How many more things about COVID-19 can a person read? We have just begun this journey together, a journey that no one knows the length of. What we can know is that we are in it together. This isn’t something that can be avoided.
Many will lose (and have lost) their lives. Let us hold them in our hearts.
Many will lose (and have lost) their work. Let us find ways to lift them up and support them.
Many are isolated from loved ones, some of whom they don’t know if they will see again. May we reach for them, offering our hearts and open connection.
Many are at risk of adjacent challenges — be it related to a medical condition or financial situation. May we keep them in mind as we call out to our elected bodies, encouraging them to do the work of government: supporting the people.
We are all here together in this — even if we are forced apart. May we find our way toward a new world, one where we each matter to one another.
Probably one if the most toxic attitudes we can hold. Is it behind our (my?) inability to connect? Is it (at least part of) what keeps us (me) from being able to be curious or engaged with those whom we (I!) disagree?
So much more to be said on this. But today, with the amount of energy I’m feeling, this is the most I can do at the moment.
What a turtle can tell us about life
Imagine an ocean. A big one. Maybe one as big as everything. In the ocean swims a single turtle. This turtle is the only life form in this infinitely-vast ocean. Upon the surface of the ocean floats a wooden ring — just wide enough that the turtle would be able to fit its head through, should the two ever come into contact.
What are the odds of this happening? The turtle surfacing for air, and its head slipping through the ring as it floats on the surface?
Imagine: Infinite ocean. A single turtle. A small wooden ring.
I don’t remember where I first encountered this idea, but it is something like this: the odds of you being here — of being alive — are about the same as this turtle and the ring making contact in an infinite ocean. In other words, they are very slim.
What do we call this?
I call this a miracle.
That is, from where I sit, what all of this is. A miracle.
It’s all too easy to get lost in the specifics of the day — coronavirus, the election, the plunging stock market, the division among us — and to lose sight of what is happening around us. Life is happening around us. This miracle that is almost impossible to fathom, even though it occupies every square inch of our lives every day.
Sure, there are things that we need to fight for and change. There are concerns that need addressing. This is all true. And, it all happens in this field — this wild and fascinating field — of life.
We are, after all, alive.
I tried to be clever and make the below the title. But the program I’m using wouldn’t let me. But that’s okay. The point stands.
It can be easy to get swept up in the current of productivity; of doing, of making things happen, of metrics and measures and proving ones self; the way that we have centered work and economics over the needs — not to mention the beauty and miracle — of being alive makes it possible to go days and days and days without noticing; our breaths, our heart beat, our very selves.
Take a breath.
You are here. We are here. This is enough.
On occasion I write something — a snippet — that feels like it wants to be more. This is one of those things.
Imagine a thought
– say, a worry –
made of the same material
as a tree, a rose,
What might grow from a seed planted? Words can become, well, …
Some thoughts on space
Today a colleague suggested that we take a pause on a project. Not because of anything bad, more simply to allow the client to process. It made me wonder — what is the difference between a pause and space?
Space to digest.
Space to integrate.
Space to breathe.
Can this happen without a pause? Can it happen within what we are doing? Or does what we are doing shift in such a way that allows for space, without losing connection to the work?