Emerging : 2.2.26

Writing

Feb 2

I am writing from my kitchen table, candle lit, big glass of water, a cloudy day, and our big maple tree stands tall outside, covered in lush winter moss. I feel as though I am bursting. I want to tell you everything inside of me.

What’s surfacing right now is a feeling in my chest as if I’ve been caged and just finally realized I am alive, and free, and here, now. I want to do everything, I want to go everywhere, I want to step into the places that need me most, and at the same time, I want to lie down and rest forever in a dimly lit room where nothing is needed, and my only job is to breathe in and out, in and out.

There are two red apples in a dish on the table beside me. What abundance. I wish I could remember this moment forever.

I am learning to sink deeply into the being of the moments, to feast on the enoughness of presence. Is there really anything else? It is through presence that we find our way to the right next step. For ourselves, for the world. We can’t find that knowing in the future or the past. It is a here and now thing.

I’ve been calling my state representatives. The first time I called, my voice shook even though I was only leaving a voicemail. And afterwards, my heart raced and it felt bigger and stronger and fuller. To take a small step, to say the thing out loud, to share the truth of what you believe, what you know to be true, what you are willing into existence despite all the voices saying things will never change, when fear would have you hide under the bed and do nothing but worry. It takes courage, and courage expands the heart, and when the heart expands, we go beyond ourselves, beyond the impossible, into the light of evolution, transformation, change. We are stronger together. And we were never really separate. And we are slowly remembering. This I know to be true.

The sun shines on the full moon, and we gasp in awe at its beauty. What a wonder to be alive.

Humans shoot humans who were standing for peace, and love, and justice, and we gasp at the horror. What a painful time to be alive.

I kiss them goodnight and whisper spells of love and kindness and peace into their hearts, willing them to hold my words close throughout all the heartbreak they will encounter in their growing-up and growing-old years ahead. And I look out the window at the moon again and remember we are here right now, and it’s a gift, this living and breathing and being and even the heartbreak and fear, though it can feel hard to believe it is so.

This is just the beginning, and already so much has happened, and I understand less than I ever have, and at the same time, some part of me is awakening to something beyond understanding, and I am moving towards that place.

What’s surfacing right now are all the fractured pieces of my heart, a swirling cauldron of grief, joy, hope, longing, awe, fear, despair, and gratitude for the feeling of it all. I want to feel it all. I am ready to feel it all. May the depth of my feeling fuel the flame of my love and give me the courage to show up, to take the step, to create the thing, to share the work, and to pass the torch. We are stronger together.

With all my love always,
Raina

ON MY MIND AND IN MY HEART

I am deeply grateful for people like Jess Craven, who devote themselves to gathering and sharing the important information of this moment, both the hard and the hopeful, and who inspire us (U.S. citizens) to remain active participants in a rapidly changing (imploding?!) country and world.

I’ve been receiving her newsletter for a few months now, and it has become a much-appreciated resource for my tender heart. Jess sends a daily political activism email that is short and inspiring, offering simple, accessible ways to get involved (like calling your representatives, etc.) On Sundays, she also shares a newsletter filled with hopeful news, Democratic accomplishments, and important reminders that meaningful progress is still happening.

Another really supportive resource I’ve been grateful for these past few months is the newsletter from Unbreaking. From their about page, “The United States is experiencing institutional collapse at a speed and scale that are difficult to understand, especially through feeds and updates that atomize our attention. We believe that mapping the damage done and its human costs — and the pushback and resilience work already underway — is necessary groundwork for building and retaining political agency. In some ways, the work is simple: We assemble lists of events, build out contexts and connections, and write explainers for people without specialist expertise.”
One important note I want to share: With both of these resources, and really with any content or information I encounter, I give myself full permission not to read or even open every email. I truly believe the most meaningful way we can show up for others is by taking care of ourselves first. And when I am ready and resourced, I am deeply grateful to have these clear, grounded pathways for engagement available to me. And nine times out of ten, it feels far better (for me) to do something, however small that action may be, than to do nothing at all and find myself sinking deep into feelings of isolation or helplessness that can overwhelm me.
Thinking about these words from Melanie Lan, “Is there anything that can’t be taken away? Is there anything in this lifetime that you can’t lose on a dime? Almost everything external can be lost: people, property, health, money, reputation, rights. That leaves the internal: integrity, purpose, meaning, belief, and love.”
I’ve been dreaming of putting up a poetry box alongside the path behind our home. Thinking of asking my dad to make me one for spring.
I’m meditating again after a long period of time away from this practice. I sit for fifteen minutes with gentle music, but no specific guidance, and it’s surprised me how quickly tears have come in the space of just sitting in stillness. Sweet release.
Lastly, these words from Sarah Fontaine, “Let it change me. Let me not resist the change that is moving through. Let me be willing. Let me be willing to be changed, and therefore available to whatever I can offer. Willingness is such a powerful word for me.” This had me thinking about my own relationship with “willingness” and the ways in which I am so practiced in resisting what is, even, and sometimes especially, the really abundantly beautiful experiences, as if it is unsafe to fully relax into anything… May I be willing to experience beauty AND grief simultaneously.