In the Face of Seeing

We are witnesses.

And at the same time we understand, in the right now, the unbearable weight of seeing.

We taste the bitter tang of loss.

Within the shape of ourselves and collectively.

Our toes touch the line between us and the world.

The line between us and devastation.

Between us and the suffering that’s just over the other side and all we can do is see.

See.

Lets talk about the discomfort of remaining unchanged. Of having a home around us, food in the refrigerator, the ordinary continuation of our own lives while…

… mountains break.

Floods ravage. And people were there, right there.

And now they are not.

And here we are standing at the line. In one hand we’re cradling our own wellness and in the other a screen reflecting the state of things.

How is it that a body can hold both?

Both light and dark.

Both the ordinary and the unimaginable.

Both the safety of our own four walls and the knowledge that someone else’s four walls are gone.

Both gratitude for what we have and grief for what has been lost.

How do we allow ourselves to continue making dinner, laughing with loved ones, sleeping in our own beds, waking up to another ordinary morning…

… when we know that somewhere else, someone else’s ordinary morning will never come?

This is the duality of being a human at this time. And within that, the herculean ask of understanding: Witnessing does not mean we have to suffer equally.

It does not mean that being okay is a betrayal of someone who isn’t.

It does not mean we have to turn away from our own light in order to honor someone else’s darkness.

Maybe the invitation is to put our toes to the line and discover: What can we offer from where we stand?

Not everything.

Certainly no fix.

Just something.

Something.

Attention.

Compassion.

A quiet honoring of solidarity.

Sometimes that’s what we have.
Sometimes that is enough.

Just a pause. An acknowledgement.

Yes. We see you.

I offer a little ritual.

An honoring. A remembering to remember that we remember.

It’s not just us.

If you’d like to join me: Find a candle.

It doesn’t need to be special.

Any candle will do.

Light it.

And sit with the flame.

Notice it.

The movement.

The warmth.

The light.

Give yourself permission to breathe with it.

Take a slow breath.

Then another.

There is no special feeling to create here.

Just notice what is.

And as you breathe, consider all the things you might encounter in the coming days that could remind you of this flame.

Perhaps the sun.

Maybe a star.

The reflection of light on the windshield.

The burner as you make dinner.

Maybe something else entirely.

You don’t have to decide.

Just notice what comes up.

And when you’re ready: Choose one thing you’d like to offer.

Maybe it’s compassion.

Maybe courage.

Maybe peace.

Or love.

Or hope.

Maybe there’s another word that resonates with you.

Choose it.

Feel it.

Notice where it might sit in the body.

Notice your breath.

And then, if it feels right, offer these words:

May those who are suffering receive what they need.

May those who are grieving be held.

May those who can help, help.

And may I remember that my presence in this world matters.

Stay with the flame for another breath or two.

And when you’re ready:

Blow out the candle.

But perhaps…don’t let the feeling go with it.

We cannot change what we witness. We can only choose how we meet it.

We can remain human in the face of it.

We can allow ourselves to be grateful for the life that is ours without apologizing for having it.

We can honor our own light without pretending the darkness isn’t there.

And wherever we may be, know that somewhere else, someone may be doing the same.

We won’t be together.

No.

But, for a few moments, in collective honoring–

We will be together.