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Quarantine Spring 2020

Quarantine Spring 2020
by Tiffany Nicole Fletcher

What is survival
What is eating and drinking
is it having paid work
is it being able to go outside at whim
is it having love?
How do we measure the worth of our days
what is the sound of overcoming
Of all of our efforts, what is it that lasts—
what remains;
which fiber, which thread we’ve woven
cannot be torn?

Love is an element—
burning, cleansing, enveloping, steadying:
a force,
a purifier,
a solid ground.
An opening, a freedom—a hope;
a hope that our days
will have counted for something
in the end.

We are entering the eternal
where communion becomes greater than consumption
and we are made new again.
Spring has emerged and all of Earth is singing that
we are ripe for remaking.
Listen,
the center is forming now.

all i ever wrote, Love, Poetry

The Children of Eda

The Children of Eda by Tiffany Nicole Fletcher

There is a calling and its pull is ancient:
to mother
and so be a partner with God;
to be a creator of a tribe,
a vessel.

Centenarian oak tree
under whose branches
many have been sheltered,
we know that our story began in you.
You,
the defier of storms,
she of sass and sharp tongue
who, though made of small frame
would put grown men in their places
if need be.
Eda. Mother. Granny.
Stander of every test of time. Strong one–
rest now.

For the first time in one hundred years
your hands will be completely silent.
Those hands that have carried babies
and grandbabies,
tended flora and coaxed beauty from the soil
hands that nurtured our Tata until his last day
hands that held hymnals, and turned pages in the Holy Book,
your hands fashioned flour and fruit into tarts to nourish us
and wove thread into lace,
cloth into dress.
Your hands made magic;
they fostered life.

And now your story continues to write itself
through us, the children of Eda:
for, we parent and we serve
we make beautiful things and
we sing songs unto the Lord
we live our faith,
we defy the odds
and we survive storms.
We are strong women
and men strong enough to love strong women.
We never give up; we always rise.

Granny, we are a whole field of oak trees now—
standing tall, we are your children,
a tribe full of overcomers.

In memory of Eda Flax, 1918-2019

all i ever wrote, Art as Devotion, Faith, Love, Poetry

Revelation Story

Revelation Story
by Tiffany Nicole Fletcher

The boat I’d been traveling on
made me feel secure
until one day I looked at the waves
and the expanse of sea,
the depth of the water
and I knew,
I knew that this
was
not
security.

Yet, I would spend years
in that boat.

One night I heard the One I love
calling me.
He was out on the water saying,
“Come to me”
and he told me,
“Do not fear.”

He called to me because he knew
that my whole life was
waiting for me out on that water,
out in the expanse,
and he knew about my boat – that it was a dead end,
but safe,
seemingly safe.

Love drew me out of the boat.

There is nothing else that could have made me
leave my old world behind
to step into nothingness,
to turn and go where I might sink.

Love made me risk,
it made me change direction,
made me set down my old, useless oars
to be free to
grasp the hands of the One
who was reaching out for me.
Love told me to come-
I followed the call.

And then:

Love made the waves feel like solid ground
Love kept its eyes on me as I took the chance
Love calmed the waters
Love gifted me the courage needed
Love comforted me when I feared
Love stayed with me out in the unknown territory, saying:

“I told you that I love you
and that I would never…”

(these are the words I heard as I walked
across the water to the One who loves me)

“…leave you nor forsake you and
I am here I am here I am here
I am here I am here I am here.
I have all of this love for you,
come and receive it.”

I discovered that I was approaching a heart
as big as that ocean,
that my soul was swimming in it;
I was submerged in sacred love,
and suddenly I knew that
this Love was
the boat
the waves
the sea
me, as the Beloved
and it was the One who had called to me.

The One who had called to me.

The One who is holding everything.

Faith, Healing, Love, Personal Growth, Self-care, Wellness

Love Bears Pain: Facing the Shadows

Last week, we lost Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade, people who inspired so many, people who infused the world with delight and creativity. We were devastated to discover the pain they were living with, the pain that ultimately led them to take their own lives. I’ve been thinking a lot about pain for the last week. About the shadow side of life and why we keep our pain hidden in darkness when all it does there is fester and eat our life away, sometimes literally devouring our very existence.

Why are we so ashamed of our pain? Why is it not safe to say to one another, “I’m hurting”? Why do we suffer alone? Why is it so hard for us to be what we already are – completely human, someone who isn’t always okay?

Somewhere I heard the saying, “When pain is shared, it doesn’t become trauma.” I’ve had pain, both physical and emotional, that I thought I would never survive nor recover from, pain that I thought would break me in half. Not only did I survive, but I have recovered, and what made the difference for me was the pain being brought to light in the safe space of someone who could bear it with me. I needed that even when God was abiding with me in my pain; I needed both. He created us for relationship and for love, and our presence can heal one another.

Pain cannot withstand the light of love. It will transform in the face of it. It will shift and change and eventually become wisdom and compassion. God is a redeemer; we have the victory, because even the darkest parts of life can be made into light when surrendered and offered to God. Sadly, sometimes we lose people before they are able to know and experience this.

If we normalize pain as what it truly is – part of the human condition – perhaps we won’t be so afraid to have our pain be witnessed. We’ll bring it out into the light, even just to one other person, where it will have to shift and change, where we can be healed.

So with the events of this past week, I want to say: don’t be afraid to look into your dark places and be honest with yourself about the ways life has broken your heart. Make sure you have at least one person with whom it’s safe to share those things. (Look for compassion, acceptance, someone who is aware of their own pain, and the ability to be fully present.) Try as much as you can to BE that person for the people you love. And seek, without shame, whatever help you need to be well. There is NO shame in therapy, counseling, crying and experiencing “negative”/difficult emotions, taking medication, and whatever else you need to heal. Pursue your healing. It is your birthright and God wants you to be well.

Love bears pain. I can only speak to the love of God, because that is what has ultimately saved me. My heart was broken, but oh I found the heart-mender! In God’s great love for us, Christ came and died a death on a cross, a death he didn’t deserve, that death, pain, loss, and suffering would no longer have the final say. Death and suffering were swallowed up in the love between Father and Son, that now all who suffer are taken up into the love of God, for God knows that place, God knows what it is to face death and pain. He knew what we needed most and He has provided it in the person of Jesus Christ.

When you suffer, God is there – God is with you, bearing it with you. And He has already given us victory over the shadow side of life in the promise of the Holy Spirit – that God will be right where we are, breathing in us. Knowing that I am never alone, even and especially when I’m in pain…that saves me every day. I wish you peace today.

all i ever wrote, Healing, Love

A Hand Full of Stories

I’ve always noticed people’s hands. I’ve always been drawn to hands and the stories they tell. When I was younger, my parents’ hands seemed very large to me. My mother’s hands: long and elegant, also strong. Hands that had to be resourceful, move quickly, figure it out. My father’s hands were different—darker, with wider fingers and a gentleness of feature but sternness of movement. The hands of someone who has held many books, turned many pages.

I remember my grandmother’s hands looking like they told a world of stories. These were the hands of a creative woman: hands that made clothing for my mother and her siblings, hands that made warm homemade bread and famed guava and coconut tarts, hands that churned fresh butter; these are the hands that turned pieces of her wedding dress into christening gowns for her children. These hands have been moving daily for 99 years this November. Though beset with pain now, they are still going.

There are other hands. My spiritual director’s hands holding mine in hers as she prays over me. The feel of her finger on my forehead when she anointed me with oil. The hands that lowered me into my baptism pool. The patient and skillful hands of the surgeon who repaired my wrist. The kind hands of the nurse who dressed me after the procedure, when I couldn’t dress myself. The devoted hands of the friend who cared for me as I recovered.

My other friends’ hands the first time I saw them holding their firstborn children. My longtime friend’s empty hands when she told me that she had lost another child to miscarriage. My first love’s hands in his casket. Looking just like I knew them to be and also telling the story that he was not there. There was no life in those hands. His living hands were not like that.

I look at my own hands and I think of every person they have held. Every face they have touched. Every person they have offered Reiki to. All the things they have carried for me. How they have worked for me over so many days, how many things they enable me to do. We love with our hands. We can use our hands for love.

Very recently, I went to Sunday service and during the beginning of Communion, I glanced up at the monitor in front of me and I saw, close-up, these gentle, brown, female hands lifting the chalice and breaking the wafer. They looked like mine. They were the hands of the Indian-American woman minister at the church. I realized that I had never seen the brown hands of a woman – hands that look just like mine – doing this sacred task. This seemingly little thing was so significant for me, in a way that I hadn’t anticipated. All day after, I kept seeing the image of her hands in my mind. Hands like mine. They were hands like mine.

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