The Quiet Art of Witnessing

Hello, Cadresphere. Hello to you. My name is Kathy Joy. My Cadre handle is Speak Wonder. And my theme on Thursdays, caregiver day is harbor pilots. Meaning that as we come in from being at sea, it's always good to come into port. It's always good to leave our sea legs behind and find terra firma under our feet and walk safely on the dock into the lives, the arms and the circles of people who care for us. Those are our harbor pilots. You have them here in Cadre, and I'm glad to be one of them. On Thursdays, we like to talk about caregiving.

Today, I have a couple of things, maybe three on my mind. I'd like to talk about a gift I received yesterday, a letter I wrote this morning, and a schooner called the Wickussette. If you have been with me for any length of time or for a couple of cadres, you probably know that I love poetry. I love haiku. I enjoy writing it. I enjoy writing poems in general and prose as well. And I guess I'll put it out there. I'm working on a book. I have published several books, but this will be my first novel.

I said it. I said it out loud. Hi, Andy. Joyful. Hello. Hello. Thank you for being here with me. Send me a heart, if you would, please. The wicked schooner. A gift and a letter. I also pulled out something I thought you would enjoy today. That is something I read to my mother many nights. We like to. Oh, you know, I thought I could just put my hands right on it. Why do I do these things? Why do I not have it right in front of me? Hello. You know, I probably did pull it out, and who knows where I put it?

Organization is not my strongest thing. It's just not. Here it is. I found it. Okay, so there are actually four things. A gift, a letter I wrote, the Wickussette Schooner poem that I found, and the quiet art of witnessing. And that is what I put on the promo for my Cadre today. If you read ahead, what I'd be talking about. I said the art of witnessing. I suppose we could lead with that. Why don't we? The Art of Witnessing is a little essay that my mom likes to hear when I talk to her on the phone.

My mom is 94 years of age. She has seen 94 springs, summers, winters and summers. Did I. Oh, fall. She's also seen 94 autumns. And then when she celebrates her next birthday, her 95th in May, Lord willing, she will have seen 95 springs. And then she'll circle the sun again. The quiet art of witnessing is by one of my favorite writers named Anonymous. And it reads like this. I'm not here to fix every broken thing. Some things just need a soft place to land. We live in a world obsessed with the next step.

This next step. The upgrade. The glow up, the fix. But what if, just for a moment, we allowed things to be as they are? Not because they're perfect, not because they're finished, but because they're enough? We rush to tidy neat emotions. We rush to answer a text, to patch every silence with noise. But not everything needs our intervention. Not everything needs your intervention. Not every awkward pause begs to be filled. Not every moment of sadness needs to be cured. What if instead of changing, improving or perfecting, we simply witnessed?

Let the mug with the chipped rim stay on the shelf. Let it stay there. It's ready to be filled with your favorite brew. Let the unanswered question linger in the air a little longer. Let your plans be soft outlines instead of rigid maps. Let your mind wander without pinning it down to a purpose. Some of the most beautiful things in life unfold slowly, like tea steeping coffee brewing, like trust forming, like a heart healing. They don't demand. They do not rush. They just become. Today. Maybe we just let something be and watch what grows in the space.

You didn't feel. Unfilled spaces, unanswered questions, unrecovered relationships, untidy emotions. The quiet art of witnessing. This essay just invites us in to not fill all the spaces and not rush to fill the silence. Yeah, Rachel. Hey, that sounds like the weather here. Summer, summer, Winter. No, fall, Rachel. Is that in Minnesota we had summer. Summer. Summer, maybe. We did have a pretty decent fall. And winter came in with a spare set of angry teeth and bit down hard because we've had ice, sleet, we've had a couple of winter watches.

But, you know, out here we just drive. We just get in our car and drive. We put on our boots and our big girl pants and we drive. Texas. Okay. Okay. Texas, Rachel. Thank you for clarifying. I think Texas has a lot of summer. Texas does big in everything. Texas goes big and does grand. Yeah. The quiet art of witnessing. A gift I wanted to show you. Isn't this just absolutely beautiful? So this could be a wreath for my door. It's Douglas fir. I wish you could smell it. And it was shipped to me from a friend in Colorado.

This is probably the fourth year she's done this, and I'm surprised. Every year, I'm so delighted to Receive this. She includes a taper candle. It's like a cranberry red color which will go in the middle. And I'm going to use it for a table centerpiece. It says on the box that this will last up to three weeks. So this should take me right to Christmas. And I do hydrate it. There's a little reservoir here for me to put some water in. I wanted you to see this beautiful gift, Rachel. Our world shuts down at the mention of ice.

I suppose it's mayhem and panic. If you get any kind of ice in Texas, I would definitely stay in. Do you even own a pair of winter boots? Don't even tell me. Don't want to know. Because you probably get to wear flip flops most of the year. I don't know. I know Texas does experience some change of season, perhaps more subtle than the hinterland up here in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania, where I live, right near the lake, Lake Erie, to be specific. The letter I wrote. I am just fresh from writing words raw and yanked out of my heart to a cousin who's actively dying.

Cousin Larry lives in the Pacific Northwest. C. truly by ferry. I've been out there to visit his folks who are now gone, and to visit him, his brothers, all my cousins. I took my young family when the kids were little out that way. And I remember cousin Larry joining us and showing us around. I remember seeing the mustard fields. Put some reason that stands out, probably the visual of the yellow fields going on for acres in Snohomish area. Also near Seattle, Washington, of course, the Pacific Ocean.

So many wonderful memories from there. As children we would have sort of like a cousin's camp on a hill here in Pennsylvania. And the Seattle family would come over and Larry would be among the cousins. I just have so many memories. Well, his brother, my other cousin Dave reached out to me yesterday and said, hey, we're keeping vigil. And we've all known as a family that Larry has been very ill. He's actually outlived his prognosis and he's just a force of nature. And Dave said, would you write a note to Larry?

He's unresponsive, but we feel like he hears us. He's just not verbal anymore. He's in hospice, actively dying at a care center in the Seattle area. And up until about three weeks ago, Larry could text or ask people to convey messages. And I've been included in that long term vigil over Larry. Now we're looking short term. So I Wrote a letter to him at Dave's request. And it is just a sobering reminder of the brevity of life. You know, in the letter, I said, larry, I just figured you'd be here forever, you know, I just figured you'd be a phone call or a text away.

We take that for granted, don't we? But we also know intellectually, somewhere, maybe not here, but we know somewhere in our being that we have an expiration date that is declared over us by our Creator, Maker, God. Larry's ready, and I'm glad that my letter will be read to him. So we have a gift. We have an essay. I just read about the quiet art of witnessing, and I thought that was apropos. You like that word apropos? Apropos, because Dave is going to read my letter and he's going to bear witness to my words on behalf of me.

Because I'm clear on the other coast and cannot jet out to see Larry. They're going to read the letter tomorrow and others. There will be many letters being read to him. What a meaningful way to go out. Having words of love sailing over your head and heart. Yeah, that's very meaningful. How about the Wick set? Schooner. This came onto my Pandora dream. Big sense love. Thank you. And yes, Rachel, it is so difficult. Thank you. Rachel says, I'm glad you have been able to be a part of this special time, even if not physically.

Yeah. I feel a tethering. I feel a connection because of cousin Dave reaching out. What a lovely thing. And what a sacred, honoring thing for him to do as the brother. To sit with him, you know, squeeze his hand, read to him and believe that he can hear it. Hey, Luke Wickasset Schooners. And this came as a musical, as a song, I should say, on my Pandora, while I was driving. And I was so taken by it. Probably not supposed to do this while you're driving, but I have a pen, because I'm a writer, so I always have a pen and a little notepad.

And I wrote Wickussett Schooner so I could look it up when I got home. And this was sung by Ross and Lois Gordon. I don't even have Gordon's last name. I. I wish I could give you Gordon's last name so you could look it up if you want to. I thought I had his last name. The point is, I want to read this beautiful song lyric to you. It's so touching, and it has a longing in it. It has a feeling of wistfulness and remembrance and grief. So there's a 12 string guitar in there and many vocals. And Ross and Lois and Doreen is on the fiddle.

But all you get to hear is me reading it today. Wickasset Schooners. Do you remember riding home before a dying summer breeze? Your topsails gleaming golden, setting sun among the trees. And the osprey wheeling slowly through the shadows by the shore. Where the towering cliffs of granite plunge 10 fathoms deep or more. And the eddies swirl and flow down below. You were solid built of Douglas fir and oak and yellow pine. 200ft sailed by a crew that numbered only nine. Hauling lumber through your timber ports and Dyewood from the south.

Running home from Norfolk. Bringing coal to heat the north and whatever they could stow below. But the winter is upon you now. And time is passing slow. And the tides ebb and flow down below. And the tides ebb and flow down below. You served them well for 15 years. Your canvas all unfurled When New England sailing ships were found in ports around the world. But spars gave way to smokestacks, clouds of white to black and gray. There was nothing left for you to do but waste your time away. And the rot was spreading.

Slow down below. And the winter is upon you now. And time is passing slow. And the tides ebb and flow down below. And the tides ebb and flow down below. From Wickasset to the China Lakes the narrow gauge did run. To push it northward to Quebec was old Frank's winter plan. And schooners were to bring his cargoes in to meet the train. When he found you idle on the deck. He brought you down to Maine. Where the tides ebb and flow down below. Where the tides ebb and flow down below. You know he tried the best he could.

But he just couldn't make it pay. So he ran you both aground and turned around and walked away. You've been waiting here for 50 years. But no one set you free. Now you're broken down and dying. Lying open to the sea. And the tides ebb and flow down below. And the winter is upon you now. And time is passing slow. And the tides ebb and flow down below. Down below. The people come to stare at you with wonder in their eyes. For times have changed since men knew how to work a ship your size. The seas you sailed are running black.

And time will know our loss. It's too late now for you. And is it too late now for us? Can you teach us what you know before you go? Can you teach us what you know before you go? And the Winter is upon you now and time is passing slow and the tides ebb and flow down below and the tides, they ebb and flow down below. That's the Wickussette Schooners. Plural, because there were two of them. By Lois Lyman. She. She penned those song lyrics in 1985. Lois, it says here, spent part of her childhood in Wickusset, Maine, where she used to play aboard the hulks of two schooners, the Hesper and the Luther Lytle.

The vessels are disintegrating quickly now, and she wrote this song to keep them and their history a bit closer to memory. She and her husband Ross, sing it. So that is the Wickset Schooners. Yeah. Certainly fits in perfectly with my word. Pictures of harbors and harbor pilots and the lore around boats. Rachel went through that with my dad. As devastatingly hard as it was, it was a time I still cherish. Yeah. Hey, Rick. Hi, Bri. It is the little things. Thanks, Brianna. Yeah. End of life is something we're not fond of talking about, but I'm getting more and more comfortable with it in my senior years and I'm comfortable around death.

I've even thought about hospice, but I don't know. I don't know if that's a calling I have or just an admiration I have for those who carry it out. Because hospice is a holy huddle of people willing to sit beside the dying. And very much it's a time of living. This time for my cousin is a time of living while actively dying. I know it's an oxymoron, but I think we're most alive when we're closest to death. And yeah, thank you, Rachel, for your comment. It is a hard time, but a time you do cherish.

So that too is the quiet art of witnessing when we're holding someone's hand who's received a devastating diagnosis or holding hope for somebody who's feeling discouraged or as in my case yesterday, helping a four year old grandchild figure out a problem and bearing witness to her realizing things. It wasn't a big deal. It was actually a choice she had to make about which toy to buy. I know that sounds so trivial, but it was a life lesson and I got to be there with her and hold space for her as a four year old experiencing life from her point of view.

So I guess. I guess that is pretty much what I had. A gift. A letter I wrote to my cousin who's leaving this world and the Wickusset Schooners and the quiet. And I'd like to Say, the lost art of witnessing. I think it very much gets lost in the hustle and fray of schedules, of phones, pinging messages, text tones. Somebody on the Cadre mentioned that we could probably make our lives simpler by canceling some notifications. And I went into all my apps and the ones I don't use anymore, cancel the app or the notification.

I think the less bells and noise in our life, better. And I'm sure we all agree we also live in this world and this is how we communicate. There's no shade on that. And it's just, how do we manage? How do we manage? Memories with kids are life changing. They are. They are. Yeah. I started a little notebook of quotes from my granddaughter and I can't wait till my grandson joins her when he gets a little older and has more words. So it is the most delightful thing to hold the hand of a youngster and to be there when they ask questions.

Her mommy and daddy are good at answering questions. Very good. But there is a perspective from the grandparent. And I'm called Omah. Guess what else? My granddaughter can write that Oma. She's learning her letters. She knows her name, too. And a few weeks ago when it was nice out, we went to the park and there was a volleyball court there and lots of sand near the lake, near a lake called Edinburgh Lake. And she said, oma, what letters are in your name? So I said O and she made the O. I said M.

She made the M and A. And she made the the A. I was thrilled. I was so thrilled. I grabbed my camera. I'm so glad I snapped it because no sooner had I snapped a picture of my name in the sand, then she stomped on it and laughed because she thought that was really silly. Yeah. Thank you for letting me share some moments that I have quietly witnessed. And don't worry if there are spaces today that you don't feel I'm going to join you. And not stressing over mysteries we can't solve over to do lists that are not done at the end of the day.

And we lay our head down. Let's not stress over that. Yeah, that's not. When we quietly bear witness to what's happening around us, it kind of sifts out the peripheral, the unnecessary, the things that can go to the back burner for a little while so that we can be fully present in the moment that presents itself to us. I like to call Cadre my blanket for my launching out. It's a place for refuge and a place to pull up anchor and go back out there. There's a lot of nurturing here, a lot of encouragement, a lot of expertise, and I'm so grateful for you.

I'll see you next week when once again, we sail into safe harbor. Bye for now. And enjoy the quiet art of witnessing.