Ayumi Tanaka, Wish You Were Here, 2013-2015, Gelatin silver print At times in my day-to-day life, I find myself stumbling over reminders of days gone by. Partly formed of memory rise up from a forgotten abyss within, surrounding me like a powerful fragrance and rocking my emotions to the core. In these moments, I am seized with the desire to gather and collect, to retrieve what has been lost and weave it into something whole.
Ryan Richey, Grief makes me tired, 2016, Oil painting on canvas, 18"x20" "Grief makes me tired. I slept all summer". That's what my mom told me after her mom passed. I feel the same way when I've experienced grief. I'm a lot like my mother in this regard.
Tobi Kahn, Auro: the art of nature, 2018, Acrylic on wood In the face of the world’s instability, I want to reveal those elements that are transcendent, not the evident reality but the inherent vitality that makes it possible. These images transmute the darkness of nature without denying its power, revealing a sanctuary in a still-struggling world, tension continually released into serenity.
You are the River: Tribute to Satie's Gnossienne No.1 Lyrics and voice: Juliet Rohde-Brown, instruments and mixing: Daniel Siuba Through the wound A dream Awakens Child inside of you Your ablution Cleanses for her chant Of mercy Feel the spheres They’re ever turning Through this cosmic tide You are yearning Inward seeking All is unfolding Unfolding You’re the River Rumbling nearer You’re the water’s flow You’re Sophia Shedding tears For all For all
Kathryn Holt As a New Mother During the Pandemic
A friend and shamanic practicioner helped me identify a rosebush in my garden as a guide and a companion. The rosebush has become a trusted ally and source of wisdom and support, especially during trying times. The poem below is dedicated to my rosebush and to all who bring their grieving to the Grieving Tree. My Rosebush By Jan Weetjens You, my rosebush, growing wild Rooted in abundance Sucking life into your roots Unconcerned by passing winds You freely give away The splendor of your flowers Miracles of color and of Intricate design Your thorns spike out As if to message Your refusal to be defined By scarcity Your delicate scent So tender and fierce Penetrates my soul And perks my ears You say: listen to your heart Follow its calling Wherever it may lead Know that all is given No need to cling nor Heed the passing winds Just surrender To abundance
Sooyeon Ahn, Forest Remembers, 2019, 100cm x 200cm, Mulberry Paper Print The 4.3 was massive genocide which is notable for its extreme violence; between 14,000 and 30,000 people, approximately ten percent of Jeju's population, were killed from 1948 to 1954. This project is about mourning loss and sorrow resulting from the massacre while capturing Jeju's forest as a witness of the 4.3.
By Daniel Tanh The day of the unicorn Mourning your magic Morning rain in Central Park Where you felt the most Loss of reality Lost in hopelessness I wish it weren't so Systems that be Power all around Disabling Maddening Taking flight Fighting the good fight You're still next to me. Thank you, B.
Erik Lawrence Sound and vibration are a comfort to us all. And it is my honor to share my work, which is inspired by the Grieving Tree project. This touches me deeply because my friend Heesun Kim was one of the first to recognize in me my connection with music and deep feeling from the heart of the listener who is being touched. Please feel free to visit this music at Soundcloud and use it for your meditation: https://soundcloud.com/hipmotism/grieving-tree. You can find other meditations on my YouTube page: Erik Lawrence Sound Sanctuary. Be AT Peace, Be WITH Peace, Be IN Peace brothers and sisters.
By Peter Dunlap Rilke helps: It feels as though I make my way through massive rock like a vein of ore alone, encased. I am so deep inside it I can’t see the path or any distance; everything is close and everything closing in on me has turned to stone. Since I still don’t know enough about pain, this terrible darkness makes me small. If it’s you, though— press down hard on me, break in that I may know the weight of your hand, and you, the fullness of my cry.
This is the poem Evergreen read at the Grieving Tree opening ceremony.
Singularity
By Marie Howe
(after Stephen Hawking)
Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity
we once were?
so compact nobody
needed a bed, or food or money—
nobody hiding in the school bathroom
or home alone
pulling open the drawer
where the pills are kept.
For every atom belonging to me as good
Belongs to you. Remember?
There was no Nature. No
them. No tests
to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf or if
the coral reef feels pain. Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;
would that we could wake up to what we were
—when we were ocean and before that
to when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was
liquid and stars were space and space was not
at all—nothing
before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.
Can molecules recall it?
what once was? before anything happened?
No I, no We, no one. No was
No verb no noun
only a tiny tiny dot brimming with
is is is is is
All everything home
A speech at the Grieving Tree opening ceremony by Mary Watkins We give thanks for each and every gesture of love and support offered between loved ones and between strangers during this pandemic period: the nurse who held the hand of someone dying, the neighbour who helped distribute food at the food bank, the young friend who checked in on an elderly person living nearby. There were millions and millions of acts, small and large, that wove a tapestry of support and care. But, sadly, in addition to our grief for the loss of particular loved ones, we also grieve for the unnecessary losses born of greed, neglect, selfishness, and racism. We grieve that due to economic and racial injustice, many had to confront the pandemic at much closer range due to their race, their ethnicity, and their socioeconomic class, while others enjoyed a relative safety from harm. We grieve that even the threat of a worldwide pandemic could not spur us to adequately mobilize to release the grip of greed on us—to free vaccines to belong to the people of the world so that they might be protected. We grieve that even the threat of a worldwide pandemic could not adequately mobilize us to fulfil demands for equity and equality. We grieve that so many are suffering from the loss of their work, their livelihood, even their homes. We grieve that so many are putting their children to bed hungry; so many have lost a safe place for their children to sleep. May the tapestry of care and support that was created by this pandemic be woven into the pattern of our common fabric. May we acknowledge our collective grief, our collective remorse, and our shame at our failures to extend care and support to so many and may this acknowledgment be a step toward our reparative actions now and in the future.
Voice By Emily Chow-Kambitsch The seas the woods the suns all the days glowing reflections in your eyes, your ancestors hidden in the folds of your hands, the lost trades and stories, yes, I miss those in ways that reach into the seams of memory that wakes in my throat. But the voice uniquely yours, I remember the way it touched the wind like fingerprints in sand, the way it filled rooms and swept the fear from the threshing floor of my mind, the way it rose to shake the sky like a hymn the way it dwells, still echoing in my heart. No other sound is like that. No other sound is like that. No other sound is like that.