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 →
Here in New York spring has really sprung, and it’s making a grand entrance indeed. My prettiest dresses are sailing out of the closet; bright pastels are crowding the streets; heck, I even shaved my legs. (This activity usually lasts until mid-June, at which point I decide the patriarchy needs to get over itself and any lover scared off by a little fur won’t last long with me anyway.) The big news is that iced coffee is back on the menu. Since I 
I wake with the sun. The air is as sweet as it ever gets in Brooklyn; the early morning, as gentle and warm. My permakitten creeps next to me on our fire escape and together we study the city, so pretty while it sleeps. And yet. I keep thinking about how easily sweet the air was in the