I led a very diverse group in an end-of-year reflection exercise, gathering in video-conference format, alone together. We discussed experiencing our lives in seasons. These seasons may not map to the solstices and aren't typically bound by time. They are dictated by the flow of life - in a season of struggle, in a season of ease, one of levity or lonesomeness.
Regardless of the season, one thing is certain: The pandemic roared with an intensity all its own. For many, it bore tremendous grief: loss of safety, loss of routine, loss of opportunities and employment, loss of loved ones, the list is endless.
The pandemic demanded we consider what matters most, affording space for self-examination and requiring a new sort of self-care.
My hope is that we unearth the diamonds forged by these many pressures, and like the narrator of this poem, as we navigate our grief may we find an even greater capacity to love.
The Hollow
I saw the cavity, its hollowness
It was lined with sorrow
but I’ve been collecting it
I have, judiciously
I’ve been saving sorrow its own place
I’ve collected it in this cup, you see
I’ve been trying to hold on to it
not to cling too tightly, or to hide it away
but to make sure it knows I’m not shelving it
It belongs with me, this cup of warm sorrows
Its home is in me, but not in my (lonely) heart’s cavity
Its home is in the kitchen
where stories are exchanged
where guests gather
where people are fed
Its home will be with me in a warm welcomed spot
It will not be a fixture on display
And that cavity, my hollow house of sorrow
it’s changing too
It was forever dark, drenched in stories and truths I could not will myself to see
But I’ve cleared that out; I’m letting a bit of light in
Just a touch, bit by bit
And I can feel how big it is
My capacity to love