Nourishing Bites | My July Paradox Part 3
Part 3 of 3 (Read Part 1 and Part 2)
Grief is a shapeshifter.
One moment the world seems navigable, the next your heart is poured open with the aching gratitude of memories almost too precious to bear. Peace comes, but is a shy stranger for a time.
It makes me curious. Where exactly does grief go when it is not pressing heavy on your shoulders?
How does it appear in an instant, sneaking up behind you with a “BOO!”? One minute I can be washing dishes, the next, tears are washing down my face.
Grief isn’t something we can control or fix or change. Grief is not to be ignored or stuffed or fit into a shoebox of keepsakes or in the span of a funeral service. Grief is a companion to our lived experience.
We don’t honor ourselves or those we’ve lost by turning our heads or backs or hearts. I grieve and carry on living. I live and carry on grieving.
Every hard day of loss I’ve traveled through is a day I have the opportunity to become a more compassionate, intelligent member of humanity. Grief is not meant for us to explain or understand or even define. Loss does not bestow intelligence of the brain, but rather only an invitation to deepen the wisdom of the heart. As I walk (and sometimes crawl) through my grief, I am careful with my words, patient with my thoughts. I forget, but soon remember, no matter what evasive tactics I try, I too am permeable. After I lower my head to the grave, it’s always best to lift my heart to the warm July sky. The work is to stay. Remain. Remember.
**
When I was growing up, for a time we had a little barn in which my parents kept my grandfather’s hand woodworking tools.
Among the brace and bit drills and the curvaceous wood planer were a collection of handsaws. I can remember spending time inside the poorly lit structure “building stuff.” Building stuff was mainly just an excuse to use these tools. I loved the feel of pounding nails into soft wood, and of watching the shavings trickling out around the drill bits. I loved securing pine scraps into the old heavy vice so I could measure, use the square to draw crisp straight lines, and then cut lengths of wood. It felt special to be using the same tools that had belonged to someone so ‘ancient’, my hands sliding into the same well worn grooves as my ancestors. In this little barn, my imagination ran full speed thinking of all the things this motley assortment of tools had constructed over their long lifetimes.
Obviously, I wasn’t a very experienced carpenter. As with anything, practice can be a first class teacher, but in my case, another mentor happened to appear at the right time.
One summer day, Jack discovered me as I struggled to saw a thick board in two. Every push and pull the saw would stick and the only progress I was making was in the direction of frustration.
Jack didn’t laugh at me, or pepper me with questions that would have made me lose confidence and feel small. He didn’t make fun of or disparage my “project.” I remember clearly that he watched for a bit, then asked if he could help. I explained that the saw, “wasn’t working right. It must be dull.” Surely it wasn’t me, I mean, a saw was the easiest tool of all to use, right?
First, Jack told me to look close. He showed me the angle of the saw blade teeth, explaining patiently what edges were sharp and how they actually cut the wood fibers.
It was the first time I remember learning that understanding how something worked was important.
He sawed a bit, easy and free. Soon there was a nice slot for the blade to sit in.
Then he said something I have never forgotten, something I remember whenever I am really wrestling with a situation or when I am impatient, or when I catch myself wanting to just move past something using brute strength.
Jack said, “Don’t try to force it. Just let the saw do the work.”
He watched while I gave it a go. I emulated his stance, wanting so much to be like him. I eased up, stopped gripping the handle so tight, and let the saw blade slide across the wood. Gaining confidence, I built up a steady rhythm and before I knew it, this was fun! Nearly effortlessly, the board was in two.
Jack’s grin cracked wide open, his eyes full of light. He celebrated. “Yeah!” he said. “You did it!”
I felt as if I could build a cathedral.
In less than five minutes, I understood the power of finesse, of being truly present in the moment, of what it meant to be a team. Jack taught me how giving and receiving worked.
He taught me how to look and listen for the powerful gifts others possess- even if that other was a modest, century old handsaw.
Just let the saw do the work.
A metaphor I have invoked time and again, in all manner of experiences with which I’ve had to confront as a farmer. Jack completely changed my approach from one of imposing my will, to one of being in conversation with the greater world.
**
It was because of Jack that I decided to buy this farmland.
Thus, without Jack, it is unlikely I would have pursued farming as a career. He may not have known about soil health or how to grow cucumbers, but Jack had the ethic of a land steward and he taught me to work in concert with the world, not against it. Jack knew how to accept, appreciate, and encourage.
He taught me to loosen my grip, and urged me to pursue what I loved. He always celebrated my accomplishments, no matter how small.
I’m etched with grief because I lost him, but I am undoubtedly a better, more caring human being because he lived.
Another July moment, circa 1978: Big brother Jack sharing his harvest with little sis.
My brother Jack and our sweet dog Samson had something in common.
These two princes of kindness were stewards of the underdog- vulnerable, trusting, and wise in ways the world often does not value. Both were spirits of gentleness, and of treating others with compassion, of lifting up the least among us. With a genuine smile or an inviting tail wag, they brought everyone around them into the fold of belonging.
Gloria Atanmo said, “The dream is to be who you truly are. The legacy is built by teaching others how you got there.” In their quiet ways, Jack and Sam are still here with me, still teaching me how to leave a legacy of kindness. ~AJ
Well, goodness. I’ve never harvested a heart radish before. Even the farm is reaching out these days to hug me!
Why I Wake Early
“Hello sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety—
best preacher there ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light—
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.”