Holding On
How y'all doin'?
:: deep sigh ::
A few days ago I was standing in the kitchen eating dinner when I noticed I was holding a lot of tension in my body. My legs were constricted and my jaw was tight, even as I chewed. Without thinking about it, I started bouncing my legs - like how you do when you're holding a baby. Quickly I felt more grounded and safe and thought, "I'm in my kitchen right now and I'm okay."
Random bouncing, taking naps, drumming my new adufu drum (that I found at the local consignment toy store), singing my meditation bowl, walking with a friend, sleeping with my stuffed octopus - these are just some of the things I find myself doing more and more. Giving the rhythm of my body some space. To do what it needs. To dance. To digest. To recenter. To root.
When I'm rooted, I can listen for the answer to the question, "what is the medicine for this moment?"
Of the many medicines this time calls for, one that keeps returning to my heart is to remain human. AI can't replicate my grief-full heart, nor my incredibly sacred rage. I care now more than ever, I rage scream in the car more frequently than ever, and have crying spells deeper and longer than ever before. Because I am human, I am humble and I am whole.
In We Will Rest, Trisha Hersey prescribes:
Hold on
Hold on to your faith
Hold on to your tenderness
Hold on to your hopes
Hold on to rest
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on to this book
Hold on to your dancing
Hold on to your body
Hold on to your neighbor
Hold on to the heaven inside
While Candle Hour Grief Vigil is on temporary hiatus, I once again invite you to create your own ritual: delineate sacred space by lighting a candle, ringing a bell or even clapping. Here, give the rhythm of your body some space. Whether you're shouldering personal or collective anger or deep-seeded fear - what does your body need? Take that space and time for your body. You can include music and poetry if you like. When the ritual feels complete, give thanks to the space and close the space (blowing out the candle, ringing the bell, clapping, etc).
It may seem small, to light a candle and dance for a while, then blow out said candle and go back to scrolling, but "rituals are a church without walls, the anecdote to our denial" writes Prentis Hemphill in What it Takes to Heal. You're taking an earnest moment to contain the moment of, "Yes. This. Is. Real."
Hold on to your humanity.