Helene Aftermath: Watching the world
Last night as I sat wakeful beneath my open window, a chorus of frogs began to sing me to sleep. This morning, gathering what flowers remain in my wind-torn garden, I was startled by a cardinal—the first songbird I’ve seen in over a week. There were hawks after those winds, though they looked shocked too—but no songbirds. Now they are coming back.
We humans are not alone in our loss—animals, trees, ecosystems have been devastated and are also finding their way to recovery. But one of the only things my scattered brain has been able to rest on today is the sight of one of my favorite trees, a maple the storm spared, turning slowly golden through the window of my counseling office. That tree alone holds my frantic mind still.
It reminds me that in old stories of floods, often the very first signs of hope are the reappearance of birds, the blooming of branches. I have learned to watch what nature does and to emulate it as closely as possible, given that it’s the oldest regenerative system we can observe firsthand.
One of the first things I am seeing is tiny plant seeds germinating in the mud. Their roots will hold the mud in place as they drive down and in, and in some cases, these pioneer plants will serve as bioaccumulators, taking in and secreting toxins from the soil so that a greater diversity of plants will be able to germinate in the next generation.
How can we begin to hold ground, hold our place, even as we metabolize the toxins that have been left in the wake of the storm? And how might we build back in such a way that the coming generations are even more diverse, more resilient?
I have seen, too, in the humans around me, that those who have been able to take action are faring better than those who have not. There’s something about DOING, metabolizing all of that worry and fear and sorrow into action, that helps us. Picking up sticks from the ground, carrying buckets of water, delivering food, shoveling mud. Or sitting in the sunlight and humming, shaking, dancing.
Moving our eyes across news does not count. It is important to think and to connect resources and to plan—and thank you to those who are doing it! But even this toxic wash of mud left in the wake of the floodwaters is not sitting still. It’s cracking, drying, sprouting, transforming. We need that, too. What is beginning to take root in you that holds you, however incrementally, together? How are you—literally—moving through this?
Here are some ways to volunteer: https://www.handsonasheville.org/
Today, in between sitting with clients, I went outside with a poem and walked. This is the poem I walked with today. It has helped me put language to the grief I feel for places I love that are changed forever. The lovely curve of Chimney Rock gorge. Sweet Swannanoa. My ancestral home, Marshall. May the words of this poem help you root your grief in the large arms of all who have grieved beloved cities before.
The God Abandons Antony
When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.
-C.P. Cavafy
May we all be graced with courage, may we all find support in the ancient resilience of the natural world even as we grieve the exquisite music of what we have lost.
Helene Aftermath: Belonging to Ourselves
Some beautiful things I have seen lately: People driving around with trucks loaded with food and water, stopping to ask anyone they see if they need anything. Restaurants and food trucks grilling up free meals and serving them out to anyone who is hungry. Neighbors posting information so that those without connectivity can be connected with resources. My exhausted brother, who is organizing rescue efforts from Greensboro, making a special trip out to us to make sure we have enough drinking water, food, and gas.
I had a long conversation this morning with a client who has lost her home. We read the poem below together and grieved the place that held her life and her memories, her plans for the future. And she told me that now the faces of her children are “the bright home in which I live.” She asked me to share this, here.
Because the pain of holding both at the same time—the heart-rending grief of losing “the bright home in which I live/ where I ask all my friends to come” even as she celebrates her family’s survival, knowing “how easily the thread is broken/ between this world and the next” —it’s enough to tear a person in two if we can’t find enough backs to carry it.
We are asked to hold both, now. We need each other so that we can get big enough to do it. It made me think this morning of how we insulate wires with a plastic coating to keep them from sparking each other. All of our insulation is lost, right now. We are touching wire to wire. And sometimes stripping away the insulation of comfort and safety means we feel love and appreciation for our family, our neighbors, the beauty in the world more intensely than ever. And sometimes it means that sparks fly and ignite and grow into rage and fear and scarcity-driven cruelty.
I awoke
this morning
in the gold light
turning this way
and that
thinking for
a moment
it was one
day
like any other.
But
the veil had gone
from my
darkened heart
and
I thought
it must have been the quiet
candlelight
that filled my room,
it must have been
the first
easy rhythm
with which I breathed
myself to sleep,
it must have been
the prayer I said
speaking to the otherness
of the night.
And
I thought
this is the good day
you could
meet your love,
this is the black day
someone close
to you could die.
This is the day
you realise
how easily the thread
is broken
between this world
and the next
and I found myself
sitting up
in the quiet pathway
of light,
the tawny
close grained cedar
burning round
me like fire
and all the angels of this housely
heaven ascending
through the first
roof of light
the sun has made.
This is the bright home
in which I live,
this is where
I ask
my friends
to come,
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.
This is the temple
of my adult aloneness
and I belong
to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.
There is no house
like the house of belonging.
by David Whyte
This is the black day someone close to you could die. This is the good day you could meet your love. When you can, stretch enough to hold both. When it feels impossible, rest.
I offer the guided meditation below for those of you who are feeling your brain spinning and sparking, unable to sleep, caught in cognitive loops. Sometimes the most restful thing when that happens is to reconnect with the wisdom of the body.
(Bodies are all different, and if the meditation does not match yours, please imagine your inner world infused with the capacities described regardless of the form they take, and accept my apologies for my flawed language.)
Helene Aftermath: The two children
Hello, all—I would like to share an old story with you today. I have been noticing in myself, my friends, my clients, that in the wake of crisis there are several normal, organismic responses that sometimes we judge ourselves for having. Three that the story explores are feeling a need to escape/get to safety, a need not to see the bad things but instead to experience only wonder, beauty, and helpfulness, and feelings of overwhelming grief and rage. In the story, all of these responses have their place.
I invite you to find inside of you where all of these things are happening, and to offer self-compassion to every aspect of these responses. If we can treat our normal responses with care, they don’t have to come out sideways in acts of aggression against others or internally as self-sabotage. When we work with things that happen imaginally, as within a story, we don’t have to suffer the heartbreak of actions we regret.
Had the ones who left not left, everyone would have starved. Had the sister not seen wonder, the brother would have been lost within himself. Had the brother not felt his anger, he and his sister would have been helpless and without resources—and the village would not have changed in the aftermath of this story, would not have learned anything, would not have deepened.
Once I heard Martin Shaw tell a story and conclude it with this sentence: “See what happens in your own heart when you trade growth for depth.”
I am feeling in my own heart these days what happens when I trade growth for depth. There are things that were “normal” a week ago that I do not wish to experience as normal again. There are relationships I have built and ways of being I have cultivated in the wake of this flood that I hope I can continue to nurture. There are things I need to learn, here, that may change the shape of the village.
Helene Aftermath: Making a path to the well
Hello, all. I’ll be posting here over the next several days as we navigate the aftermath of Helene together, offering poems or stories or meditations that I’ve found helpful.
Here is a link to a google doc that has been assembled with up-to-date resources for those of you in the WNC area. Resources
Wishing each of you resilience, companionship, and strength.
the stories you tell yourself
By Lissa Carter, LCMHCS
