Facilitating Change…Let Grace Come In  

“…through every vicissitude of heat and cold, calm and storm, up-heaving volcanoes and down-grinding glaciers, we see that everything in Nature called destruction must be creation — a change from beauty to beauty.” ~John Muir

Are destruction and creation all part of the same design system? I just finished reading The Only Kayak by Kim Heacox. He references Muir’s quote above and asks, “If the land can heal and begin anew, can we too...[and]…does that which nurtures us in turn deserve our nurturing?” I sit silently in my kayak, my cradle of resilience, stroking the surface of Sparks Lake in Southern Oregon, ready to receive the healing power of water. I listen to the soft slip-slap of the wake on my boat and wonder about reciprocity, about giving back to the water, about the ripple effect of my palm on this place.

I came here to release, to heal, regenerate after four wrestling months of quarantine, questions, passionate protests, and tragic loss. Let grace come in. I came here for Water’s wisdom, her ancient knowledge ~ the survival song of lilies rustling against the side of my boat. Let grace come in. I came here to hear the fledgling herons’ boisterous, prehistoric screech for Mother’s piscine supper of regurgitated carp. Let grace come in. The haunting coos of the Mourning dove, the chipper chicka-dee-dee-dees, and the Red-winged blackbirds’ conk-la-ree-ree-rees all harmonize with the heron and the lilies to create riffles of new song. Let grace come in.

My summer vacation officially started on June 20^th. I had hoped to kayak that first day of vacation, to catch up on my poetry writing, to hike, and explore more of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, I worked. We arts educators are all worried about our jobs next fall. So last week we scrambled to create (and push through to the powers that be) documents that reflected proactive plans for facile and creative transformation of teaching spaces and methods. Simultaneously, I engaged in a new leadership role with TLAN, began leadership coaching with Sea Change Design, and started this facilitation class. I continued to feel energized from the last trimester; I had remained strong, positive, and centered all through the transition to on-line learning — leading the way for arts integration, and facilitating discussions about re-structuring for next fall. But then, the Saturday before the last week of school, my Asst. Principal called. One of our 1^st graders had been murdered by her father, who then took his own life. Where is grace?

That news broke me ~ I trembled and sobbed with shock, grief, and anger, but then went right back to work. In my TLA facilitator role, I provided poetry and resources to my colleagues in addition to designing a virtual field day for students’ last week of school. Two weeks later, I tried to write my own grief poem amidst the cacophony that is my most inhospitable workspace (and my brain). I could not do it, all my reserves were spent, and I cried again from exhaustion, so much loss, and grief. Let grace come in.

 

“Nothing is lost, only forgotten…the land remembers us in an enduring embrace.” [1] During this quarantine, I had forgotten Nature’s power to heal and restore me. I had forgotten the importance of going outside, the value of my bare feet in the grass, the sun and rain on my skin, the lilacs and lavender, and thrum of hummingbirds dive-bombing the scarlet columbine. Let grace come in. Joy commented in the podcast that birds are singing more now. The robins wake me at 4:30 and I don’t really mind. Let grace come in. Ironically, in the last months while humans stayed indoors, the out-of-doors started to heal: flora and fauna thriving instead of just surviving, pollution began to clear around the world, an unintended, unimagined consequence of our quarantine. Let grace come in. By doing less, we gave more to Nature. Let grace come in. I really could not fully grasp the irony of that, but I knew that I had forgotten about the healing power of Nature for me. I knew I needed the enduring embrace of land and water. I closed my work computer and headed for Sparks Lake. Let grace come in. …

Awake Now

from a gloomy hibernation,

I notice columbine in bloom

and last year’s barren apple tree

bearing spurs. Anna’s hummingbird

flits merely feet away from me ~

her name is Joy.

 

She was, all winter, an always

presence of possibility,

but my eyes were closed, my mind shut

to her iridescent green crown,

ruby-throated chirping contrast

to my gray song.

 

 

Today, following a season

of black, I wear scarlet again,

the red that attracts her to me,

beating vehemently between

honeysuckle and apple trees.

The hummingbird

 

in crimson pursuit, reminds me

of my power to fly backward

or forward, or to just flutter

my wings in place, pollinating

and consuming all the honey

nectar of now.

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[1] from Portland Nez Perce/Cherokee Educator and herbalist, Judy BlueHorse Skelton