Both/And

wonder and sorrow at the same time

It is spring in the Northeast. Days are getting longer and the quality of sunlight is changing. Though it’s still chilly and I’ve been indoors more than I like, I’ve been making a point of getting the sun on my face each day and saying hello to surrounding trees. I tell the white pine how beautiful she is. I imagine she likes to receive praise. Every living being likes being noticed, treated kindly, and appreciated.

I go inside and read the news. It takes me away from the calm of my immediate surroundings and across the world where extended family is suffering. I say extended family because we are all related, just as I am related to the trees with whom I exchange breath. When I read the news, I cannot breathe.

A spring beauty in the forest

I have been thinking a lot about both/and lately. How beauty and ugliness exist simultaneously. How do we hold space for both? How do we celebrate the living world without turning away from the world’s pain?

In a recent course, poet, activist and educator Alexis Pauline Gumbs shared June Jordan’s poem, “Intifada Incantation: Poem #8 for b.b.L.” A poem that contains the overwhelm of both/and:

I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED

GENOCIDE TO STOP

I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED AFFIRMATIVE

ACTION AND REACTION

I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED MUSIC

OUT THE WINDOWS

Dandelions are appearing outside now. This beautiful wildflower is a symbol of resistance. In last year’s profile of dandelion I wrote that the misunderstood, medicinal wildflower comes back to bloom every spring, unphased by unpopularity or contemporary categorization as a weed to bring light to lawns, sidewalks, and city streets. These so‑called weeds appear on lawns no matter how much toxic poison people douse them with. The magic of our visible reality has become invisible to too many, and it is not without profound cost. Medicinal plants like dandelions are killed out of habit, turning yards and valuable public parks into semi-toxic playgrounds. Nature is generous and abundant as long as we stop making her (and ourselves) sick.

a beautiful dandelion thriving outside

In his recent newsletter, poet

Pádraig Ó Tuama

wrote, “A poem is just a poem, mostly lasting a little (but not much) longer than a flower”. Reflecting on the beauty and tenacity of wildflowers amidst incredible turmoil, he asks:

What will convince us to move away from murder toward life? I have become convinced that many of those who perpetuate violence have a crisis of beauty — taking a sense of life from stopping it. For some, it’s easier to destroy than create. I spent years in conflict resolution wondering what would convince someone to make the courageous change, to turn away from sustaining violence towards sustaining life.

Grassroots movements begin from the ground up and so-called weeds can teach us a lot about resistance. They cluster together, grow everywhere, adapt to change, and never give up. Like the brave university students demanding divestment, we can all, in our own ways, be voices for the people, our wild kin, and Earth.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

It’s amazing how much our minds can hold. Impossibly beautiful and horrible things. We know the earth is suffering and at the same time, blooming and thriving. Can we revel in the beauty, advocate for her, and nourish her at once? For me all are woven together. The more I fall in love with wild nature, the more I want to share that love. And it's amazing how much our hearts can hold; how they can be broken and in love all at once.

Poet Fadwa Tuqan lived through the 1948 Nakba when over 700,000 Palestinians were violently forced to flee their homes. In her heartbreaking poem “Enough For Me” she writes of the intense love for her ancestral land:

Enough for me to die on her earth

be buried in her

to melt and vanish into her soil

then sprout forth as a flower

played with by a child from my country.

Enough for me to remain

in my country's embrace

to be in her close as a handful of dust

a sprig of grass

a flower.

I choose to believe that the more we love the wild earth and each other, the less we harm. At least that’s what I hope. Like dandelion pushing through cracks in pavement, our resilience and capacity for love can bloom even amidst suffering. Solidarity lies in the reality of our interdependence and our shared vulnerability.