"I Can't Breathe."

I Can’t Breathe

By Christine G. Clark

“I can’t breathe.”

Is it COVID-19 or a knee on your neck?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are your lungs filled with fluid and shutting down despite the ventilator breathing for you?

Or is that knee on your neck shutting down your respiratory system?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are you choked with wracking sobs because of the state of our country today?

Or are you mourning for yet another Black life cut short?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are you gasping yet at the ugliness in our land?

Or are you gasping because once again the life has been choked from a Black man—for being Black?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are you holding your breath waiting for the world to change?

Or are you holding your breath hoping the white person who is threatened by your skin will pass on by?

“I can’t breathe.”

Inhale, exhale, pray for change.

Inhale, exhale, make the change.

Nothing Left

Nothing Left

Gulf Fritillary caterpillars continue feeding on the remnants of the Corky Stem Passionflower vine. To my eyes, it appears there is nothing left to call a vine, unless it’s the faded gray twigs wrapping around the tomato cage. Green leaves are few; green vines are few. Nonetheless, Gulf Fritillary butterflies haven’t stopped laying eggs on what’s left, which isn’t much, and the larvae keep munching on what they find to sustain them.

 

Nothing left.

 

Nothing left also applies to thousands of views this day, these days. Mothers at home taking on the role of teacher in addition to all their other roles feel they have nothing left. Healthcare workers on the front lines feel they have nothing left. Hospital janitors feel like they have nothing left. Grocery store clerks feel like they have nothing left. Morticians feel like they have nothing left. The grieving feel like they have nothing left. People out of work and almost out of money feel like they have nothing left. Sheriff deputies and EMS and firefighter teams feel like they have nothing left. Those of us throughout the Earth who feel like we have nothing left are part of a never-ending list—one that grows as each pandemic day begins with the sunrise and ends with the sunset. “Nothing left,” we say as we lay our weary heads to rest.

 

Nothing left?

 

The Corky Stem Passionflower vine might not have much left, but the caterpillars continue to eat the bits they find and they continue to grow.

 

Nothing left?

 

All the people—mothers, fathers, healthcare workers, the grieving, the first responders—each of them might feel like they have nothing left, but they show up for their children, they show up for their jobs, they show up for their family and friends and communities, in spite of feeling they have nothing left.

 

Something left?

 

Maybe something more important is left. The caterpillars ravishing the vines aren’t eating just to fulfill hunger. They have a purpose, a preordained path they are forging. The caterpillars, in the minutes, hours, or days to come, will leave those vines and not because there is nothing left. They move away because it’s time for them to seek something more—it’s time to transform. Somewhere deep within each caterpillar is an innate knowledge that there is, indeed, something left. Maybe each of us also has something more important that is left. Instead of feeling there is nothing left, perhaps we, too, can listen to and follow our own innate wisdom. Perhaps we can leave our vines and realize, that we, too, have the ability to transform.

 

 

 

Prayer in the Time of Corona

Prayer in the Time of Corona

by Christine Clark

I want to reach out to you, God.

But part of me feels like you might say,

“Oh, it’s you. It’s been a while. This must be the time to reconnect because at least tens of thousands of people have reached out during the last month—people I haven’t heard from in not what I would call ages, but a long time.”

I hesitate because I am one of those people. I know I’ve been in touch via the Lord’s Prayer, but God knows and I know that far too often it’s been rote. And that is not the kind of prayer I want to pray today.

I have a lack of faith.

I feel guilty.

I feel ungrateful.

I feel heartsore and weary.

I am afraid.

In that fear, I know I must step beyond all that pulls me away from God and have a glimmer of trust that God is here, that God is listening. I must let myself once again be pulled toward God.

I let myself inch toward God, and I murmur:

“Here I am.

I am afraid.

I have so many fears, little ones and big ones.

Can I give them to you?

Will you please take my fears, if only for a moment, a sunbeam’s worth of time within which I can find some peace, some relief from the chaos of my mind and the uncertainty filling the Earth right now?”

I hear these words:

“Breathe into me. Look for the light and life of all that the Earth contains and sustains. Put down your fears. Remember my words and take them to heart:

‘Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ Matthew 11:28–30.”

Tears in my eyes, I whisper “Thank you.” I put down my burden and step back into the Earth, less fearful and with more peace in my heart.