~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Haha! Just look at you, there,
opening your arms to the light.
I’ve been longing to see you,
you, brave rising green thing of springtime.
so suddenly tall, breathing the sun,
Just look at your joy, look at you
singing triumph over winter’s long sleep,
over the desolation of brown and gray.
Oh wee one, who will burst into yellow
summer flowers, welcome! Welcome!
Just look at you there!
Even in the morning’s cold you come
and we trade chirps and songs,
forgetting everything else except
the way the clear air shivers
with the happiness of our greeting.
The light from the rising sun hits the maples
atop the western hill, and all of a sudden
the world is awake and eager. Even
the trees still in shadow dance,
the gladness of morning spilling
brand new chances everywhere.
Birds chirp; dew glistens.
I pour fresh coffee and nod my head
at the scene, my eyes smiling my yes.
Bring it on, wondrous world. Bring it on.
Some time back I read where this scientist
discovered that different emotions produced
different lines on paper using a machine hooked
on one end to a human, on the other to a pen.
Everybody’s sadness made the same shape.
So did their mad and their joy. I remembered
that as I gazed at the budding maple, its limbs
writing joy across the nearly spring sky.
I walk into the woods in search of signs
of spring’s emergence. Here and there,
blades of grass poke through the layers
of last year’s fallen leaves. But mostly
the browns eclipse the bits of green.
I am weary of the hue and eager
for curled ferns and wee flowers.
Then a whisper floats into my awareness:
Remember winter’s gift to you. Oh, yes!
Lessons in color and form. And there
at my feet, I see the day’s offering,
a lacy filigree of white atop a curled wave
of sugared brown, a treasure, to be sure.
Remember, comes the whisper.
And I nod, and gently smile.
As I told you last week, I decided it would be worthwhile for me to put some of my personal experiences and observations into words as I travel through the aftermath of the East Palestine, Ohio train derailment. I was, and am, curious what I’ll learn about what it’s like to experience a disaster up close. I’ve been keeping track in my journal.
I’ll share an excerpt from it in a minute, but first I want to say thank you to those of you who sent your wishes for my well-being and your encouragement. Your kindness truly touched my heart.
Now for what I wrote yesterday in my journal . . .
“I’m beginning to work through the part of my situation where the chemical bomb that exploded a month ago took nature away from me. Nature—which, since my childhood, has been my enduring teacher, comforter, source of wonder, place of worship, and friend—now wears an invisible overlay of poison.
“And I am outraged that this has been taken from me, that nature has been transformed into a place of potential treachery, a tool of evil. It may be months before I know whether it is suicidal to walk these fields, to wander by the creeks and streams, to kneel in the soil to photograph the precious flowers. It may be that I’ll never find out. But the curse of it is that the likelihood of nature’s toxicity is high now, and always present in my awareness. That’s the personal tragedy I carry as a result of this event.
“Everyone has been touched by it, for miles and miles around. Hundreds. Maybe many hundreds. Its range is one of those innumerable things that we will not know for a while, perhaps decades.
“The normalcy bias, the cognitive dissonance and confusion are strong. It’s hard to ferret out and process the data, which becomes more and more difficult to find and is contradicted at every point. We don’t even know the extent of the danger we’re in, whether the investigators are testing for the right stuff, looking in the right places for their samples, running the right tests. Information is twisted and fragmentary as it filters through the networks of shareholders and politics. Meanwhile, mothers secretly wonder if they’re killing their children by bathing them. And everyone tries to pretend that it’s all okay now because they have nowhere else to go and no way to get there if they did.”
A few hours after I wrote that, I learned that due to yesterday’s heavy rains, a dam that had been built to contain some of East Palestine’s contaminated soil had washed away. Water and sludge were pouring down the major creeks, bound for the Ohio River, and then the Mississippi.
As if that weren’t enough, a second major train derailment had just happened in central Ohio. No fire or leaks were apparent in the drone photos, but hazmat crews were on the way and local residents were advised to shelter-in-place “in an abundance of caution.”
(By the way, if you ever find yourself being so advised, “shelter-in-place” doesn’t just mean to stay indoors. It means to tape off your windows and doors and turn off any heating or cooling that circulates air in the house until you get the “all clear.”)
Nevertheless, I’ve noticed that springtime is signaling its approach. Green sprouts poke up through the ground. The morning holds a growing chorus of birdsong, and the birds are mating. Life reawakens. It’s song goes on.
Little by little, we adjust. We begin to learn how to find balance in the midst of uncertainty. We feel more connected to each other, sharing as we do this all-eclipsing event that’s touched all of our lives in such fundamental ways. And each of us is finding out how much kindness counts.
Smile at somebody today. Look them right in the eyes and smile. It’s the best medicine out there, no matter what.
Warmly,
Susan
We’re here, world. Do what you will.
We come with green sprouts tinged with hints
of blue sky, and fat buds destined to spread
ruffled petals as yellow as lemon, painting
your hillsides with joy. Just because.
The rain continues; the trees dance.
The wind is getting wild. Enough light remains
for me to see the drama. It’s like watching
white caps on Saginaw Bay when a storm
whips the gray waters. The trees,
I think, may like to flex now and then,
to feel their own strength and resilience.
Us, too, I tell them. It’s good to see
sometimes, how far we all can bend.
Don’t try to make sense of it.
Yes, it’s intense from time to time
and we are but a fleshy dance
of molecules and fire, easily
thrown by unexpected rhythms
and long, twisted rhymes. It’s okay.
Sooner or later a moment
will come along to stop you
in your tracks, snatch your breath.
jolt you awake, astonished.
And you will remember, and go on,
grateful, regardless.
Some days are bleak and gray.
This one falls on the month’s last day,
as if it is holding a funeral for the weeks
it held, when invisible poisons settled
on the towns and rivers, the creeks and fields.
I gaze at the trees atop the south hill
and with them I mourn all that was lost.
Tomorrow the sun will rise, and our spirits
with it. And we will go on, because
that’s what we do. And spring will come,
as if nothing had happened at all.