Seeking stillness amid the noise of summer. A rare moment on the coast where the crowds parted. Neskowin, Oregon, July 2021, photo by anne richardson
The Wisdom of Trauma
“Stop the conversation you are having,” says poet David Whyte. This was the starting point for his July three-week Sunday series called, A Timeless Way, Seven Steps for Deepening Any Conversation. Sometimes you have to stop the blog post you are working on. Allow it to brew for another week. Maybe two. Maybe discard it all together. Let go. Shift gears because I feel this first paragraph is important to get out, though later than intended. If you read this post before August 2nd, please click on the link for free access to the movie, The Wisdom of Trauma. (After that the movie won’t be available…at least for now.) Even if you read this later still go to the website for access to other resources. I recommend the “all-access pass,” if you can afford that.
How to Listen Amid the Noise?
In letting go, something else arose…so now a few words about summer. A season I don’t recall ever embracing, though I was born in late summer. Perhaps my memory is faulty. But in recent years where I live, days are hot. Rain is scant. Thirsty trees, their brittle leaves stiff as towels dried on the line, mirror our stress…or is it the other way around.
I am touched by my Sister Trees, who offer hope in sprouting new, green growth while older leaves look like sandy beaches on their frayed edges and moss on their trunks looks like burlap bags. When I stop the conversation I am having and listen to them, the well of knowing is deep. They tell me about past dry spells. About being fiery stars once. About tap roots. But to have the stillness to listen? That is both an internal and external challenge. We live in a noisy world. And summer is a noisy season.
Longing a Form of Subtle Grief
I spoke with my spiritual director about my longing for this season to pass. And what is longing but subtle Grief for what isn’t? I realized how I missed the symphony of birdsong on spring mornings. When I wake now there is no music in the air. More of a dry cough of leaves and dust scampering in the breeze. In the autumn and winter, rain is the music that wakes me or taps on the hood of my jacket as I walk.
I often feel like the petals of this sunflower in summer—faded and ragged. Mountainside Lavender Farm. photo by anne richardson
Music of the Seasons
The music of these other seasons does not enter me as noise. It is lullaby. It is a conversation with the world seen and unseen. Why am I resistant to that in summer? Further exploration: that desire for stillness comes with a realization that my “go to” places for stillness and refreshment are crowded this time of year and are not an option. I miss them.
Finding the Gift Even Amid the Noise
So where to find the gift in summer? Where is the music? And am I willing to journey with the subtle Grief of my longing to find Joy. Because as I have shared, I believe Joy and Grief are partners. Lovers. It turns out, as I pondered and my director listened, I discovered that place is on my own deck. Nuthatches gathering at my birdbaths and herb pots. I find Joy watching bird parties. I sit and watch…for a long time. Occasionally a Stellar’s jay stops by. Once, two crows. Black-cap chickadees and juncos are regulars. And the squirrel who had been absent for several weeks is back, looking thin, and mirrors my summer mood of yearning for autumn. It is dry as a desert, so they all need to sip sip sip and splash to refresh. To survive this summer. This, I can witness even as cars and utility vans trundle on the road below and folks go about weed-whacking and rebuilding decks. The noise hasn’t abated but my Joy has expanded.
Deserving Nourishment
After all these months of Grief, don’t we all deserve to find what refreshes us? To sip at something nourishing? To find the music in the everyday? To follow our longing down the path knowing Grief expands our capacity for Joy?
I won’t say I’m suddenly in love with summer. My body doesn’t respond well to heat. Or my skin to sun. And I realize that climate change is altering the music of each season. (For more on this, I recommend Kathleen Dean Moore’s book, Earth’s Wild Music.) AND I can still seek small gifts to appreciate and share as part of a new conversation with this dynamic season.
May you find what nourishes you this summer season (or winter season to my friends in the Southern Hemisphere.)
in gratitude,
anne
Matilija poppy. photo by anne richardson
My Gift to You…A Summer Poem
Summer #2
flouncing/in my lightest/garb/twirling/to the music/of robins
i flirt/with your/rising
& imagine/i am/the sun/heating up/the day
anne richardson, June 2021
For Your Reflection
What is nourishing you this summer season (or winter for those in the Southern Hemisphere?) Does receiving nourishment comes easily? Is it difficult to ask for it? Do you recognize what that looks like for you?
What are you longing for? What is your “subtle” Grief? What would it look like to journey with your longing?
Do you have a “favorite” season? What memories arrive with that season?
Where do you notice nature’s music in your day?
If you watched The Wisdom of Trauma of movie, did it offer new insights about yourself? Others you know? How are you taking care and being gentle with yourself about any insights?
How are you taking care of yourself in general through the waves of the pandemic? Being kind and gentle? Compassionate?
Upcoming IN-PERSON Workshop
Listening to Loss: A Labyrinth & Writing Workshop
Saturday, Oct 23rd, 1-5pm
Register Today. Space Limited.
Have you allowed yourself to exhale yet? Taken time out to grieve your losses since the beginning of the pandemic? Do those losses need space to speak? What would they say?
The world urges us to move forward. To move past without deep reflection. Rarely are we encouraged to take time to stop. Breathe. Rest. To listen to what might be stirring. Told instead to “shush” that quite voice…until our bodies physically tell us otherwise.
Tell the world to shush. Gift yourself space to listen to your losses. To grieve.
In this experiential workshop, participants will be given opportunities to give voice to losses in their life through walking a labyrinth, use of poetry and open writing reflections. Though the focus is on the pandemic, all losses are welcome. Don’t worry if you are unfamiliar with the labyrinth. You’ll be introduced to the archetype of the labyrinth as a tool to reflect on your life path. This workshop is in partnership with Portland Women Writers (http://pdxwomenwriters.com/) and is for women and those who identify female. No writing experience is necessary to participate! Workshop is limited to 12 participants.
I am excited to introduce you to my co-facilitator for this workshop, Anne Buck. Anne and I met two decades ago in seminary. We have taught classes, co-facilitated workshops in the past, laughed, cried, journeyed, dug into the muck together. She is one of my soul sisters. It was Anne that introduced me to the labyrinth. I am so honored that we can offer this workshop together. Here is a wee bit of information about Anne:
Anne Buck, MA - Oma, Artist, Truth-teller. Anne is trained as a Licensed Massage Therapist. She is a retired Board Certified Chaplain, Certified Veriditas Labyrinth Facilitator and Certified Spiritual Director. She has walked with others through pain, grief and loss, in body and spirit, and life and death events. She volunteers at the Dougy Center for Grieving children.
Recently, she has been caregiving for her mother and her husband, both living with dementia following strokes. Anne adores her grands, looks for beauty and meaning every day and loves her dog, Cooper. She collects feathers and rocks, random hearts and images in her phone and enjoys the beach more than anyone can understand.
Please click on the link for more details.
What’s floating my boat.
My niece sent me the book, Child of the Steens Moutain by Eileen O’Keefe McVicker. In this narrative account Eileen shares her life growing up on a homestead in Southeastern Oregon from the early 1930s-mid 1940s. It offers an interesting lens and one viewpoint of that corner of Oregon. Still a sparsely populated part of the state and after Eileen’s telling, I can see why. It is rugged. And she mentions droughts even in the early 1940s. One perspective on that region that I was not familiar with.
I love nature writing that immerses me in place. Kathleen Dean Moore’s book (mentioned above,) Earth’s Wild Music, a series of essays, is one of those books. One of her previous books, Riverwalking, Reflections on Moving Water, is also stellar.
I am enjoying a Corporeal Writing workshop, The Dandelions are Prophesizing, led by Janice Lee, that is about shifting perspectives related to nature (plus writing, of course.) Yup, nature again. All sorts of rich readings are offered to prime the pump and send me down the rabbit hole. Its my jam, as the wonderful Natalie Serber would say. Yes, expect one of the books suggested to show up here in another blog.
