It's been a weird day. How many times have we said that, recently? Today was weird because I began my day by following the micro-practice suggested by David Whyte at the poetry workshop last night. His theme was vulnerability, writing from a place of openness, of truly sharing the reality of yourself.
He suggested to begin by revisiting an old grief, a place of loss that has been processed and yet which may yet have a deeper depth into which we are invited to go. Or perhaps to fall.
Sure, I thought. How hard can it be? So I began my morning pages by writing about something that felt close to home but not too threatening. I wrote about my relationship with my body, how I feel about the prospect of getting older, and what that means in my closest relationships. Honestly, I should have known not to touch that with a barge pole. In just 3 pages, my own hand took me back to old griefs I had thought were dead and buried. And the disintegrating effect has had me tearing up all day.
You should know that I know it's okay. Okay? Let's just hope there's some half decent poetry buried under it all, somewhere. (Listen to me ... produce or die.)
So the tears flowed easily today. Which may have been the case with or without the nudgings of David Whyte, since I confess to finding this whole 'returning to normal' business quite unsettling.
As different groups process the ways in which they feel comfortable being together, it's so easy to see how misunderstandings could destabilise relationships. Some are happy to hang out in small groups in a more-or-less regular fashion, taking care to leave space for everyone's floating 'distancing bubbles.' Some have already had neighbour kids over for birthday celebrations, not particularly concerned about them keeping their distance. Others are more concerned about shared spaces, whether for their own health or the slowing of general contagion, I couldn't say.
As we transition through the stages of lockdown, there will be all kinds of people feeling all kinds of ways about rules, and how - or whether - to keep them. No matter what we personally think is 'right' the truth is that we are all friends with people at both ends of the compliance continuum. And this is going to create some discomfort.
How do we love one another well in this context? How do we bring our shared vulnerabilities to the table (or not quite to the table, since that might be a bit close) without judgement? To what extent is it possible to own our anxieties, not just about the virus but about our relationships in this new configuration of what is deemed safe?
Once again, I have to hang onto the deep truth that every uncomfortable feeling - in my body, my chest, my gut - is an invitation to attend to the ways God wants to be with me there. To be with us. How can I make space, in this unsettling figuring out of old griefs and present interactions, to open myself to his offering of peace, of stability, of secure holding?
There's only one way to find out.
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