On grief, exposure, and the layered meanings of silence
everything that's happening is touching us
I’ve spent a week away, split between the home of two of my closest friends and my sister. It’s been a time walking in the woods. Sharing old stories. Being the most current versions of ourselves. Witnessing the evolution of stewardship to land. It was also being present to new chapters: retirement after decades of work. Birthday. Cancer diagnosis. A call with the oncologist. Questions. More walks. Planting food. Cooking food. Making cake. Grieving. Rolling dice (literally).
It was a time where I happily sensed and breathed in places that were once and remain familiar. I’ve become entirely acclimated to the sand and sky and pulse of New Mexico but immediately resonate with the beat of Oregon and Northern California. They are all homes in my body and heart.
The journey reminded me of the ever-critical importance of shared satisfaction. Those rituals of gathering together, eating together, dancing together, grieving together, laughing together, listening together. I felt the aliveness. At moments rocked, yet very much alive.
There is nothing quite like these liminal moments. Why we tend to consider our lives too busy or saturated with obligation to make space for them, I do not know. Francis Weller gives it a name. Grief. And I quote, what I love about grief is it recognizes that everything that's happening is touching us, and if we don't register that, if we don't honor that, then I have to live separate and segregated from the tissue of the world. When we invite sorrow in, the ease of joy is trotting hot on its heels.
I am processing this. Paying attention. Digesting it slowly, like a hearty meal. Allowing myself to feel it like the sun’s warmth on my skin after a long chilling winter. I leave you with this one poem that swirls and swirls. Oh, and the next chance you get, hug the heck out of someone you love.
Yours, Erin
The layered meanings of silence….
I have so many questions:
What do our brains look like,
when they are formed in relation to bird song?
What happens to our brains
when they are not trained by bird song?
What will our brains look like,
our trees look like,
our cities...
look like?
in the
absence
of birds?
In the
absence
of song?
How can we hear
the voices of birds
that are no longer singing?
What does it mean to d/evolve?
How will this affect our psyches?
How will this affect our ears?
What will our
ears
look like?
When we no longer hear?
—poem by Lisa Maria Madera
MORE ON. . .
The restorative practice of deep listening
It’s nice to be back. It was also fabulous to take a break, at least from the weekly editorial. I’ve been planting out the garden, hunkering down amidst the winds which howl through the desert every …