Well?

Well? I don't know if I am well. I am trying, that's for sure. I hope you are well, or surviving. What can we do? I do not know. So I take baby steps. Today we had a postcard writing campaign (find the postcards here) at our town library. I had asked a friend on Wednesday what she thought and we rallied and about 20 people showed up. We wrote over 275 postcards. We mailed them. I don't know what I expected but it was good. Good enough. We are trying to make our voices heard above the noise and chaos. We are trying to make change. This is the only way I know.

Someone who attended our little workshop asked, "How do we make it through this? Any tips?" I never answered her as we all shared and swayed between thoughts and confusion, answers and questions. As we talked, I started misspelling words because it is just too much sometimes. But now I'd like to answer her question. 

I am reminded of two things that help me when the way is not clear. One is a message from Julian of Norwich, from over 650 years ago. When the local villagers came to her anchorage in the back of the church to which Julian was permanently moored, she counseled them on all matters. And her answer found in her writings was usually along the likes of this: "All shall be well. All shall be well. All matter of things shall be well." I use this as a mantra when things are anything but well. It moors me too and allows me to submit to a higher power that it is in control when all around me is out of control. 

A few weeks ago, I came across another similar message. This one came from far across the globe, a song from Africa. Waloyo Yamoni. You might want to listen to it before you read on. This African prayer for rain was composed into the most beautiful arrangement by Christopher Tin. The title is "We Overcome the Wind." What a powerful image. The lines feel like a message to us from far away: "You will overcome this wind." As they pray for the rain to fall, they say, "It is well if our women rejoice, if our children rejoice, if our young men sing, if our aged rejoice, it will be well!" And the song is full of such joy! Such promise! Such hope! and Such rejoicing! Each and everyone of us needs to rejoice if we as a society are to be well. But the message is not just a refrain. 

The song is a story. It is a story of how we long for something that we cannot control. And we don't usually get what we want quickly. The rain does not come. The heavens do not open. The sun beats us. We dry up. We thirst. Then, clouds. Then, drizzle. Maybe a wind blows softly that seems to bring a new dampness. We get a glimpse, a little hint, a small preview, a tease. But this does not answer our prayers. It is a "drizzling confusion". We think we see the light, but it flickers out. Confusion, frustration, disappointment. Or worse - tears, screaming, pain. And suddenly, torrents of rain. Flooding. Mud. No peace. No sun. No break in the clouds. Thunder and lightning. We get flooded with something we didn't ask for. We want to cry out, "No, No!" But it continues. No one can rejoice. No one can be well. We are kept in our houses for safety and to venture out is to take a risk too dangerous. Finally, the flood subsides, our pain subsides, we relinquish what we lost in our quest for what we asked for. The quietest prayer is whispered in the dark. "Fill our granary. Bring us food." As if asking for rain was too much, we ask for the barest of necessities, food. If you listen, you will see how slowly the song is sung, practically tiptoeing along as so not to disturb any order of things. But still the torrents come down. Nothing is alive, nothing is growing, just drowned out, wiped away. You hear the pain. And then finally, after all the suffering, the rain has stopped, the food is growing, the people can rejoice, and we overcome the wind. 

I feel that our country is in the midst of torrents, we are being bullied by a nonstop wind and fury of the earth, of the elements, of the politics of everything from education to kindness. All we want is food. All we want is medicine. All we want is kindness. All we want is justice. All we want is peace. And we tiptoe around, saying "Please, just bring us peace. Just a little peace. We didn't mean to ask for too much." We see the images of tens of thousands of people standing in the wind, against the forces of those much too powerful. Weapons against women. Punches against priests. Jeers against juveniles. Charges against children. And in the midst of it all, the women barely whisper, "We just want peace. We just want peace." And we are answered in guns, and masks, and violence, and murder. And worse, "You asked for this." Abuse in its highest form. 

I know that, as Glennon Doyle shared in a story, we are not the resistance. They are the resistance, resisting love, resisting peace, resisting hope, resisting joy. And these forces are more powerful than any weapons or punches, or jeers, or charges. These are the forces of nature that will prevail against tyranny, against racism, against hatred, against bigotry, against fascism and dictators. There will be a torrent of justice that is going to be too strong to stop. We just have to keep praying, crying, singing, and dancing, writing letters, marching, and protesting. We will bring food to the starving, water to the thirsty, a homeland to the displaced, and justice to the downtrodden. We Will Overcome This Wind.

With love,

Joannie