Joy takes asking my soul what she needs. . .
You held me until I was steady enough to continue the journey again.
As I write, large swaths of our nation are covered in a winter storm, and in other places ICE is doing untold damage to the fabric of our society. I have very strong views on what is happening, but I think we can agree that no matter how you approach our current situation, no one is left untouched by it. Families are being torn apart both literally, as people are dragged away to detention camps and people are being shot, and figuratively as relatives passionately disagree about the events engulfing our nation. We are collectively hurting.
I find myself in conversations about how we calm our hearts, how we settle our nervous systems. In short, how do we tend to our souls so we can face the pain and not look away. I read Psalm 40 the other day, looking to ancient texts to see how poets of the past cried out in lament, asked for help from the God they worshiped, were raw and honest about the life they found themselves enmeshed in.
This poet wrote of being pulled out of a miry pit and having his feet set on a rock. That image spoke to me. A more contemporary translation said that he was held until, “I was steady enough to continue the journey again. As if that were not enough. . .my mind is clearing up. Now I have a new song to sing.”
I’ve been sitting with those lines. We know the miry pit; we’re looking for a rock to find firm footing. But when do we hold still until we are “steady enough to continue the journey again”? I needed the reminder, the permission, to regroup. For me it was more of a prompt to pay attention to the totality of what’s around me, not just the pit. My brain is entwined by the tendrils of the unraveling. I feel compelled to be aware of the news. Yes, because of the classes I teach, but more as a citizen, so I am conscious of what’s mine to do, and don’t become distanced from the story of my country. I must find the steady, so the tendrils don’t destroy my soul as I bear witness to the pain of those I do life with.
#JoyAsResistance is my tag line, but in the day-to-day, I forget. When I am perfectly safe, when I am objectively on rock-firm ground, I forget the practice of putting my phone down, and looking up. I forget to ask my soul what she needs. She would tell me that she needs a new song, a palette cleanse. I must practice looking at the frost crystalizing the blades of grass. I must pause to register the sounds of squirrel toes rhythmically bounding their way down my porch. I want to register the coffee’s first sip, letting the flavor linger for a moment longer, savoring the warmth as it travels through me. I want to be aware enough to pull the podcast out of my ear and initiate a conversation to make a human connection and remind people they are seen.
These simple, everyday moments reground me, if I let them. They aren’t arduous practices, but everyday life. They aren’t actually a new song, but an old one I once knew. They do clear my head, so I have space to listen for what it mine to do in this moment, versus being drowned by the never-ending waves surging from the news cycle.
A tended soul knows a certain peace. From that peace I can discern when a new step is needed. Recognizing peace, my heart attunes to when I need to step into this fraying world and offer places of safety or call out moments of movement. If I step into the fray fresh from the miry pit, I bring my chaos, my angst, into a situation that doesn’t need help from my mess. It needs help from a steady heart.
I can’t fix the world. But these practices in me, might steady one other person’s world, maybe they hold space for much needed community, maybe they say “Thank You” to someone who is doing the unseen work. The practice of noticing tends to my soul, so when I find another person clinging to a rock, pit slime across our faces, together we can sing.