Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Hope

Thursday, March 3, 2022

Microscopic Dust Particles

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INVOCATION

Spirit, blow open these hearts made of ashes. 

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PRESENTATION  

Yesterday, there were a lot of pictures of people with little charcoal crosses smeared on their foreheads in observance of Ash Wednesday.

Being raised Baptist and non-denominational evangelical, I never knew of this ritual until the first time I told a co-worker that she had a little something on her forehead. When she explained it, I was mesmerized and envious. I too wanted to wear a cinder-tattoo acknowledging my humanity. I wanted to wear an emblem of dust to remind others that we are all made of the same stuff. It felt like a blessing of namaste or ubuntu. 

On Ash Wednesday, I went to yet another new doctor expecting to dissolve into a despair of nothingness. I waited to disappear right before the doctor and nurse's very eyes the minute they saw I was a fat Black woman. I figured, like others before them, they would look at my age, my body and my race, and diagnose me based on statistics and biases rather than my actual blood and testimony. But I was surprised, because it went much better than anticipated. Sure, there were some biases there, but I could tell they were both working hard to let kindness and caring prevail. 

But I wonder: if we all practiced the ritual of marking ourselves “human" each morning, would we have to work so hard to see beyond our preconceived ideas about one another? I wonder if we all pressed an imprint of our humanness on our foreheads every day, would kindness and caring be a no-brainer?

I think what made the difference in this doctor’s appointment was that I allowed all my feelings to be seen. I allowed them to see that I was as terrified of their judgment as I was of their procedures. When the tears came, I let them fall. And when they asked questions, I answered with a story that helped them to see that I was human, same as them. 

It worked. 

Still, it would have been much simpler to have “I am dust, you are too,” inked across my forehead. That way, when the nurse and the doctor asked, “How are you today?” my tattoo would answer, “I am human, same as you. I hope you will be good. I hope you will be kind. I hope you will care that I am a wonder made from dust, same as you. Tread gently.” 

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EXHORTATION

Dusting by Marilyn Nelson 

Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things.

For algae spores
and fungus spores,
bonded by vital
mutual genetic cooperation,
spreading their
inseparable lives
from equator to pole.

My hand, my arm,
make sweeping circles.
Dust climbs the ladder of light.
For this infernal, endless chore,
for these eternal seeds of rain:
Thank you. For dust.