Without magic.

peacemaking that gets our hands dirty

Every Fall, my husband and I rewatch the Harry Potter movie series. Especially in times of chaos, this tradition brings me back to familiarity, fantasy, and imagination. Even though I’ve seen them all about a hundred times, the stories can still teach me something new.

There’s a scene in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I where Dobby, the magical elf and trusty friend of Harry Potter, is killed. Harry holds him gently as he takes his last breath. They’re on a beach where the dark waves and wind are swirling around them. They are angry and devastated to lose their friend like this. Harry tells his friends he wants to bury Dobby “properly, without magic.” In this world, Harry can dig a grave with the wave of a wand, but Dobby had saved his life on many occasions, and though elves are considered a lower class than witches and wizards in their world (they are often ”owned” as house servants), Harry honors him by doing the work manually with just a shovel.

This sign of respect has always touched me. Harry wanted to give his friend a final ceremony of honor and dignity by doing the work himself. The scene reminds me of the gift it is to do the hard work ourselves, with our own hands. I also want to partake in the slow, meaningful work that humanizes others and myself. Even if it takes longer. Even if a quick fix is available. Even if it gets my hands dirty.

I want to spend time listening instead of talking. I want to make a mess, be stuck with the mistakes I make, have to let things dry. Recently, this inspired me to get out my inks and brushes to make some slow art. It inspired me to write poetry by hand (recopied below for legibility.)

I hadn't made art in weeks. That's decay for me. And every second I let go by without connecting to my own personal humanity is when I become a second closer to forgetting yours. So, I listened with my heart, body, and soul. I dug with my own hands. It’s not just making art. It’s just the best I know to do in the face of genocide. And apartheid. And ethnic cleansing we swore “never again”.

To be peacemakers, I think we have to be willing to do the messy work for ourselves, by ourselves, and often on ourselves. Of course, I didn't stop thinking or making art about Palestine and what was weighing heavy on my heart, but it was regenerating to check in and listen for my humanity. It's how I keep finding yours. It's how I keep finding ours.

For you, a poem and a painting. Without magic.

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The spell: a poem.

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Cannot unsee: a painting.

Getting our hands dirty is what the slow work of peacemaking looks like sometimes. Creativity may be the thing that pulls us back from the edge.

The text I chose for this painting comes from words I wrote in my post "Free Palestine."

"Peacemaking is not pollyanna hope or thoughts and prayers. It’s hoping with my actions and praying with my feet, my art. It’s looking at myself and asking about the ways I’m complicit as an American, as person of faith, as an educated, White, and well-traveled woman, and as someone who’s set foot on the land in question and seen what I cannot and would not want to unsee.”

I added an additional "and unsee and unsee." I don’t want to look away or forget all that I’ve seen, but I will if I forget your humanity, my humanity, their humanity. So I keep looking for mine. You keep looking for yours. Practice and make room for being human, whatever that looks like for you. I think that’s the way through. For me, it’s usually art.

This time, I didn’t find my way through my color choices or my own words or in letting the water flow and move the ink around how ever it wanted to move, beyond my control. I found it later when I stripped off the masking tape from the edges. I discovered the water and ink had seeped beneath. I decided to just let them be. How critically human those rough edges are that I want to hide or perfect.

Look to the messy edges with their stains and tears and work done by hand: the fray and the bleed is all of us right now.

I will keep writing poetry, making art, speaking up, and trying to practice humanity and peacemaking in these dark times. Please, do it your way, but promise you’ll do it.

“Cannot Unsee” in permanent ink, paint pen, acrylic on 16x20in canvas.

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Stay tuned next week for a multi-part series I’m calling “Tracing History” to be published here on Wandering Home. You can subscribe to my newsletter to get the latest in your inbox as I send them.

Always,