Recently, I read a report from scientists about the fire scourge in Australia. The report noted that the burning of billions of trees is forcing so much CO2 into the atmosphere that it might actually overwhelm the planet’s ability to compensate – an irreversible event that would change the planet and its ability to adapt, possibly forever.

For weeks now, I’ve watched – and then been unable to watch – the stories from Australia. I’ve been especially touched by the plight of the animals – 1 billion animals estimated to have died already – and multitudes more to perish when those who survived the burning times return home to the scorched earth, with no food, no water, no resources, no safe and nourishing place to be.

One photo in particular struck me so much I can’t get it out of my head, or heart. Two kangaroos comforting each other – holding each other, one’s head tucked under the other’s chin – their eyes so full of sadness and confusion. The exquisite vulnerability, the sense of nowhere to turn, the questions, the hurt, the fear, the innocence – exposed and unguarded.

Of course, as humans, we have more layers of protection than do the animals and other life forms who live in the wild. But I believe that we all suffer, in our bones and hearts and souls, the wounding of the exquisite vulnerability that lies at the center of all of life. Together with all of Nature, we co-participate in the woundedness of the world.

In many of his writings, Thomas Merton – Trappist Monk and theologian – commented on the vulnerability of our most deep, indwelling nature. He noted, “The soul is very shy.” He was speaking about the intimate, tender nature of the Spirit in each of us. But I think that this tenderness, this shyness, also tells us about the intrinsic nature of all of life. At the core, in their heart of hearts, all life forms must experience an exquisite trust – an ability, and willingness, and longing – to be vulnerable and tender, to open, to live as if everything were Holy – as if that tenderness were of ultimate value, deserving of protection.

I think that grief opens us to that original tenderness, and to the wounding of the vulnerability of life. Perhaps this is why those who grieve feel so assaulted by, and unable to deal with, “the world.” Living in the world requires, to some degree, that we protect, hide, disguise our tenderness. If we are very lucky, we have friends and family with whom we can express that vulnerability. But working at demanding jobs, and undertaking the numerous and befuddling transactions of daily life, means that we have to develop a tougher “skin” around our sensitivities. Often, we get pretty good at that. But in grief, when our world has been ripped to shreds, that intrinsic tenderness is unavoidable.

Mourning, then, becomes a ragged, terrible gift. In being broken open by the ruthlessness of loss, we are forced back to our original tenderness. We are reminded that the best and most vulnerable part of ourselves is inescapable, and that the gift of existing has a cost. Whatever the Mystery is, it lies at the center, and we are One with the intrinsic and holy tenderness of being.

And perhaps that’s a good thing, no matter how wretched it feels. We can move forward, when we have the strength, with the hard-won knowledge of an essential quality of being alive. We are part of a community – struggling together – learning how to be at home with our tenderest selves. Together, we are trying to heal.