As Pandemic-time lingers, a paradoxical blend of experience struck me this week. The waves of emotion shift as I read the next news story, talk with a friend, or listen fully to the reality of my clients.
Many of the people I listened to this week are nurses who are at the raw edge of what is required to care for those who are ill and those who love them. They are all struggling with the demands of endurance and the toll it is taking on them and those they lead. They are simultaneously courageous and committed while also terrified, exhausted and angry. It is hard to make sense of the swirl of human need.
Unable to be in an ICU to help, I feel guilty for not doing enough. Listening seems like such a small contribution and compassion feels trite. And yet, it is what I have to offer right now. I can give my presence and share my own experience through words. I hope it gives solace in some small way.
Incubation
I cannot take my eyes off of
the vista, the reassuring ridge of
jagged mountains, lined with secret
crevices and folds.
Full of distant mystery, undulations
of granite bathed in
shadows of green.
Courageously holding
each other up.
I cannot stop staring.
Hours pass, as
clouds form,
reform, and push
onward toward the moment
of release.
Rain seeping into distant
valleys. There will be little
risk of fire today.
I cannot stop crying.
My heart crushed by
deep sadness, and fear.
Once numbed by
habit and compulsion, now
exposed by the Great Stopping.
Collective threads of
hope and dread, woven
into the air, carried by the wind.
Confusion is
everywhere.
Silently, suffering permeates
the room. It finds me
in my corner chair,
removed from everything. It
overwhelms me.
I cannot stop wondering.
What comes next? What nuanced
and subtle morphing in the
human landscape, is
already taking root?
I cannot stop breathing.
Inhale and exhale
have replaced,
the breath-holding,
that I once called living.
(c) April 8, 2020
Debra Gerardi
Santa Barbara, CA