Grey Days, Hard Questions, and Cohen's Bells
... And how Hope is our best hope.
“Is it just me, or is this a hard season?” That was the question over coffee a few mornings ago.
And yeah, it is. It is a hard season. It’s not only hard. But it is definitely hard for a lot of people right now.
If this is a hard season for you, please know that you’re not alone. Me too, and it’s okay. For everyone, some days/weeks/seasons are going to be more challenging than others.
For me, it’s January. I’m trying to get jazzed about a new year, new energy, new ideas and dreams – and I can’t escape that January holds some sad memories, things I remember viscerally, painful losses and changes.
And these very losses, these particular memories, these specific hard things remind me that I’m not alone, that all people experience heartache and loss, that every person is facing something hard right now or loves someone who is going through a hard time or has just come through a big challenge or is about to experience one.
That’s the thing about being alive: It’s fabulous, and it’s hard.
These are grey days, this “bleak midwinter” of Christina Rossetti’s poetic hymn, at least for those in the Northern hemisphere. And, even where the sun is shining, even in flip-flop locales, even almost everywhere, humanity aches.
Fires rage. Snow falls. Earth quakes. Volcanoes erupt.
The planet aches. Coral reefs and polar bears, and crawly things – survival is hard.
In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone…~ In the Bleak Midwinter, C. Rossetti
And yet. The beauty.
The beauty. The heart-exploding beauty shows up everywhere: the music of gentle rain on the roof, the radiant first light of morning, the sweet snoring of an old dog, the amaryllis that lunges skyward.
This life, all bruised and blessed.
This heart, all full of questions: Why? Why not? How? What now?
It’s a mess, this life, this planet, this world.
And it’s a gift. It’s all gift.
I spent Friday evening with a 6 month old as she sat up all by herself for the first time, and the joy was contagious, that big toothless grin lighting up the room.
Her parents and I all squealed with her. Sitting up!! What a trip!
The morning sky was overcast, damp and chilly, and it will be dark again soon and it will get way colder this week. People who lost their homes in last fall’s hurricanes will be struggle to stay warm while thousands of people in California are sifting through the hot ashes of their former lives. And here I am in a warm and safe place.
It’s not fair. It’s not okay. It’s hard. It’s hard to witness and it’s impossible to understand.
And. And.
In this world that feels so broken, there’s so much space for compassion, for kindness, for hope. For light.
I’ve been on kind of a Leonard Cohen kick lately, (by which I mean a couple of years now.) His poetic and insightful and disturbing and sometimes graphic phrases and images are resonating in a deep and personal way these days:
The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be~ Anthem, Leonard Cohen
Only I can’t forget about what – and who – has passed away; and I can’t not wonder about what is yet to be.
Tom asked me to feed the birds. More accurately, he extracted it as a promise. He didn’t need to ask; we didn’t need to say it.
But we did and I’m glad.
The birds: The marsh wren who came to the back patio, perched herself on an old lawn chair, looked into the sunroom, and sang her little heart out to us. Tom called her Marsha. Such a joyful song from this fist-sized creature, such a big and generous tiny heart. She hasn’t been here as often since Tom left, just occasionally, just a quick reminder.
The cardinals. They’re ever-present, the males so bright that the pretty girls look a bit bland in comparison. I’ve finally learned to identify their song, and where they retreat when I inadvertently startle them by opening the back door.
The bluebirds, fat and waiting each morning for the mealworms I put in their little blue dish hanging low on the feeder. A blue so bright that it always surprises me, how can feathers do that?
Out on the river, I see ducks. Mergansers and buffleheads and black scoters. There are others. They dive, disappear. I hold my breath; it’s involuntary and I don’t realize it until a duck pops up, alive! Yes! And this is weird, I don’t know why it happens, but when I watch a duck dive, the tears come. I can’t explain it.
The roseate spoonbills that swoop in, pink and elegant, don’t need me to feed them; they’re on their own finding shrimp and algae and spoonbill snacks. They’ve got this. But I watch in awe. I’m glad they show up, usually solo, at seemingly random times and places, especially when I’m out on the kayak.
Back to Mr. Cohen’s Anthem. He implores:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
His voice is not unlike Tom’s – low and thoughtful with a kind of dark skeptical hopeful clarity.
There is a crack in everything.
Some of our cracks are the damage, the wounds inflicted by others. Some of our cracks are DYI. Some are inexplicable. Some are deeply personal and individual, some are communal.
In all of us, though, cracks. Individually and collectively, we’re all a little broken; we’re all bundles of little cracks of regret or remembering, little cracks of judgement or jealousy, cracks of fear and failure and far-flung blame, because it hurts to see the truth of our own complicity. Maybe our little cracks are invisible to others, but we see them when we look into our own hearts and lives.
Sometimes we watch as the little cracks grow: the tiny little “not so bad” things, the offhand “I didn’t mean it like that” comment, the dark “no one will know” denial.
They grow, over time, and maybe we get more comfortable with them or maybe we address them, and maybe we make some repairs that hold. But some of those tiny little chips and chinks grow: they grow older and deeper, they’re more damaging, more damning. They can’t be denied or dismissed, they can’t be camouflaged. They become a split, a fissure, a gash, a gap, a gulf.
So much room for light, those cracks.
“Forget your perfect offering”, but please please please welcome the light that comes through those cracks. Ring the bells that still can ring.
Ring the bells. Welcome the light. Dream the dreams.
“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope”. ~Martin Luther King, Jr
And yes, this week brings a new administration; inauguration on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
Dr. King’s dream seems distant still. Cracks everywhere. So many places for the light to shine.
So, embrace the cracks. Live love. Choose kindness. Dream dreams.
Make room for the light. Wage hope, dear ones. We are not alone. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Feed the birds. Ring the bells. Dream big dreams. Love the people.
That’s how we do hard seasons.
One of my fissures became a gap after reading this post. Now, I can feel more clearly with the additional light. Thank you, Becky, Tom, Leonard and birds everywhere.
What a timely and encouraging message for today Becky! It reminded me of the power of the Japanese concept of “kintsugi”, which recognizes that breakage is not only a natural part of life it can also strengthen and beautify. Here’s a Wikipedia level discussion of this idea: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ . Well worth diving further into kintsugi in Makoto Fujimura’s great book “The Art of Making”.