Photo by Brando Makes Branding on Unsplash
The Risk of Tenderness
We can live without softness,
never take the risk of tenderness,
but still it waits at our center
like an oyster locked inside its shell,
until something pries us open—
sudden loss, or the wonder that comes
once we see how fast our moments
fade and vanish. Then we’d pay
almost anything to prolong the miracle
of sunshine striking a paper sack
left open on the table, the way light
turns that simple thing into a sacrament,
brown paper glowing from the inside out,
like certain people we meet, who seem
to have learned the secret to life.
In many ways, our culture makes it feel easy and natural to live without tenderness. So often, a hard outer shell is valued over a way of being that allows us to soften into each of our moments, remembering how limited our time on Earth truly is. We might live like this for a while—until something happens that pries us wide open to ourselves and the world, some sudden loss or unexpected change that helps us glimpse again the wonder of everyday life. I have faced my fair share of uncertainty and grief, and after losing my father suddenly twenty-five years ago, and losing my mother and grandmothers more recently, I vowed that I would try to stay open to whatever pain—and delight and awe—comes my way, instead of closing down to the whole spectrum of emotions. This orientation, while difficult to maintain, and at which I often fail, has nonetheless kept me available to the smallest, plainest, most heart-opening moments, like seeing that grocery bag left on the table, filled with evening light that slanted into the house. My husband once said to me, after reading one of my poems, “You are the memory-keeper,” and I have felt that to be true. But the memories I most want to hold onto are the ones we usually rush past, the ones that can be appreciated only by pausing deeply amid the cascade of daily tasks that fill our hours. You could say I had “better” things to do than just standing there, watching sunshine caress a brown paper sack—and yet, I can think of no better way to spend my time than slowing down and letting the subtle glow of the bag pass into me, doing my best to prolong the miracle of ordinary living.
Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Think back to a time when you took “the risk of tenderness,” and softened into a moment like this, with someone else, or on your own. You might begin with the phrase, “I’d pay anything to prolong the miracle of . . . “ and see what feels most true for you when you consider the small wonders that fill our days.
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May we stay tender
enough to feel, to tear up.
Can cry and act up.
A dear friend has always told me: Harden to protect, soften to receive. I don't want to forget to soften...