in the night to catch you unawares. Bask in the Love of all those who know you, Julie. And blessings on your journey.
In 2005, I landed at Fr Benning, Georgia, as part of a protest to close the School of the Americas, where the US was training paramilitary groups to terrorize campesinos fighting dictators in Central and South America. My friend Lynn and I arrived early to help the Puppetistas complete the project of creating seven-foot replicas of the Madres, the mothers of the disappeared and murdered. When a caravan of FBI agents showed up with their bulletproof vests, I felt myself go numb with fear while the activists around me joyfully planned acts of disobedience, such as jumping the compound’s fence, for which they would be arrested. That evening, I walked over to the old warehouse where the silent puppets stood like sentinels in the dying light. Suddenly, I found myself crumpling to my knees, crying. Their large eyes took me in. They saw me. In our mutual grief, they comforted me, they who had suffered so much. The next day, the Madres floated among the crowds that swelled to over 20,000, their long arms reaching over our heads, providing protection.
I am sending this to an American friend who was arrested in Argentina in the 70's. That person is writing their story. Thank you.
I'm struck by how the witnesses in this story - the puppets - were created, co-created, by your own hands. We have more power than we know, sometimes! They brought benevolence and comfort, they reminded you of your lineage, your connection to others who have borne witness to injustice. What a beautiful image, those soulful madres afloat above river of people marching...
I love the way you describe the gentle witnessing of the Puppets, acknowledge your pain. Being seen and feeling understood can happen in the most mysterious ways.
Amazing story. Thank you.
Marijo, what a priceless story! Those protests were essential and unforgettable. The human rights killing forces are alive and well in our current administration. May we be blessed with the warrior energy to continue to disrupt and expose their cruel and misguided efforts. Protesting, on the streets, is SO NECESSARY to embolden work for dignity for all persons. I am so grateful for your courage in going to be there, and your wisdom in reflecting on the experience. Thank you!
I found this quite difficult to think about. There have been many moments of chaos that surrounded me over the years: family deaths for example, but also times whem the chaos has been other people's in my jobs as police officer or nurse - and that created a sort of problem for me. Throughout chaos I have always been the sorter-out of things, the pragmatist while it all swirled. And the way to navigate the chaos personally was to push it aside. So it has taken time, often years for my own dealing with chaos to seep out. The times when I can't quite figure out why I feel a certain way until after reflection I realise and sort my way through feelings I maybe should have had back then.
Thank you for sharing some thoughts about the you felt in the midst of others chaos. I can not imagine how difficult it is for persons in medical and emergency professions to deal with the volume of other people's trauma they experience on a daily basis
This feels so familiar to me. It seems some of us are "wired" to do better under pressure, and in crises as we step in and sort things out to a hopefully best case outcome. I expect this may be a survival mechanism handed to us through many generations of survival.
I find this a blessing. It prevents paralysis in a time when that is the worst course of action, typically. It only hits us much later, the internal processing, but the flip side (at least for me) is sometimes the stupidest little non-critical events can just turn me upside down for a bit.
Thank you, and yes I wonder whether that is why some of end up doing those 'helper' jobs.
Wow. Beautiful description similar yo my experience most of my life
Thank you for serving others. I wish you the best as you work through these reckonings.
Dear Steve, I bless Heaven that you were the one to care for others, to meet their chaos/pain with some sort of healing or resolution - or the best you could muster. Now, it’s only fair that you aim that love at yourself. Take good care of this special person, a treasure for the community. Padraig’s poems celebrating his own healing are such precious lessons.
This week my son and I were evacuated by the civil protection agency in Portugal and displaced because of a series of horrendous storms. Thank you for this timely poem. I feel this, needing to speak love to my son when I'm scared, asking myself why is this happening to me and the crushing cloud of shame at having to need so much help.
Sending you love and a gentle reminder (as I have often needed and gotten from kind people) that we all need help sometimes, and often for storms — literally! — that are outside our control. I hope you and your son have all the help you need.
Thank you for your kind words, Jenna.
I hope you are cared for as you need. Being displaced in a storm is so difficult.
Thank you, Millie.
Could be any of us. So sorry for the disruption to your life. Take care.
Thank you, Jen.
Candace, it’s utterly frightening to be faced with deadly powers of Nature, and more so when having a son with you. I hope you are both safe, and I’m grateful that the Portuguese authorities worked for your welfare. In retrospect may you devise fantastic stories of your adventures.
Thank you for your words, Patty! Yes, I have begun to turn the experience into a children's play. Thank you for taking the time to respond.
My mother, was always the arbitrator in family conflicts. She would begin with "Do you love this person, ie.(your partner,, child, etc. Even in the worst conflicts she insisted that love ultimately is the bind that ties all people together. And just solutions are only found in negotiating from that point of origin. She used it not only to protect me from my own failings, but to teach me how I must live my life.
It was a very cold February. Temperatures had been below zero.
The hospital had adequate heat, and neither my body nor my heart could feel it.
The hospital had adequate light, and I felt a deep deep deep darkness. People talked constantly. Medical jargon was all around. Other people's chatter scattered across waiting rooms and hallways and elevators like skipping stones across frozen ponds. I heard the sound of two hearts breaking. I heard my say Dad he had to cry. It was the second and last time I heard him cry. He lived 36 more years, and I never heard him cry again.
In the mess of those few days of waiting for my brother's organs to be harvested and sent to persons who wanted to live and wondering if my mother would survive congestive heart failure, someone stood beside me and held my hand.
The hand was warm and firm. It was the only warmth and comfort I felt for days. Was it seconds or minutes that we stood palm to palm with fingers holding us together? It was warm and firm.
Was it a man or woman? Was it a nurse or aid or social worker or doctor or janitor? It was warm and firm. It was mystical. Was it god?
It was one hand, for one small time and with great clarity I can recall the warm and firm comfort of that one hand.
The hand was warm and firm.
Love the mystery in this. We don’t always have to know the particulars. Accepting the Presence freely given to you is enough.
When I was going thru the struggle of leaving an abusive marriage yet feeling guilty about not being able to honor the "til death us do part," there was a friend who had gone thru a similar struggle eight years before me who shared faith & wisdom from being on the other side of the devastation. (Even in writing this post, I realize that although a physical death had not occurred to lead to the legal dissolution of my marriage, there had definitely been emotional death in me.) This friend shared generously & hopefully from her own wounds, accompanying me thru what felt like "the valley of the shadow of death" - promising life on the other side. And there most certainly has been!
My mother. Simple. Direct. Uncomplicated. She loved humanity. A good breakfast started you off in the world. Love your children above anything. Love yourself. Pick up trash off the ground. Leave the counters tidy before you go to sleep. She died at 94. I talk to her everyday.
In 1996 I prepared for a MFA graduate student thesis group show as part of our graduation process. I had been a student of ceramic arts for 6 years. One day walking into town from delivering my car to the garage for repairs, I walked by a small bookstore. In the window, midst other books, was “Everyday Sacred”. This book called to me, I bought it, read it, and knew hence what my thesis and show would be about. From the book I learned about Takuhatsu and Oryoki. “To show the bowl” and “just enough”. I created a card to accompany my MFA show, a simple ink/brush drawing of a bowl and the words “just enough”. I brought my kitchen table into the gallery. A table set for a simple meal with my personal plate, bowl, and cup. The book “Everyday Sacred” and other important books sat on the table. Three cedar shelves on the wall held my ceramic bowls as part of the show. I set up the show, chose to sit all day for a week with the show. If someone appeared interested in the show I would ask if they would take a card and write a note to themselves “what was just enough” for them at that moment in their lives. I didn’t read the note. It was for the viewer to take home. If a person was willing to do this I would ask them if a particular clay piece resonated with their thoughts on “just enough”. As they pointed out a specific bowl I gave it to them as a gift. I gave away my MFA show. Every person who so responded became a witness to my process. This set a theme for my life: what does Takuhatsu and Oryoki mean to me in the 20-21st century, in America? We can design a lifestyle that bears witness directly to our values and gives others the opportunity to bear witness to a relationship growing out of our interactions. 🏮
Oh this beautiful paragraph begins a theme for the whole entire planet to embrace David! If we all bore witness to one another and to our needs as individuals, our world would be rid of divisions and competition, corruption, false egocentricity, even war.
I loved that book! And I had forgotten all about it until I read your piece. Thank you for reminding me and I’m going to hunt shelves for it. It is time to be it again!