Catastrophe

Catastrophe

The news crushed her;

Broke her heart into shattered pieces;

Snapped her thoughts and feelings in two

Stabbed her lungs as she gasped for air.

Her energy morphed into a thick, stagnant bog

and

Her unsteady feet shuffled underneath her once vibrant body.

She was struck down.

Destroyed.

Then, slowly, very slowly over time, like the flickering ember of hope in a dwindling fire –

She rose.

She chose life…

And she rose

And she rose

And she rose.

She asked the wind to bring her those shattered pieces

And one by one

Tear by tear

Scream by scream,

The moon cradled her in the curve of his arms – guiding her through her darkest hours.

The sun, in all her healing sphere of radiant energy,

Guided her muscles, tendons and connective tissue

and

United her fragile body with courage, strength and hope

For her mind

For her body

For her spirit

For vulnerable healing - not all at once

There was too much ache.

Not even forever.

But piece by piece.

She chose life

And she rose

And she rose

 And she rose.

—Amy Childers

 When I anticipate Thanksgiving in America, it’s as if my heart bows to my soul in humble awareness of all that I am, all that I have, all that I’ve endured. I think of Native Americans and European settlers in the United States. All that pain and ownership and history of violence and power, which eventually greeted negotiations, division of land and a long process of healing. Thanksgiving in America began as colonists in New England observed days to be thankful such as surviving a drought, healing from a sickness, arriving after a safe journey or blessed with abundant harvest. Traditionally prayers and sharing of meals took place.

Americans today model this holiday based on a 1621 feast where the Wampanoag tribe and English colonists gathered in peace, sharing food, company and culture. The Wampanoag, meaning “People of the First Light,” were here long before Europeans arrived. While catastrophe in history teaches us the killings, fierce bloodshed, diseases and even epidemics killed many of the indigenous people of that time, we as a unified people, each in our own beliefs and traditions and cultures, can live today in peace, respecting similarities and differences. It’s about educating our selves about each catastrophe, leaving our judgement out of it, and then deciding how we will individually take action to allow the flow of healing and change. When catastrophe happens, we can either choose life or death. Sometimes both happen.   

When you personally envision a catastrophe, what comes to mind? What broke your mind, body and spirit in two? Perhaps you are currently in the midst of that catastrophe and a thankful heart is too much to bear. That is okay. Honor where you are at. If you are moving through it; ebbing and flowing, allow the shattered pieces to come to you; fall into place. Can you choose life? Can you rise? Can you rise? Can you rise?  

I am thankful for many things, one of which is the memory of my son, Jacob who tragically died 11 years ago in a car accident. A catastrophe. And each day I must make the choice – just like you – will you put your pieces together, whatever your catastrophe, and will you allow yourself to fall and rise, over and over again, until one day that flicker ignites; sometimes barely there, sometimes bright as the full moon lighting our path… and can you rise, can you rise, can you rise?  

In our very uncertain times of pain and pandemic and death and anxiety and depression and politics and judgement, I challenge you to be the early Wampanoag tribe. I challenge you to be the early European settlers. I challenge you to ask yourself, “What am I truly thankful for? Who has changed my life? Who has given me food, clothed me, took me in? Who, in the time of my life that I was struck down, helped me by showing pure love and compassion and inspiration so I could choose life?”

 We are struck down, but not destroyed. Continued peace, safety and goodwill.

And may you rise, may you rise, may you rise.