The Eclipse and the Art of Not Giving Up

I hope you're well. I don't usually write to you on a Saturday, but today is a solar eclipse. An every-so-often moment when the moon passes between us and the sun, and the light dims.

Even if you’re not in the path of totality, you may feel the energy of the eclipse ~ a subtle pressure, like the world is holding its breath.

And let’s be honest: things already feel strange, eclipse or no eclipse.

For many of us, these last few weeks have brought blast after blast of change. Tension. Disorientation. Maybe you’ve felt scattered, scared, overstimulated, uncertain. Maybe you’ve been glued to the news ~ or avoiding it entirely. Or both, depending on the day. Or the hour.

Whatever your experience, this moment feels messy. Many of us are just trying to find some way to orient ourselves in a world convulsing with change.

And in the midst of all the convulsions, it’s easy to forget ~ "eclipses" come and go. But they don't stop spring from coming.

In the natural world, spring's arrival is hidden at first ~ growth begins in darkness and messiness. Seeds split open underground. Roots take hold. And then sprouts push through soil. Life keeps unfolding ~ even when we’re not ready or not looking.

There’s a poem by Ada Limón that speaks to this. I often read it in the spring, and I shared it with my ongoing students last weekend. I want to share it with you today, too:

Instructions on Not Giving Up
by Ada Limón

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

from The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018)

❤️

One particular phrase stays with me when I read this poem:

“the strange idea of continuous living despite/the mess of us.”

In the shadowy times of not-knowing, when things feel messy and overwhelming, it sure can feel like a strange idea to keep going. But that's what the trees do. They silently teach us something about being alive.

Maybe you haven’t had time to notice it yet ~ maybe you’ve been too overwhelmed. But right now, tree tips are quietly budding. The sun is setting a little later each day. Somewhere, a tiny green shoot is pushing through 🌱

If you'd like to practice with this, I invite you to pause for a moment and put a hand on your heart.

With your next inhale, say silently: in the mess

As you exhale, say silently: what's green is growing

Take three breaths this way.

When you finish, notice how you feel.

Spring officially arrived just over a week ago, and April will be here in just three days (!). April is both National Poetry Month and National Stress Awareness Month ~ a quiet reminder to pause, reflect and offer ourselves extra care.

It's the weekend, and I hope you get some downtime today and tomorrow. I'm sending you supportive energy and a reminder that something green is growing, even in the messiness of now 🌱