“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.”            
-Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese” (the full poem is available here)

Some years ago, I got some shocking news in the middle of the night. While I tried to process what was happening, my infant son woke crying with a fever. We didn’t have any acetaminophen in the house, so I needed to go to the pharmacy at 2:30 in the morning to get him some. At the checkout, the clerk and I got to chatting about nothing in particular while I paid for my items. As I left the store, I felt noticeably different. That short trip to the pharmacy reminded me that, somehow, life was still going on. I entered the store feeling as through the ground had dropped out from beneath me, and left feeling grounded once more.

Our current reality has shifted the ground beneath our feet (quite literally in some places around Montréal). “Normal” is anything but. The places to which we would normally turn to find some grounding have also changed. The places to which I turn the most for grounding when everything has been upset are churches and the woods.  There is something about sitting in a quiet, darkened church or walking through a sylvan cathedral that helps me still my mind and calm my soul. Now, however, I cannot do either. I can attend church from the comfort of my living room, but it’s not quite the same. I can walk through local parks as long as they’re not crowded, but I can’t escape the city and find myself wandering through the woods. And Holy Week—a week that serves to ground my faith in the pain, hope, and glory of the Easter service—will be a new kind of Holy this year. I feel once more that I’ve lost my footing, and I don’t know where to turn to ground myself.

The other day, however, I was out for a walk with the boys when I heard a familiar sound overhead. I looked up to see wild geese flying above me, their “v” shifting fluidly with the air currents as the geese returned home. Since that day, we’ve heard and watched the geese’s flight everyday, wondering where they’ve been and where they’re going. The experience was much like my conversation with the pharmacy cashier. Seeing those geese has grounded me. It has reminded me that while everything around us is strange and often scary, the geese continue their migration. While I share my despair (and hope!) with friends and family on social media and through Facetime, the sun continues to shine, the rain continues to fall, and the snow melts. The trees ready themselves for spring. God’s glorious creation continues to wake up all around us, and I am reminded that even when we show our love for one another through isolating ourselves, God remains with us through it all. We are never alone.

I pray that you are finding new ways to ground yourself in these days, and that God is surprising you with wild geese, hints of green plants, and moments of joy—however fleeting—as we continue to walk together while apart.

Faithfully yours,
Hilary

This message was written by Director of Pastoral Studies Hilary Bogert-Winkler for this week’s Wingèd Ox, a weekly news digest distributed to the college community.