|As I retire from volunteering for the TLA Network, I’m in awe of the work we do make brave spaces for individuals and communities to break silences, build connections, and envision and embody greater justice, peace, and meaning in our lives.|
One of the miracles of TLA is how it helps us grow our sense of belonging. Just by coming together in classes, conferences, trainings, and other projects, we can often find the people who really “get us” and resonate with the song our heart is singing and the work of our callings. Like many of you, I’ve drawn great strength, inspiration, and courage from being with other transformative language artists, which I try to pay forward in my writing, workshops, classes, coaching, and consulting.
I have great trust in the generous leadership of the TLA Network, and I want to give a shout-out in particular to Wendy Thompson, who is bringing her considerable vision to chair the classes committee, something I’ve done for so many years I can’t remember when I started. I have great faith in TLAN’s council, our leadership body, chaired by Liz Burke-Cravens, as they look at TLA and TLAN with new eyes in this time of fast-moving change and challenge.
My work encompasses online classes, Zoom workshops (particularly with people living with serious illness, a group I’ve worked with for 17 years), and coaching people on writing, facilitation, and right livelihood.
I’m grateful to TLAN for helping Laura Packer and me launch Your Right Livelihood, now an independent project in the process of developing a partnership with TLAN.
I spend my days, even when it gets crazy-hot (as it does in Kansas) on the porch, writing blog posts and poetry about the pandemic and a memoir about healing, cancer, and climate.
Being outside to witness the undaunted beauty and grace of the living earth led me to writing (and consequently, TLAN) in the first place, and continues to feeds my soul.
About a week after “safe-at-home” became the way we play the game of life, we were visited by a storm. This shushing, persistent deluge of white noise lasted through the night and late into the next morning.
I awakened to an unexpected, uninvited guest. Something told me to inspect the basement, where I was greeted by at least ten inches of sewer water. This guest had entered through the drain in the cellar floor, and vandalized the place.
Floating in that nastiness were craft and workshop supplies. Soaked handouts drifted from cardboard boxes, along with twenty years of preschool items, some of my husband’s old tools, things our grown children had left behind, and sundry other items, including the laundry I’d sorted into three baskets—mostly my clothes and all my white underwear.
I numbly summoned my husband. What he said when he met our guest should not be repeated.
Then the furnace and water heater passed out. Fortunately, they didn’t die. An already exhausted heating and furnace repair person returned our call, suggesting we try letting the circuit breakers dry. It was almost midnight. The water had subsided. We prepared to pay for more visitors: appraisers, hauling crews, plumbing aficionados, and the microbial cleaning squad.
Please note: I didn’t say anything about insurance people. “Backup” insurance is a separate entity from “flood” insurance. We had no backup insurance. We do now.
We also lost all the paper items we stored in what we call the “paper closet” under the basement stairs. We’d purchased our usual bulk supplies long before the run on toilet paper. Now our stockpile was gone.
That was a good thing. One young man, dragging items from our basement and tossing them in his truck, said, “It’s a good thing you had all that paper. It absorbed the water and saved your bottom steps.”
Who knew that toilet paper could swell to the size of Miss Muffet’s tuffet? We were grateful for that.
We’re grateful for a lot of things. The basement is clean. It is also dry, dehumidified and sanitized. The water heater and furnace circuit breakers dried out on their own (free!). The house creaks a bit more, as does our budget. But we’re warm, safe and happy. And I have new underwear.
Our unexpected guest helped us realize and appreciate what is important. Life is good. And I hope this guest doesn’t invite himself to our home again.
The Guest House
by Rumi (as translated by Coleman Barks)
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.
Let’s begin with a story.
Once a man who could not see lost his walking stick and could not find his way to the home he shared with his mother. He called for help, but no one seemed to hear, and he stumbled along a rugged path.
Then he heard someone call out to him, “Hello, you, perhaps I can help you.” The man walked in the direction of that voice, and tripped over something, no, someone, another man, who dragged himself on the same rugged road, for he had no legs and sought a place of shelter.
The two of them rested a while, and talked. Now acquainted, they realized they both faced great difficulties. They also knew they could help one another.
The man who could not see carefully took upon his shoulders the man who could not walk. He became legs for his new friend and this new friend became his eyes. They soon found an easier trail. Both men made the journey safely to the mother’s home. She joyfully greeted them both as her sons.
And all their lives were easier for this. ———-
This is an incredibly old fable, sometimes attributed to Aesop the storyteller, but its motif is found in stories in Europe, Asia, and North America. Valuable old stories travel far.
Recently, I walked across an almost empty parking lot, and passed a few masked people. Being who I am, I tried, at a safe distance, to make eye contact. Behind my own mask, I smiled and said, “Hi.”
No one spoke or looked directly at me. Shoulders hunched, eyes to the ground, brows furrowed, strangers remained strangers. I thought, are masks distancing us even more than we already must be, or is it the fearful, lonely frustration behind them?
Masks can help us stay physically healthy in these pandemic times, but they can’t protect us against our fears. They may help preserve our physical wellbeing, but they won’t lift our spirits, or bring us joy.
We must communicate hope and empathy, and let our hearts shine. No matter how much masks obscure, they don’t hide our eyes, our body language, or our voices, tools that have always been important to sharing our stories. Now, they’re even more important to sharing our humanity, showing others that we’re safe havens for one another, even when we must remain separated.
To be whole, to make the journey easier, to find shelter, the two men in my folktale adaptation needed one another. Together, they found possibility and hope. One couldn’t see, but heard the voice of his new brother. One couldn’t walk, but recognized the strength of another. Both were willing to ask for and receive help. If either had ignored the other, where might each have ended his journey? And what might have happened to that mother, who was alone?
Our present situation may not be a “happily ever after” narrative. Real life isn’t. But we can live this story together, and communicate.
We can be there for one another, even behind the masks we wear.