(to community, held within the Open Space of Democracy)
It is morning. I am mourning.
And the river is before me.
I am a writer without words who is struggling to find them.
I am holding the balm of beauty, this river, this desert, so vulnerable, all of us.
I am trying to shape my despair into some form of action,
but for now, I am standing on the cold edge of grief.
We are staring at a belligerent rejection of change by our fellow Americans
who believe they have voted for change.
The seismic shock of a new political landscape is settling.
For now, I do not feel like unity is what is called for.
Resistance is our courage.
Love will become us.
The land holds us still.
Let us pause and listen and gather our strength with grace
and move forward like water in all its manifestation:
flat water, white water, rapids and eddies,
and flood this country with an
integrity of purpose and patience and persistence
capable of cracking stone.
I am a writer without words who continues to believe in the vitality of the struggle.
Let us hold each other close
and be kind.
Let us gather together and break bread.
Let us trust that what is required of us next will become clear in time.
What has been hidden is now exposed.
This river, this mourning, this moment – May we be brave enough to feel it deeply.
And then act.
Posted on Facebook – 7:41 am, Wednesday, November 9, 2016. Also appeared in Whitefish Review, volume 10,
issue 2. Copyright © 2016 by Terry Tempest Williams.”