By Gillian Kessler:
These little poems/notes/spirit signals have been moving through me this past month, chronicling shifts as we’ve moved into the Coronavirus pandemic. As our world continues to altar into anxiety producing unknowns, I’ve been shifting into a new phase of grief. My mom died in late November. One Saturday I was celebrating her 85th birthday with her, the following Saturday I was lying next to her in the hospital following a series of powerful and unrelenting strokes. The following Saturday, she died. These little poems chronicle the grief process as it moves from something singular to something universal; the reweaving of emotions as they surge and swell, the attempt to live in beauty and gratitude, even in the face of a dead mama, even in the face of the world as we know it shutting down as we hunker down and hold on.
Decided to embrace the unknown—
what else is there to do?
To settle into compassion
what else is there to do?
Lay with a hand on my heart
a hand on my belly
breathed in the room
where my children and husband sleep,
breathed in the desert air
where I've seen more jackrabbits
I had to take a 36 hour media break,
but woke in the night
my privilege and the open road
making me feel
this shame of luxury
but then gasping
as all of the colors of earth shift and settle,
the way the clouds move,
the way Solomon exclaimed
when the sun hit his face
truly and deeply and joyfully
for the first time in days
because we are all vibrating in fear,
in the unknown,
and that's where we should be, this
blessed, collective connection.
Is it still okay, though,
To scramble up a mesa
breathless, to hold the way sage
leaves an oily juice on your senses,
or the way this red earth is so soft beneath your feet,
stains your very clean hands in a
declaration of yes and yes and yes
that reminds you
we are all so deeply rooted,
What happens to our grief when it is held in the collective confines of a pandemic? Where does the prior sadness go? I see a tumbleweed trapped in barbed wire. I can't shake it loose.
I also see: a family in sun, red earth and rich mesas, the way we can remove ourselves from fear even if just for a few hours, until the service returns, mounting numbers, anxiety, contagion, unleashed.
When my mom was in the hospital dying,
I wrote this in my journal:
I am not a mother. I am not a wife
I am a daughter. I am a sister.
It took me some time to step out of that space.
My life continued to unfold and I
did all of the things that I was
supposed to do: care, cook, tidy, teach.
There was something new happening, though,
like I was hovering over my body and
watching this busy woman tend to
endless details without really
settling back into her skin.
Now, almost four months later,
I walk behind my children and my husband on a
muddy red trail
cliffs and sagebrush hold us.
I am one hundred percent in my body, in my home.
I know this is where she wants me to be,
breathing in desert rain,
wondering the name of the tiny daisies that bud from yucca,
watching as the children talk on and on,
imagine outfits for all of the dogs in the neighborhood,
matching fashion with breed and personality,
lost and safe on this Wednesday afternoon
somewhere in Utah.
Beyond these red walls, our collective
understood is shifting.
Tomorrow we will drive all day,
re-enter our community and jobs in a
whole new way. But I’ll remember first:
I am a mother.
She would say, "Listen to their dreams."
She would say, "They are all you need."
I passed a man on the trail early this morning -
he was an older fellow, a "chap" my mama might say, a chap we might assume is currently at high risk. He was walking briskly—red puffy coat, beanie and sporty shades, strong and vibrant like so many of the older folks in my community.
He beamed at my pup and then exclaimed,
"It's a gorgeous morning isn't it?"
And thrilled, surprised, and with equal exuberance
I repeated his words right back at him, like a mantra,