And there are a million poems to read in dark times—and then there are simply no poems, no words. None.
A friend realized this and went to Newtown, CT. She sat in a bead shop for a bit with the owner and others and they made things and talked and didn’t talk and just sat and did busywork or just sat and felt, felt, felt. When my friend was ready to go, she left gifts for the families. The shop owner assured my friend they would be distributed. Some gifts my friend had brought with her on her trek to Newtown, some she had made that day in the shop. When she arrived home, she posted about her experience on Facebook. She posted about the sitting, the beadwork, the tearful moments, the silence, the talk, all of which left her with a sense of–well, this: When I left, my heart had shifted as I felt the families, though ruined beyond pale, will be held up completely by their community. I felt less terrified for them (though no less saddened).
My friend’s post is, for me, a gift. It overshadowed all the terribly inappropriate FB posts on December 14th (see previous blog post). I don’t expect my friend’s post to change anyone, but I like it out in the world, belonging.
If you’d like to know exactly where she went, it’s here: A Bead Of Roses
My porch light is on.