Recomposed

Last night I had to pleasure of hearing Terry Tempest Williams speak and read from her recent novel, The Hour of the Land. Without my even quite knowing it, Terry Tempest Williams has been my guide throughout my adult life in Utah. Her words show me the importance of place and its connection to identity. She inspires me to actively appreciate, engage, and defend the land where I live and love.

The first book I read after moving to Utah was Williams’ Refuge, a book firmly  rooted in family and place. Although this state was new to me, it was her home and she introduced me to it. I got to know her and her husband, Brooke, as I served them bagels in Sugarhouse, watching the sun rise over the majestic Wasatch Mountains every morning. It was then that I began to appreciate the rhythms of light, the stability of the mountains, and their relationship with one another. It was a love affair quickly begun and yet has remained steadfast and true.

For the next twenty-two years, I have returned to her books, falling in love over and over again with her voice, her wisdom, and her passion for place. She continues to remind me what matters.

And so, it was without hesitation that I bought tickets for Adam and I to hear her speak on the night of December 12th. I knew she would be good. I knew I would love hearing her read and I was excited to get a copy of her newest book.

What I didn’t expect was how perfect her words would be for me to hear right now. She voiced my fears; she captured the beauty of what is worth protecting; she created a community within the space of sixty people where even if we may not all agree politically, we all care deeply about our land and protecting what  is at risk. For the first time since the election, I felt completely safe within a community of people. I hadn’t realized I was missing that so much, and it literally brought me to my knees, tears flowing down my cheeks.

You see, this month has been a difficult one. Although I have no desire to make this blog a political space, I will admit that not wanting to address our current political climate here has rendered me speechless over the past month, because I am at a loss. I am honestly struggling with comprehending our world and am trying to make sense of how to function within it. Our world no longer makes sense. Everything I hold truly dear is under attack. Each day brings even more bad news. Each appointment, each headline is like a kick to the gut. I am simultaneously infuriated, terrified, incredulous, and depressed. I find myself caught between wanting to be–needing to be–informed, and yet for sanity’s sake sometimes opting to ignore it all for a while. I have, so far, deleted the Facebook app off my phone four times since the election. I never stay away too long, but just the act of deleting it helps me regain my balance and a needed sense of peace.

Last night, within the space Terry Tempest Williams created, I felt allowed to grieve and experience my fears within a community of people. What felt profound was the silence within the group. It was not a discussion. I didn’t need to defend or assert my thoughts or hear anyone else’s. We were all just there together.

Listening.

Contemplating the land and this place we call home.

Being called upon to use our gift, our gift we have to share with the world.

To be awake.

To be ready.

And, most importantly, to remember that “from love we lose nothing.”

So, it is with this spirit, thinking of this purpose and these words, that I will pick myself up, dust myself off, and move forward. I will remember what matters. I will be kind to myself and to others. I will listen and I will speak.

Within this new world reality, I will hold what I care for and about close.

Recomposed by Max Richter: Vivaldi, Spring 1

Terry Tempest Williams – November 9 2016

It is morning. I am mourning.
And the river is before me.
I am a writer without words who is struggling to find them.
I am holding the balm of beauty, this river, this desert, so vulnerable, all of us.
I am trying to shape my despair into some form of action, but for now, I am standing on the cold edge of grief.
We are staring at a belligerent rejection of change by our fellow Americans who believe they have voted for change.
The seismic shock of a new political landscape is settling.
For now, I do not feel like unity is what is called for.
Resistance is our courage.
Love will become us.
The land holds us still.
Let us pause and listen and gather our strength with grace and move forward like water in all its manifestation: flat water, white water, rapids and eddies, and flood this country with an integrity of purpose and patience and persistence capable of cracking stone.
I am a writer without words who continues to believe in the vitality of the struggle.
Let us hold each other close
and be kind.
Let us gather together and break bread.
Let us trust that what is required of us next will become clear in time.
What has been hidden is now exposed.
This river, this mourning, this moment — May we be brave enough to feel it deeply.