little thoughts
a shy wave hello
hi hello hi.
I haven’t written on here much since the beginning of the year, even though I’ve been working on a piece, writing it in my head, for many weeks and also thinking a lot about what I want to be bringing to this space. I keep saying this because I think I’m still in the midst of trying to fully envision it. It’s interesting how, several years into a project, there’s an urgency to find a way of breaking through, but I’m patient with finding its form.
I, myself, have been in an intellectually tumultuous time—the state of the world, the new elected officials of the country I was born into, the sentient robots, the fires and storms and the crumbling of many things, continuing to look for a job, counting my dollars carefully as I do so.
There are good things, too. Direct action, and protests, and deep conversations, and all of that. Warm cuddles with my dog, steaming cups of tea, laughing really hard at stupid things.
I think I struggle to know how my writing here is best when it’s not a piece that is more directly of service— my gift idea list, for example. Practical. Service journalism. Helpful tips.
I have loved the longer, more winding essays I’ve written on here, but they don’t always do as well—which is fine!—so I’m hesitant to lean further that way, but I find myself currently less able to write helpful tips when that feels twee.
I just want to say, if you are having moments of feeling like you’re staring at the gasping, vibrating maw of the world like it’s going to swallow everything up, and it’s just a matter of when… I feel that way, too, sometimes.
I’m picking up and putting down books. I’m less patient with them, with myself, with being immersed in reading, an experience that is among my favorites.
Lately, I am sitting with various ideas that I think feel competing but are, in fact, simultaneous:
the world feels dark, and scary, and like we’re entering a period where this will remain true for a long moment
there are communities, and hope, and that darkness doesn’t excuse us from doing things to work against it
there are ways I want to abandon my hope, because I fear in being overly optimistic, I will be complacent or sit on the sidelines in ways I will later regret
if I abandon too much of my hope, I run the risk of giving up before I’ve even begun
so I need some hope, but not too much, but not none at all. but in order to maintain it, I need to hope in community with other people—volunteering; honest, deep emotional discussions; action—because otherwise I don’t really believe the hope I’m trying to muster.
There are times where I want so deeply to dream an entire day away rather than face some of what’s happening. I know that if I do, I will wish I’d been awake, even if what I’m seeing is difficult to pay attention to. I want to know I looked, I saw, and I did not turn away. That doesn’t mean the desire to bury myself, cocoon, hide goes away. I leave those parts of myself to try and be in conversation with each other, balancing rest and reality, hope and heartbreak, without giving up, or giving in, or running away.