Her Particular Witness

Each morning, the light of the sun slants through the pine boughs and onto the weathered wood of the lilac bush. Some days the light is a weak yellow wash on the craggy bark. Other days the light is flushed and warm, hinting at the day to come. Still other days, the light is crisp and certain, like a task checked off a list. But always the sun is reaching with “his old, buttery fingers” (Mary Oliver) across the lawn to gently tickle the day awake.

It’s an old scene that never gets old. Time and again, I bear witness.

Recently in an essay, Canadian author Sarah Bessey, wrote of the value in bearing witness. She tells of her own compulsion to want to do something, make something, or fix it when she encounters loss, brokenness, or grief and how she is coming to the realization that the thing most needed may be to simply and to wholly, “bear witness”. She doesn’t discredit the practical helps, but for Bessey, it was an edge of personal growth to become aware of the necessity of bearing witness and holding space for someone in a rough patch of their journey rather than rushing in with a help or a fix. We all need someone who will keep watch for us and not only in the hard times.

How often do my lovely grands come and say, “Marmee! Watch!”, then proceed to show a trick of some sort or a physical feat. Recently, two of them deconstructed the bunk beds into a fort of which they were quite proud (and of which I laid aside the knowledge of my eventual reconstruction!). Their great gramma stopped in, and they were eager to show it to her. “Come and see!” She readily and deliberately climbed the long flight of stairs (stairs that her little-girl feet once scampered up and down) to see and bear witness to their fort building ingenuity.

To have someone bear witness to our work, our art, our grief, and our everyday life moments has a way of bringing meaningful weight and a sense of presence to those experiences. It is such a simple thing. Bear witness – full stop. Not bearing witness to suggest alternatives or offer unsolicited advice or even sharing our perspective, but bearing witness to be present to someone’s work or journey. Again, that is not to say that offering alternatives or advice don’t have their place because they do. But maybe advice-giving or ideas of fixing are too quickly a default setting when truly seeing has its own merit. To have our experience underpinned by someone’s witness is incredibly affirming.

My mom, Naomi, died in last days of summer, having lived out the fullness of her days. I miss her so. One of the things I’m keenly aware of is the absence of her witness to my everyday life. It’s the mundane things that are of little consequence to the world at large and to which she took a natural interest… like how the laundry needed to be rewashed and rehung because the wind caused a downdraft outside settling the smoke from the wood stove onto the wash line pinned full and leaving the wash smelling of soot… or about clearing leaves with a backpack leaf blower… or telling her of the roses still blooming late into the fall… or how we saw corn being harvested the old way on a rainy day drive. All these ordinary things were interesting to her, and she unwittingly bore witness.

Naomi grew up on a farm, living there until she was in her twenties, but then she lived either in town or on country properties for the rest of her days. I didn’t grow up on a farm but I moved to one in my twenties and have lived there to this day. As we both grew older, we shared a kinship in the experience of the farming way of life with its rhythms that are tied to the land, the seasons, and the work. “What are the men doing?” she would ask me and be genuinely curious about their farmwork and activities. There too she brought her wholesome witness, and here too, I miss her witness.

It is my Mom’s particular witness that has left a void. There are dear ones who cast a kind eye to the minute details of my days, sometimes dutifully, sometimes with mild amusement, but always there and giving attention. However, my mind instinctively goes to my Mom when I see a full moon rising or the red-bellied woodpecker in the trees. She had a particular witness for me, one of her children, that was hers alone and for me alone. It grounded for me.

It would seem that we all have a specific sphere where we can bring an attentive witness. Could that noticing shape the ordinary into worth? Could an unjudging seeing soften our own selves?

And so, as I watch dawn seep into dark as a new day unfurls, I wonder if my own contemplative watch brings a meaningful weight to this everyday, ordinary, but sacred event.