It’s August, and it’s raining. Clouds this morning, an even slate grey, water-filled. The rain came down steadily while I lay in bed, the rich wet air breezing in around me. I love this, this unexpected, unusual August rain.
It rained last August, too. I wonder if climate change will make August rain in Missoula usual rather than not. It doesn’t seem as though it would be a bad thing . . . and yet what repercussions may it have?
Russia is in flames. Temps over 100, steadily, for the past several weeks. And flames, flames, flames, burning through small Russian towns, smoking out Moscow, killing people, destroying homes and crops and livestock. That’s climate change, too, and not such pleasant change as we’re experiencing in Missoula.
There’s a part of me, deep inside, that whispers, “At least it’s not like that here, this summer.” And another, larger (I hope) part feels guilty. Because we’re all in this together. Yes, it’s nice that our low-snow winter isn’t affecting us as negatively as we’d feared. Yes, it was pleasant to have three weeks of rain in June and verdant hills such as we rarely see around here. Yes, it’s nice to have this soaking rain today, in August. I am grateful. We are grateful. But what of the massive rains in Iowa? The storms in the south? The heat wave and flames spreading across Russia? The tornadoes in central and eastern Montana?
It is so easy to read the news, feel some shock or sadness, and then put it down and get on with my day. More deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq. Fires in Russia. Tensions in Palestine and Israel. Radical climate change in places other than my tiny little bubble of Missoula, western Montana. I read these things and feel an ache, deep down inside. It’s not a sharp ache. I’ve padded it with too many other things to feel the slicing sharpness—self-centeredness, numbness, busyness. And good things, too: friends, books, hikes, food. But what if I were to pull off these layers? What if I were to let that ache free to slice me raw?
Mother Teresa prayed, “Break my heart so wide open that the whole world falls in.”
I am afraid to do that. To let the ache be so sharp that it cuts a hole big enough for all the world—oh, it’s too much vulnerability. Too much openness, too much rawness. I am not strong enough to feel the pain of the Palestinians and the Afghanis and the Iraqis and the Russians . . . . I am not strong enough even to feel my own pain, sometimes. How then can I dare try to feel the pain of others?
The rain is still falling. I am sitting in our little upstairs, in the Hobbit Room, next to the window. My computer is on my lap and Nutmeg is curled up on my shins. Basil just leaped up the stairs and skidded into the bathroom, nosed around for a moment, and then flew back downstairs. I can see oak leaves out the bathroom window. Greg and I have been harvesting onions, garlic, kale, potatoes, carrots, beets, cucumbers, raspberries, and currants from our garden, and our tomatoes are just starting to blush red. Ears of corn are swelling on the stalks in the alley. We just bought a lovely wooden screen door for the back entrance, as well as an umbrella for our picnic table, and I kicked some ass by tearing apart and reconstructing a couple of screens to fit into our unscreened bedroom windows. On Sunday Greg made an amazing dinner—a frittata-like dish of layered potatoes, zucchini, onions, garlic and kale from our garden, along with mushrooms, peppers, eggs, and cheese. The ingredients melded together into an impossibly delicious symphony of flavors and textures.
These are small bits of goodness. Cuddly kitties. Food plucked fresh from our backyard. Spaces in our lovely little cottage to write and read, work and sleep. My wonderful husband, who is enthusiastic about cooking and gardening and home projects. Perhaps I simply need to begin by appreciating these small things. Perhaps these small goodnesses are where feeling starts.
Pain is not the only feeling, after all.
The ache that could slice me raw might let me feel joy as well as pain. To feel pain only—does anyone want that? But while one may be able to choose whether or not to feel, one does not have power over what one feels. Perhaps I do not have the right to proclaim that it’s worth the pain to feel the other the side, the joy, the delight, the goodness. After all, what do I, a woman with a home and a job and a simple but good life in Missoula, Montana, USA, know about pain?
I know enough to know that, somehow, my small pains have made my life richer. I know enough to know that even if I think I want to avoid its sharp rawness, it is better for me to feel it. Better to recognize that I’m bleeding so that I can do what I need to do to stanch the flow. And then, well, hey, I have a scar and a story and maybe a little more strength for the next time.
As I sit here writing this, I find myself trying to wrap it all up neatly. (You know, a nice little post with a bit of an arc of story and some nice wrapped package at the end.) But this stuff isn’t nice and neat, it isn’t black and white, and there are no easy answers, if there are answers at all. Perhaps I just need to be okay with that. I don’t know what to do about all the horror stories in the newspaper. I don’t know what to do about my instinctual emotional recoil when I read them. I don’t know what the right answer is. I know I don’t know much about other people’s pain. I want to be more aware, if I can. I want to be more open, and right now, I think the best way for me to do that is to be more open to the ups and downs of my own life. If I can re-learn how to feel my own experiences, perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll be able to understand more deeply the experiences of others.
So here I am. I am writing, and it feels good. I have a Nutmeg-kitty curled up on my legs, and that feels good, too. My Basil-dude is sitting on his favorite perch, looking out the window, and it feels good knowing that I am his favorite human being in the world. The love of animals is not a small thing. The air is cool and wet, and the grey sky subtly draws out the green richness of leaves and grass and garden. It is August 10, 2010, I am 30 years old (for another few weeks, at least), and I have the mysterious, exquisite gift of being able to start again. Right now.
It rained last August, too. I wonder if climate change will make August rain in Missoula usual rather than not. It doesn’t seem as though it would be a bad thing . . . and yet what repercussions may it have?
Russia is in flames. Temps over 100, steadily, for the past several weeks. And flames, flames, flames, burning through small Russian towns, smoking out Moscow, killing people, destroying homes and crops and livestock. That’s climate change, too, and not such pleasant change as we’re experiencing in Missoula.
There’s a part of me, deep inside, that whispers, “At least it’s not like that here, this summer.” And another, larger (I hope) part feels guilty. Because we’re all in this together. Yes, it’s nice that our low-snow winter isn’t affecting us as negatively as we’d feared. Yes, it was pleasant to have three weeks of rain in June and verdant hills such as we rarely see around here. Yes, it’s nice to have this soaking rain today, in August. I am grateful. We are grateful. But what of the massive rains in Iowa? The storms in the south? The heat wave and flames spreading across Russia? The tornadoes in central and eastern Montana?
It is so easy to read the news, feel some shock or sadness, and then put it down and get on with my day. More deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq. Fires in Russia. Tensions in Palestine and Israel. Radical climate change in places other than my tiny little bubble of Missoula, western Montana. I read these things and feel an ache, deep down inside. It’s not a sharp ache. I’ve padded it with too many other things to feel the slicing sharpness—self-centeredness, numbness, busyness. And good things, too: friends, books, hikes, food. But what if I were to pull off these layers? What if I were to let that ache free to slice me raw?
Mother Teresa prayed, “Break my heart so wide open that the whole world falls in.”
I am afraid to do that. To let the ache be so sharp that it cuts a hole big enough for all the world—oh, it’s too much vulnerability. Too much openness, too much rawness. I am not strong enough to feel the pain of the Palestinians and the Afghanis and the Iraqis and the Russians . . . . I am not strong enough even to feel my own pain, sometimes. How then can I dare try to feel the pain of others?
~~~
The rain is still falling. I am sitting in our little upstairs, in the Hobbit Room, next to the window. My computer is on my lap and Nutmeg is curled up on my shins. Basil just leaped up the stairs and skidded into the bathroom, nosed around for a moment, and then flew back downstairs. I can see oak leaves out the bathroom window. Greg and I have been harvesting onions, garlic, kale, potatoes, carrots, beets, cucumbers, raspberries, and currants from our garden, and our tomatoes are just starting to blush red. Ears of corn are swelling on the stalks in the alley. We just bought a lovely wooden screen door for the back entrance, as well as an umbrella for our picnic table, and I kicked some ass by tearing apart and reconstructing a couple of screens to fit into our unscreened bedroom windows. On Sunday Greg made an amazing dinner—a frittata-like dish of layered potatoes, zucchini, onions, garlic and kale from our garden, along with mushrooms, peppers, eggs, and cheese. The ingredients melded together into an impossibly delicious symphony of flavors and textures.
These are small bits of goodness. Cuddly kitties. Food plucked fresh from our backyard. Spaces in our lovely little cottage to write and read, work and sleep. My wonderful husband, who is enthusiastic about cooking and gardening and home projects. Perhaps I simply need to begin by appreciating these small things. Perhaps these small goodnesses are where feeling starts.
Pain is not the only feeling, after all.
The ache that could slice me raw might let me feel joy as well as pain. To feel pain only—does anyone want that? But while one may be able to choose whether or not to feel, one does not have power over what one feels. Perhaps I do not have the right to proclaim that it’s worth the pain to feel the other the side, the joy, the delight, the goodness. After all, what do I, a woman with a home and a job and a simple but good life in Missoula, Montana, USA, know about pain?
I know enough to know that, somehow, my small pains have made my life richer. I know enough to know that even if I think I want to avoid its sharp rawness, it is better for me to feel it. Better to recognize that I’m bleeding so that I can do what I need to do to stanch the flow. And then, well, hey, I have a scar and a story and maybe a little more strength for the next time.
As I sit here writing this, I find myself trying to wrap it all up neatly. (You know, a nice little post with a bit of an arc of story and some nice wrapped package at the end.) But this stuff isn’t nice and neat, it isn’t black and white, and there are no easy answers, if there are answers at all. Perhaps I just need to be okay with that. I don’t know what to do about all the horror stories in the newspaper. I don’t know what to do about my instinctual emotional recoil when I read them. I don’t know what the right answer is. I know I don’t know much about other people’s pain. I want to be more aware, if I can. I want to be more open, and right now, I think the best way for me to do that is to be more open to the ups and downs of my own life. If I can re-learn how to feel my own experiences, perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll be able to understand more deeply the experiences of others.
So here I am. I am writing, and it feels good. I have a Nutmeg-kitty curled up on my legs, and that feels good, too. My Basil-dude is sitting on his favorite perch, looking out the window, and it feels good knowing that I am his favorite human being in the world. The love of animals is not a small thing. The air is cool and wet, and the grey sky subtly draws out the green richness of leaves and grass and garden. It is August 10, 2010, I am 30 years old (for another few weeks, at least), and I have the mysterious, exquisite gift of being able to start again. Right now.
And you have great siblings, too. Another way to stanch the flow of blood with joy. :)
ReplyDeleteand extended family that loves you- I so enjoy your way with the pen...
ReplyDeleteAllison, thanks for sharing your thoughts -- you express so beautifully what many experience as we read or watch the news, we hear and see and feel puny and helpless, and it's all so much easier to tamp down the hurt, and busy ourselves with the stuff of our own lives, but the end result of doing so, as you said, is to stop feeling altogether, and in doing so, we lose some of our humanity, of God's image in us, and deny his call to be his hands and feet, to do our part, however small, in reclaiming this broken world. The task is overwhelming and hopeless -- just as the stormy waves were for Peter when Jesus called him to walk out to him on the water -- and just like Peter, we need to walk by faith, knowing that God never asks more of us than he equips us to do. Thanks again, dear, for the reminder. Your words help to wake in me feelings that I've pushed down myself for far too long.
ReplyDelete