I’ve struggled with what to write today. I have too many thoughts to organize, and too few words to express all that is swirling in my heart and mind. How can I make meaning of the broken-heartedness I feel — for my cousin whose 26 year old son took his own life earlier this month, for the crushing impact that the Kyle Rittenhouse acquittal has on the freedom to assemble and its implicit support for white vigilantism, for the hateful incitement of violence within our halls of government, for the relentless news of mass extinction and climate disasters, and more…? And how do I hold brokenness that co-exists with gratitude for and inspiration found in the many courageous and communal acts for justice and wholeness that rise up to say, “We are here! Not in our name!” 

I have been meditating on the image of the intricate, multi-dimensional web of all life and of all creation. Each silky strand of the web is another miracle of existence, extending back through time and into the future. Each knot in the web is a reminder of our interdependence as people, as beings. The web must be tended, mended, reinforced as the destructive forces of empire, racism, patriarchy, oppression rend gaping holes. Tears in our intricate fabric divide and isolate us, treat life as expendable, make us forget the miracle and the necessity of respecting our Earth home and all her inhabitants as precious. Throughout time, there have always been forces that rip the fabric of the web, and there have always been Menders and Tenders.

As we enter this week of Thanksgiving, also known as the Indigenous Day of Mourning, I am aware of the complicated legacy of this holiday. I give thanks for the Menders and Tenders of the web of life who are the truth-tellers. They ask us to look deeply into the tears in the web in order for us to learn what has been stolen and destroyed through domination and deception and to seek new ways of being. For those of us who are non-native to this land, Thanksgiving has mostly been rehearsed as a white-washed story obscuring the truth of settler-colonialism. I invite us all to revisit our Honoring of Land and People acknowledgement developed in consultation with the Confederated Tribes of

Grand Ronde, and also to read the “Suppressed Speech Of Wamsutta (Frank B.) James, Wampanoag” (this is on a blog maintained by Tupac Enrique (Izkaloteka) that I learned about through SURJ’s Indigenous Solidarity Network). 

The Menders and Tenders are also the collective voices of Black, Indigenous and other Women of Color in Portland who proclaim a vision of our city that holds the inherent worth and dignity of each person and of whole communities. They call for us to remember and center those who have been whitewashed out of a dominant-culture story of Portland’s history and refuse to be silent about false narratives that would have us believe safety is equivalent to police, and unhoused people are the problem. You can read their message, and sign on in solidarity if you are so moved: “We won’t surrender our beloved city to People for Portland’s bleak vision.” 

Menders and Tenders are also those who yesterday called together activist Black leaders, allies and accomplices and interfaith clergy to join in the peaceful, direct action of a “Die In” as a collective response to the Rittenhouse verdict. They demonstrated solidarity in the face of a criminal legal system that continues to uphold white supremacy and racism. I give thanks to those who organized the event and to the couple hundred people, including many of our congregants, who participated.

I am trying to live with presence in these times. Gratitude for the creative, communal actions of those who tend and mend our complicated web calls me to presence and purpose. What complexities are you holding? Where do you find gratitude in the face of grief or despair?  

As we move into this week, I share this poem by adrienne marie brown. May it offer some soul nourishment in these complex times.

this is the only moment (species love poetry)

by adrienne marie brown

i can’t stop being in the present

noticing how the past tells me what i should care about and the future tells me what i should fear

and the past tells me what we forgot

and the future tells me what we must dream

but here

i breathe in

noticing the gift i too often take for granted

not knowing how many breaths i have left

i want to spend them

being

love

i have done so much, so many tasks

but what has mattered most

has been the listening

to the thirsting dirt

to the spiraling wind in the wake of

murmuration

to the drumbeat of ant feet moving abundance with a million hands

the sacred erotic of pollination

the orgasmic opening of mushrooms

pulling the yes for miles underground

the innocent violence of predators

feeding their children

the way the wild wastes nothing

the way the cedar gives me permission

to pray

i thought someone else

had all the instructions

and i, stumbling and following,

praying to become worthy,

must admit i have been grieving and grieving

all i don’t know and don’t trust

and grieving so deeply

a world that is still breathing

anticipating failure

in spite of my visions

but when i listen

the universe is reminding me

i cannot be taken from her

i am never untethered from her roots

never beyond the whole

and nothing is lost, it is lived

and we are not here to win

but to experience love

and those who do not know love

are missing life in spite of all other accumulation

and when i listen

the universe is teaching me

that control is impossible

and the season will change

and enough is a feeling that cannot be measured

and the small circle is the deepest

and i cannot teach anyone what i have not practiced

and i cannot change anyone but myself

and i will never feel free in a position of demand

and i am already free

and we all are, and when we realize it

we cannot be contained

and we are never i

even when we are lonely

even when we distinctly suffer

even when we distinctly succeed

we are of lineage

of collective

of era

of farmers’ hands and strangers’ prayers

of singers with their heads thrown back

we are always dancing with our ghosts

and praying for our great great grandchildren

we are always the harvest

and the future is being decided

the future is being practiced

the future is being planted

in this breath

and this breath

and this breath

so i breathe in

noticing the gift i too often take for granted

not knowing how many breaths i have left

i want to spend them

being

love