Greetings from the inside of my 1300 square foot house where four differently-sized and styled humans try not to destroy one another all day (bite to Maya’s head notwithstanding, we’re doing a fairly decent job.)
I’m experimenting with doing these weird little Instagram live videos where I read a poem and then offer a writing prompt. Tune in at 8pm PST to check it out, or watch for the next 24 hours online.
Here’s an excerpt of the poem, “Dead Stars,” which I read on Tuesday night, by my new obsession, Ada Limon. The questions I asked was: what bigness is being born in you in this moment? What rising tide are you saying no to? Post your answers here!
Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.
I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.
We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.
It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.
And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.
But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—
to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.
Look, we are not unspectacular things.
We’ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
No, to the rising tides.
For the rest of the poem, go here.
On this night, 17 years ago, everything crumbled. A senior in high school, I couldn’t process the horror, uncertainty, and loss of life that would result from the start of a never-ending war. In my eyes, 9/11 wasn’t the defining moment of my generation. That came a year and a half later when we were told destroying a city full of people halfway across the world would somehow keep America safe. No one seemed to understand the absurdity of this, save for the grey haired women that rode in the paddy wagon with me the next morning. We had been protesting together at a time before protest was commonplace. No one really knew what to do with us, the rag tag crew of dissenters. A few hours in lock up felt like some sort of bizarre hippie summer camp. In the days that followed, reality sank in. Our actions had done nothing. We never had control over this, and a few hours of singing “we will overcome” in a crowded jail cell wasn’t going to stir the masses.
2016 confirmed how off course we had come. I had nightmares of a day when humanity had used up all of its resources, and all that was left was the technology it created.
And now. That impending sense of doom creeps in at night, an hour after I finally fall asleep, as my husband returns from his daily tour of duty. A first responder, his vision of the near future becomes bleaker each day. His fears are infinite. These late night conversations shake me to my core, and I wonder how I’ll be able to hold it together the next day.
And then they awake. First, Liv, the older one, beckons me to her bed in a resounding “moooommmm”. She won’t come out from under the covers until I arrive, safely beside her. She rushes down the stairs, pets the dog, and immediately begins reading from her mile high stack of library books, only looking up to periodically bellow “hungry!” until I slide a bowl of Cheerios to her.
Her potential is infinite. She will do great things.
An hour later, Savannah appears, hair wild and hugs abound. “What are we going to draw today, momma? When can we leave? Will we see GG?”
The love in her heart is overwhelming.
We get dressed, blow off e-learning, and ride bikes to my grandma’s long term care facility. The rain has already washed away the oversized flower we drew on the sidewalk the day before, but a halo of color remains. We pull out our chalk and begin composing a sunset over the ocean (Savannah’s idea today). We discuss the fleeting moments of life, impermanence, and memory. This ritual gives us purpose. Grey haired women soon appear on the other side of the glass, shuffling over with walkers and in wheel chairs. They try to talk to us, but it’s impossible to hear through the thick pane of glass. The care staff smile as they rush past. I point out the heroes to Liv and Savannah. I tell them about this magical gift they possess and how now, more than ever, we must share it. The rain will soon wash away the day’s work. But that kid spirit, that overwhelming love and determination and excitement that each day brings must continue. This moment won’t last, but the memory will.
And they will do great things.
I'm saying no to a rising tide of despair.