You know the parable of the mustard seed in Buddhist teachings? A grief-stricken mother begged Buddha to resurrect her dead child. He told her, I’ll do it if you can bring me one mustard seed from anyone in your village untouched by death. She walked the village from end to end, knocking on every door, speaking with every neighbor, and returned empty handed. In the process, she learned – I’m not alone. The sharing of grief rooted her in community and gave her the strength she needed to bury her child. This is a kind of resurrection, accessible to us all – beyond mutual aid, this is mutual divinity.
What do I know of grief? Tears soak my face, throat clotted with a fist, gut howling, insomnia, toxic bones. I’ve lived in the bowels of it, alone. And grief’s medicine, what of that? For many of us, it’s always been connection, a reaching out when hands are burnt and every nerve screams hide. It’s meeting on the stoop, street or internet, to share, witness, be seen. Grief shatters armor and in that fragility, we’re vulnerable, receptive. Openly honoring our grief, naming our trauma, is a sacred act of catharsis that builds relationships – in this way, a broken heart gets bigger. The medicine for all that ails us is sourced in community; engaging with it, we create the tools we need to endure. No doubt, trauma is here – personal, collective, compounded in this time of relentless cultural and climate crisis. How do we shift from the paralysis and overwhelm of trauma into action? Listen to our community: the bridge is grief, the way through is together.
Today’s another day that’s bleeding from a night I couldn’t sleep, twisted in rage for 19 children murdered at school by another lone gunman. Except he wasn’t alone, an entire culture of white supremacy and patriarchal misogyny armed him. We’re not surprised the police were useless, that the system doesn’t protect us or our beloveds. This after the mass murder of Black elders in Buffalo and Taiwanese churchgoers in California by white supremacists, all while politicians launch ruthless attacks on reproductive freedom and trans people, during a devastating pandemic. It’s horrific, exhausting. I can go a long while without breaking down, but some days hit hard, and I can’t stop crying. Stress flares my disabilities, helpless snowballs into hopeless, and I yearn to disappear. But in these dark hours, I remember – my people have been surviving oppression and organizing against it forever; their example teaches me how to sustain: care for your body, honor your grief, be in community, listen, love, keep working, keep on.
So I carved out some time to rage, rest, process, and it gave me the energy to launch back into calling politicians, supporting fundraising and outreach efforts, and campaigning for grassroots leaders. The work can feel small, but I know it’s big, because I was able to pull out the mower and cut my neighbor’s grass. It was knee-high and her grandson couldn’t play in it, their mower’s broken. I plowed through, leaving a cloud of dandelion fluff in my wake. I took a break and we spoke of the shootings, shook our heads in misery. Pam wanted to pay me for my labor, but I couldn’t accept. When another neighbor, Jimmy, helped me a few weeks back and I offered to pay him, he said, “This is what we do, we’re family.” He came by Pam’s when I cut the mower off, and we all carried the trampoline back to the center. Her grandson’s out there now, making joy.
(previously published in Geez Magazine, Fall 2022)
Comments