Inside the little box that holds my rose quartz face roller are also many of my children’s baby teeth. They roll around inside when I pick the box up. It’s hard to find good hiding places for things around here.
It’s 2:22pm on a Sunday in this life and it’s hard to find good hiding places for my feelings. I think what I am supposed to do is pretend to be unaffected by exterior forces. I think where I am supposed to be is somewhere else, screaming at white-columned buildings made to fool us into believing we live in another time. I am in my dark bedroom on a sunny Sunday, hiding under a light blanket.
I walk the halls of the Brooklyn Museum with a friend. We glide along the sides of The Dinner Party triangle, taking in the many ceramic vulvas of history, their woven and gilded placemats, table settings for the centuries-dead. We watch a film in a small dark room, snow falls in ultra-slow-motion while the resident of a remote island picks up pieces of my trash on a beach.
I am interrupted by crying from the other room.
I am the snow falling in slow motion.
I am a table set beautifully.
I am trash washing up on a beach, forever.
I am the grabber, the bag, the waterproof boots.
I am a light blanket.
Am sorry that you and all the other Mom's have had to cope with this endless covid.....my heart goes out to you. I marched with Lindsey last Friday at Wa. Square Park, incensed that I am STILL fighting this good fight for women's rights and body autonomy. But meanwhile, you are creating wonderful writings from all of this pain, confusion, and misdirected power/greed/fear from the far right. Stay sane, stay upright, and be kind to yourself. Warmly, Pat