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 20th. 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 1st 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.” 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.
