What Kind of Light Can I Provide?

In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—we need to BE light for one another. 
That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again
in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence.

~Parker Palmer

Somehow I managed to make it until Friday evening before learning about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. I had opted to listen to The Be Good Tanyas and Leonard Cohen in the car that day rather than NPR. But when I got home and opened Facebook, I was instantly overwhelmed by a flood of posts about this tragic incident, a flood that I quickly got swept up in. It seemed that none of us knew what to do other than share articles and statistics, express outrage with political memes, sadness with Rumi quotes. But soon enough all this posting and sharing began to feel like binge eating. We could stuff ourselves with information and opinions, but it would not diminish the loss and pain.

When I could finally read and post no more, I turned off the computer feeling numb. I was overwhelmed by too many words when there were really no words that could possibly express the sadness, anger, helplessness, and grief I was feeling. On Saturday I threw myself into pulling weeds, sweeping the yard, vacuuming the living room, moving Christmas boxes to the garage. The more physical and mindless the work, the better. You know that if I start cleaning with that kind of fervor, something is up.  Perhaps this was a more honest expression of my feelings, a physical release of some of that emotion. 

I did not cry until Sunday. The children's production of "The Latke That Wouldn't Stop Screaming" continued as planned at church. We needed to see children in cardboard costumes. We needed to hear a story that reminds us that everyone belongs somewhere. We needed to be reminded that there is still plenty of love and light, joy and laughter in the world. 

This is not what made me cry, however.

Aaron and Julia, the ministers at my Unitarian church knew people would need someplace to go with the stew of feelings this tragedy left them with. They provided such a place in the second service Sunday morning, beginning with 26 minutes of silent meditation or prayer, interrupted only by the sound of a bell each minute—one clear, resonant ring for each person who died in the shooting. There were a few words, but not too many. There would be plenty of time for words in the weeks and months to come. 

I had a hard time settling my mind during the silence and I simply could not process any more words. The music that morning touched me deeply, but what broke me open and made me cry was the rending of cloth. The rending of garments, or Keriah, is an ancient Jewish mourning ritual, a sanctioned and ritualized act of destruction in the face of grief. One description I read suggested that the rent garment represents the torn heart of the mourner. 

We did not rend our garments. But Julia and Aaron gave us white muslin and asked us to tear strips when the cloth was passed to us. The growing sound of fabric tearing was the sound of hearts being torn open. It was the sound of anguish and grief. The resistance of the muslin as I tore my strips released my anger and my tears. That was when I finally cried for those children and their teachers.

We tied strips of muslin around each other's arms to wear that day in honor of those who died. I am still wearing mine. Frankly, I am afraid to take it off. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the business of day to day life, to "forget" how important this is. Christmas is a week away. I need to finish shopping. I want to share holiday traditions with my family and sing with my choir on Christmas Eve. December is all about the promise of light out of darkness. Hanukkah, the winter solstice, Christmas are all about the promise of light. And I want to remember that promise. But I do NOT want to forget this tragedy. 

So I'm going to keep wearing this small piece of cloth around my arm until after the holidays so I will remember. Because we simply cannot go back to sleep until the next horrible shooting. If we do, then we are as guilty as the next shooter. What we can do is listen deeply to each other, even when we disagree (especially when we disagree). We can sign petitions, write letters, march in the streets, make some noise. And we can start building a culture of respect and kindness, one act at a time, one day at a time. We can choose to be part of the promise of light out of this darkness. As author Parker Palmer posted on Facebook this morning, everyday we can ask ourselves, "What kind of light can I provide today?"