Coddiwomple in Spring

Photo by Emily Turner, Santa Fe, New Mexico

Coddiwomple in Spring

An Outdoor Day of Healing Through Three Senses

by Karen Hoffman

Coddiwomple: the purposeful traveling albeit to an as-yet- unknown destination. One spring morning, having just learned the word “coddiwomple,” I set out for my own coddiwomple, thinking of it as a healing journey and not knowing where I would end up. I noticed that I was able to use three senses—sight, touch, and sound—in my journey and what follows is a description of these three scenes on a beautiful spring morning.

See – Broken Wings and Butterflies

This past weekend, as I was walking in a meditative way, I looked down at the ground and saw a suffering butterfly. Beautiful in color, flapping its wing, I knew this creature was trying its best to heal. Amidst the vibrancy of yellow, the detail of this fragile butterfly caused me to stop and watch. I took a picture after watching it struggle with its broken wing. I took the picture to remind me of the healing, to remind me of the butterflies that millions never got to see. This butterfly, frail and diminishing from its broken wing, likely will not heal. But its beauty will live on, just like the memories of those who painfully recognized in the 1940’s that they might never see another butterfly.

With gratitude in my heart, I’m thankful that I can recognize the blessings in my life, even the ability to stop and watch a beautiful butterfly flap its last few wing spans. Not everything can heal the way we would like. There is so much brokenness and so much work to be done.

I remember being in middle school when I first saw images of the Holocaust, as part of the religious curriculum at my school. Those images are seared into my soul, never to be forgotten. A few years later, in a more advanced study of the Holocaust, I remember reading a beautiful poetry book, I Never Saw Another Butterfly, poems written and illustrated with pieces of art left behind by children who were imprisoned at the Terezin concentration camp. From that day on, I truly never looked at butterflies the same way.

Decades later, in 2015, when I visited Terezin, Warsaw, Krakow, Berlin and Auschwitz-Birkenau, I felt the haunting ache within my heart from those children’s voices - looking for the butterflies on the horizon. At Terezin, I saw a field of yellow flowers, yet no butterflies. And for the past seven years, the images of both butterflies and fields of yellow bring me to a place of questioning pain and healing. How does a person heal from tragedy like that?

Last month, we observed Holocaust Memorial Day, as we do each spring. This year, Max, one of the Dallas Holocaust survivors, a true hero and educator to thousands of students throughout Dallas-Fort Worth over the years, passed away on Holocaust Memorial Day. Max was so beloved, sharing his stories with children and adults, sharing his memories, and asking them to pledge to remember and tell his stories to others.

So many times, in conversations with Holocaust survivors, I hear people ask, “How did you survive?” They ask, “How can you tell these stories?” And I know the answers because of Doris, the sweet lady I spent time with twice on my visits to Terezin. She grew up there for several years as a child. During my second visit with Doris, she shared with me why she does this as a woman in her 80s. She answers, “It’s my duty. I don’t like coming back here, but we need to tell these stories.” And as this generation of survivors inevitably pass away, it is on each and all of us to keep telling the stories. The strength, courage, resiliency, and faith that helped them survive the horrors of the Holocaust – all these are tools to healing. Their scars never went away; neither did the tattooed numbers that classified them as non-human. Yet they persevered. May we always learn from them. May we heal from our own wounds, whatever they look like. And may we live in a world with greater compassion, hope, and the capacity to heal.

Feel – Rock Tumbler

As I took my seat in a circle, following my brief walk, I noticed rocks all around. It had rained recently, and the wind had blown many varieties of rocks into a gathered space, just like people forming community. I glanced down at all the rocks, noticing which one was calling out to me to be claimed for my sit. I picked up a rough rock with jagged edges, not the type to comfortably slip into a hand and rub. There were smooth stones to choose from, and there were rougher ones; there were large river-type stones and pieces as small as peas. Yet somehow that white, rough rock was the one that called to me that day. I picked it up and held onto it tightly, as if trying to press a story out of it. With my eyes closed gently, placing myself into a meditative posture, I held my grip on this little rock. A childhood image appeared and I found myself considering, noticing, acknowledging, dismissing the thought, and returning to my breath. I chose to let the image linger, wondering where my relaxed mind and heart wanted to take

me. I was suddenly transported to my childhood home, on a hot summer afternoon in the outdoor workshop area in front of me was my cherished Rock Tumbler. As the image grew more focused, I felt the reverberation in my ears, the grinding, growling sound of the churning basket and the rocks being transformed, almost magically, from their rough exterior to the shiny, smooth, glossy finish. I sat, perplexed by these images and asked myself, “Was this another image of healing –these rocks with such ragged features, being tossed and shaped into stones with beautiful smooth edges?”

My mind, jostled by the image of the rock tumbler, jumped to two quick scenes. First, the brokenness of a beautiful fragile vase, shattered into shards and then carefully pieced and glued together. Known as the Japanese Art of Kintsugi, a vase is made even more beautiful than before, as gold flakes are intricately painted over the newly glued seams. The Japanese say the beauty in healing is that the outcome is often even more beautiful and more precious than the original form. And that reminded me of how people— with our traumas, our tragedies, life events, situations—find apart of our heart broken; our soul seared from pain and grief, wondering if we’ll ever heal. Yet life goes on. Sometimes we heal with no scar; other times, the scars become reminders of what was. Sometimes, the result of healing brings us to a place of greater empathy, compassion, even gratitude. And sometimes we don’t heal, for even with the resilience that humans are known to have, some pains may be simply too much to heal. And yet, life goes on; and if we’re fortunate, so do we. The second image was from the last part of a Jewish wedding ceremony, where traditionally a glass is broken. Again, the image has a strange juxtaposition. Why, in the middle of a most joyous celebration, would we want to break a glass? And what does it mean? Like the rocks, like the Japanese vase, the broken glass at a wedding is a reminder of the arousal from complacency. Even in the most joyous and beautiful times of our lives, we are reminded of the brokenness around us, that we live in. The breaking of a glass at a wedding, the repairing of a shattered vase with golden hues added, and perfectly smooth and beautiful rocks all are reminders of the brokenness with which we live. And at the same time, the beauty both within and around us. The rattling sound of the rock tumbler, like the shattered glass that aches for repair, are reminders of the heartache, the pain, and the healing potential in life.

Stay tuned for the third part of this meditation in next week’s Retreat House weekly email. Karen will share her journey with Hearing – Healing Sounds of Birds.

This blog post was written by Karen Hoffman and originally published in House of Healing, a publication of Retreat House Spirituality Center. You can purchase a copy here.