eightstrong – this community – began over seven years ago after my daughter died. It re-ignited at the start of the pandemic, when, with two living children ages two and under and knee-deep in uncertainty I couldn’t not write. That has always been true. Though since then I’ve found myself writing, well, mostly to myself. Pages upon pages – first, of my oldest daughter, witnessing her life and what it means for me to live after. Then, of delight, wading through the practice of poet Ross Gay, writing one delight a day, through the heart of the pandemic. Delights – these simple joys – taught me I could write more, that I wanted to write more. Delights were the fertile soil through which my writing sprouted. Writing became a means not only to remember, but also to witness and grapple and live.
There’s something missing, though. What is your writing if you don’t share it? a friend asked. A hard truth and with it, I heard another: where are you in all of this? I have never been the loudest kid in class, eager to learn though not to voice, more comfortable with one-one interactions than in groups. Because I was never quite sure of my place, never quite sure of myself.
I share this journey of my writing because it is one of my most intimate. And because it’s also incomplete. This – and with the creation and continuation of the eightstrong community – there is so much more I want to do. Some days I feel so full of dreams that I feel lost. Am I scared too? No doubt. Of failure, of falling flat. And. At some point in this journey, my dream to connect – to share in my writing a little of what I hold most dear and to hear from you – what resonates? and where do you find affirmation? or comfort? – the dream to connect has become just a little bigger than the fear.
Kobi Yamada, in his children’s book, Maybe, writes: “One thing is for sure, you are here And because you are here . . . anything is possible.” It’s true. The only certainty, I’ve found, is that I am here. It is possible that it tumble forward from there? That in being here, that in simply being, I am beloved. We’ll start with being here, and because I am here, why not – try?
But where to begin?
With the next right step, my mom reminds me. Words from my childhood, those easy phrases repeated so often they become breath. I thought of the next right step this morning as I stood beneath an oak tree, with its branches spiraling upwards. How this tree started as an acorn, that, once broken, sprouted roots. Then, a stem pushed up out of softened soil towards the light. The stem grew taller. Branches sprouted and with them leaves formed. Day by day, the steady accumulation of light and of water formed constellations, leaves and branches. And then one day, they became abundant. Full enough to return to that softened soil as leaf litter. As acorns.
Light and water; soil and the generous cycle of season upon season. That’s how this tree grows. To move forward one step at a time, I find it helpful to hold close what keeps me center. My light and my water. What keeps you center? Your pyramid, my mom calls it; also, her life’s mission. For her, she shared, sifted over years of prayer and practice, of that trial and error that we call living. For me, well, I’m getting there. It feels less a pyramid and more a spiral, with that which I hold closest at the heart. Attention to my relationship with God, which I find in stillness, in prayer, and in the practice of getting outside. Then attention myself – what fills my cup – writing and reading in the quiet, exercise and rest. And in attention to my family and to my friends – those five-minute check-ins with girlfriends, snuggled in bed with my children reading before bed, late night date night. Finally, there’s attention to my writing and to my work. To find center, I attend to – what’s center. With attention, I walk the spiraling path outwards again. Today and in these days ahead, as I re-ignite this dream of eightstrong – of a community empowering you to live creatively and courageously – know that as you walk your own winding path, I will be walking alongside you.
What is your light today? Your water? As you move through your day, where do you find center?
for the library
Ross Gay, the Book of Delights (available/ public library)
Kobi Yamada, Maybe (available/ public library), illustrations by Gabriella Barouch (available)
Yesterday I went to church for the first time in what felt like ages. It was nice to be held in the walls of a place of ritual, peace and community. I noticed a grandpa chasing his toddler granddaughter around, old friends embracing at the end of the mass one mouthed to the other “I am so happy to see you here again,” and an hour without phones, social media and outside noise. I took my 6-year-old daughter and loved watching her process the music, the kneeling in prayer a construct a bit foreign to her. She did ask me when the band was going to “rock out” and I found so much joy in this. I went there humbly, searching for that center and I’m called to go back again. Maybe it will help spout the roots you speak of above in the little girl inside of me and the one that sat next to me in the pew.
Thanks for sharing and how beautiful. Sometimes I’m surprised by the ways in which I am able to take a step forward for — or with — my children, and how this can be the impetus for me to step out on my own (again), too.
Powerful and moving story. Even in our darkest moments, we can find a strength beyond our comprehension and a peace that passes our understanding.
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