Right now, when so much is being ripped apart for so many, we may believe that the situations we face and the darkness we encounter or embody are permanent, even hopeless. It may be easier now for us to just curl up into a ball and shut down. But nothing is permanent. Not pain, not joy, not confusion, not conviction, not certainty—not hope.

Maybe hope is not the right word to use for these times. But no matter the word, notice how life clings stubbornly to that thin line of light between the thunder clouds. In that worthy struggle, the relentless, grappling, noisy, silent longing for peace, the fact is: here we are.

So we may need to find our own word. Maybe instead of hope, we find empathy… empathy for all of it, for us and them (yes, even those on the other side of whatever side you find yourself).

And empathy for ourselves—the hardest task.

Consider what we have lived through—the empathy, compassion and courage to be true to ourselves in recovery. We keep learning about the boundaries we need in order to take care of ourselves. We become more interested in others than in ourselves. We have more grit.

If we are to honor all of this with respect, we will re-member ourselves. Even if it is only the power we imagine we have, we can also recognize the power we do have:

We can dream. We can create. We can work. We can rest. We can rile and march. We can be quiet. We can sit in silence. We can cook. We can plant. We can think of others and open out—a sure sign of recovery.

This is our legacy. It need not be published in a history book. Quaking or calm, we can continue to open into life. Re-member and consider this as we contend with what comes next.

It will be our gift to the world.