Room Enough

A grove of philosophical poplars surrounds me. They are re-establishing themselves on a mountainside once made barren by those who saw this place as a rich commodity, each ancient tree as a dollar sign. This landscape is no stranger to loss. It has been scraped by landslides, struck by lightning, washed by floods, and cleared by the hands of man. There are no guarantees of life eternal in wild spaces. Only the moment is promised.

I am perched on the rock I usually call my ancestor rock. I discovered this place when I was learning more about my great-grandmother, a descendant of the Taino people. I learned how her ancestors suffered the near loss of their entire culture when the Spaniards conquered Puerto Rico. I learned that she and her sisters came to the United States after she lost her brother to drowning and her parents to sickness. Many winter days I have found myself here contemplating the persistence and strength of the generations of women who came before me. I have felt their presence here. I have asked for their wisdom. I have thanked them for the difficult battles they fought for futures they can only watch from behind the veil. I have honored them with my persistence and strength. I have sent prayers of love and goodwill to the generations ahead of me.

At this moment, this is my wailing rock. I cry out with everything in me to God, to the sky, to the trees, to my ancestors, to my son. I am hurting and angry. I feel betrayed and broken. My grief has been seeping, but here I let it flood. Somehow, I am sure that no matter how big my feelings are, here is where there is room enough.

I have come to a place where there is space for all of my pain and suffering. The trees are unruffled by my weeping and continue to stand tall, swaying only slightly in the wind. The birds sing on above my cries, a melody above the moaning. The soft breeze comfortingly caresses my forehead. The earth accepts my tears, turning them into wildflowers. In this place, there is a complete acceptance of whatever state I am in and a complete assurance that the world will not stop turning.

The trees are doing good work, pressing upward and outward without anxiety for what could become of this land tomorrow. Even though all has been lost in the past. The wildflowers are coming up this spring unworried about their futures beyond the fruit they make this year. Even though they have been trampled on and frozen many times before. The tanagers will faithfully return in hopes of building nests, trusting this place will receive them as it did last year. Just as I have trusted it to receive me. However I show up, this place makes room for me and steadily carries on. And reminds me that I will too.

If you are curious about where I am in my grief journey check out my Trails of Grief. Pretty much camped out on the trail at this point, but still looking to my faith, my loved ones, and nature for hope. Without these expansive spaces in spirit, heart, and earth, I would be lost in the depths of a darkness that I am not sure I could return from.