Monday, January 17, 2022

A demolished house, van-music, and the façade of uncertainty

Across the street, emanating from a parked van the sound of gorgeous music, haunting and almost operatic, a story in Spanish I can’t understand. The music fills the parking lot but doesn’t drown out the sounds of the park, kids shrieking, dogs barking, birds chirping. It should have sounded cacophonous, but instead it flowed, and helped calm my inner chaos.

I’d felt somehow both untethered and trapped this afternoon; after having spent a morning transported to Maine while reading Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge with the soundtrack of a rain in L.A, I was suddenly antsy. Needing to be do-er. Buzzing about, checking the outdoor cat food, getting soggy in the rain. Scooping out the morning’s cold grounds from the red enamel French press to caffeinate our potted plants whose yellow-tipped leaves told me they were in need of nitrogen, checking in on the other plants, trimming away dead or dying leaves in order for the others to thrive.

I’ve learned to parent myself when I feel like this – emotions live in the body. MOVE. I leave for a walk to try to strip away the buzzing thoughts swarming my mind, focus on the present: the birds in one bush sounding almost like an electrical current, while the lone bird above them sings a clear set of notes.

At the top of the hill, an empty lot. The footprint where the house once was looks small now, my sense of space off-kilter without walls and things that make up a home: couches and tables and books and lamps and framed photos – things that somehow by filling a space make it more expansive.

Before the house was torn down and the land torn up, it was shrouded in trees and vines, messy and verdant and overgrown. We’d sometimes hear music from inside, but could never see anyone or anything. It was always a little wild, a little spooky. Now just dirt with patches of grass growing in a rectangle outlined in chain link fencing. Now a large apartment complex down the hill is visible, downtown’s skyline of skyscrapers miles away seemingly stacked directly on top of the brown rooflines, the post-rain grey sky and its soft light changing one’s perception of depth.
 
Along the edges of the lot I spot the deep maroon leaves of several castor bean plants, a few small yucca plants with their solid green spikes, and a small carpet of Bermuda buttercup. When I squat to photograph the delicate yellow flower, I realize that its shamrock shaped leaves sparkle with drops of rain, some collecting in the center to form what looks like a jewel. It shapeshifts into a teardrop at my touch and runs off the edge, disappearing.

 

As I cross back past the electrical bird chorus and the van’s current song drifting up into the trees and grey sky, a passage I’d read this morning in Olive Kitteridge plays in my mind:

“There were days – she could remember this – when Henry would hold her hand as they walked home, middle-aged people, in their prime. Had they known at these moments to be quietly joyful? Most likely not. People mostly did not know enough when they were living life that there were living it.”

It feels especially difficult to be aware enough to be quietly joyful, to know that we are *living life* in the day-to-day moments during the stressful constant of Covid, when friends and family are moving through grief amidst a pandemic – years of uncertainty and questions unanswered.

It was always this way though, wasn’t it? Now, much of the façade of certainty most of the privileged lived behind has been stripped away – we’re able to see more clearly what was always there behind the busyness and convenience of our lives: A mixture of electric birdsong and heartbreaking melody, of things torn away and torn up and cut back to reveal something not previously seen, or new growth, of stooping low and slowing down to see that what appears a delicate diamond reveals itself a far more precious element – water – that shapes and shifts and flows and evaporates but never really disappears.

 




 


Monday, December 13, 2021

The Rabbit's Reflection and Exploring Danger and Fear

 

The Rabbit. I was 8 years old and had either won or earned the privilege to bring home the classroom rabbit for the spring break. Letting him free in my room, I watched as he carefully sniffed about the shag carpet, the captain’s bed and drawers of my room, until he froze in front of the full-length mirror. It’s one of my strongest memories of the not many I have from childhood – the rabbit staring at his mirror image, and then a resounding THUMP of his hind legs, without seeming to move the rest of his body.

I pulled the Rabbit card from my Literary Witches Oracle deck tonight:

 • waiting  • making leaps  • adventure

Adventure and making / taking leaps had long been my m.o. – but the older I’ve grown the more settled my life is, and the fewer adventures I take. The pandemic and lock-down and communal care plays into this the last two years, but before that, I had started to fear I’d lost a part of what made me – me.

Looking back, the idea of the classroom rabbit seems cruel: to leave a pet alone from the time the last bell rang to the time the first bell rang and the rowdy children crowded back into the classroom, hours alone in a darkened classroom with no interaction. To upend its caged life by sending it home with relative strangers for holiday breaks. But my 8-year-old self had not been exposed to those ideas, and was thrilled to play bunny caregiver for a few days.

Searching “why do rabbits thump their hind legs,” I read that “Thumping the back foot is a natural reaction among rabbits to danger.”

Little thumper looked at his own reflection and sensed: danger. Understandably – it appeared there was an unknown rabbit in the same strange room he’d just been introduced to.

The image of him frozen and fearful of his own reflection rings true for me – to sense fear or danger when confronted with parts of myself I don’t often look at. The danger and fear of the unknown about myself. The danger of what could be, the parts of myself I’m not accessing, letting out, parts of myself I’ve tamped down, thought – that’s not pretty enough to present to the world.

(I feel the urge to stop writing, so I know I’m touching on the powerful, uncomfortable truths about what this concept is bringing up for me.)

The Rabbit card: • waiting  • making leaps  • adventure

What does adventure now look like for me? Taking / making leaps? I’ve defined my sense of adventure as the person I was in the past, traveling places others might not go, taking leaps into new jobs, new cities, getting lost, exploring physical spaces and places.

What does it mean for me now, in my mid-40s? Taking a leap to finally put together a collection of essays, to share it with strangers, to risk criticism and all the self-defense words and explanations that I know will rise up in response, to delve into the scary parts of myself and my psyche I don’t want to reveal. To stare directly at my reflection, and accept her.

Thump.

Monday, November 15, 2021

Staying Present & Riding Rocky: the wild and tamed in Griffith Park

 


 

I put my hand on his warm neck, trying to communicate that I understood – he was tired, and didn’t want to be hoofing it in a caravan of humans atop horses. I wanted to stop, but I also felt amazed to be there, and wished, that I knew Rocky, knew his temperament, if this was typical, or a mood.

 

The guide trotted up beside us – how’s Rocky? (We were known by our horse’s names to make it easy on our guides, but I think she was actually asking how it was riding Rocky). The reins in my right hand, stroked his mane with my left, someone had braided pieces of it. He seems – tired? I said, wanting to say instead, ready for retirement? How old was Rocky? When I climbed up onto the saddle, he immediately started taking steps toward the stables, only a few at a time, as if I and all the other riders wouldn’t notices if he just. slowly. crept. away. Old man wanted to go to bed, not for a sunset / night hike through Griffith Park.

 

The morning after our horseback excursion, I pulled the Skull card from The Literary Witches Oracle deck. I’m trying to make a morning habit of writing, as well as pulling one of the cards to let its many meanings bob about in my sub/conscious thoughts. Skull: • transitions • reality • grief. Looking at the image, dark and ominous were the first words that came to mind. A reaction I’ve been taught, limited, not embracing all that can be associated with the image of a human skull. Death – because it’s pictured without skin, but that is the reality of what is always there, part of life, protecting me.

A reminder that death is part of life, something we’re more acutely aware of in those moments when it seems an actual possibility. Coming down the hill of Griffith Park on Rocky, he stumbled a bit just as he also edged along the trail, a steep drop down into the dark canyon, and I gasped and felt my stomach drop as I regretted the gasp (don’t spook the horse!) and gently tugged the reins to my right, and Rocky veered ever so slightly toward the middle of the trail.

I knew that the horses walked along the edge of the trail, our guides had warned us, explaining how magnificent their vision is to see down into the canyon as well as the path before them. Earlier I had joked with another guest at the ranch: it’s like trusting that the pilot of the plane doesn’t want to crash, right? Well, you hope so, he replied. Shortly after getting to know Rocky a bit, I started to worry – what if he is ready to go? Or just distracted? Or so elderly, his night vision is shot? Does that happen to horses? Am I projecting?

 

He seemed so over it, we kept falling behind Patrick, who rode atop Lil Bro, a fitting name for a horse that kept wanting to go faster, to catch up with the front of our line. I kept encouraging Rocky verbally while also mentally apologizing to him, a feeling I’m familiar with when visiting zoos. I was getting so much out of the experience, the gorgeous day turning to night, the 87 degree day cooling off to a little chill in the air that dipped even lower when we passed through those small canyon areas in Griffith Park that hold the cold, the sunset shades of pink that turned to a deep rust over the ocean, visible so many miles away, and then the waxing gibbous moon, looking maybe six-eighths full, casting a soft light over the park.

Rocky was not feeling it. He kept clopping along, adding his hooves to the most beautiful sound as everyone in the group went silent, and we made our way in the moonlight, the silence broken when he made that harumph sound that old men and horses with dust up their nose make, and I responded I know, Rocky. Almost home. One of our guides checked in: Rocky just does his own thing. I’d been assigned the crotchety old man.

Patrick had mentioned that he’d never ridden a horse before, and I’d heard of my friends going for guided rides in Griffith Park, and splurged on the two-hour tour for his birthday weekend. When we arrived at the ranch, Patrick was greeted by a woman who hugged him. Odd, I thought, until I realized I’d met her at his high school reunion a couple years ago. She introduced Patrick to her partner, Sugar, who had gone to junior high with Patrick. They hadn’t seen each other since they played against each other in high school sports. I couldn’t get over the odds of us signing up for this specific hour and date of something we’d never done before and running into his classmates from Orange County – up in L.A. for a birthday weekend for a friend.

We were instructed to choose our helmet, and then lined up to be assigned our horses. In response to “anyone here afraid of heights?” I’d screeched I AM! I assume that was a factor in pairing me and Rocky – though they’d noted the horses almost always walk right along the edge of the path, Rocky kept kind of in the middle. He just does his own thing. The longer we rode, the more I appreciated his grumpy demeanor: I respect an animal who is fighting the system.


Thinking back on those two hours, I realized it may have been the longest time I’ve ever stayed in the present moment. As a new experience (I haven’t ridden a horse since I was 12), I stayed focused on my physical presence – right hand holding the reins loosely in front of the horn of the saddle, so that if Rocky suddenly tugged on them, my hand wouldn’t slam into the horn. Adjusting my posture to lean back and alleviate the weight of my body on his front legs as we went downhill, aware of my thighs and knees hugging his body while still trying to relax my hips to move with his gait.

The couple of times my thoughts wandered, I was quickly pulled back to the present as the group had slowed or stopped and I needed to pull back on the reins as Rocky’s face headed straight toward Lil Bro’s tail.

Pulling the reins and gently my attention back to the reality of now, I was able to hear the sounds of the trail, the horses, the humans, without the hum of traffic I’m so accustomed to as the white noise of the city. I was able to observe the sky change color, to marvel as I often do at the expanse of Griffith Park and the beauty of juxtaposition of the wildlife in it – coyotes, hawks, little lizards, rabbits – butted up against the sprawl of Los Angeles streets and life and lights. Tamed and wild, wild and tamed. 

 


 


Unplanned Junior High Reunion

Unintentional art


Tuesday, April 13, 2021

Wiping clean the chalkboard: A reminder that the mundane is what makes up a life

I wiped clean the small chalkboard Patrick drilled into the wall, hung near the fridge so we can note when we’re running low on eggs, half and half, cheese. (We’re a fairly dairy-dependent household.) Cat food. Laundry detergent. I looked at the list, then went to the grocery store to restock. Trader Joe's was busy, people masked but no longer observing six feet of distance or one-way aisles. The pandemic and new variants dominant in other states, children now getting sick and transmitting the disease, but in L.A., with vaccinations on the rise and our earlier spike, restrictions are relaxing.

Watching the chalk disappear into the breeze was a quieting moment, words erased, tasks done, only to be rewritten and repeated. Repetition is life, especially in the pandemic. Creating moments to reflect and recognize what is unique has been critical, what has changed, what has been revealed. My feelings fluctuate by the hour, by the minute some days. I’m both more jaded and emotionally raw at once, tears at the ready at the slightest indication of shared humanity. Rage spiking higher than ever at the news of a police officer killing a Black man who was panicking during a traffic stop, as it was made clear he had every reason to panic.

 

I nodded to the older Black man as I stepped off the sidewalk to give space as we crossed paths on a neighborhood walk, our eyes above our masks expressions of our shared understanding and respect for each other of all that is unknown. I’ve been half-vaxxed, but have read that fully vaccinated people can still transmit the disease, and I’ve no idea who has immunity from severe reactions or death. The unknown and uncertainty feels like the air we breathe these days, learning how to navigate it with love for each other.

 

I wipe thyroid meds into the cat’s ear, water the plants and trim dead leaves. Paying close attention to the details brings me into clarity, calms me. I watch the video, a panicked young man killed in his car. Paying close attention to the details rattles me, I feel rage and grief as electricity throughout my body.

 

I’d started writing this to think about the sensation of wiping clean the chalkboard, watching the words turn back into chalk as they floated away on the breeze, a clean slate. 

 


 


But the slate is not clean – it shows the signs of where I attempted to erase what was there. It will be filled with the mundane words of daily life: eggs, cat food, coffee. A reminder that the daily, the mundane (from Latin “mundus” world, of the earth) is what makes up a life. For a young father, the list might have been baby food, diapers, coffee. The mundane was stolen from a son, father, partner, Daunte Wright.

 

White people – this is on us. Demand your DAs prosecute killer cops. Demand systemic change in our racist justice system. Examine your own inherent biases and racism that is in the air we breathe, having grown up with white skin in this country, this system. The slate is not wiped clean, but it is there for us to write the present and future we want for everyone’s life to be valued. Until Black Lives Matter, no lives matter. 

Sunday, January 03, 2021

A Soul Built out of Attentiveness: Anxiety, the Pandemic, and Me

Tuesday, December 29 2020

 

It stormed all Monday, a change from months of sunshine and dry winds, days difficult to note as different in our pandemic routine, in which we leave the house only for groceries or a jog. Patrick suggested we go seek out the snow after the rain, snow that we see on the surrounding mountains through the freshly washed air. A few years ago, when I was driving for LYFT, a visitor to L.A. had noted how different the city looked, how green and fresh it was after the rain had washed the layers of dust that settle on tree leaves and flowers from living in a basin.

 

We drove up out of that basin toward the snow – stopping at one point to look over the rows of hills to the buildings of Los Angeles and further, the light glinting off the Pacific Ocean, and, through our masks, as there were several others cars of people also parked, breathe in the sweet smelling air. Aside from the plastic trash all over the ground, everything seemed bright and fresh. Except for me.

 

I was on edge, anxious. I couldn’t make up my mind whether we should drive further to find the snow or worry about the “chains required” sign posted where we’d pulled off. I felt unsafe, outside the routine of my safe home and occasional run to the store. Before the pandemic, I craved change. I wished, and often fulfilled the wish, to travel, to sell all my belongings and live somewhere else, to change apartments and jobs. Once I’d realized, while experiencing deep loneliness living in a different culture, that I also craved my community and friendships grown deep over the years, I settled in, claiming Los Angeles as home, and found change in my freelance lifestyle, in impulsive haircuts from long and wavy to a pixie cut.


I’ve taken risks others had thought unsafe, traveling to conflict zones, trekking with gorillas, talking to an accused war criminal in Kosovo (a fact of which at the time I and my friends were not made aware by our guide, who worked for the UN). Now? This horrendous air-borne virus had made me risk-averse, nervous even to walk around my block or my beloved Trader Joes, avoiding strangers instead of approaching them to find out their stories.

 

Now a drive outside of Los Angeles has me on edge, spiking the anxiety that I’ve dealt with most of my adult life that has been heightened in this long-running crisis. I’d asked Patrick if I could drive to exert some sense of control over the situation. Deciding to go a bit further to find snow, I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans as we continued up the mountain road, shortly after which we crossed the snow line, marked by icy patches on the dark road and dirty snow piled up alongside, which some families were making into snowballs. They looked like they were having fun; all I was having were chest pains and the desire to be safe at home.

 

Back home in our bungalow, I cooked up a cauliflower pizza and devoured my feelings. Going for a post-pizza walk, I decided not to listen to music, but to try to be present, hoping that the sounds of my neighborhood might create a little space in my anxious mind. My friend had just sent me an Instagram post about anxiety that resonated with me, specifically the writer’s reminder that all we can control is how we react to the moment we are given.

 

Given. A reminder that every moment is a gift, we are not certain about anything in this life. As I walked up a familiar street at golden hour, a tree whose branches I pass under almost daily seemed lit from within, made of gold. A few feet later, I was stopped in my tracks by the light and wind playing on the brilliant fuchsia bougainvillea leaves. I recorded it, annoyed that passing cars were breaking up the sound of the leaves and birdsong and a fellow walker’s footsteps.

 

The words of Mary came to mind: “Ten times a day something happens to me like this – some strengthening throb of amazement – some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest, and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.”  (Mary Oliver)

 

And as I continued along, I saw the beauty of people taking care to share space in a healthy way, streets being crossed, distance given, at the same I saw the man behind the wheel of the Mercedes, who looked me in the eye as he failed to stop in the driveway exiting the park’s lot, and sped away. I lost two minutes of precious attention-paying time to my daydream of a superpower that allows me to scratch messages into the precious paint of luxury cars driven by selfish idiots telling them exactly what they did wrong. Bringing me back to the present moment was the noticing the unplanned choreography of several of us masked walkers all crisscrossing the street at the same time to make sure the others felt safe.

 

As I neared my little safety bubble of home, the play of shadow and light of a lush, large plumeria against a white-washed apartment building caught my eye. Beauty comes from the play of light and shadow, from the juxtaposition of life as we’re living it: the roadside snow made dirty by the human life craving to experience it, but still pristine in the trees where only the wildlife lived. The wind in the bougainvillea part of the chorus of us living with it, the gardener’s leaf blower, the passing cars, the slapping of feet on concrete as another walker headed downhill, the birds in the trees.

 

For now, I embrace the changes I can as we do our best to wait out the time till the vaccine and (please, people) adherence to safety protocols takes effect. Enjoying both small changes (I just cut my bangs in a slightly different shape) and large, as a new administration takes office and we continue to cry out for equality and justice and large-scale change to save this ridiculously gorgeous planet where leaves turn gold and bougainvillea dance. 

 


 

 

 





 

Saturday, November 21, 2020

Finding My Religion – Griffith Park Panic in a COVID-19 Surge

The sandy trail was siltier than usual, more slippery from the lack of rain this summer and fall, and I have to concentrate more carefully on my footing, rather than on the hawks squawking and circling overhead, the crows calling to each other as they dipped their wings, the finches flitting from branch to branch.


I feel more anxiety on our Griffith Park hike today than usual. A new safer-at-home order freshly in place, surging numbers of COVID-19 in L.A. County and around the country (and globe), and so. many. unmasked. runners and hikers.

 

I stop mid-climb, overheating from the sunny November day as well as from the anxiety, eager to stop running past the unmasked, needing a break from people who didn’t seem to care? To understand?

 

Settling down in the dirt on an outcrop of the trail, a part that looks out over the Griffith Observatory to mid-city and west L.A., and further out, obscured by haze, the Pacific Ocean. I push my feet, bulky in hiking boots, into the brush in front of me.

 

I try to practice a meditation, of watching each thought that arises drop to the ground – I can always pick them up and obsess on them later – and looking at the ground where I dropped them, I have the urge to follow my feet into the brush. It’s the same impulse I felt as a kid, and now an adult, when driving through the mountains to the Oregon coast.  Out of the windows of our family’s little 4-door Fiat, later a minivan, and still later my trusty Honda, I’d see streams, raging after a rain, burbling in a dry month, a stream that we followed along the two-lane highway until it diverged, wild, and disappeared into thick woods. Every part of me wanted to jump out, leave the car and the road abandoned, and follow the stream, to explore, to smell the wet path of water, over leaves, rocks, to hear what is natural to nature.

 

Back up sitting on the dry, southern California path, I felt the urge to push my feet further into the brush, to disappear from the steady stream of hikers, to lay flat and feel the scratches of dried branches as they marked my bare arms. To lay in the bramble and imagine what it would have been like to live here before. Before the city and streets and piped-in water and sound of helicopters overhead. Instead to play closer attention and communicate with the land and the crows and geckos and coyotes.

 

It brought to mind the Wendell Berry quote I’d read this week on Zen Farmer’s Instagram, the one that rattled something deep inside me that has been asking to be explored for years, as I dreamed of exploring those streams and where they would lead me, what they would teach me.

 

“Once we have forgotten or denied our biological kinship with the Earth and its inhabitants, it is hardly an accident that so much of human spiritual life is premised on an escape from rather than an affirmation of this life.” --- Wendell Berry

 

When was it, who was it, that first illuminated for me that Christianity, in which I’d been raised, need not be limited to the western teaching / interpretation of it? Perhaps Eckhart Tolle, in exploring the true meaning of “a new earth.”

 

Unable to meld with the earth just at this moment, I dust off my pants to take off once more on the trail, running by my fellow humans, masked and unmasked, to meet P up at the top before we descend down past the bird sanctuary and fountain where the bees drink and drown in a pool of water. Crows flew overhead, reminding me of a recent article about their intelligence and a conversation about the beauty of crow’s feet on our faces, a reminder of life well lived. A tiny bird, perhaps three inches long, wearing chartreuse green feathers and what, zooming in, appears to be a pair of shades or a superhero mask, bathes in the drip of a faucet.

 

(If anyone knows this bird’s species, please let me know!)

 








 

 



Tuesday, September 01, 2020

11 Dragonflies and How Not to Take Care of Yourself

11 dragonflies crossed my path as I hiked my usual trail at Griffith Park today.



I started counting them after the first buzzed me like a Maverick fly-by, and then three swooped and darted about each other when I stopped to stretch.  Since we’re between heat waves in Los Angeles (and the science around being outdoors wearing masks has calmed some of my Coronavirus anxiety), I’d decided to try to work some of my emotions through my body via a hike on my beloved, familiar trail. 

I had woke with low-energy in the now-normal state of anxiety, a tightness of chest mixed with low-grade depression about our government, the pandemic, people unable to work and afford food and housing, the racial reckoning and the killing of another Black man last night at the hands of law enforcement.

I started with the tightness in my chest feeling like it was filling up my lungs so much that I couldn’t take a deep breath. I tried a breathing mantra, one word or phrase said as you breathe in, another word or phrase that you want to release as you breathe out. I didn’t overthink the words, but let them rise up with my breath, allowing my body / mind to tell me what I needed to take in, and what I needed to let go.

I breathe in acceptance.
I breathe out fear.

As I started to focus on my breath, I started to slow down. This particular trail is so familiar, I’ve hiked it at least 500 times since my friend Stacy introduced the trail and me in 2001, when she and I were neighbors and would hike it almost daily at sunrise before work.

But as familiar as I might think it is, it’s constantly changing, as are we all. After the three dancing dragonflies brought the number of sightings to four, I stayed on the lookout for them. I usually see butterflies or birds, but this hike, I counted 11 dragonflies, the seventh the largest I’ve ever seen, at least four inches in body and four inches of wingspan. 

As I kept my line of sight open for them, I spotted more detail in general. How the light sage color of bushes in late summer could be wiped away as I smeared the trail’s dust from the green of their leaves. How much continues to grow and even blossom in the midst of our dry season, the cacti surviving someone’s carved initials, a bright fuchsia flower casting a shadow beneath its plant.

Stopping to pull down my sweaty mask for a drink of water, I saw a twig shaped like a dragonfly by my feet. I’m curious about what I could learn from the universe, the natural world that I too often ignore, if I only slowed down and paid closer attention. Since I’ve never spotted so many dragonflies on this hike, I did a quick search online.

A dragonfly symbolizes change, transformation, adaptability, and self-realization.

 

On my way home, I popped in to a grocery store, and was stopped by a man in the parking lot clutching a handful of brown paper towels and a bottle of blue Windex. He nodded toward Joan, my husband's Mazda, covered in dust from the dry days of living in the basin that is Los Angeles, surrounded by our dusty hills and mountains. Can I clean your windshield, he asked? I didn’t have any cash, so I asked what I could pick him up from inside the store to pay him for his work.

 

As I returned to hand him his request, a small bowl of mixed fruit and a 7-Up, I said thank you, and then told him, “Take care of yourself.” He nodded.

 

I immediately regretted it, a rote phrase said without thought. Telling someone, anyone, but especially someone who is washing car windows to earn enough to buy food, to “take of themselves,” feels callous. It smacks of what I don’t like about American culture – the concept that we are completely independent of one another, that everyone must, and should already have the means to, pull themselves up by their bootstraps.

 

It is inherently, scientifically, historically not how this life works. We are interdependent – we thrive in community, caring for one another, taking up what we can when someone needs help, allowing others to step in when we need help. It is why Black Lives Matter matters, because when one suffers, we all suffer. When an entire group of people systemically suffer, we all suffer (whether we can see it or not through the cloud of privilege we exist in). When we pool our resources and create a new table where all are equal, create a new pool, that rising tide raises us all up.

 

Don’t take care of yourself. Take care of each other.

 

The path you and I are on may seem familiar, routine, but there are reminders all around us that change is constant, inevitable, and transformation is possible. Take a moment to observe, to look for symbols, to realize that what you perceive might be a form of dust obscuring reality: wipe it away and see what’s growing. Breathe in acceptance. Breathe out fear. Root into what is resilient.