I find myself thinking of this poem, The Way It Is, this morning, below, by William Stafford. He, was raised in the midwest of the United States in the 1900s.
I find myself thinking of it in sense-making, as I learn of a friends loss. And the family she is connected to. And the friends that are family. Whose job it is, sometimes, to just hold each other, in our varied experience.
The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow.
It goes among things that change.
But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die;
and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
