This morning a woman asked to share. I’ve been watching her on our Zoom call. She’s beautiful—one of those radiant, compassionate beings. Smoke floats through her screen while she meditates. I imagine it’s white sage burning.
She’s always been the fixer, she said. Fixing people’s lives, trying to help. She never asks for help, and she wants every.single.one.of.us to have her phone number—so she can support anyone who needs help.
She said she’s been listening to people sharing their fear and pain . . . exposing their inner lives on our calls, and she’s been amazed by the raw vulnerability, by the courage. Today it’s her turn, she says. Today is the first day she’s ready to ask for help.
“How do you want to be helped?”
You can help me by being a space, by holding space for me while I share my feelings, she said. You can help me by listening.
She knows the magic of words and the feelings they mirror. She wants the words to be right, and she takes her time finding them, letting them come one-by-one.
“The truth is soft and gentle, as powerful as gravity,” I remember my mentor Martha Beck saying.
By the end of the call, the fifty of us are exchanging phone numbers. We’ve been together virtually every day for two months, and this woman’s sharing has drawn our arms around each other.
Today I am grateful for soft, stumbling words that just want to be seen . . . and for the space-holders who let our words live.