It is the first day of a new year, an arbitrary marking of time made all the more valuable by the fact that we can’t get back moments which have already passed and there is no guarantee for what the future might bring. The present moment, this small slice of time, is what we have to hold.

it’s been a wild five months, and not in the best possible way. rather than recounting the many ways in which the better part of this year has fucked with my head, i’ll say: i’m working on ways to better work through the myriad of intense emotion it’s brought to the surface.

1. i’ve been missing my urges to express creativity. i’m ready for everything to not feel dull around the edges anymore. being especially vulnerable (or let’s be honest: opening up at all) has felt like a huge risk i’m not willing to undertake.
2. but fear sucks. so i’m going to get a little bit micro focused on building something, anything in the midst of it all unfolding. though there are few outcomes i can control at the moment, one i can control is making something of the thoughts i have.
3. i’m not perfect. i live, i breathe, and i worry. a lot. which isn’t all that conducive to taking brave, bold steps into creating something that exists outside of the tumult of my own mind.
4. i have realized that no one is counting this pandemic in days, weeks or months any longer. that illusion has passed. i am living through an historic moment, and i am going to capture what i can of it (good, bad or otherwise).

COVID-19 life is a strange new reality, and i’m not going to avoid it anymore. i don’t want to live in it, but frankly none of us has got any other choice, have we? i’m still scared shitless of what it means to keep living through it all, but i need to try to recapture some of the self that i’m so badly missing as we all wait for some return to the lifestyles we’re missing. really, i just want to be able to hug my friends and family again. have a meal out and see a show. relax in the company of others and share happy conversation.

i will write my way through it. when i am frozen, i will write. i will write and write and write. what about you? how will you make your way creatively through this new reality?

“strategically reallocating resources, funding, and responsibility away from police and toward community-based models of safety, support, and prevention.”

-MPD150-

So much of political discourse centers itself around semantics rather than the actual ideas it seeks to have implemented. I understand the importance of accurately portraying ideas, and no doubt semantics has its place and purpose, but it should not be to the detriment of progress.

I admit to having been hesitant about the use of the word “defund” when discussing necessary changes to policing, however thanks to my friends and organizations (like Ben and Jerry’s, whose use of ice cream scoops as a representation of reallocating the budget to other services is spot on) I’ve come to understand that this is a critical word to use when addressing the systemic issues we face as a society.

The old adage “put your money where your mouth is” holds true here. I’ll address reparations another time- but essentially, our government is pouring money into policing (whose brutality toward POC is racist and reactive), rather than investing in programs that have the most ability to impact positive social change in communities that have been oppressed by the institutions that should be working for them.

We need policies in place that are proactive and not reactive. We need to sink public dollars deeply into the roots of public services like housing, health care, and education; to lift up people who have been historically marginalized and subjected to all forms of injustice at the hands of a system that should be protecting and serving them. If we reallocate even a fraction of the budget that goes to policing into these sectors, then people begin to receive the long overdue compensation they deserve.

I’m grateful for the challenge of looking at my own opinion from another angle, and I bring this up here because a friend whose opinion I respect suggested that perhaps the use of the word “defund” be moderated in the conversation about policing so that Democrats will be more likely to support such changes to policy.

Let’s embrace the beauty of what we get to be now.

-Jonathan Van Ness-

https://www.instagram.com/p/CBr6nLxF9Qn/

I spend a lot of time overthinking and not writing because I’m scared my words won’t come out the way I want them to. 

Deep breath.

Here I am anyway. Feeling uncertain, a little untethered, and also ready to take a plunge into the unfamiliar and let my words be what they will.

When I started this blog, I told myself it would be a place to test my legs as a writer. I wanted a forum to share my writing and thinking and start conversations with people about things and ideas that matter to me. 

I’ve barely invested any time in my writing lately, and that is what it is. There are a few reasons which I’ll dig into because context matters, in my humble opinion.

First of all: the month of February has kicked my ass hard for the last couple years. February 2020 was honestly the first February since 2017 that didn’t completely suck. There are reasons, but that is a story unto itself.

My point is, during the longest short month of February, I set a goal to write at least a few things to put up on this blog and I didn’t do it.

I invested my time in other ways. Reading some things on my endlessly long reading list, connecting with new friends, and putting in lots of marathon training miles. 

Then, March rolled in all “I’m just another month” and then it was anything but normal. Without much warning (debatable), our lives were upended by a global pandemic. Covid-19 became our new reality, and with it, everything that had been familiar, normal, or comfortable went out the window as the world scrambled to control the spread of an extremely virulent disease.

My kids and I had just started our spring break. Last day of school, March 12th. Next day, I’m faced with the reality that what I’m reading in the news is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets any better.

I’ll write more on this later, but for now I want to process the simple fact that I’m writing at all. I’ve told you why I hadn’t been writing prior to Covid-19, and now it’s time to dig into how terribly fucking hard it’s been to get myself to sit down to write at all since it’s all begun.

Immobilized is perhaps a good way to describe my state of being. Autopilot might be another. Survival mode. This is the first time I’ve felt like I can get anything of length or substance on paper (screen). A month into this strange new reality, I have been able to find enough focus to do the thing that I love. Writing is cathartic for me, and it’s been terribly painful to not feel like I can do it.

I am a single parent, and a teacher. One of my sons has an autoimmune disorder. I have anxiety which is triggered by the fear of myself or others around me becoming ill, and of losing the people I love. (This is where I tell you I’ve got a longer story to tell about that-another time). Not to mention, I miss my friends.

I’ve had to work hard just to keep routine for my children and my students while I try to stay healthy for myself. Some days are really tough and it’s hard to see any hope in the darkness. Other days are ok, and I can carry on with things as long as I don’t stop to think too much.

And that’s the thing about writing. It takes a lot of stopping and thinking. I need to be able to reflect and dig in. And I haven’t been in a place where I can dig into anything without spiraling into a full on anxiety attack. Because everything in the world right now feels so unfamiliar and scary. I feel immobilized. I am doing my best, and still sometimes I just want to cry.

Today, I listened to a good friend of mine talk about how this pandemic has impacted and likely will continue to impact the arts and artists down the road. He spoke to the fact that artists have an inherent, deep need to create art. It’s like breathing. It’s a part of being. And that art should not only be seen as important in our society, but valued for what it’s worth. Which is a lot. It’s worth a lot.

Arts have kept many of us sane and balanced through this strange and unprecedented time. We are watching movies and reading books in great quantity. Actors are streaming free content- we are benefitting greatly from their commitment to their craft.

And then I realized how deeply important the arts are to me- as a human being making my way through life, art has gotten me through so many of my darkest times. Hell, I took improv classes that got me through some really dark days. I came out a better person.

I guess my point here is that I’m grateful I’ve been able to sit down and write again. And I’m grateful for the art that’s being made by wonderful, talented friends and acquaintances. I’m grateful for artists I’ll likely never meet but whose contributions to society I greatly admire.

I’m going to take every chance I get to put the words I have in my head out into the world, even if it’s just a stream of consciousness. Hopefully those words will resonate with at least one person, and then it will have been worth it.

AWS April 15, 2020

“Compared to clouds,

life rests on solid ground, 

practically permanent, almost eternal…”

-Wislawa Szymborska-

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt a real, true sense of security that I am firmly tethered to the ground. There have been enough moments in life that have swept me away on their wavelengths, either for good or for bad. Times I am sure I let life take the reins and told myself: if I just flow with it, what is the worst that could happen? 

From this I’ve learned one simple lesson: the mentality of “things will just work out” works some of the time, but not all of the time. There are those moments when, upon reflection, it’s obvious that a more proactive and logical-rational approach would have been the smarter route to take. And, of course, hindsight is 20/20. There’s no use in looking back on moments I felt untethered as dire mistakes of reasoning. I believe that mistakes do make me stronger, even if some of them have left me a little bit worse the wear.

I’ve felt driftless and alone many times in my life; at those times, I identified more with a cloud than anything else. Life rarely feels like it’s standing still for me. I feel always in motion, and sometimes I feel I am moving too fast or too far beyond the comfortable spaces I know. In those moments, I have mostly relied on other things, or people, to bring me back to reality. 

In her outstanding book on living with anxiety, First We Make the Beast Beautiful, Sarah Wilson remarks on the impact of relying on others  to be our emotional tethers. She writes about how her anxiety has made her feel untethered from life, and needing something or someone outside of herself to bring her back down, to help her feel a sense of being balanced and secure. She relates that this can be hard for the people around us who are able or willing to be that positive grounding force that we anxious folk may need from time to time. 

I worry that the people in my life who have provided this service (perhaps without realizing they were doing so) felt the weight of being a grounding force for another human being. On the flip side, I wonder if I’ve ever been able to be the reminder of solid ground for anyone in my life; as a bit of an empath, I know it can be challenging for me to provide the support or security needed by others when they are facing tough times- it’s a vulnerable place for me. I’m working on it, I try my best to be present and supportive however I can. 

Life is, at its essence, fleeting. For me, there is little sense of permanence or anything everlasting about the time that we have. It slips away faster than I want to acknowledge, and I wish without reservation there could be a way for it to stretch and expand in perpetuity- so the moments which bring me joy would last longer and I could more fully relish the beauty of passing things. 

Still, I’m grateful for the moments I’ve had and continue to have to enjoy life as it happens- as the seconds pass and years fly by, it just gets more and more precious. Gonna hang on tight to what time I’ve got.

Note: Originally written November 2019, lightly edited January 2020

“I think, therefore I am.” -Descartes

I run. —> I am a runner.

I write. —> I am a writer.

I teach. —> I am a teacher.

I parent. —> I am a parent. 

It is compelling to me how the things we humans choose or are obligated to do so swiftly become part of our identity. I like this idea in a way that is a little hard for me to pinpoint. It feels somehow comfortable and familiar- like stepping into a family dwelling, a place that smells like your childhood basement or perhaps like your grandmother’s kitchen at Thanksgiving. 

There are things we are because they belong only to us, do not exist outside of us. I am a human. I am a woman. 

There are relationships that add complexity to our identity. I am a daughter, sister, cousin, friend. Those relationships are important to who I am. Who I am to others and who I surround myself with impact my sense of self. 

There are things we do that I believe become a part of identity. I parent and I am a parent. Parenting is both a thing that I do and a thing that I am. It is not my entire self, but a very specific and precious piece of me. 

This morning, I woke up just as the sun was beginning to light the sky. The colors weren’t especially remarkable, but I always enjoy catching the moment of change. Witnessing the relentless melt of time is one of my greatest joys. So, I took a picture and posted it to Instagram (along with someone else’s words that were rolling around in my mind) and then realized my time to reflect had passed. I needed to wake my oldest son up to get ready for middle school so he would make it to the bus on time. 

I was strongly pulled to sit down at my desk and write. I felt inspired. My mind was primed, ready to let words hit the page. A relentless stream of thoughts and ideas.

But I didn’t. 

I am a parent. I did what I knew was the responsible thing to do. I woke up my dear, sweet twelve year old child (whose feet are now larger than my own), folded his clothes, made him breakfast and packed his lunch. I told him how much I love him and how sorry I was for getting upset with him the night before. I told him he was more important to me than the jar that had belonged to my grandmother (which he had borrowed and lost, without telling me). He gave me a hug and told me he’d love me no matter what. I told him the same. Then he flew out the door to the bus. 

That half hour of time was precious. I was able to reorient my brain into the moment, do the things I needed to to make sure my son got where he needed to go with the things he needed to have a regular day at school. Nothing extraordinary happened in that half hour. At the beginning of it, what I wanted to be doing was writing. At the end of it, what I wanted to be doing was writing. That desire hadn’t changed at all. 

After he flew out the door to catch the bus, I woke up my other son to get ready for his day and then I left the apartment to walk our dog. As I was standing outside in the crisp, frosty morning air, with the sun just cresting the horizon and splitting the cold dark with its warm light, I felt myself lighter and more accomplished than I had been before I walked out the door. I felt loved and appreciated in a simple and comfortable way. I felt I had a sense of purpose. 

This very small slice of time made me think about how the things people choose to do or are obligated to do in life intersect with their identity. I parent, and I am a parent. The fact that I am a parent, that I parent, does not define me. It is not who I am, it is a part of what makes me me. It adds complexity to my life in a way that can be at turns fulfilling or frustrating, depending on the moment and circumstances in which I find myself. And if I’m honest, it’s often both at the same time.

A few years ago, I had a conversation with a friend (who knows me well as a person and as a parent) around the cultural phenomenon of how parenting has transformed over the decades. I found it fascinating at the time, and it has rolled around in my head since then. I’m intrigued with unfolding it further; I want to dig into what it means for me to occupy this space and how being a thing instead of doing a thing impacts my life and perspective of myself and others. Within this, I’m curious about the personal and cultural implications of letting something become so deeply a part of one’s identity and what that means for a person’s vision of themselves as an individual and how they fit into society. 

For today, what I know is that I am trying my best to fit all the pieces of my intricate identity puzzle together into a cozy and familiar quilt. Soft in all the right places, angular and predictable in all the right ways, and unique because each piece is different from the one alongside it, in a way that is pleasing to the mind. My life has, at times, felt disjointed and clashing; there are moments when seams seem to unravel or pull too tight. Today, however, I woke up with the sun and felt that I had found a space to occupy that fit me perfectly, like those moments when you curl up to sleep and pull the blanket over yourself and everything just feels right. Like you never want to move from that position ever because it feels so damn good. 

Of course, I know nothing is forever. The pieces of my life will continue to move and change. For me, that’s part of the beauty of it all. I wouldn’t fully be myself without some kind of personal development, change of scenery or activity. I feel It’s only human to change with time, to reflect on where we’ve been and where we want to go. For now, though, I will relish the distinct feeling that I am comfortably fitting into all of my many unique and puzzling identities. For now, change in its many forms feels welcome and not scary, and so I will plunge into life with the assurance that I am who I am- with all my imperfections, questions, fears and hesitations, I am enough. 

What are the things you do that make you feel whole, that have become part of your identity? Who would you be without those things? 

Note: I wrote that little reflection a month or so ago, and returned to it today because I’d had a hard day of teaching (yet another aspect of my identity). It made me realize that in those moments when the things we choose or are obligated to aren’t going the best, it can cause some strain on the ties that bind the various parts of our identities. Things aren’t always sunshine and rainbows, and that can affect how we see ourselves and our relationships with others and the world. At the same time, it can be the most challenging moments in life that teach us something valuable about ourselves, where we’ve come from, who we are, or the type of people we strive to be.

“Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the Universe exist. Be curious. And however difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at. It matters that you don’t just give up.”

-Stephen Hawking

There’s little in the world other than writing that has always felt natural, comfortable and familiar to me. Putting words on paper comes easily, the open page is where I feel most at home, most myself. Ideas emerge- where once there was nothing, suddenly there is something new (or reimagined).

I am creating this space as a place to share reflections on books I’ve read, places I’ve been, experiences that have changed me (for better or worse), and to hopefully inspire some conversation around ideas, large and small: in short, let’s chat about life and other things.

I am a mother and a teacher. I am a reader, runner, thinker and writer of words. I typically say that I am a jack of all trades and a master of none. I like to try a little bit of everything, learning and collecting new ideas and experiences along the way. This will be a hodge podge of ideas and creations that may or may not be related, but will always have some meaning for me, and I hope for someone else out there in this great wide world, too.

It has taken me a long, long time to feel brave enough to get started. Thankfully, I’m here now and I have a good feeling about this year being the year that writing becomes not a thing I wish I did, but an art in which I am fully present and through which I am able to share my ideas and experiences.