When the Wars are All Over

Today I heard about a woman’s aunt.

Auntie Elena (aged 8) saw her big brother shot dead,

As he handed her onto the boat,

To escape from the war,

That was ricocheting around their heads.

How does anyone live with that?

Where does the pain go?

It trickles down generations,

Turning children’s and grandchildren’s homes,

Into deserts,

Bereft of love.

And still all of us,

One way or another,

Through one script or another,

Trudge on,

Carrying our wounded hearts,

Our shaking hands,

Our glazed eyes,

(On the inside)

Into tomorrow.

Carl Jung said that every soul,

Reaches for wholeness,

As instinctively as an acorn,

Reaches for oakhood.

Love,

You are the sun to my acorn,

You are the warmth that draws trauma’s poison,

Out of my veins,

Distilling it into compassion.

Hearing these stories,

I now know that my pain doesn’t separate me from humanity,

It joins me to it.

And when the wars are all over,

Inside and out,

We will come home to You.

I wrote this poem after being a 'companion' on a seven-day silence retreat that focussed on unravelling past trauma through written exercises. Participants committed to seven days of not talking or even exchanging eye contact, and just journalled on each day's theme, meditated and did other therapeutic activities. For up to half an hour a day, they read their work to their companion, who's job wasn't quite to counsel, but to listen and guide them through their workbook and what came up. It was a great honour to be the only person they spoke with each day and to be part of their uncovering and healing.