Parachute
“I have woven a parachute out of everything broken.”
This morning I climbed to the top of the ridge and sat in the clouds to contemplate things. The wind swirled noisily about my head, adding to the cacophony of my thoughts, and I felt very insignificant. History is happening, a necessary uprising, and I know where my heart is, but I am watching from a distance.
Everything seems to be in upheaval now, and it’s scary and sad, but I also think that this disruption is how we will be transformed. Some things are ending that have needed to end, and there’s a shift in awareness, a change in strategy, a broader coalition of participants. If we can move forward in a sustained, nonviolent way, a whole new chapter will begin. I feel a guarded sense of hope.
My friend Diane has observed it too. “As trite as it sounds, I just hope love wins,” she says, “and that we can hold it and put it to use in November.”
A passing train punctuates the days of isolation, its long lonely sound coming through the fog, and the south wind gives the air a tropical feeling, and all the broken fragments form a parachute, and I have landed on my feet.
I believe we will get through and prevail. Is that faith, or naiveté? Faith: “a great weight hung on a small wire” is how the poet Anne Sexton put it, and yet the wire holds. I may have lost my religion, but I’m hanging on to faith. Something deep within me refuses to yield. It matters too much.