Somewhere in the dark morning hours of October 7th, 2024, I woke to find my daughter breathing. In the darkness, my eyes and ears adjust to find those not-quite-shallow but soft breaths of sleep. If you ever cared for a child, you may know the miracle – and the relief – of confirming, often in the middle of the night, that they are still breathing. For parents, it doesn’t get old, even if you most certainly do. And for those of us who have experienced loss, of any kind, or perhaps just remember the postpartum haze of trying to keep a very new life alive, you’re never too far from that sobering wash of gratitude, arriving in the sleepy dark, when for but a moment you desperately need confirmation.
Not a dark morning has passed over the last year that I have not connected this moment, on the verge of dawn, to another mother – just like me. Except she lives suspended somewhere in wartime, desperate for confirmation. She, unlike me, joins far too many, waiting for a breath that may never come.
Somewhere in the green morning, I made coffee and drew tarot. Laying down three cards upon the dining table, I took only enough time not to be rushed, and not a hair more. (My daughter was starting to stir; a blessing.) The first card was The Tower, followed by the Knight of Cups – demolition and determination. One might shift focus just to the knight and their cup, as the card bears an omen of creativity and diplomacy. Two things we all crave. There are infinite interpretations of these cards, paired and separate, but I did not want to be so quick to ignore the shattering message that comes when The Tower appears.
When you look at The Tower card, there’s no mistake. People are jumping to their deaths. Systems and structures, with them, die. Dismantling and damage are not made gentle – they are the actions of the card. Over a year of leveling grief, The Tower is a hauntingly accurate card.
Almost everyone who wields a weapon – great or small, literal or figurative – is convinced they can destroy for a better future, a better world. Sometimes this destruction is called defense, but it doesn’t make damage and death any less. It’s hard to see dreams amongst the rubble and the dead. The talking heads and the righteous make it seem so easy to imagine one. They hyper-intellectualize violence, drawing up idyllic renderings of a world without their sworn enemy in it. I want to be able to visualize what comes after this nightmare, with new generations of children inheriting sowable seeds, regardless of their faith or skin or language. An end to this nightmare of sides arming themselves with rockets etched with poisonous, twisted prayers of annihilation. This nightmare of comparing virtues and martyr archetypes and blood quantum and all the myths that were meant to carry us home.
How dangerous it can be to assume a birthright to a god and a land.
The third card remains on the table. Eight of Swords. A woman caged by blades as tall as she, whose arms are tied and eyes are blindfolded, albeit loosely. She cannot (yet) figure her way out. Swords are meant to symbolize the mind, the most lethal weapon on earth. How many of our ideas – of self, of peoplehood, of nation – pierce holes in the fabric of existence? More than we care to count. Water flows at the figure’s feet. Perhaps she will have to feel something more buoyant than her fear or rage or paralyzing indifference to the situation, to find freedom. Perhaps we all do.
Somewhere in the golden afternoon, I walked through my local park. I came upon some bees continuing to pollinate the confused late summer blooms. They were so stunning, the bees and the blooms together, I stopped to film them. I tell myself not to hoard such moments in my phone, but it’s undoubtedly a modern expression of reverence.
I am glad, too, that with the same techno-reverence for life I have been invited into worlds far away, to see both beauty and atrocity. To hear stories and songs and almost-lost arts. To memorize names and faces of survivors, the waiting, and their dead. To ask questions of how I, from so many miles away, am inextricably linked to the people shouting to live from the blue light that carries them into my hands.
From my deceptively safe corner of the world, I think, “How do the bees show up to their great work every day when they are in the midst of a mass extinction?” Everyone knows the bees are dying in droves, and yet the survivors continue to just…live. And that’s when you realize bees and people are really not that different. We can be terribly misunderstood, delicate creatures. We live in subtle dances and speak in musical languages, most of us entirely capable of living gently, but not without our defenses. We are always greater together than we are alone, capable of such alchemical sweetness and innovation. We can be displaced and rebuild many times over. We can be killed and still rise from the spring earth because we hid our greatest hope – our children, our dreams – underground. And we, too, sacrifice ourselves for sheltered leaders, for labor and institutions, and, of course, for beauty.
If only we can be more like the bees. To lay down our human words, our weapons, perhaps to mistake an unknown for the hope of nectar. After all, a hopeless world does not bloom with flowers. A hopeless world cannot summon the bees.
Somewhere in the dimmed evening, I held my child close to my chest. Holding her is a prayer. I refrain from belittling one person’s suffering to make space for another’s. I hold what mothers get quite good at holding – multitudes and magnitudes. I listen. I challenge my all-too-human urge to side with those claiming greater worth or legitimacy or humanity. I become wary of the words we use to erase a person, a people, or even a place. I question those who rush to peace without justice as much as those who rush to justice without any true plan for peace. I side with the children, who have yet to be fluent in the languages of swords and flaming towers, and to whom I belong. Children are the bearers of cups and possibilities. I listen to the sound of the world breathing, somehow all living in the unchartable space between mothering and mourning.
The sameness and sacredness of breath. In every life there is a buzzing universe.
Isabel is deeply rooted in traditions drawn from her Balkan and Celtic lineages, woven with great care into the scholarship of her Black, Indigenous, and Queer teachers. She holds a master's in theology from Union Theological Seminary and a bachelor's in comparative religion from CUNY Hunter College, and prior to her spiritual studies, trained at Manhattan School of Music in classical voice. She has dedicated her life to uncovering prophetic voices in scripture, society, and self.
Isabel resides on Lenapehoking with her partner, daughter, and cat, alongside the many residents and visitors in their garden. Her Dharma name is Faithful Rest of the Heart.
The Braided Way is a framework to see every faith tradition as a strand, braided into a larger whole of spiritual awareness. In the Braided Way, combining spiritual practice from various faiths allow us to explore sacred experience and wonder in forms that resonate with our personal spiritual needs and sacred intuitions. In today’s culture, many people shun religious dogma, but yearn for spiritual connection. The Braided Way allows the ceremonies and practices of multiple faiths to be available without the confinements of cultural dogma.
Tender, poignant, beautiful.