A Great Shining, Episode 449
What might become possible if, even for a moment, we let ourselves feel cherished… allowing ourselves to feel the care of others as a living presence in our bodies? And what happens to our way of being in the world when we use this as a doorway, returning us to connection, to belonging, to the quiet rhythm of being human together?
In this episode, we turn toward a luminous poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, and into a conversation about imagination as a way to recover our capacities as we respond to the world. We explore what it means to remember we are held, how that remembrance changes the way we meet one another, and why it may be more foolish not to imagine a world that can be shaped by our care. Along the way, we find ourselves asking: if even one of us begins to live as though we are cherished, what kind of ripple might that set in motion?
This week's Turning Towards Life is hosted as always by Lizzie Winn and Justin Wise of Thirdspace.
Our source for this week:
A Great Shining
inspired by Maya Stein’s 10-line poem form
What if, in this moment, every person on earth thinks of someone who makes us feel cherished,
known, safe? What if we let ourselves linger in this moment of connection? What might happen inside
each body? What might happen in the world as in unison our breaths begin to even and slow? Would
the pulsing of our hearts begin to synch, the way heart cells in a petri dish come to keep time with
each other? What is earth if not a great experiment in which we are all both observer and observed?
How long could it last, this rhythmic communion between jailor and prisoner, oppressor and
oppressed, between fighter and fighter, maker and destroyer, parent and child, liar and believer, all of
us thinking of love? Foolish, perhaps, to imagine such impossible moments. But more foolish not to
imagine such things. Even now, I’m thinking of someone. It feels like the moon is inside me.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Rosemerry's Website wordwoman.com
Rosemerry's Poetry ahundredfallingveils.com