Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,
turning down through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe,
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering,
the small round coins,
thrown by those who wished for something else.
…
a friend who carries my story died this morning. Sudden, unexpected he is gone. I carry him into this quiet night, grateful for all we shared and sad for what is no more.
Poem: The Well of Grief in David Whyte: Essentials
Image: Evening on the Isis @David Whyte, Oxford May 2015
Feeling the heaviness and deep sadness for the loss of eight lives in Atlanta and now- 10 people in Boulder, I sit here with my tears. As these 18 people started their day, did they think about their safety? Or did they begin that day focused on the work that needed to be done, the care for their children and family and thoughts of what would come next — dinner, school, maybe even looking ahead to plan for time to safely leave home and relax — finally, the way days normally begin.
None of these people were able to experience the life they may have hoped and planned for. These tragic deaths have created holes in the fabric of our lives as community. We feel this loss and struggle to make sense out of what has happened.
When words cannot suffice, I turn to music. The words and melody often allow emotions to surface that my logical brain struggles to release.
This video was recorded soon after the shooting at Mother Emmanuel AME Church, Charleston SC in 2015. It was this evening’s music that allowed my grief to finally rise.
In honor of all who died in Atlanta and Boulder, I share this with you.
They know, I thought,
like the birds of Iraq before shock and awe
on the first day of spring.
It was said that the sparrows and songbirds stopped singing,
their silence heralding the dropping of bombs.
Carrie's Bench 
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