Summer has arrived and, with it, a desire to sprawl, preferably under a tree or by water. For those of us lucky enough to live with the seasons, now is the time to surrender – to fruit and flowers and temperatures high enough to prevent us from doing anything rigorous without breaking into a sweat. It is time to be still, in other words, which is not a forte of most Americans. Our lifestyles are built around the hustle and bustle of multitasking – of navigating two or three screens at once, of talking while texting, of filming concerts on our iPhones rather than dancing at them, of layering appointment upon appointment while narrating our every activity on social media. It is what it is, for Americans have always been go-getters, but it is no surprise that the call for “centering activities” has been on the rise. Witness the popularity of yoga, of Buddhism, of tai chi – not to mention of blood pressure medication, muscle relaxants, and tranquilizers. But while I respect each of these practices, I’m intrigued that we look to other cultures (and prescription pads) when it comes to quieting ourselves. For as long as there have been words – before there were novels, let alone status updates and tweets – there has been poetry, and poetry is all about staying in the present. Continue Reading →
Archive | Essays
Grounded Mermaids, Graceful Ghosts
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 →
Relax: Oprah’s Got H. Lacks
Recently it was announced that Oprah Winfrey plans to executive produce and star in an HBO film adaptation of Rebecca Skloot’s The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. When I read this news, I caught myself heaving an immense sigh of relief. With Oprah at the helm, I knew Miss Henrietta was going to be safe.
Skloot’s 2010 biography of Henrietta Lacks is one of the most extraordinary literary events of this decade, which only befits the extraordinary Lacks and her legacy. Widely regarded as a lynchpin of her Baltimore neighborhood, she was a beautiful, small African-American woman who said what she thought, fed everyone, and painted her nails perfectly red. Raised by her grandfather in the slave quarters where their family had once been relegated, she shared a room with first cousin David “Day” Lacks, with whom she birthed her first child at age fourteen. Day and she married, moved to Baltimore from the tobacco farms of Virginia, and went on to have four more children, including the developmentally disabled Elsie and her youngest, Deborah. Continue Reading →