Being with the rich, weighty dark
If we were gathered together - in the forest, or inside - I’d invite us to take a few moments to slow everything down, and ease our way into our bodies and senses.
That might look like paying attention to the breath - listening as it moves in and out. We might notice the expansion and slight rise of the body as we breathe in, and the settling back and down on the out-breath.
Together, we could take a moment to notice the air moving around us, and the scents carried on the breeze. We’d notice the ground (or the chair, log, stone, or floor) supporting us, holding us. We’d feel the earth beneath our feet, maybe under our hands, and together - we’d send our roots down, down below. Our roots would grow deep into the earth, or spread out right under the surface. Our roots might encounter each other, and share nutrients, information, and care.
The world is hurting and scared. In this moment, darkness looms - and so many of us want to turn and flee, to run back to the light. But what if, what if in this moment we could turn toward the darkness, and move right into it? What would it be to feel ourselves embraced and engulfed?
So many things are possible in the rich, weighty dark.
And yet so many of us are deeply (if not always consciously) afraid of the dark. We’re afraid of the dark that comes at the end of the day. We’re afraid, too, of our very own shadows: the individual shadows that walk with each of us, and the shadows of our people, our nations, and our ancestors. We’re afraid of our dim pasts, blurred present, and the fogginess of what’s to come.
When we turn from this darkness, these shadows, the night becomes only ever more dangerous. In these dark and shadowed places, our siblings and kin become monstrous, less than human, and thus, must be destroyed. As we flee our shared darkness, retribution and vengeance grow there.
I ask us all to stop for a moment, to stop running, to stop asking for the false security of weapons and the death of others. Instead can we sit together on the forest floor (or in the streets, or our congressperson’s office, or in each other’s kitchens). Instead can we breathe, sharing with each other, and with the trees. Instead can we imagine our roots growing deep underground, twining together. Our roots, our lives, our destinies, our liberation is bound up together.
None of us are free until we are all free.
Perhaps, instead of the brightness wrought by guns and bombs, can we sit here as the sun sets, and the dark rises. Can we sit, let the shadows overtake us, and let our breathing become a hum, become a chant, become a song. Can we let ourselves breathe in the dark, breathe in the grief, breathe in the pain.
As we breathe it in, we can transform it - let it rot into new life. May we and this whole world be transformed into a new shape - one we can’t see clearly yet but we know is waiting for us. May we hold our children (and every single child is our child), may we bring them in close, tend to them, sing them a sweet lullaby as they sleep deeply, held so close, so firmly, in all of our arms.
Let us step into that dark, let us be afraid together, and let us hold each other through it. The earth will hold us too - they are always holding us, always singing to us. Let us listen - please, let us listen.
A reminder about places you can learn more, and ways to offer care and solidarity:
Al Jazeera’s explainer “What’s the Israel-Palestine conflict about? A simple guide” (note that, sadly, the death tolls mentioned are very out of date)
Amnesty International (top section is current and action oriented; for context and history, scroll down)
Jewish Voice for Peace - National and Portland Local
… no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.
Rainer Marie Rilke
