The Muck That Is Essential to Your Being

Muck

Dark, dank, brown, sometimes black, muck is not pretty. The last two years have been full of muck: election messes, misbehaving politicians and public office holders, self-entitled humans, mock shamans destroying public property, a pandemic that split the country into the mask-wearers versus the mask-deniers (not to mention the vaccine-takers versus the vaccine-refusers), the mounting death toll from that pandemic, and the personal trials that resulted from the pandemic and the general calamities and realities of living on planet Earth.

No matter where you fall in the muck described above or in muck I failed to include, I do not doubt you have had some muck in your life. I know I have. I imagine my muck differs from yours in its details, but it’s still dark and dank, and it’s often been scary not knowing what lies beneath that murky surface and how and whether I shall rise. But here I am, and here you are, with 2021 taking a bow as it leaves or in some cases crying out loud as the door hits it in the butt as it, well, butts out. The New Year 2022 won’t ring in for several more hours, and I won’t be sorry to see it leave, but I would be remiss to not be grateful for some of the joys and the gifts life in 2021 brought me. I am grateful, but I am ready to welcome a new year.

The muck in the above photo is part of the ponds and streams at McKee Botanical Gardens in Vero Beach, Florida. You might not be aware of it, but this muck (as well as mine and yours) has a purpose. Beneath the surface of the muck is an entire world of living organisms. The muck provides a home and nourishment for some of the loveliest plants I’ve seen—the lotus and water lily. The lotus doesn’t spring to life from a seed sown in the ground. No. The lotus seeds lie fallow in the muck and when ready, they germinate, they grow, and they grace us with the near-unimaginable beauty of their blooms. Those flowers rise above the muck that was essential to bring about their being.

The muck we confront in our daily lives—and years if one wants to count 2020 and 2021—might not seem like it has a purpose, and sometimes it might not. However, at other times, like the lotus and the water lily, the muck of our lives can be a fertile medium in which we can grow. Of course, like the lotus and the water lily, we also have to rise above that muck to express our innate beauty. To show that we have surpassed those dark, dank, murky areas, we must reach and stretch above and beyond the muck that threatens to keep our spirits below the surface. Perhaps then we can catch and hold the joy that awaits us, just as the beauty of the lotus and water lily await their rise above the water’s surface.

My wish for you all is that you step through and out of the muck and into the sun where you can experience the joy and beauty that await you in 2022.

“You Yourself Got Bigger, Able to Hold More Grief”

November 2, 2021

“The ghosts and the pain didn’t lessen by confronting them, but they did grow more bearable—as if you yourself got bigger, able to hold more grief.” Mariah Reddick, the main character in The Orphan Mother by Robert Hicks, is grieving her son, Theopolis. That grief, a parent’s grief, is the most profound. Knowing this grief, her words resonated with me.

With the passage of time, our grief doesn’t get smaller, nor does it become easier to bear. Like the quote suggests, I believe we do, indeed, experience an expansion of sorts—some part of our heart and soul opens and continues to open. We gain the blessing of the ability to accommodate the days, months, years, decades . . . of mourning, of loss.

Grief comes; it always will, but we create space to hold it.

If we are even more blessed, we extend that space further and begin to hold others in their grief and longing so they, too, can do the same. Thus, they gain their own space to grieve and hold love.

This is the gift that Alexa gave me—a heart that didn’t close, but instead opened and continues to open. And in that space, I hold the finest of her offerings to me: Love, undying, enduring love.

No, dearest Lexie, I will never ever forget you. I will love you always and forever and continue to expand the place in my heart and life where I hold you.

Alexa Renee Provo: March 22, 1979—November 2, 1986

"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.

"Grief Was a Welcome Guest at Our Table"

A Place at the Table

Tables are a feature of most holidays and this season is no exception. At our Thanksgiving table, we give thanks for family and the bounty of our lives. December holiday tables are decorated with lights, menorahs, Kwanza candles. Tables figure prominently in holiday activities—cooking, baking, eating, and gift wrapping.

Of course, our tables are used throughout the year when we sit at them to eat, and often, the table is the center of the home. It’s where we gather to talk, share, and connect with family and friends.

Like the seasons of our lives, our tables change. Who sits at them changes. Some of those changes are welcomed. Some are not. The least welcome change to our table is when we lose a child, grandchild, or sibling. That empty space forever changes the dynamic of our table. That empty place can become another weight of grief that we carry. A piece of our hearts has gone out of not only celebrations but also the simple dailiness of life. We can avoid the table, we can change seating arrangements, but that empty place remains.

My table has had an empty place for thirty-three years since my daughter Alexa died on November 2, 1986. In the early days, it was hard to sit there through the longing, the yearning, and the tears. I still miss having Alexa at the table and often wonder what it would be like if she were among us, laughing, loving, living.

That’s not to be. My table is forever changed. Sometimes, though, the changes after loss take on a different aura—one I wasn’t aware of until recently. My daughter Tarah lost her close friend Jimmy two years ago. As the anniversary approached, Jimmy’s mother reached out to Tarah. As often happens with those who are grieving, Jimmy’s mother wanted to be certain she wasn’t “bothering” Tarah. Tarah assured her it was no bother—that she was there for her at any time and any place. Shortly after that, Tarah posted the following on social media:

“I am comfortable with grief. I grew up surrounded by grief, it was a welcome guest at our table. It is normal and it doesn’t make me want to run away, but rather run towards you and help. If you EVER need someone to talk to when you are grieving, I don’t care who you are or how little we know each other, I am HERE. I want to help.”

I was struck by the phrase Tarah used: “Grief was a welcome guest at our table.” I had never considered grief a guest, but it was. I never considered grief as a welcome guest of all things, but it was. Alexa’s photos were always visible. We planted trees in her memory on the anniversary of her death. Three of my four surviving children were born after Alexa died, yet there never was a specific time when I sat them down and said, “You had a sister who died before you were born.” Instead, I spoke of Alexa as their sister. Her physical presence wasn’t there, but nonetheless she was and continues to be a part of our lives.

Because “Grief was a welcome guest at our table,” my children are familiar with loss. It was and is there—every day. Alexa’s loss became part of who I am and part of who they are. Loss has given all my children compassion and empathy they might not otherwise have had. They are sensitive to those who are grieving. They are comfortable with grief.

Grief will come to all of us. Our loss may the most difficult—a child, grandchild, or sibling. Loss may come in other forms. We cannot escape it. It is beyond difficult to sit at a table that is missing someone. I have come to realize, however, that there is something we can add to that empty place. We can leave a place at the table for loss. We can make grief a welcome guest by acknowledging loss, by acknowledging love, by instilling compassion and empathy. The physical place at the table may be empty, but we can bring something else of value. We can fill that place with remembrance, hope, joy, and love.