A National Wound


Art by Josh Williams, from https://heartbreakamerica.com.

Something I’ve been considering lately—and I know I’m not alone in this—is our current political moment in America. Not only is our president unpopular and repulsively incapable of coherence, but many recent events are arguably assembling into an assault on empathy and compassion. This nonstop rhetoric of division. Trump backed the US out of the Paris climate agreement, has gotten away with bragging about sexually assaulting women, throws together a budget proposal that would be devastating for the poor, consistently calls upon stereotypes to depict minorities, and bullies some foreign leaders while lauding praise on other foreign leaders who are, themselves, bullies. In this state, what good are words? What good is art, or beauty, or attempting to foster compassion?

I want to share with you, dear reader—especially those of you who are particularly threatened by this administration—the young, the poor, LGBTQIA individuals, women and girls, minorities, Muslims, Hispanics, Jews, artists, healthcare workers, activists, scientists, animal lovers, outdoor enthusiasts, parents and teachers with a stake in the future. I’d like to share some quotes that both bring me solace and challenge me to act. Since writing is one of the languages I speak, this is my offering to you.

It has been helpful to me to reconstruct my understanding of pain and suffering as a signal of the work that needs to be done, a calling. Mother Theresa once said, “I used to believe that prayer changes things, but now I know that prayer changes us and we change things.” Agitation and suffering are the impetuses of great change.

I’ve also been thinking about suffering as physical—we say that our hearts break for the parents of trans children murdered, for the addicts unable to afford treatment, for the victims of police brutality, for the children growing up poor, for the coastal homeowners facing rising sea levels and more volatile hurricane seasons, the dying polar bears, the thirsty in Flint, the rape victims whose rape kits languish untested. When Trump won the election, students walked around Colorado State University’s campus crying, holding each other. Our understanding of pain begins as physical, as wound, as foreshadowing of death.

Rumi: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

In Krista Tippett’s 2014 interview with writer and philosopher Dr. Joanna Macy for her radio show and podcast On Being, Dr. Macy talks about heartbreak: “World is lover, world is self and that it’s OK for our hearts to be broken over the world. What else is the heart for?” In the unedited version of this interview, Dr. Macy also says that if our hearts could physically break open, that’s where we could fit the whole world. Wounding, breaking in the body is a making space for something new; vulnerability as a possibility for growth.

In Tippett’s 2016 interview with poet and memoirist Mary Karr, Karr says, “as deep as a wound is, that’s how deep the healing can be.”

We are a relatively new nation, but our American experiment with multiculturalism and diversity is even newer. We are in pursuit of deep, wide, expansive healing. Healing as deep as slavery and segregation. Healing as deep as institutionalized objectification of women. As deep and long as churches and teachers and parents who’ve hurt us. The potential for healing is great, and vast.

One final quote I’d like to leave for you comes from Terry Tempest Williams’s marvelous and most recent book, The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America’s National Parks. In it she carries on a correspondence with activist Tim DeChristopher, who served prison time for protesting a 2008 Bureau of Land Management (BLM) auction of oil and gas extraction leases by outbidding on land he would not (and could not) pay for. In discussing climate change with Williams, DeChristopher said, “We must let ourselves be shattered by the hopelessness of the crisis . . . When we abandon the hope that things will work out, the hope that we will be able to live the easy and comfortable life which we are promised, the hope that someone else will solve this problem, then we are free to act . . . The opposite of hope is empowerment” (271).

Suffering is a call to action. What change will your hopelessness cause you to work toward? Work from our places of wounding, and vulnerability. This is where fierceness comes from, fierce compassion. And we can all agree, I think, that our nation could stand to see more compassion in every place, every school, every home, every broken heart.



I’d like to live in the plane of gratitude, not just offer it up when I’m feeling warm and loved. In the way that some pray without ceasing, living and acting from a place of gratitude would have a profound effect on my frame of mind. Instead of shouting at Abe, my dog, for digging up the grass in the backyard and tracking in  mud all over the house, I’d consider my (justified!) anger alongside how much I love him, and how wonderful a presence he is in my home and my life.

My sweet puppy

My sweet, furry, messy puppy

Instead of banging kitchen utensils around in frustration with the half-burned granola I need for one week’s worth of breakfast, I might realize I have the money to buy new ingredients, and be grateful something (even if it is half-burned) will fill my belly each morning to fuel me for that day.

I find it’s often hardest to practice gratitude in the midst of a challenge. Emily, the owner of Blossom Yoga Studio in Laramie, taught a yoga class recently where she constantly encouraged us students to cultivate gratitude, and yet she was simultaneously guiding us into very challenging poses like arm balances.

From YogaJournal.com, this is firefly pose, which is a type of arm balance

From YogaJournal.com, this is firefly pose, which is a type of arm balance

I found myself immediately criticizing – my legs weren’t straight, my hips weren’t high enough off the ground…. There was so much for which I could be thankful, though – the strength of my arms, shoulders, and core; the flexibility of my hamstrings; my perseverance and power; my ability to breathe while I balance; even my having the time for this class, and the teacher, and the studio itself.

When we fall into pattern and familiarity, it’s easier for us to see what’s missing rather than what’s present, which is part of the reason the Holidays can be so hard for people. Families change; people grow up, move away, marry, divorce, and pass on.

Yet great and disruptive change gives us an amazing opportunity to take note of what it is we hold dear, that for which we’re thankful. And once we notice these things, we can turn them over in our minds until they become woven into the very fabric of our way of living, until they become a constant prayer.

I am thankful for the people in my life who love and care about me. I am thankful for the ever-changing seasons. I am thankful for my house and my home, this little town of Laramie in the wide open state of Wyoming. I am thankful for the snow-capped mountains that loom large over Laramie. I am thankful for nourishing food and libations. I am thankful, as always, for a good book (right now I’m reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed). I am thankful for yoga, the yoga community, and for my healthy body.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!