To walk in beauty once again
My friend Sriram Shamasunder is one of those maddeningly talented people—a medical doctor who has treated patients all over the world and a gifted poet. But as if that weren’t enough, he’s also a deeply feeling and ethical human. More than most people I’ve ever met, he rejects a hierarchy of human value. People are people are people—all deserving of care and presence. The guy was mentored by global health pioneer Paul Farmer and poet and playwright June Jordan, so I guess he had some damn good models. (Those of you who joined us for our the Mountains Beyond Mountains pop-up book club following Farmer’s death may remember him!)
Sri recently shared this poem with me and, as Thanksgiving approached, I realized that this is most what I wanted to offer to you. Thank you, Sri. I’m grateful to be proximate to your exquisite humanity.
To Walk in Beauty Once Again
For Adriann Begay, June 2020
COVID, Navajo Nation.
Fragility sticks to everything alive like the quiet wetness of morning dew
in this global pandemic
as a doctor
I see this fragility
Threatening to swallow so much of what we love
like a large red blanket covering a small bed
and I can’t unsee it
In the spring
I spent five weeks in Navajo nation
An indigenous community in the southwest of the United States
Taking care of covid patients
Covid as common as desert cactus in Arizona
blooming like dandelions in an open field
That evening like every other evening
I stood outside a patient room
an emergency room converted into several pods of plastic
cocoons that separate one patient from the next and them from us
all in the hopes of keeping the virus at bay
Blue plastic reflects emergency room light
light like a parking lot at night or a mall
perpetual and yellow glow fluorescent
I methodically wear my PPE
Velcro gown clasp
secure the back
face shield
N 95 on
cloth mask over
double glove blue glove pulled over brown skin
no brown skin between gloves and gown
Double-check
Zip up tent step in/ zip closed
behind me
He lies left side down
a young Navajo man
Black hair braided down long past his lower back
right down the middle of his back
like an outer beautiful spine
stark against
bleached white sheets
each thick hair knot
Dense and Strong as rope
like ancestors clasping hands one over the other
Each knot
a closed Knuckle
Gathering like a prayer at the base of his skull
He has an oxygen mask on.
I watch his eyes closely for signs of fear
And I watch his hands for signs of trembling or what they might reveal
About a life before and up to this moment
He breathes fast
We make small and short talk
A few words between catching his breath
he says real soft between quick breaths
I don’t wanna die
I say we will get through this
and then again louder
the first time for him
the second time for me
we will get through this
I leave the hospital at midnight
The next morning
short coffee run in my rental car
my colleague calls to say that overnight my patient emptied his lungs like a gas tank and puttered into the early morning in fumes
exhaustion
He was just intubated
He will be flown to Albuquerque or Phoenix
Off indigenous land
My wife calls at that moment FaceTime with my five-year-old daughter behind her shoulder
I submit to the fact I likely will never see him again
I submit to the fact that he may not survive
I submit to tears that slip down my cheek
And I watch my own hands as they wipe them away
Everything submits to something I tell myself.
The bears rummage through rotted wood and suck up and slurp up ants. The ants submit to the bear
The bear submits to winters
trees submit to fire
the rocks submit to water as it etches grooves across grey
the river water submits to the seasons thinning out come late summer
and our bodies to time.
And so many black and brown bodies this time.
This is the year of submission
Or surrender
Or survival
I can’t decide which
When a patient is about to be discharged from the covid unit a call goes overhead
From all over the hospital
like a bird migration we descend on the covid unit from anywhere we might find ourselves in the hospital
All the health providers gather in a line on either side of the hallway
like a sports team
waiting to high five their star player to come out of the tunnel onto the field
It is this moment a covid survivor gets wheeled out the big doors into the sunlight
Like exiting a dark tunnel
Into
Their families arms
in those sweet moments, i think
This is the year of resilience
the year of I won’t let you go
my Navajo friend tells me with confidence
The Navajo people will walk in beauty once again
And she repeats it again
We will walk in beauty once again
The first time for me
The second time I think she says it to convince herself
I am so blown away by this poem, but especially this sentence: “Everyone submits to something I tell myself.” What do you submit to? What lines struck you in this poem?
The same line grabbed me.
One thought that came to mind for me, as it rings very true, is something Krista Tippett once said. She said that she realized that the work she found most important and to which she had dedicated her life would not be finished in her time, but when she had that thought she looked around and saw a younger colleague of hers, a minister, and knew that the work would continue in other good hands.
After a long time of trying to do too much, to take on too much, I have submitted to the understanding that I am one of many gardeners putting our hearts into tending this garden, and that tending my part with a full heart is enough.
How can I thank you enough for sharing this beautiful piece? I submitted to it. i I’m sitting here in pieces. It shattered my heart but I know I’ll emerge stronger having been reminded there are people like you and Sri in this world.