by Troy Bronsink, Hive Founder Emeritus and Facilitator
Our founder, Troy Bronsink, shares some poetry as part of our Spring theme, Into the Unknown.
The Within and Without of Unknowing
Facilitating so many small groups and equipping other facilitators to do the same is probably my greatest pride and joy when it comes to my years as founder and director of the Hive. It's a tremendous privilege to sit together as humans at the edge of letting newness arrive, at the edge of sharing what's at the tip of our tongues, and at times, with everyone at the edge of their seats bearing witness to it all.
So much can be said about the work of holding space as a personal contemplative practice, and the gift of facilitators who can also hold space for a circle of others. If you've facilitated before you know the experience when it's not yet clear whether you should say anything, or simply let a situation play out. And if you've sat in contemplative stillness (meditation, yoga, centering prayer, morning pages, etc) you know that thin line of staying within while allowing what is true in the inner experience to be seen by others. In the inner contemplation we learn to stay with ourselves without coercion or abandonment. In contemplative community we learn to stay in the circle without coercing others or abandoning them. These are like fractals of the same posture, holding space for two unknowns at once.
But this is not an easy tension to hold. The demila is as old as the biblical teaching: on one hand, find a closet to pray in and give in quiet, on the other, presence arises when two or three gather, living all of life by praying without ceasing. Within pulling on without. In all my years I don't think I've come across a perfect formula about how much to share or not share about the inner work. I suppose that’s why bearing witness is seen as a contemplative practice in and of itself. It takes discernment and courage and vulnerability to take our inside world into the outside.
Poems about Inner and Outer Unknown
Over the last two years of Covid I've been getting reacquainted with my love for writing, and at Chris LaRue's request am sharing a few poems here to reflect on the power of shared space for the inner life to arise. The first poem, "Did Y'all See That?" is about a participant in a leadership class I facilitated. Often, in a class a facilitator might see someone on the brink of tears and decide there's no need to bring attention to it. And yet our heart goes out, wanting to say I see you, or thank you, or what a gift! The second poem, "A Second Benediction," I wrote after a phone conversation with an old friend, who is now a priest, reflecting on the authority of vulnerable words said by a stranger in the midst of a graveside memorial service.
We are in the aftermath of so many great issolations. We are beset on all sides by the unknown (perhaps we have always been?). Both of these poems note the intimate power of coming alive to the inner work in the midst of others, bridging that isolation by daring to show others what is occurring within— a core gift that the Hive community has taught me over these years. I hope each of these poems help brighten your own heart to the gift of community in unknown times.
Did Y’all See That?
(or The Secret Gift of Facilitation)
— after facilitating at the Hive, Spring 2021
It was hidden in plain sight, her strength
like a church bell calling us in with invocation:
yes-and, try harder, and sheets spread with key indicators
while the water, proceeding discreetly, in single file, into
that miniature place outside the tear duct, filling like a public fountain
welling into a drop, mascara mixed with saline, swirled
safely behind the miniature dam she’d erected.
How long ago? Who knows? Likely sandbags at first
and then with each question, higher
and higher the bricks and mortar rose.
If we could only have zoomed in a bit
we’d have seen all the life teaming in that tidal pool
small enough to fit at the end of a pin,
a heavenly host missed for the magnanimity
of her efforts at blending in, and me
settling for the balcony, peering down like a child from a plane
window, missing the trees for the forest.
Well, the pregnant moment passed,
as is the case with all ripe containers.
Eventually, though, the levee did break.
The conversation shifted, and the sensitive feelers
had grown confident in speaking again.
That's when I saw her subtly source a tissue
and with whispering sleight of hand
dab the inside corner of her eye.
Once.
Precise.
“Did y’all see that?”
I wanted to shout, but didn't.
Somehow ripened, myself, in a cloud of revelation.
You might not call it an initiation
—for this baptism had passed most of us by.
But I’m going to swing back to her, later,
with a christening gift.
Or maybe just a card saying:
Thank you, for the holy water.
A Second Benediction
- for Rev. Joshua Case, who helped remind me that the magic is not in the office,
but in the body’s willingness to hold space for something to arise.
There is a type of electric southern heat,
a moment, where in, you know you’ll either melt or catch fire.
After the first siren
screamed by the sun-beat cemetery,
after the family and I gathered in our suits and sun hats,
flummoxed by rules to mask or unmask,
after the grave diggers stumbled
removing the worn astroturf, the tent
and the buckled plywood
to reveal a hole
three feet by four, root-filled
and I knelt to return John’s ashes,
back to the ground,
after I repeated prayers
with words like return, peace, and place,
disrupted by yet another siren
I heard myself say to him
You ol’ electrical engineer! ‘Must be playing with the circuits again!
After the static silence set our hair on end,
and we all mumbled Amen,
one of the grave-diggers, sweat poking
out like beads ‘round his huge blue eyes, leaning
in like a reluctant shaman, shovel
to ground like a lightning rod, prayed
a second benediction
“Damn, I feel the chills all over my body
and I don’t never feel chills like that.”