<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class="">Bearing Witness <br class=""><br class="">Sometimes we are asked to stop and bear witness:<br class="">this, the elephants say to me in dreams<br class="">as they thunder through the passageways <br class="">of my heart, disappearing<br class="">into a blaze of stars. On the edge <br class="">of the 6th mass extinction, with species <br class="">vanishing before our eyes, we’d be a people <br class="">gone mad, if we did not grieve. <br class=""><br class="">This unmet grief,<br class="">an elder tells me, is the root <br class="">of the root of the collective illness <br class="">that got us here. His people<br class="">stay current with their grief—<br class="">they see their tears as medicine—<br class="">and grief a kind of generous willingness<br class="">to simply see, to look loss in the eye, <br class="">to hold tenderly what is precious, <br class="">to let the rains of the heart fall. <br class=""><br class="">In this way, they do not pass this weight on<br class="">in invisible mailbags for the next generation <br class="">to carry. In this way, the grief doesn’t build <br class="">and build like sets of waves, until, <br class="">at some point down the line—<br class="">it simply becomes an unbearable ocean.<br class=""><br class="">We are so hungry when we are fleeing <br class="">our grief, when we are doing all <br class="">we can to distract ourselves <br class="">from the crushing heft of the unread <br class="">letters of our ancestors.<br class="">Hear us, they call. Hear us.<br class=""><br class="">In my dreams, the elephants stampede <br class="">in herds, trumpeting, shaking the earth.<br class="">It is a kind of grand finale, a last parade<br class="">of their exquisite beauty. See us, they say.<br class="">We may not pass this way again. <br class=""><br class="">What if our grief, given as a sacred offering, <br class="">is a blessing not a curse?<br class="">What if our grief, not hidden away in corners,<br class="">becomes a kind of communion where we shine?<br class="">What if our grief becomes a liberation song <br class="">that returns us to our innocence?<br class="">What if our fierce hearts<br class="">could simply bear witness?<br class=""><br class=""> - Laura Weaver<br class=""></div><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><img apple-inline="yes" id="30338480-B3A7-45A2-9283-3C0AD8EE821F" src="cid:D6C0CA8D-7906-4F74-A36F-4A662D9DB3E6@gateway.sonic.net" class=""></div><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><br class=""></div></body></html>