Healing

Seven paths of becoming, 3

‘Springtime in Vétheuil’ (1880) by Claude Monet

Poem: ‘Remembering’

So this is how you heal –
not through the slick mechanics of effort,
not by waiting for time to numb the memory of your pain
while the glinting days pass by – no, you heal
in the cold grasp of a March morning;
you heal when you are woken early by the blackbird,
and for the first time since your heart slipped
beneath the brackish water of grief
you are able to get out of bed before you need to.
You even open the door
and step out into the dawn-grown air,
which though still rasping with the dregs of winter
carries the soft thrill of melody.
It is what woke you; it is what is waking you.
For a few moments you are held by gasp
as the sky is pronounced with heron, back from the pond
and the cool swallow of silver fish, or going – always larger
than thought. On the damp, mossy ground
are the scattered petals of magnolia, wind-stripped
in the angry night. Still,
you notice the contrast of pink white
against the green; still, the morning breathes in
and the light has all the space that it needs;
you discover one within you too,
one that can pay attention to the song, that remembers
how to hum along
to the music.

‘The garden sweet in the purple of grape-hyacinth’. Photo by Gideon Heugh.

Healing

How do we heal?

Quietly. Subtly. Eventually. One day. One step. One breath at a time.

We heal with presence, attentiveness, remembrance; with the simplest of pleasures becoming pleasurable again. The myriad blues, pinks, and golds of dawn. The feeling of your favourite hot drink in your hands. Touch. Taste. Glimpses of commas and foxes basking lazily in the sun. The garden sweet in the purple of grape-hyacinth. Deep sighs that aren’t all sadness. Dunnock trill. Your favourite film. Your favourite album flowing through you; the way the glow of it eases your ligaments.

We heal when we stumble upon the courage that was always there – the courage that rises to the surface when we realise in fullness what matters most; when we find that one gorgeous and necessary yes that allows us to say no. A ‘yes’ that could be as simple as living.

We don’t neglect the grief. Lament is part of it, too. We recall all the things we miss; pass their names like liturgy over our trembling lips. We hold them close; we let go. We heal in curves and unusual angles; in hidden corners; in long stretches that seem endless until they’re not.

We heal by getting out of our selves; by casting off into that larger flow. Know your mind, your heart, but don’t wall yourself into them. There is so much colour out there waiting to bleed into you. Be bodily with it – fingers in the earth, feet on the trail, hands passing around the bread. You’ll need solitude; you’ll need the communal.

We take that step towards life. And if the step is too much, perhaps we simply turn ourselves a little. A growing posture; a memory of soul stirring.

We’ll try to be shamed out of it. Attacked for it. Judgement will be held like stones, but someone else will come along and trace words of deeper knowing into the dust that will clear the way for your return. We heal by being here. By looking. By choosing. What is within our grasp is not nothing.

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