Narrated Essay: Endurance

for those who are burning

I'm delighted to invite you to From Root to Blossom, a springtime retreat in the Rockies this May 29 - June 1, 2025. Join us at Beyul Retreat near Aspen, Colorado, for a long weekend of yoga, meditation, and outdoor adventure in a serene, verdant haven. Cozy cabins, crackling fireplaces, and nourishing practices await. Special rates on shared accommodations when you sign up with a friend or lover.

Found amidst the twisted metal and ash of a family’s home in the Pacific Palisades is a pottery shard with a single word inscribed upon it: love.

It’s a clay piece no wider than the palm of your hand, a remnant from a serving dish that a daughter made for her mother, who displayed it in the bungalow where she lived for forty-seven years until one recent day when a black-plumed terror tore through the neighborhood, and it burned to the ground.

For Diana, the one who first taught me how to love. Thank you, Mama. Happy Mother’s Day, 2011. Your loving daughter, Lisa.

Little remains after a fire. Not the for nor the who nor even the you. In the yard, a wind sculpture spirals upward in the stunned calm of a new day. Stone chimneys stand, only they are no longer chimneys but landmarks by which neighbors orient themselves amidst the rubble and scars of their former lives. A clay murti still sits demurely on the mantle. It is a metaphor, if not a miracle — how the heat melted away its glaze and revealed the form beneath.

And love, in all its blessed unlikeliness. Having passed through the inferno of its creation, having withstood as the house wailed and collapsed around it, this small and necessary gift is discovered atop a charred pyre as though placed there, liberated, message intact.

City skies are painted on linear scraps and framed by buildings. The desert sky is like this: giant, unmitigated, persistent. To live well in the desert, you must look to the opening above the narrow frame of your life. You must consider how light moves across the sky, how gods shift their bodies over the landscape, then bow and tuck themselves behind the night until the sun rises again the next day.

Azure is beautiful but can also be unyielding. The earth firms and softens according to the seasons. Slow water eases; gentle water eases. Fast water flashes off the hard earth and floods the arroyos. And if the water does not come — if the days are brittle and the future unknowable — we are thirsty for it.

When the ground dries, we feel it in our joints. The sky lifts — quiet, strange. We ask for water. Lord, quell our bodies and minds. Lord, irrigate our hearts. Lord, make us watertight.

Then, the birds come looking for water. We give them water.

Mary Oliver writes:

I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

A poet finds a way to say what must be said when it must be said. A poet is made of poppies and daffodils, yes, but also of unflinching metal. Forged in fire, quenched in water, a poet is like a sword meant to wield, cut through, and rise again.

Metal cannot help but conduct warmth. Metal cannot help but have luster, for it reflects the sun's light. Metal has solidity, a high melting point, and sharpness. It houses its own shadow, like most earthly things. So, when metal writes about lead, it knows a thing about it. And when metal says —

Here is a story to break your heart.

Are you willing?

You are willing.

Steadfast comes from the Old English stedefæst, meaning "firmly fixed, constant; secure; enclosed, watertight; strong, fortified." It first referred to English warriors in the 10th century who stood their ground, weapons readied, unyielding to Viking invaders.

And here is one more reminder of the determination of love. In Portuguese, the word resistencia is a false cognate. You’d think it means resistance, but no — resistencia is closer to endurance, to the practice of withstanding. Resistencia refers to that which is unbreakable.

To endure is to show up in the ways that most reflect who we are and what we love, to continually orient ourselves, even amidst circumstances we would not choose. When the instinct is to burn, to endure is to carry water instead.