The Unhealed Wounds

Recently, I heard the poet Natasha Trethaway discussing the book she has written about her mother’s murder. At one point, she made a reference to Federico García Lorca (1898-1936), the Spanish poet and playwright, who believed that the strangeness and inventiveness of an artist’s work lies in trying to heal “the wound that never heals”.

Of course I started thinking about unhealed wounds of my own, and I’m pretty sure we all have at least one that is deep, unhealed and irreparable. The tragic loss of a loved one, the fatal mistake, the regrettable cruelty of deed or omission––the sorrows accrue, and all must be endured, even when unbearable. How do we suffer these wounds? How do we coexist with them? By definition, it is futile to try to heal that which is impossible to heal, so what do we do with the unending reverberations of deep trauma? How can we use it?

It’s a dynamic we navigate daily, whether consciously or not. It’s a matter of staying afloat, of not sinking into despair, and trying to make some good come out of the pain, so that pain is not the sum total of what everything meant. William Stafford had a technique, of course: Things That Hurt Me -Turn into pearls. First my tongue turns them over and over. They have an edge that lacerates and then brings out a coating. They begin to shine.

Maybe the shine is insight or compassion, the creation of something beautiful, of seeing with the heart. For Trethaway, who was a teenager when her mother was murdered, the shining part might be the ability to experience profound joy. “To know such grief,” she says, “means that when you experience joy, you know the depths of its opposite, and that makes it that much sweeter.”

I guess this is a time for reflection, and I’ve been doing my share. Apart from our personal wound histories, there is a pervasive sadness, worry, and toxicity in the air these days that takes its toll on all of us. And yet, I find myself marveling at the richness of the life I have had, and I am determined not to yield to malevolent forces. I believe I can best honor those I have loved by finding a way forward. To feel only the grief is to squander it all, because it has to mean more than just grief.

I thought about these lines from Maya Angelou in the aftermath of John Lewis’s funeral:

“And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.”

Be and be better. That’s my new mantra. Maybe I’ll fail, but I have to try.

May our wounds turn into windows through which shine the beauty and light of an ongoing story.