It is no coincidence that last night after learning the
awful news from Paris, with a heavy heart, I began to read Terry Tempest
Williams’ Finding Beauty in a Broken
World. It is a book about many
things and many places, among them, learning the ancient art of mosaics in
Italy. Taking broken shards and creating
something that catches and reflects light is something that this world of ours
could use more of, definitely.
I awoke this morning still sad and angry about humanity’s incessant ability to destroy one another, not only in Paris but also in Beirut and Syria,
and a myriad of other places I’ve never been that always includes Sandy Hook,
too. But the acts in Paris hit home as
deeply as the mass shooting in Tucson several years ago that injured Gabby Giffords
and killed many others. Both Paris and
Tucson were home during significant phases of my life. But my heart was softened this morning by a
message posted on Facebook by Frans, my Parisian host father from all those
years ago. While his message acknowledged
anger and sadness, he reminded me that now we should look inward and for
the Soul to reclaim its liberty. He
ended with a beautiful phrase: Je suis en devenir – I am in the making,
and I realized that we are all in the making, not one of us is yet complete,
not a single one of us.
But of course, I was still angry and sad. I still am.
It takes time to heal. And often
it takes more than time. For me, I often
need time outdoors on my feet – walking, running, hiking – to sort out the
thoughts chasing one another around my mind.
I headed for Old Kettle Road, the farthest road from our house in the neighborhood,
a journey I’d made while mentally composing my first post for this blog several
years back. Back then, it wrapped around
an open meadow, which legend holds, was used as an airstrip in the 1940s. In the last several years, though, it’s been
subdivided and homes in various stages of construction and habitability line
its edge. I came here because it’s a
quiet walk, it’s rare to see others, and solitude was what I was hoping to
find. I was mostly alone, however, the
natural world held surprises for me.
On my way down the hill, an adult American kestrel flew
right in front of me – maybe five feet away – and perched in a nearby tree and
showed me its tail feathers. A raven did
a similar maneuver about a mile further down the road, flying close enough that
I could feel the movement of air from its wings. And then, when I turned on Old Kettle,
thinking of Paris, there was a coyote, maybe 40 feet beyond, trotting away from
me down the road. And in that moment,
the wiliness and adaptability of the coyote seemed very à propos for Paris, a
city that is constantly reinventing itself while maintaining its allure and
history. The coyote sensed my presence
and stopped, looking back at me over its shoulder. We regarded one another for a long minute or
less, until she lost interest and resumed her silent trot, at the quick, even
pace that only belongs to the stealthy.
I spent the afternoon at Watson Woods with Madeleine and
several of her friends. We were
volunteering with Prescott Creeks to help eradicate wild teasel (Dipsacus fullonum) from
the wetlands there. It was hard work,
using shovels to remove these plants with roots the size of carrots from the
mucky, sticky mud. Teasel is a European
species, introduced in the eastern US on purpose, but which has spread throughout
the West choking out native grasses and plants.
In some areas the ground was carpeted with teasel and it was difficult
to see the progress we were making. I
had to keep reminding myself that every plant we took out was not going to
flower and go to seed and give life to thousands of others. I felt like the Little Prince battling his
baobabs on Asteroid B-612. It was good
therapy to attack this plant under the watch of the stately golden cottonwoods,
even if our work made a rather small difference to the Watson Woods.
A few weeks ago, I went with a dear friend to hear Terry
Tempest Williams speak. Williams is a
writer, activist, and conservationist, a champion of the American
Southwest. I first encountered her
writing through Refuge, her account
of her mother’s death from breast cancer, while I was in the midst of my own
breast cancer experience. It also
expresses her dismay that, while shepherding her mother toward death, she was
also witnessing the destruction of natural habitat due to the Great Salt Lake
rising to record levels, a place which had previously given her much solace.
Williams does not mince words and yet also writes with a sensitivity that is simultaneously
delicate and powerful. Refuge is so eloquent and potent that at
times I had to set it aside, unable to bear the truths about human and
ecological suffering that it contains. I know that Finding Beauty in a Broken World will not be an easy read either, but that it will be worthwhile.
At this talk in October, though, Williams spoke about her
work in conservation and how it is that change is enacted. She and her husband Brooke have found that
one tactic that has worked is what they term “uncomfortable dinner
parties.” They’ll host a dinner party,
inviting people who have different visions regarding a difficult topic, and
after dinner they’ll have a conversation about it. They might invite ranchers, tribal leaders,
developers, environmentalists, and lawmakers to discuss an issue like the Bears
Ears, a proposed national monument. And
through these conversations around the dinner table, they’ve been able to make
progress through compromise and listening.
Again and again, she returned to conversation as a solution for every issue for which the audience members sought her advice. It’s such a simple idea, and yet how often do
we avoid it? We avoid it for a simple
reason, too: it’s difficult.
In the midst of our sometimes seemingly endless grief, whether it be due to our own
personal suffering or that caused by a global event or something in between, conversation quite
possibly could make a big difference. So
I ask you to start one, perhaps even an uncomfortable one with a person you
might not ordinarily choose. Invite someone, especially someone that you perceive as different from you, into a conversation and be sure
to take some of that time to breathe and to listen. We are all in the making. We are all becoming. We are all mosaics, trying to make something
beautiful from the broken pieces around us.
