There is nothing wise to be said

on all that's here

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A song I’m loving:

out beyond, 35mm film

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just reminiscing on last week’s family trip to Seattle, where I got to watch my daughter play for days with my best friend’s son, them sinking up in some sort of otherworldly realm I don’t always know how to access, them “trick or treating” over and over on a warm June evening, them giggling and meowing and building and jumping and embodying a freedom I forget all of us once had.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the quiet magic of strawberry season, their bright red sweetness bringing me into presence quicker than most things can these days, them seeming like absolutely nothing and like a significant source of joy at the very same time.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the swirl of rage that seems to be widening in my ribcage, the one I have to remember to breathe into before it sneaks up and out my throat. Rage when I witness people being snatched from the streets, rage when I witness more bombs, rage when I witness children being harmed, rage when I witness dehumanization in every form, rage when I witness greed, rage when I witness humanity being attacked, rage when I witness what my ego perceives to be indifference to it all.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the simultaneous flow of hope I feel when I see folks dancing in the streets of Los Angeles amid armed forces, when I see generosity in the form of mutual aid and real care, when I see everyday humans put their bodies in front of ICE vehicles, when I see love in what others view as destruction, when I connect with my group of other moms in my town who are politically engaged, when I tune into my heart and feel my own care widening, when I remember the rage might be a sign there is love, and there is grief to tend to, a quiet river underneath all that is ready to erupt.

spacious quiet, 35mm film

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the remembrance of not needing to be a savior or hero but instead getting to weave a better world alongside everyone else who somehow still sees its possibility through the dark — the relief of this, the humbling of this.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the grace I can give my own mistakes and ignorance, the grace I can give others who still have so much to learn just like I do, the grace I can give my tendencies to want to be good, the grace I can practice giving people in my own immediate family who vote and believe and think differently than I do, the grace I can give myself when some part of me feels like hating and disrespecting and rejecting and banishing are wiser than trying to relate, than trying to love through the fault line.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just this reminder from Francis Weller on the ways our grief is actually a symbol of our coming more alive, more here: “Grief is subversive, undermining the quiet agreement to behave and be in control of our emotions. It is an act of protest that declares our refusal to live numb and small. There is something feral about grief, something essentially outside the ordained and sanctioned behaviors of our culture. Because of that, grief is necessary to the vitality of the soul. Contrary to our fears, grief is suffused with life-force.... It is not a state of deadness or emotional flatness. Grief is alive, wild, untamed and cannot be domesticated. It resists the demands to remain passive and still. We move in jangled, unsettled, and riotous ways when grief takes hold of us. It is truly an emotion that rises from the soul.”

beyond the barrier, 35mm film

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just a stilling amid the noise — a returning to what truly matters in ways that are invisible to most, beyond who I’ve thought I needed to or should be — a willingness to let go and shed and release in order to come closer to the truth, even when the truth requires an undoing I don’t always feel ready for.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just turning toward the wise ones all around instead of assuming I need to be the wise one. And the relief of looking to the trees and yarrow, the elders and children, the activists and poets, the artists and physicians, the baristas and cashiers, the farmers and waters, the soft patches of grass and roughness of gravel, the teachers and helpers, and asking myself what I have to learn from them, what they can show me here and now, how I might translate their wisdom into my own small life.

into the blue, 35mm film

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the wisdom of having more questions than answers, and the willingness to linger in them longer than the over-culture tends to encourage, even in moments of crisis.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just making a meal, and sending a donation, and scheduling a dentist appointment, and finally filling out forms I’ve been putting off for a year, and reinstating my insurance in preparation for reopening my private practice, and turning in edits of my manuscript in all their imperfections, and letting the tears come, and showing up at the No Kings protest in my little town tomorrow, and watching my daughter sing Skidamarink at her preschool celebration, and trying not to check the news right before I go to bed, and putting flowers from the yard in a vase on the table, and my cat eating said flowers, and missing people, and loving people, and carving out space to stay open to things going better than it sometimes feels safe to believe in.

There is nothing wise to be said.

There is just the coastal fog that blankets my neighborhood burning off by 10am, revealing an open sky and another opportunity to keep going, keep trying, keep loving.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ No Kings, on Saturday 6/14

△ “All that activity comes from love” — Rebecca Solnit’s latest

△ Infinite hope, finite disappointment

△ These Dis-United States (& especially Kaveh Akbar’s piece from Iowa)

△ I love your mediocrity

△ Street somatics from Prentis Hemphill

△ My Brother’s Keeper made me weep

△ Letting your guard down

△ Reading an early copy of Francis Weller’s necessary new book

△ Beauty on Bainbridge Island last week —

the magic of a ferry.

With care,
Lisa