During a War

It was a mild day late in February 2022, and we hiked up to Gaviota peak, and down a tricky trail. We paused to appreciate wildflowers along the way, then sat along a grassy area with a view of coast and mountains so breathtakingly lovely, we all fell silent. It was a prolonged hush, unusual for a group of women who are very fond of talking. 

I think we were overcome with awe and gratitude.

Oh, it’s true we might have simply been tired, because it had been a long trudge to get there, but mostly, we were just inhaling beauty. We saw how earth is sculpted into rugged rock and ridges, its grassy hills breathing, and how the Gaviota Coast curves into mist, illuminated by yellow mustard flowers to the south, and how the sea and sky merge, and we were somehow at the edge but embraced by it all.

Little by little, conversations resumed, quiet exchanges among ladies sitting side by side with their sandwiches, and general comments shared with the group. We are never not surprised to have landed here in this remarkable corner of the planet. 

“There’s a war happening,” someone said. 

It had to be acknowledged. This time, it was the invasion of Ukraine.

“There’s a real war right now, and people are suffering and dying. And we get to be here.”

Variations of this scenario have always been so, but lately the dissonance is more gruesomely apparent. And it could certainly change in an instant, but at this juncture it was clear we had drawn the lucky hand. We inhabit a safe, detached compassion, although even our own safety feels less inviolable as brutal power casts its shadows across our interconnected world. We struggle for a way to contain the knowledge of conflicting realities colliding constantly, of our privilege in the face of pain, of our good intentions and personal sorrows and feelings of helplessness, all overridden in this moment by a desire to simply linger on a ridge above the coast.

It’s a familiar disjunction, a regular part of life. Each moment contains miracles along with crushing grief. Just a few days ago, I sat with friends in the shade of an oak tree in the backcountry of an old California ranch, sipping tea and sharing thoughts. Butterflies fluttered around us, occasionally lighting on a hat or a shoulder, as though mistaking us for flowers, which was flattering. But again, our conversation was not carefree. Now we were trying to process a horrific attack in Israel, and turmoil in our own government, and, as always, the ominous fragility of the very planet.

Diane told us about her late friend Norm, a funny, kind, and gracious man who was a survivor of Auschwitz. The first time she noticed the numbers on his skin, she touched his wrist and asked him how he managed to find joy. 

His reply: “We have an obligation to live life joyfully since we are the lucky ones who survived.”

An obligation? But it does feel ungracious to reject the gifts we have been given. And if Norm could navigate in this way, despite everything he witnessed and endured, why not us? I want to live as Norm did. I am striving daily to avoid succumbing to cynicism and despair, which are self-fulfilling prophecies and highly contagious, trying instead to find or create a space where realism and hope can coexist. I believe there are ways to heighten what is good and beautiful without denying what is not.

Maybe gratitude and love are forms of power. Maybe facing the frightening facts can fuel defiance and resistance and small-scale solutions in our own realms of influence, giving our hope a stronger foundation. In the meantime, when invited into wonder, please accept. There is no harm in sitting on a ridge feeling grateful, or laughing when a butterfly lands on your hat, or leaning into the mystery without expecting answers.