12 Minutes for Despair

Here we are, mid-way through May and mid-way through Mental Health Month. I had so many plans for how I would spend this month alternating between talking about mental health and talking about Asian American, Native Hawaiian, and Pacific Islander month since they coincide at the intersection of what makes me, ME. Instead, I've been busy. I've been deep in the work.

I've spent my life beating back the kind of deeply rooted despair that comes from having lived through decades of the type of trauma that many people only read about in books or see on tv. It has shaped me into the person I am: a hypervigilant, anxious, and wounded person, who is also a relentless advocate for people, a believer in the difference that kindness can make, and a staunch supporter of the work that lifts up those who have most often been crushed, ignored, or overlooked.

But that work? Oh, friends. Let me tell you, it is the work of being in the midst of despair and sorrow. In Western culture, we lean on the light/dark dichotomy that infers that we'll find truth, freedom, and goodness in the light, while the dark is where all those things are obscured. I often find the opposite to be true.

• The dark is where you find what people are made of and what they do when no one's looking.
• The dark is where you discover how people tend to their most wounded selves and what they need to heal.
• The dark is where you uncover the most broken parts of our systems, communities, and people.

Most days, I am more afraid of what we cover over in the light, than I am of the things we reveal in the dark. When you've been a dark walker (not to be confused with White Walkers, for my G.O.T. fans), you learn to appreciate the unmaking of the light/dark narrative. The kind of hope, joy, and collective care that can be resourced from those depths of despair and sorrow are some of the most radical moments of love and connection I've ever known.

Grief Astronomer

I read a poem the other day by Andrea Gibson (actually, it smacked me in the face like a revelation) that says it so beautifully. Here's an excerpt:

But the world needs those who know how to do that. Those who can find a tunnel with no light at the end of it and hold it up like a telescope to show that darkness contains many truths that can bring the light to its knees. Grief astronomer, adjust the lens, look close, tell the world what you see.

Sometimes, being a grief astronomer can feel lonely. When you're feeling around in the dark doing the work, it's easy to think you're alone. On those days, the despair can sometimes become the monster under the bed. When that happens, I lie down on the floor with it.

Today, I set a timer for 12 minutes (because that's all the time I had between meetings). I pulled my favorite blanket on top of me. I drew my pup close, and I closed my eyes. I sat in the dark with the despair, and I said to that little thing under the bed—"Come here, then. Tell me what you see, today. Maybe we can adjust the lens and find the truth together." I find that things that go "bump in the night" do less bumping and more talking that way. Despair is simply the manifestation of the thing we shove out of sight, because we don't have time for it or don't want to face it. And when we do, we make space for the kind of discovery that only comes when you veer out of the light and into the depths.

Fellow grief astronomer, if you're out there flailing in the dark today, take my hand. I'll walk with you.