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Healing: it takes a village

The word healing generates a mosaic of images, sounds, and feelings. There is a texture of healing which feels known and unknown at once. It is a word which is used to describe what’s on the other side of: process; pain; trauma; war; heartache; elections; and racial justice. There is hope inside of healing, the kinda hope which can swallow you alive and leave you in the dark for so long, you’ll believe the blowhole of a whale is the sky. Healing is both a stranger and a lover: its permanence lingers without a name.

I imagine the array of emotions and thoughts we connect to healing is an echo of our longing for everything to be ok. Healing is code for safety, an experience some of us have never known, yet we are conditioned to desire it. In our desire for healing, there are often conditions of how we want it to feel versus how it actually feels. There is often conflict about how healing arrives in us versus how we want it to behave. We want our healing to be soft. We want our healing to say sweet words. We want our healing to be a warm sweater with the option to transform into a tank top on hot days. We want our healing to be love. We want healing to feel whole.

I am no expert on healing, and I know healing cannot happen alone. In my vision of healing, there are many tongues and movements shaping the everyday of life. There are hands offering rest & nourishment when healing feels disorienting. There is a rhythm of our ancestors feet and vocal cords in a far distance as we build more strength in our lungs. There is an embodied we are here.

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