Last Updated On January 23, 2018

 

I take back everything I’ve told you. -Nicanor Parra, Anti-Poet

 

 

Today I felt the urgent need for a walk-about, my own one-woman women’s march. That mid-winter dip is closing in hard these days. Every time I encounter an island of sunlight spilling between the clouds I force myself to pause and it feels good because it is warm but also it has an overwhelming quality and I’m flooded with minor discomfort like a naked mole rat. But sometimes what’s good for you is also uncomfortable. I accept that and squint.

I’m also possibly feeling the curious backlash of high productivity. Its funny how output can have that sharp edge of vulnerability overload and imbalance and isolation…I mean, its not that funny. But nothing is actually wrong, it just is, and equal and opposite reaction is required.

So these are the conditions that bring me to the sidewalk.

No more strollers or phalanx of children. Now I walk the dog. I love the legitimizing force of it. His leash keeps me loosely tethered to reality and guarantees that at some point I will make it back to my parked car.

I notice that like mothering, I am deferential to the dog’s needs but I do honor my percentage. As I snap a few photos, I admonish him to STAY because like for most women I think, I am always striking that balance, “reclaiming my time” in the midst of so much need because otherwise…well, “otherwise” isn’t an option.

Lets just take a moment to thank Queen Maxine Waters for bringing the phrase “reclaiming my time” into so many thirsty consciousnesses. Pause and squint.

I notice an anti-war sign in someone’s lawn. Hanging from its bottom hinges is a long chain where countries with bloodshed have been added. It has become so long that other than the first three, the names have sunk faded and unreadable into the dirty snow. It looks forlorn, hopeless. After the first three does it even matter? I mean, of course it does. But it looks exhausted, that sign.

I carry the dog over slushy curbs. That dirty snow will not touch his sweet belly if I can help it.

I (we) saw the ghost of a blue jay! Only a lone vibrant feather remained and a spray of tiny downy feathers but on some level, the jay is still here. The dog is interested- LEAVE IT.

I think of my daughter. She who walks the limbo between adulthood and childhood. How hard it is to appeal to her on either plane! So for now, she feels a bit like a ghost to me and I connect however I can. Even if its limited or superficial, I trust that at some point she will arrive. Or I will.

And I am reminded that this story is not just about me and her. This is a universal passage that we all traverse- ourselves with our own elders and then as a parents with our own grown-ish offspring. There are so many footprints, just hard to discern in the dirty snow.

Sometimes I think ghosts are the images burned on our retinas of changed relationships. Relationships that at one time seemed to rest comfortably in shared experience and viewpoints, stable persona and relative identity. But continental plates shift so slowly, we barely recognize things are changing before those easy holds are out of reach. And we have to call out into the darkness, “if you are here, please give me a sign of your presence.”

The slowness of these changes don’t take away the hardness. They feel like breaking. And like that sign, a list is building of all the ways things are not working and its tempting to just get overtaken by the sheer magnitude into a filthy snow drift. But one has to consider (like the sign), after the first three- does it even matter?

Instead of a thick rope of connection, many gossamer threads are employed. Your everything becomes your bowling partner, your meme exchanger, your pet advisor, your same netflix series discuss-er. No matter how thin these connections may seem, they can have the same tensile strength as the rope.

Because its not about content. Its about intention.

The love, the rigor, the persistence behind the intention to hang on and stay in eachother’s orbit during times of uncertainty can be a colossal force, like that of gravity and black holes.

Sometimes love is about accepting and finding SOMETHING rather than nothing.

Sometimes love is about following the change.

Follow like footprints in dirty snow.
Follow like the strewn remnants of a blue jay flown.
Follow like leash like loyalty like love.

 

Last Updated On January 23, 2018

 

I take back everything I’ve told you. -Nicanor Parra, Anti-Poet

 

Today I felt the urgent need for a walk-about, my own one-woman women’s march. That mid-winter dip is closing in hard these days. Every time I encounter an island of sunlight spilling between the clouds I force myself to pause and it feels good because it is warm but also it has an overwhelming quality and I’m flooded with minor discomfort like a naked mole rat. But sometimes what’s good for you is also uncomfortable. I accept that and squint.

I’m also possibly feeling the curious backlash of high productivity. Its funny how output can have that sharp edge of vulnerability overload and imbalance and isolation…I mean, its not that funny. But nothing is actually wrong, it just is, and equal and opposite reaction is required.

So these are the conditions that bring me to the sidewalk.

No more strollers or phalanx of children. Now I walk the dog. I love the legitimizing force of it. His leash keeps me loosely tethered to reality and guarantees that at some point I will make it back to my parked car.

I notice that like mothering, I am deferential to the dog’s needs but I do honor my percentage. As I snap a few photos, I admonish him to STAY because like for most women I think, I am always striking that balance, “reclaiming my time” in the midst of so much need because otherwise…well, “otherwise” isn’t an option.

Lets just take a moment to thank Queen Maxine Waters for bringing the phrase “reclaiming my time” into so many thirsty consciousnesses. Pause and squint.

I notice an anti-war sign in someone’s lawn. Hanging from its bottom hinges is a long chain where countries with bloodshed have been added. It has become so long that other than the first three, the names have sunk faded and unreadable into the dirty snow. It looks forlorn, hopeless. After the first three does it even matter? I mean, of course it does. But it looks exhausted, that sign.

I carry the dog over slushy curbs. That dirty snow will not touch his sweet belly if I can help it.

I (we) saw the ghost of a blue jay! Only a lone vibrant feather remained and a spray of tiny downy feathers but on some level, the jay is still here. The dog is interested- LEAVE IT.

I think of my daughter. She who walks the limbo between adulthood and childhood. How hard it is to appeal to her on either plane! So for now, she feels a bit like a ghost to me and I connect however I can. Even if its limited or superficial, I trust that at some point she will arrive. Or I will.

And I am reminded that this story is not just about me and her. This is a universal passage that we all traverse- ourselves with our own elders and then as a parents with our own grown-ish offspring. There are so many footprints, just hard to discern in the dirty snow.

Sometimes I think ghosts are the images burned on our retinas of changed relationships. Relationships that at one time seemed to rest comfortably in shared experience and viewpoints, stable persona and relative identity. But continental plates shift so slowly, we barely recognize things are changing before those easy holds are out of reach. And we have to call out into the darkness, “if you are here, please give me a sign of your presence.”

The slowness of these changes don’t take away the hardness. They feel like breaking. And like that sign, a list is building of all the ways things are not working and its tempting to just get overtaken by the sheer magnitude into a filthy snow drift. But one has to consider (like the sign), after the first three- does it even matter?

Instead of a thick rope of connection, many gossamer threads are employed. Your everything becomes your bowling partner, your meme exchanger, your pet advisor, your same netflix series discuss-er. No matter how thin these connections may seem, they can have the same tensile strength as the rope.

Because its not about content. Its about intention.

The love, the rigor, the persistence behind the intention to hang on and stay in eachother’s orbit during times of uncertainty can be a colossal force, like that of gravity and black holes.

Sometimes love is about accepting and finding SOMETHING rather than nothing.

Sometimes love is about following the change.

Follow like footprints in dirty snow.
Follow like the strewn remnants of a blue jay flown.
Follow like leash like loyalty like love.

Last Updated On January 23, 2018

I take back everything I’ve told you. -Nicanor Parra, Anti-Poet

Today I felt the urgent need for a walk-about, my own one-woman women’s march. That mid-winter dip is closing in hard these days. Every time I encounter an island of sunlight spilling between the clouds I force myself to pause and it feels good because it is warm but also it has an overwhelming quality and I’m flooded with minor discomfort like a naked mole rat. But sometimes what’s good for you is also uncomfortable. I accept that and squint.

I’m also possibly feeling the curious backlash of high productivity. Its funny how output can have that sharp edge of vulnerability overload and imbalance and isolation…I mean, its not that funny. But nothing is actually wrong, it just is, and equal and opposite reaction is required.

So these are the conditions that bring me to the sidewalk.

No more strollers or phalanx of children. Now I walk the dog. I love the legitimizing force of it. His leash keeps me loosely tethered to reality and guarantees that at some point I will make it back to my parked car.

I notice that like mothering, I am deferential to the dog’s needs but I do honor my percentage. As I snap a few photos, I admonish him to STAY because like for most women I think, I am always striking that balance, “reclaiming my time” in the midst of so much need because otherwise…well, “otherwise” isn’t an option.

Lets just take a moment to thank Queen Maxine Waters for bringing the phrase “reclaiming my time” into so many thirsty consciousnesses. Pause and squint.

I notice an anti-war sign in someone’s lawn. Hanging from its bottom hinges is a long chain where countries with bloodshed have been added. It has become so long that other than the first three, the names have sunk faded and unreadable into the dirty snow. It looks forlorn, hopeless. After the first three does it even matter? I mean, of course it does. But it looks exhausted, that sign.

I carry the dog over slushy curbs. That dirty snow will not touch his sweet belly if I can help it.

I (we) saw the ghost of a blue jay! Only a lone vibrant feather remained and a spray of tiny downy feathers but on some level, the jay is still here. The dog is interested- LEAVE IT.

I think of my daughter. She who walks the limbo between adulthood and childhood. How hard it is to appeal to her on either plane! So for now, she feels a bit like a ghost to me and I connect however I can. Even if its limited or superficial, I trust that at some point she will arrive. Or I will.

And I am reminded that this story is not just about me and her. This is a universal passage that we all traverse- ourselves with our own elders and then as a parents with our own grown-ish offspring. There are so many footprints, just hard to discern in the dirty snow.

Sometimes I think ghosts are the images burned on our retinas of changed relationships. Relationships that at one time seemed to rest comfortably in shared experience and viewpoints, stable persona and relative identity. But continental plates shift so slowly, we barely recognize things are changing before those easy holds are out of reach. And we have to call out into the darkness, “if you are here, please give me a sign of your presence.”

The slowness of these changes don’t take away the hardness. They feel like breaking. And like that sign, a list is building of all the ways things are not working and its tempting to just get overtaken by the sheer magnitude into a filthy snow drift. But one has to consider (like the sign), after the first three- does it even matter?

Instead of a thick rope of connection, many gossamer threads are employed. Your everything becomes your bowling partner, your meme exchanger, your pet advisor, your same netflix series discuss-er. No matter how thin these connections may seem, they can have the same tensile strength as the rope.

Because its not about content. Its about intention.

The love, the rigor, the persistence behind the intention to hang on and stay in eachother’s orbit during times of uncertainty can be a colossal force, like that of gravity and black holes.

Sometimes love is about accepting and finding SOMETHING rather than nothing.

Sometimes love is about following the change.

Follow like footprints in dirty snow.
Follow like the strewn remnants of a blue jay flown.
Follow like leash like loyalty like love.