I withhold not my heart from any joy.— Ecclesiastes 2:10, via Anne of Windy Poplars
It was a beautiful day. Quiet, full of small satisfactions and a private melancholy that’s become a constant companion this year. I woke early—I suppose the headline would be if I had woken late—and sprang into action. Did laundry, fetched supplies at the greenmarket, made jars of iced tea from pineapple weed and mint and chamomile and ginger and hibiscus. Visited my pal at the hardware store and came home with bags of plywood and paint and gorilla tape. Coaxed one more bunch of peony buds into bloom. Organized a cupboard that had been bothering me for months.
Listened to the Hadestown soundtrack all the while—
You, the one I left behind/
If you ever walk this way/
Come find me/
Lying in the bed I made
and moved gently, gently like the beached mermaid I feel myself to be. Fear myself to be. I’m so cautious these days—afraid of reinjuring the back only recently mended through acupunk and good wishes, afraid of my selfishness and the selfishness of others. Afraid of being this ghost, floating through families and flocks of NYC peacocks, eavesdropping on conversations held and not held. Continue Reading →
Historically I’ve considered writing necessary but very stressful–an albatross that I could not escape but never quite embrace. But more and more I’ve felt not so much an elation as a contentment when I’m working. Today it’s lightly raining outside, I’m armed with a very large americano, an Italian sandwich, and headphones playing “Money Jungle,” and I’m set up at the corner table at the corner cafe on my block watching my neighbors race to work. At other tables kids are playing with legos (I live opposite a school) and here I sit, playing with words. I have many worries–who does not?–but I no longer question my choice of profession. It is the biggest of reliefs.
The weather has been cold, damp, interminably British. I inadvertently cut off most of my mermaid hair in what I’m calling the