August 2020 Meditation
by Rev. Heather Rion Starr
Waiting
for the test results
for the virus to materialize in one (or more) of us
for the electricity to come back on
waiting to see what happens with schools this fall
(and then what happens a week, a month after that)
waiting to see what (and where) the next storm will be
waiting to see how the election will go, if the election...
waiting to see if an effective vaccine will materialize,
(& how it will be distributed, and how it will be received)
waiting to see what justice will prevail, or flail, for Black American lives
Checking
(again-and-again) for some new news, but there is nothing new
it's the same awful as it was an hour ago, as yesterday, still--;
checking to see who else, now, won't be able to pay their bills or buy groceries,
who will need help from the church,
checking to see who has offered help,
(so grateful when anyone new comes forward, seeking or offering,
human conversation for any reason in some driveway or parking lot
now more precious than ever before--)
Realizing
we were raised to believe that goodness was real
and every day now, we confront what is more flimsy
than some of us may have fully realized, more fragile, more tenuous:
Democracy. Compassion. Equality. Thoughtfulness.
Responsibility. Decency. Collective Commitments. Trust. Logic.
Doing
the next best thing
taking the next deep breath
taking out the garbage, the recycling, doing the dishes
writing the thank-you note, sending the check-in text
whatever we can do
because in each action
is our Hope
our necessary Belief
our Determination
that anything at all
is still worth doing
that all the best of it
is still worth doing
that we are all, still,
worth loving & being loved
because we are,
because we are,
because we are.
8.8.20 in Connecticut, where, as of 1pm today (Saturday), there are still 278,000 homes without electricity, following Storm/Hurricane Isaias which came through five long, hot days and nights ago now.
All That We Hold: a Meditation
by Rev. Heather Rion Starr
In December, even the sky is full, full and heavy.
Perhaps it will snow today, or this week--it could be days
before those clouds release all that they are carrying.
One day, perhaps, in the wee hours--
before the black wall of night
fades to gray, and then a cloudy blue
the snow will cover everything, for a moment,
cover everything with quiet and with calm.
Peace will pervade the air
as the snow quiets all
and that letting go, that letting go,
reminds us that we, too
will someday be able
to lay
it all
down.
Snow will settle down, like calm,
over this whole land and every little curb,
blade of grass, and piece of forgotten trash.
There are questions we cannot answer—
problems far too massive for any one of us to solve—
but I do know this: snow will settle down
like calm, over us all, over all that is.
For now, we scoop up stories,
hear the tail-end of side conversations,
sense the pain of a sibling or an aging uncle.
In the very act of seeking out each other's struggles,
of searching for signs of how someone else is doing,
we loosen our clinging grip on our own pain.
Like a child falling asleep in our arms
growing both heavy and limp,
drifting into dreams,
may we, too,
allow ourselves
to take a rest
from all the efforting,
may we
let our struggles
be seen and known by another,
may we, too,
allow ourselves
to be tenderly held.
(December 2018, for UUC-Danbury Meditation)