
Hello. My name is Krista and I have been doomscrolling again.
I can’t lie - the impulse to dissociate or numb out has been pretty intense lately and I’ve been giving in rather than doing all the things I know would be healthier to regulate my nervous system. It seems to happen whenever I get into that space where my empathy and compassion feel “thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread” as Bilbo Baggins might say. (Have no fear, however, I don’t intend to take a vacation from which I mean not to return.) It’s just… there is too much to care about and too little I feel like I can do to fix anything. I find myself wishing for a magic wand. Or a lottery win. Or a hero on a white horse. Or a deus ex machina moment. Something. Anything.
I know, I know, I’m a bummer. A wet blanket. I only ever seem to end up writing posts for the Centre in the throes of some existential crisis. (I know that because every time I do make my writing public, I inevitably get a number of friends reaching out to me in a panic wanting to know if I’m okay. I am. I promise. This is just part of how I process!)
Heather is away at the moment, engaging in community care for yet another friend facing the end of her life. She has walked alongside many of her friends recently who have reached the end of their journeys here on this particular corporeal plain. While she comes away from these experiences changed and grown and able to share her learnings so eloquently, as her friend I can’t help but feel like it’s simply not fair. Death has taken too many of her people and I resent it. Heather deserves the support of her close friends, her mentors, her elders, and her parents - as imperfect and human as they all are or have been. I know she is not alone, but there are gaps in her circles of support that will not ever fill in again and I grieve for that.
I suppose I grieve for myself, too, knowing that those gaps will also come for my circles one day.
It’s funny, how the tears finally come now as I write. Heather would chuckle, knowing full well that this is exactly when the tears come - when you stop holding in all of the feelings you’ve been trying to dissociate from finally find some expression outside of one’s over full brain.
I had the thought today that I probably needed a good cry. And that reminded me of a memory that popped up on my Facebook feed from five years ago, in what felt then like the middle of the pandemic, but was, in truth, still only near the beginning. It had no title then, but it was another of these moments when my feelings needed expression through words. It feels relevant again today - both in the midst of the global environmental, political, and humanitarian crises, and in the midst of the smaller, more personal realities of mortality, loss, and grief.
I think I’ll title it the same as this post:
Under the Covers
by Krista dela RosaLet's cry it out,
You and me
- Under the covers if that feels safer -
Feeling the helplessness of seismic changes
That often seem like waking nightmares.We can hold each other
And remember when things felt better,
Even though things weren't always better
And pain and loss are as normal as breathing.It's hope we miss most, maybe -
The thing we long for now
When everything is uncertain
And scary.
Our amygdalas are triggered daily,
From the moment we open our eyes in the morning:Run.
Fight.
Hold still! Don't move!
Take care of it to make it better.But there's nowhere to go.
And the things that we fight about aren't what need fighting.
And holding still doesn't make us invisible or immune.
And no amount of caring seems to make any impact at all.Let's hold each other and cry it out.
Because lament is where we're most human -
Where we realize there is no point in comparing our wounds
Because the truth is everything hurts,
And I can identify with your pain
Even if it starts in a different part of your body.If we can see each other there,
Tend each other's wounds,
And let the tears flow for everything that feels broken,
- Because pain and loss are as normal as breathing -
Maybe there's a chance still to heal.Maybe, if we can stop comparing wounds,
We can stop comparing joy, too.
We can stop believing there's not enough to go around.
We can let go of the armour of needing to be right,
And snuggle instead under the blanket of "Are you okay?"
Cry our tears together,
Tend our wounds,
And invite more folks to do the same.There is no room for pride under here,
And shame of your wounds prevents me from seeing how I might help.Let's be softer.
Let's make this a holy place
Where our tears can wet the soil
So that maybe,
Maybe
Hope can grow again.
The thing I love about what we’ve created at the Centre is that we have some blankets of “are you okay?” in the forms of our programs. They don’t look away from either the symptoms or the causes of our personal or collective wounding. Those blankets, while human and holy, are also honest and a more than a little messy. Kind of like the wonky edges of the blanket I recently crocheted - flawed, but secure nonetheless.
Maybe you’ve been feeling like me lately - a little tired, a little overwhelmed, a little sad, a little grieved, a lot complain-y. Maybe you’re in a similar situation as Heather - facing gaps in your circles of support that feel deeply significant. Maybe you’re feeling angry - newly or not - over the suffering you see inflicted on innocent folks all over the world for the sake of things as stupid as money and power.
The How to Hold Space Foundation Program doesn’t have all the answers. It is not a magic wand, or a lottery, or a miracle cure, or a deux ex machina, or a hero on a white horse. It is a place to learn how to be in better community, however. It is a blanket of “are you okay?” where we learn together how to hold complexity, nuance, compassion for self and others along with critical analysis of the systems we find ourselves in. It’s not easy, but it is honest, kind, and brave.
I know am looking forward to being in those spaces again this fall. They are balm in that they remind me that there are many of us holding on to hope, despite the despair or dread that can often come licking at our heels. I would love to see you there, too.