Tumult and Tenderness

I am finding tenderness amid the tumult in today’s world. Neighbors are helping neighbors. Federally defunded social profits are collaborating. Strangers in countries at war with each other are coming together to grieve and heal together. They occasionally make the news.

This is a tender time of year for me. April 26 was the 21st anniversary of the passing of my dear doggy, Spencer, just months after losing both my parents. April 30 was Grace Gaia’s 36th anniversary, the daughter I lost by miscarriage. May 10 is Mother’s Day. 

I grieved the loss of Grace Gaia pretty much by myself in 1990. When I called Bill on April 30th this year, I reminded him of the loss of our child. Through tears, he stammered, “Thank you for telling me. I wish I was there to hold your hand.” We cried together. When we got off the phone, I tossed some dried, pink geraniums out onto a lawn speckled with purple volunteer violets in the rain. 

I tentatively turn on the news and hear within ten minutes that the war with Iran is over and then on again and about the billions of dollars we are spending to “blow up a civilization.” My mailbox and inbox are filled with requests for donations to feed and house my neighbors. My prayer list is getting longer and longer.

April is Poetry Month. A recent conversation with a friend inspired me to write this poem.

Poetry Power

Poetry cracks hearts open--
invites others in.

When I open my heart,
people walk in, 
glad to be there. 

That’s when I know 
the power of poetry. 

My friend, old enough to retire, is still working in early childhood education. He has been shopping for "his" children and their families who are afraid to leave home. He lives in Minnesota.

Last month, I was invited to read some of my poetry at a “Rooted in Words” poetry event to celebrate Earth Day. Sue, one of my fellow readers, read two poems written to her by her best friend to console her immediately following her son’s suicide and on the first anniversary of his death. When the reading was over, I told her about Grace Gaia. We clasped each other’s hands. On April 30, I walked into dinner and saw Sue. I told her it was Grace Gaia’s 36th anniversary. She gave me a huge hug and whispered that her son’s 16th anniversary is coming up. She told me it’s good to have friends who understand. We teared up.

After dinner, my friend Kate drove me home. I told her about Grace Gaia and Sue. She put her hand on my arm, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Saturday is the 36th anniversary of my daughter’s death. I was only 22.”

In all today’s tumult, let’s turn toward tenderness.