Parable of the Skinned Knee

There’s a brief story, a moment in time really, that I’ve been breathing…cherishing, living since I last wrote. I have struggled to find an entry point to say anything much as war continues in our world, in our country, in our communities, in ourselves. There is so much vying for our attention. And so here, I offer a very humble, everyday moment for however it may speak to you, however it may nourish and inspire your own heart in these times.

The winter of 2024 collapsed into care-giving, the end of my father’s very full and long life, and integrating his death in grief and living. Emerging from a period of  exhaustion and tenderness, life divided between homes, the first weekend morning home home, after he died, I moved slowly: tea, some yoga, meditation. I dressed to go out on a run, felt myself squinting into the day’s hazy light. I paused  to attend a neglected plant. In this quiet moment, I heard a child close by, wailing.

I walked out to see what was happening. 2 y.o. neighbor Naomi was standing, sobbing. When I called her name, she looked at me and stopped crying. I walked up, “What’s happening, you hurt? Can I look?” She presented her knee. Behind her, 7 y.o. neighbor Clara sat down on the ground so Naomi could sit in her lap. I knelt. Her knee was red, no abrasion or bleeding. Parent (dear neighbor) had arrived, and yet paused at distance. I asked Naomi if I could hold her knee. Naomi nodded. We sat together in this lil bundle of care for a moment, not long. And very quickly, as little ones do, she popped up and went back to playing with the other kids.

I headed out in the opposite direction for a run. Into my chest arose a familiar warm fullness, throat dried, and a few tears emerged. I had a deep sense of Dad saying, ‘Yep, there are people hurting and it’s time to get back to it, time to re-engage the world.”   There was no harshness, no stifling of emotion, not him telling me to stop grieving. There was instead a quiet, warm, grounded pragmatism; clarity that it’s our responsibility to care for each other. As always, although a lil wobbly during dad’s end of life, I operate under the ‘place my own oxygen mask on first principle’: attending to the capacity and health of my body and heartmind. And that moment with Naomi and Clara was the pivot back toward our broader human family. Breathing the poignancy of dad’s death and life, I returned to supporting my patients, who I so love, and love witnessing their own reclamation of health and vitality. I returned to the prison circles of men with whom I meditate and share dialogue about how these tools can support awareness in our lives. The guys regularly inspire me with their insight, self-reflection, and efforts. And these activities of course in tandem with cherished, tender time with my small blood family close by, my beloved and nourishing partner, my  community of neighbors and friends, and robust time over the summer in different expressions of play and rest.

In East Asian Medicine, during the summer, the ‘heart energy is scattered’. Seems particularly so for those in the PNW. We pour ourselves so fully into every moment of sunshine, cause it’s precious! Autumn, by contrast, East Asian medicine considers to be the time of the bookkeeper. It’s the time when energy gathers, when we get things in order. It’s also the season of grief. All around us the plant world is dying, preparing to draw in for the dark and cold months ahead. And it is an opportunity to reflect on how precious and fleeting this life is, and how quickly things can change for any one of us.

Wherever our energies have been over the course of the summer, now is a beautiful time to gather our attention. It’s a time to take our own pulse, to check in with our physical health and well-being, to envision what wellness will look like as the daylight waned in these months ahead. AND, AND, I would also urge it is a time to orient to those around us, to listen for those wailing with skinned knees.

Bodhisattvas can be thought of as Buddhist archetypes. Avalokitesvara, the Buddhist Bodhisattva of Compassion, is purported to have been overwhelmed by the cries of the world until her head split into a 1000 pieces.Ever feel like that?! And yet as this being’s shattered form magically gathered back together, all those fragments formed hands, and in each hand a tool, a tool to serve others.

In this autumnal pivot, please assure your own oxygen mask is on first. I am always here to support in clinic. AND not after, but as you are attending to your own well-being, look around. Who is wailing? How can you extend care, comfort, service and solidarity? How can you support something larger than yourself? I’m not foolish enough to believe the world’s war and turmoil can be resolved with some attentive and compassionate touch. However, when I myself am overwhelmed by the suffering of the world, I find one of the best medicines is putting some focus outside of myself, and moving that energy toward something larger. As a number of recent public figures have encouraged us strongly, do something! That may be care for a neighbor or elder or friend. It may be election related work in or out of state (this resource assembled by Jessica Craven). It may be mutual aid or researching service work in your local school or community. It may be that you are in need of support yourself and the ‘doing something’ is asking for help, itself an act of courage. You alone can know. You alone can act. You alone can respond to the cries of the world.

I’ll close here with the last few lines of a beautiful poem The Art of Disappearing, by Naomi Shihab Nye, Palestinian American heritage.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then, decide what to do with your time.