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I'VE BEEN FEELING FUNKY . . .
for the past couple of weeks. It's been uncomfortable, even painful at times, to be in my brain and body. But I'm reminded, as my perspective slowly shifts, how the passage of time is a gift from the circular nature of all things, in life and in death. And with that gift / shift, I'm noticing a lot of reminders on the cusp of February that even when we are alone, we are not alone.
Yesterday, I wrote this sentence in my calendar, from Chani: "Everything comes into existence through a lacework of interconnection."
Today, I opened Ari Weinzwig's newsletter to this quote from Althea Gibson: "No matter what accomplishments you make, somebody helped you."
For several days, I've been slowly reading David Abram's, The Spell of the Sensuous, in which he writes, on the topic of the past, present, and future: "That which has been and that which is to come are not elsewhere - they are not autonomous dimensions independent of the encompassing present in which we dwell. They are, rather, the very depths of this living place - the hidden depth of its distances and the concealed depth on which we stand."
Opportunities for a shift in perspective occur around us all the time, and it's common to think of them as serendipitous - running into someone during an errand, receiving an unexpected bit of correspondence, hearing a song on the radio, coming across a story in a book or magazine...but when I take time to notice - even to ask for - those opportunities, they begin to feel more purposeful.
A barrier to this experience is the fact that we humans are stubborn. Meditation is something I have to remind myself to do, and without the reminder or the space, the voices of old habit freely enter my brain, tracking that funky mud across the floor.
The first of the month is one of those times I've embraced ritual to mark the turning of time, and to open myself to a shift in perspective. As I turned the page to February, I noticed Imbolc in my calendar, and began to read about the Celtic holiday that marks the beginning of the end of winter. Translating to the phrase "in the belly," Imbolc is commonly the time when livestock becomes pregnant with the babies that will be stumbling about in spring. But such a phrase carries so many connotations of hidden ripening, of newness and hope, of gratitude for what has sated us, and intention toward what we plan to fill ourselves with in the coming months...noticing it, and its alignment with the full moon, gave me an instant sense of brightness.
Here in New York, surrounded by snow and ice, walking every morning in single digit temperatures, I'm under no illusion that the awareness of Imbolc will make spring suddenly appear to warm my skin. Instead, I'm comforted by the slow nature of change, how it promises to be taking place all the time, even when we can't see it. It reminds me that my devotion to all things unseen - to the spirits of my parents, the imagination that feeds my creativity, and the feelings that permeate the stories of my life - has purpose and intention, as well. Such a relationship to the darkness is a gift from those who came before. If we listen, they will teach us things.
As Black History Month unfolds, I'm reminded of something I learned from Black activists and community organizers about the tendency to worship the big, splashy events of history and the individuals at the center of them - people like Rosa Parks or Martin Luther King, Jr. It's not that their power and inspiration isn't important, but that worship of the singular tends to edge out the countless small contributions of others, including all the nameless who support those big names in history.
I often think about which people, which artworks, which literary titles become part of 'the canon,' and how those same examples also change and shift over time - what was a household name fifty years ago may not be now. While each of us is conducting countless small acts, every day...each of us is also engaged in a ritual of remembrance around people who many have never heard of. To me, that doesn't mean we stop doing the thing, or remembering the person...but that we find ways to pay attention, notice, and engage with those small acts and memories, so that they can become as big, in our minds and hearts, as the swelling music in an unforgettable film about someone 'everyone' knows.
"Through the singing we keep everything alive; / through the songs... the spirits keep us alive." - Billy Marshall Stoneking, Singing the Snake
Together across time,
Dor + Tay
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