We Can Do This Much
I’m home again. Barely. Not quite 24 hours as I write this. Still in the after-aura of the intensity of an intensive. My house looks only vaguely familiar to me. I’ve forgotten (temporarily I hope) where some of the neighborhood landmarks are.
Mythic space is real. And it lingers.
Almost two weeks ago I was one of a sea of people filling Armstrong airport from wall to wall and overflowing onto the pavement outside. One of many many many trying to get out of town before the hurricane, that some were saying might be the one that sent the river into New Orleans for good, made landfall.
It didn’t. Hurricane Barry made landfall, alright, but in my hometown, at least, the storm was almost a non-event. By the time I lost cell service in the mountains of West Virginia, two days later, I already knew my city and my family were okay. This time.
Camp was all of the things a witchcamp is. Every flavor of emotion mixed generously together in an ever-deepening container wherein community both blossoms and stews. And it was also a week of heat indices in the “dangerous” zone (over 104 degrees) with nowhere and almost no way to get cool. We did the work anyway. We (mostly – because really ‘mostly’ is the best groups of humans tend to do) took care of each other. No one succumbed completely to the brutal weather conditions. This time.
I’m home again, and a part of me is waiting for the next storm. Wondering if it will be The Storm. A part of me is wondering how hot will August be? And next August? And the one after that? Today Britain has a new prime minister and, well… it’s not easy to feel optimistic about the future right now.
And yet. I just got home from camp. Where, despite the “unprecedented” heat wave (I think we’ll need to drop that language soon), I got the shot of hope I always get from events like this. Events where our communities consciously come together to create and navigate courageously through a crucible of accelerated growth. I see the best of us, in these places, and I am reminded how powerful intention and honesty can be.
I’d like to wrap this up with a stirring paragraph about how a week in the woods with witches has restored my faith and set me fearlessly on the path into the erstwhile-frightening future. I’d like to end with the text equivalent of swelling music and a fist raised defiantly against a fierce sunset. The truth, of course, is less cinematic.
I am in a dark place. With only a little light. But that light is brighter than it was two weeks ago. And that light is everything,
We can do this much. We can keep being a light to each other. We can do that.
This post was written by Laurie Dietrich