Work From the Light You Have.
A V-shape of geese flying against a whitish grey sky. Photo credit Josh Massey on Unsplash.
Last weekend I was driving home from our Winterfire retreat, and my ears filled with honking geese.
It’s a sound that reliably softens me. Then I looked up and saw V after V of them flying, ragged and determined, across the pale sky, and I realized — it’s February. This isn’t right. My heart gasped with the image of their bare legs picking through snow and ice in the forecast. Meanwhile, all around me, people kept driving.
Sometimes I get so frustrated that everyone doesn’t care about the same things I care about.
Can you relate? The story the world is telling me isn’t the same story it’s telling you, or the person driving the red Honda cutting me off. Paying attention can be such a lonely act.
But — maybe that’s the point of being here together? One of us grieves, while another one drives, and someone else writes a poem in the back seat. The story of the world is far too complicated for any of us to hear on our own. But we can tell our part, we can do our best to listen to each other.
Writing is an offering that we make because we need to, and we can hear a story that belongs to the collective.
I saw one of my favourite singers a few weeks ago, Josh Ritter, who was touring his 2003 break-out album Hello Starling, which landed in my heart with a big thud in my 20’s. I was there in the balcony on my own, holding my breath, waiting for the familiar chords that saw me through so much.
At one point he was telling the audience something about songwriting, and then he shrugged and said:
“You just work from the light you have.”
I could feel it then. His light, mine, ours. His baby face, lined now, both of us greying at the temples. The offering of these songs, filling the air.
So, my dear. What do you need to share today?
We work from the light we have, and the wounds we have, and the awe and the aches. We work from the things we can’t put down. We pick them up instead, turn them into words, into offerings.
What story do you need me to hear today? And the driver of the red Honda? What’s yours to add to the collective?
None of us can take in all this mess and beauty alone, but we can pass our piece of it from hand to hand, and become wider and wiser together. I think it might be what we’re here for.
Here are some ways to do that with us — workshops, retreats, gatherings. Our work is to make these offerings easier to give, to help us find the words. We’d love for you to join us.
Here’s another thing about paying attention…
It’s exhausting. Important, expanding, and exhausting.
That’s why we’re all off next week — we’ve learned that we need a little extra rest and self care in February. If you sign up for a class between Feb 17-24, you’ll hear from us when we’re back.
In it with you,
