“… All that is eternal in me
Welcomes the wonder of this day,
The field of brightness it creates
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate.I place on the altar of dawn:
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter
And all beauty drawn to the eye.May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed …”—John O’Donohue, “A Morning Offering” in To Bless the Space Between Us
To live in 2020 is to struggle. Everyone says so.
Since the August 10 derecho here in Linn County, I admit to my own 2020 struggles: much of the time, finding focus and motivation feels beyond me, as does the will to connect with others, with Earth, with Spirit. In some ways, it feels like the storm was that proverbial last straw—and it broke me. Whatever 2020 hadn’t already defeated in me was destroyed with the majority of our tree canopy.
Except that, like the natural world in which lilacs have bloomed again and incipient trees are lifting their first leaves to the sun, I find that tendrils of life are present within me, despite the devastation.
One of those tendrils is gratitude. For over a week after the storm in August, I stayed with a friend in Dubuque in order to have electricity for a medical device. She took care of me, letting me come home each evening—after a day spent in the destruction and sorrow here—and fall into silent exhaustion while she cooked and cared for me. At Prairiewoods, volunteers arrived almost immediately, transforming the alien landscape back to a recognizable place of peace and beauty in mere days. In spite of shared pain, neighbors came together and friends reached out and strangers were kind. Gratitude is a powerful life-force in these times.
Another tendril of life within me has been the whispered call of the natural world to bask in “the field of brightness,” to feel the sun nourishing both of us. Heeding this call, my lungs, finally, operate as intended. I breathe deeply and they expand to fullness, stretching my chest and opening my capacity.
A final tendril of life is simply listening to something other than my own inner tale of woe. Music and poetry and other people’s stories remind me that my own lamentations are boring. And so I attend Go Deeper Thursdays* and pick up John O’Donohue’s books, and find favorite artists on Spotify.
These signs of life are tender, maybe a bit fragile, but also tenacious. I find that, slowly yet surely, they are binding what is broken within me. They are part of what O’Donohue refers to as “all that is eternal in me” and they are inviting me to new frontiers in spite of all that 2020 has thrown my way.
What tendrils of life are weaving through you?
What new frontiers might you be invited to explore to “… break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed?”
*To learn more about Go Deeper Thursdays and/or other Prairiewoods offerings, please go to our Calendar & Registration page on our website.
—Jenifer Hanson, Prairiewoods director