You have been walking the ocean’s edge,

holding up your robes to keep them dry.

You must dive naked under, and deeper,

and a thousand times deeper.
~ Rumi

Dear Springhouse community,

I hope this letter finds you well. The Springhouse community has just returned from supporting the restoration efforts in Western North Carolina after the September 2024 hurricane. Despite the devastation and loss, the mountain communities of Western North Carolina remain strong and resilient. Nearly five months later, they continue to work together to repair and restore their homes and places. On our trip, we learned a lot about what it means to take care of vulnerability  — in ourselves, each other, and in the place we visited.

The principle of taking care of vulnerability shapes our community and curriculum. It is the foundation of all that we do. In North Carolina, the care of vulnerability started within our community — caring for the feelings that come with being away from home, sleeping in a new place, and doing hard work during our days. This care started before we even left Virginia, tending to the feelings of some parents whose children had never left them for a week before, or even at all. The care of vulnerability within our community spilled out into the place we visited as we listened with care to the stories of those who suffered greatly in this hurricane and as we supported the restoration of the devastated landscapes that surrounded us. It was a powerful week for our community – strengthening the relationships we have with each other and building new friendships with others and the land through service.

Much before my time at Springhouse, when I was a child, I learned what it feels like to care for vulnerability. My younger brother stuttered when he was young, and sometimes people would make fun of him. A family with teenagers who lived down the street often mocked my brother. One day, I decided to go over to their house and have a word with them. I pulled my little brother in a red wagon behind me. When I got there, the teens were outside playing basketball. They were so much bigger. They looked like giants to me. I stood my ground and demanded that they stop bullying my brother. The courage I felt in that moment quickly turned into stark fear, as they started to walk toward us, threaten us, and call us names. I ran away, pulling my brother awkwardly behind me. Just before I got to our driveway, I tripped and fell, and, for some reason, I still remember what my bloody and scraped knee looked like at that moment.

I do not remember if these teens stopped bullying my brother. What I do remember is the fire I felt inside of me — so strong that it compelled me to walk over to a house of teenagers when I was only 7 years old and speak my truth. I could not ignore that fire. I had to follow it. That was the beginning of my calling to care for vulnerability in this world. I learned later that this care would have to start with myself.

I continued to learn lessons about vulnerability as I grew up. I lived with a father who had the same commitment to care for the vulnerable — especially those who lived with physical challenges. When he was 14 years old, my dad was involved in a terrible bus accident outside of Detroit that left him with lifelong physical challenges, including a limp, and other serious limitations that he sought to overcome every day. At 14 years old, he was near death several times in surgery. When he survived, he was told he would never walk again and never have children. After three years, he walked again, and ten years to the day of his accident, his first child – me -was born! The only time I ever saw my Dad get very angry was when one of his children made fun of someone who had a significant physical challenge. The fire rose in him like it did in me that day in my neighborhood – a fire that demands the care of vulnerability.

I also grew up with a mother who deeply cared for-and still cares for-the Earth and its creatures. I watched my mother call to a blue jay once, and I saw it land in her hand. She is like Snow White. Every home she makes for herself quickly turns into an animal kingdom. When the Earth hurts, when its creatures hurt, my mom hurts, deeply. She is the one who taught me that the Earth matters, and the care of it matters dearly. Caring for what is precious, vulnerable, and silenced by larger forces is essential if we are to live in a world where all life thrives.

The Welsh poet David Whyte writes, “Vulnerability is not a weakness, a passing indisposition, or something we can arrange to do without, vulnerability is not a choice, vulnerability is the underlying, ever present and abiding under-current of our natural state.” Many of us have not learned how to be vulnerable or how to care for vulnerability. Sadly, many of us have learned that to be vulnerable means to be weak, rather than the very foundation we must welcome to come more fully alive. We need places to practice being vulnerable and caring for the vulnerability of others and the Earth. We need accepting, committed, long-term communities that consistently support us with healthy mentorship and life-giving practices.

As I was writing this, something synchronistic happened. I heard the thud of a bird hitting our kitchen window. My husband went out to check on it. He tapped it a few times to see if it was still alive. It was, so he left it alone to see if it could recover. We peeked out every few minutes as the bird sat there on our porch, stunned. I couldn’t help but feel its vulnerability. My husband told me not to let the cat out to give the bird space to recover. After about ten minutes, my daughter looked out, and the bird was gone. She flew away. She made it. Vulnerability can be cared for in all kinds of ways. It might need space, it might need a helping hand, and it might need threats to be minimized so it can find its way. There are many ways to care for our vulnerability and that of others.

Tragically, taking care of vulnerability is not the norm in our world. We do not have a choice about being vulnerable. It is our natural state. To be alive is to be vulnerable, but we do have a choice as to what we will do with the vulnerability we encounter in ourselves and others. We can choose to avoid, exploit, or take care of that vulnerability. I hope we choose to take care of it.

With love,

Jenny

P.S. Please join me as I regularly share insights on caring for vulnerability in a new YouTube playlist, The Red Wagon, on our YouTube channel.

 

 

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