Today the rain is teeming down on me as I pluck the bright daffodils to bring inside.
Some previous renter has gifted us with mounds of planted bulbs – striking shots of color all over this scruffy, overgrown yard.
In this place of neglect someone who lived here before me saw the potential for a little beauty.
And hearing the news that our country is at war makes me want to do this inconsequential thing.
To tug at the glaucous necks of the tender stems one by one. To see the silky serum squeezed out of the stalks.
But as I look across the brown grass there are hundreds of tender shoots that have no buds.
Will they eventually emerge?
Because I want to bring a riot, a thousand of these sunny faces into the house and put them into one giant, bulging vase.
I want to yank the yellow and hold it forever.
I want to keep the sunny-ness and not think about tomorrow’s news or the next day or the next,
I want distraction. I want my sadness and worry tamped down, no despair.
Yet there is so much unsteadiness, so much uncertainty about the future.
Still there is something in the sluice of rain that sneaks down into my collar that steadies me.
The cold that reminds me that I am grounded right here, right now, deep breath.
I just want to see wholeness, but I’m afraid.
There are no daffodils here in Minneapolis. No crocus, no pansies, no snowdrops.
The lawns are brown and ache for color.
I am here visiting my sister. It’s a chance to be together and for me to catch up on her life here. She has been super active in the politics here.
She has taken me to the sites where they murdered George Floyd, and also to the place where Renee Nicole Good was shot, point blank, in the middle of the day.
I follow her as she points out places that ICE has surged and where they have been plotting and hiding in their unmarked cars.
I accompany her as she shops and delivers food to a family of immigrants who are scared to death to leave their home. Too afraid to even pick up our bag of groceries at the front door.
We could be killers.
There is so much to this city – this metropolitan area – it is a tortured, complex and scary place.
But there are slight beams of yellow, even without the perennials.
Sunday morning. A church basement.
I haven’t been in one of these reception halls in a long time.
It’s after the church service, and I’m waiting for my sister to come down from the sanctuary to introduce our speaker, Tony.
Tony was the leader of the Wales pilgrimage and he has come today to present a Lenten forum: Thoughts on Celtic Christianity.
In this group of midwesterners I suddenly feel very Southern. Why? I don’t know. Something about how I’m dressed in bright periwinkle without any heavy layers.
But on the round tables I spy bright, buttery daffodils in little pots – forced to bloom for the congregation in this wintry climate.
Rising for this occasion.
Just seeing them brings me ease and focus.
But there is the ongoing theme in my head that I’m not doing enough, or anything, to help out.
K’s witness and hard work push me to confront my apathy.
I don’t go to church.
I hardly go to the protests.
This weekend has been a lot, but I am making my way through this labyrinth of events, and it will come clear.
I leave simply hollowed out, but with my eyes open.
Finally, I was so tired when I got home late last night. Lying in bed, I couldn’t shut down the stimulation – the bright yellow energy of Minneapolis, and of my incredible sister.
And then this morning, funny thing, I sat down at my desk, coffee in hand, and looked down – it was a little sketch that my daughter had left for me over the weekend.
Maybe hope is here for the taking.
When they rage, I will calm
flyer from the George Floyd memorial
When they deny, I will affirm
I will simply be who I am: for that is what the Spirit created me to be.
–
Bishop Steven Charleston
Citizen of the Chocotaw Nation,
and a Native American Elder
honeybees & reveries 