returning and returning and returning
More practice. More rigor. More commitment, regardless of how I feel. If folks are gonna send me candles, I should show up to light them.
More practice. More rigor. More commitment, regardless of how I feel.
If folks are gonna send me candles, I should show up to light them.
It matters not that you will like/read/enjoy/love what I’ll share, but as we head into some kind of infinity loop with this pandemic, I feel pulled toward the practice. I need the peace of processing the day, the moment, through my fingers typing fast and easy.
What is the experiment? What is the ask? What will you receive?
I brushed the curly-haired one’s hair tonight. It took forever. But because we plied her with videos of Joanna Newsom (she announced at dinner that she’d like to play the harp, pleaseandthank you), she did not scream when I pried the knots out of her hair, one by one.
I feel old. I felt old when I told her that in the morning, they could play Joanna J — J —(I sounded out, so they could find her name) on the Ipod.
What are the stories we’ll tell of this time? How will we explain how windblown everything felt? Who will believe that there were people who walked around just spitting into the air?
On the hike, the yellow leaves were like a shag carpet underfoot. I walked, hands in pockets, while I told my sister to let the kids run too far ahead because I didn’t want to see them. I need them to be as far away as possible. Just for a few minutes. I named as many pines as I could.
How will I work again? How many soft skills can be collected before you’ve woven yourself into a cocoon of obsoletion? Will anyone know how hard I wanted to try to do everything?