Healing in a world of hurt

During the two-week run of beau­ti­ful weath­er just after Easter, a vio­lent stom­ach bug came call­ing and knocked me for a loop. Jeff was sick too, but with a spring cold — some­how mirac­u­lous­ly side­step­ping the virus that brought me lit­er­al­ly to my knees.

It’s nev­er a good time to be sick, but dur­ing that gor­geous stretch it felt espe­cial­ly cru­el to be so com­plete­ly wiped out. Too deplet­ed to do any­thing but sleep and chan­nel surf, I watched in hor­ror as the Louisville bank shoot­ing dom­i­nat­ed the air­waves — the same air­waves that just a cou­ple of weeks ear­li­er had been dom­i­nat­ed by the mas­sacre in Nashville. Voice record­ings of ter­ri­fied 911 callers froze my heart and chilled my blood, espe­cial­ly the call from the Louisville shooter’s fran­tic and con­fused moth­er. Feverish and queasy already, I dreamed of scram­bling for cov­er in a hail of bul­lets and awoke soaked in sweat and relief. The pre­car­i­ous­ness of good health — and life itself — hit hard, leav­ing me sad and world-weary.

In des­per­ate need of respite, I turned off the news and dragged myself to the back deck chaise, where the sun­shine and bird­song prompt­ly remind­ed me that the world is more than gun­fire and car­nage, sick­ness and heart­break. The peren­ni­al green­ery, vio­let-and-dan­de­lion-stud­ded lawn, for­ag­ing bum­ble­bees, and back­yard song­birds spoke only of bur­geon­ing life and peace­ful coex­is­tence. For the first time in days, I felt better.

I spent the entire after­noon out back, doz­ing at times, watch­ing and lis­ten­ing at oth­ers. As the sun set on the spar­rows flit­ting between the bird­bath and the red­bud, I turned a cor­ner, both men­tal­ly and phys­i­cal­ly — proof pos­i­tive of the cura­tive pow­er of nature. Retching and kvetch­ing might be con­ta­gious, but so is obser­vant stillness.

Healing in a world so full of hurt requires good med­i­cine, and for­tu­nate­ly it is every­where: in nature … in com­mu­ni­ty … in music, lit­er­a­ture, and art. Emily Dickinson was so very right when she penned “Hope” is the thing with feath­ers, a time­ly and uplift­ing reminder that bul­lets aren’t the only things that fly. 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feath­ers-
That perch­es in the soul-
And sings the tune with­out the words-
And nev­er stops — at all -

And sweet­est — in the Gale — is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the lit­tle Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet — nev­er — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.

(This poem is in the pub­lic domain)