Lessons in Weariness
LESSONS IN WEARINESS
As I lie on my back
at the edge of Parliament Square,
I stare up at the canopy of
plane tree leaves above me
and the clouds grazing the sky,
and I don’t feel fear or anger
or any of those things
I’ve felt before.
This time I just feel
weary of it all.
Weary that no matter what we do,
those in their ivory towers will
keep ripping up the rule book of
morality and decency and
carelessly tossing it
into the fire.
Weary of the slow marching.
Weary of the knowledge that
our courage could light
every candle that burns
but our bodies are too few.
Weary of the apathy,
the lack of integrity, the
You’re so brave but I could never do that,
the passive-aggressive commentary,
the averted gaze and
swift change of subject.
Weary of the way my country
helps to fuel wars, waving hands
that drip with blood
whilst simultaneously strutting
proud as a peacock to show how
civilised we are,
how democratic,
a beacon for the rest of the world.
Bone weary of the lies.
Of the harm.
There are several officers surrounding me,
urging me to get up and
walk to the van.
You could be injured, you know,
if we try to carry you.
But how do I tell them I’m weary of their complicity
and they’re already hurting me
without laying a finger on me;
that they have a role to play
and this could be a beautiful
opportunity if they’d only mine
their moral courage.
So I just shake my head and
say I’m not moving.
I’m lugged into a van like a
ten kilo sack of potatoes and
later I lie on a thin plastic mattress
beneath a blue blanket for the
third time this year,
blinking up at a sign stamped onto
the ceiling, stating ‘Criminals Beware.’
And the weariness that I am
being locked in a police cell
for wanting to protect my
children threatens to engulf me,
while somewhere in the same city,
the real criminals sit
cloistered with their
canapes and champagne.
Two hours in and I
haul my weariness up
from the mattress to place
my call. And the kindness
of the words from this woman
from back office I’ve never met
and probably never will
floors me, shakes me out
like a tree shedding her leaves.
Thank you for your courage,
she says.
Thank you for what you’re doing.
But I don’t feel brave,
and when I leave the call,
the tears come and I weep
for those in Palestine,
for those whose homes and lives are lost
to flood and wildfire,
for the creatures of the
earth, sky and sea
whose numbers plummet,
for the uncertain terrain
today’s children inherit.
But most of all, I cry
for the surprising, disarming
nature of kindness
and I wonder, how can we
turn this into a revolution?
How can we infiltrate the
draughty corridors of
Whitehall with the
warmth of kindness?
How can we infuse the
bones of those who grow
heavy with the weight of their
own, glowing importance with
tenderness and care?
How can we get them to lie on
their backs in Parliament Square
or any patch of land generous
enough to hold them and gaze
up at each tree, each bird and
each leaf printed like miracles
against the sky as they did when
they were children?
How can we get them to feel,
to know,
to understand,
to truly breathe in
how much we will lose?
The flap opens.
Are you ok? The station officer asks.
Perhaps he can see I’ve been crying.
He brings me a coffee
and asks what I’m writing
in my notebook, if it’s
going to be a best seller.
I’m writing about you, I say.
No, really?
I nod.
But why? he asks.
I pause, hear the steady hum
of the room and wonder about
all the people who have sat
on this narrow blue mattress
before me and how no doubt
kindness has eluded them
again and again.
I’m writing about my sadness,
I finally say.
And I’m writing about kindness.
About you being kind.
And now it’s his turn to be
disarmed, his face
suddenly naked and
confused before he smiles
uncertainly, closes the flap.
I sit on the bed,
watch the light from
outside grow dim, sip black coffee
and think that perhaps this is all
we have left; that we must disarm
the world and all those who seek to stamp
it down with kindness,
that we must pass this
chain of compassion like prayer beads
from one to another,
whispers from the future
that enclose us in their embrace,
that say
I know you are weary.
I know this is hard.
But you cannot see what we are looking at.
So I catch these whispers,
hold my fist tight around them,
and when I am released
from my cell, I fling
these voices to the
darkness and watch as
the night receives them one by one,
lighting up the sky in
a beautiful, blazing rebellion
seeded from weariness,
from tears,
and from the courage of a multitude of
tender, beating hearts.
This is brilliant. Thank you for the beautiful words & for doing all you do. Xx
Thank you so much Fiona for reading my poem and for reaching out, it feels so good to know that my words have a small ripple effect xx
That was so beautiful Tracey. I am in tears with you.
Sorry misread that. Thank you Rebecca.
Hi Sharon, thank you SO much for reading and commenting. I am so pleased that it touched a chord with you 💚 Big hug x
Dear Rebecca
Expressing your emotions so eloquently, your weariness, heavy heart touched my soul. So powerful. I’ve felt the same at times & asked myself “what’s the point ?” I realise the enormity of the whole thing . The rhetoric of those in power I have to let go of as I realise they are not awakened souls & are ignorant & blind. However I must nourish my interior world & continue to have compassion for myself & those who are spiritually dead.
I continue with protest actions & im not alone in this quest. We have each other we are stronger together & we identify at depth so the love & courage can sustain us as we carry on the Rebellion. Thank you x
Hi Greta, thank you so much for your beautiful words and thoughts. It can feel so isolating, can’t it, when we keep banging our peaceful drums and nobody appears to be listening. But we ARE stronger in community and I take so much inspiration from all these incredible people I find – you being one of them – who won’t be cowed and keep placing one foot in front of the other to help build a more just world. Take good care and thank you for reading and commenting xx
Hi Rebecca. Yours is a beautiful, comforting and inspiring piece of work – not just for its eloquence but also for the emotional intelligence and love that it embodies. I am grateful for the activism that you are moved to engage in. I appreciate how difficult it is and what it must have taken you to get to this place of courage in action. I am inspired to continue in my own response to the alarming events, institutions and people with conventional power that I see around me – just by the force and integrity of your words and their expression. So thank you, deep soul. You are seen. You are appreciated. You are understood. Your work has been worthwhile already even if you were to choose to stop now and take a rest. No single person can bring about our world’s necessary transformation on their own. We do what we can and strive to maintain our peace and love as we do so. Not easy. Peace to you.
Dear Patrick, thank you so much for reading my poem and reaching out in such a heartfelt way. I feel bowled over and hugely humbled by your words. Thank you for seeing, witnessing and understanding me. Your words reminded me of a beautiful verse someone shared with me recently from the Talmud: ‘Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obliged to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.’ Thank you thank you 🙏🏽 your words are so gratefully received and deeply appreciated.
Thank you Rebecca. So moving. You write beautifully. I will share widely.
Dear Tina, thank you SO much, that means a huge amount. Thank you for reading, understanding and sharing 🙏🏽💚
Hi Rebecca, thank you for these wonderful, challenging, inspiring words. I am on a coach going to Scotland and the scenery is so beautiful on this autumn day. The sun is cascading through multi cloured trees. How long will we have this? Will my 8 grandchildren be able to experience this? What world will they have?
Thank you so much for your thoughts, your example, and the work you are doing to try and light the fire of change.
Hi Kevin, thank you so much for your really lovely message. It’s so hard to look at the incredible beauty of the natural world now without sadness, isn’t it, knowing how much is at stake. Sending strength and courage to you and thank you for reaching out 🙏🏽
Courage calls to courage everywhere, and it’s voice can not be denied. Thank you!
Thank you so much Craig! We all need each other at times like this and yes, courage is contagious.
Thanks you for reading this online at the Just Stop Oil webinar on 15 November 2023.
Thank YOU so much Robbie! For being at the webinar, for listening to my poem and for this message. Very best wishes to you
I found this very moving, Rebecca, thank you for sharing it. I can relate to the weariness and the difficulty of accepting that other people don’t feel as passionate about the issues. Thank you for keeping going in spite of the weariness, and know that’s it’s ok if you need to rest.
I found your focus on kindness beautiful and hopeful – I do believe that people are basically kind. Your description of how the police officer was disarmed by your comments is telling, and very human. How to build on this… it’s making me think, which is good. And being kind to each other and ourselves so important too.
Have you read Humankind:a hopeful history by Rutger Bregman? He challenges the idea that human nature is intrinsically selfish, and revisits aspects of history to show how kindness was at the forefront. I found it very compelling and hopeful.
All the best to you.
Hi Jenny, thank you so much for reading my poem and for your really thoughtful comments. It’s very true that it’s also important to be kind to myself (which includes, very importantly, allowing myself to rest), a balance which I mostly but definitely don’t always quite strike. I have heard of Humankind but haven’t read it, which I definitely will now. Thank you for the heads up. I do hope you’re well Jenny with all your projects and your writing and I hope our paths cross again one day. With very best wishes, Rebecca x