He's an older gentleman in a three-piece suit, holding a cane. "We're not moving, not moving, are we?" He asks without expecting an answer from me. I smile and pull my earphones out, two pieces of pizza on my lap and a pile of garlic knots stinking up the space, gratefully the bus nearly empty despite the 5 PM commute, but I don't say a word. I leave the earphones out as the bus hums with stillness before lurching forward towards my stop, the best I can offer. When I gather my things up to leave, the man points at the store on my block corner and says "That's a good place. Go there." "I will. I will," I assure him and step off the bus.
This evening the sun sets under the clouds and night arrives the earliest it has all summer. The heat and humidity of July finally gone and in their place a damp coolness. Relief. I grab my keys and walk through the dark apartment without turning on the light, close the door behind me without locking the deadbolt and I go there, the good place on the corner. The florescent lights yellow against the dark blue sky, and the store empty other than the sounds of my flip-flops hitting the floor. A cool breeze flows through the door as I put two dollars on the counter. He's young, looks hardly sixteen, has his earphones in, and asks if I want a bag. "No, no, no thank you," and I turn towards the breeze.
I walk down in the sidewalk with lemon seltzer in my hand, in the still-blue night and the cool breeze, and it's enough. The moment is enough, and that is everything.
August 1, 2016
July 5, 2016
Summer Rain
Friday evening, I chose the rain jacket instead of the umbrella. Tornado watch and gray skies and not enough energy to fight the flight of a cheap umbrella, if and when.
I chose the light blue NorthFace rain jacket I bought in the LLBean flagship store, because of course, and packed tightly in my overnight bag for my Spring Break 2008 trip to DC. The one that got wet even in my bag, when we got caught in a downpour in NYC while running for our train at Penn Station from our train at Grand Central, because of course. A downpour so drenching it soaked through our bags and flooded our clothes. We ran blocks in this rain for the train, worried we would miss it. Two blocks in we laughed and turned our faces up to the rain and screeched. A release. When we arrived, still wet, in Annapolis, we put all of our clothes in the dryer, including the rain jacket, because of course.
Friday evening, on my seven minute walk home from the subway, the sky spit a couple of times and then burst open. Within less than a minute, my rolled up pants soaked up all the rain and then proceeded to drip down my calves and puddle around my feet. My sandals went from slippery to sponges, pooling my toes in rain water with every step. I shoved my bag under my rain jacket and hoped my phone in my pocket would repel at least some of the water. It occurred to me that I had never actually worn the rain jacket in the rain. I didn’t know if it was water proof or water resistant and it seemed to be raining so hard that it almost didn’t matter.
I thought about running. But there wasn’t really a point. I could not get any wetter. The strand of hair hanging out of my hood dripped onto my jacket and rivers ran down the front creating an almost-waterfall into the sidewalk. The puddles at intersections too large to jump over, and rivers of rain flowed against the curb, so I walked through them.
I walked home with a slow step and enjoyed the rain. I could not save myself from the it, I could not get any wetter, so I walked home and enjoyed having the sidewalk to myself — everyone else huddled under overhangs with their umbrellas in front of them as shields.
I remembered the early years of high school, before we had cars, when we would walk in the rain to the beach, hoping for a downpour. How we planned to walk on the rainiest days, miles downtown, miles back, in the warm rain and drenched clothes. How alive it made us feel — squealing, faces turned up the sky, tiny streams flowing down our faces. The warmth of the rain cooling the hotness of our skin and the steam rising from the pavement. The smell of the first downpour of the day. The heaviness of our clothes wrapped around us, clinging to us, how the fabric feels so differently when it’s warm and wet and heavy.
I walked home and let my jeans be warm and wet and heavy. I let the streams roll down my legs and waterfall off my jacket. I thought about turning my face up to the sky and squealing, the way I did when I was 14.
When I got home, I squished up the stairs and left my sponge shoes at the doorway of my apartment. I peeled off my pants in my bedroom and learned my rain jacket, after all these years, is waterproof and not just water resistant. I didn’t have a drop of rain on my top. I took it off anyway and thought maybe it was a bit of a waste — this rain jacket that worked so well. I took my shirt off anyway. And I missed the feel of the warm rivers of rain on my face, falling over my shoulders, and drenching my shirt.
I missed the feel of the total immersion in a downpour. The kind that drenches you from head to toe and even the rain jacket, packed so carefully in the middle of your overnight bag. The laughter, the squeals, the release.
I chose the light blue NorthFace rain jacket I bought in the LLBean flagship store, because of course, and packed tightly in my overnight bag for my Spring Break 2008 trip to DC. The one that got wet even in my bag, when we got caught in a downpour in NYC while running for our train at Penn Station from our train at Grand Central, because of course. A downpour so drenching it soaked through our bags and flooded our clothes. We ran blocks in this rain for the train, worried we would miss it. Two blocks in we laughed and turned our faces up to the rain and screeched. A release. When we arrived, still wet, in Annapolis, we put all of our clothes in the dryer, including the rain jacket, because of course.
Friday evening, on my seven minute walk home from the subway, the sky spit a couple of times and then burst open. Within less than a minute, my rolled up pants soaked up all the rain and then proceeded to drip down my calves and puddle around my feet. My sandals went from slippery to sponges, pooling my toes in rain water with every step. I shoved my bag under my rain jacket and hoped my phone in my pocket would repel at least some of the water. It occurred to me that I had never actually worn the rain jacket in the rain. I didn’t know if it was water proof or water resistant and it seemed to be raining so hard that it almost didn’t matter.
I thought about running. But there wasn’t really a point. I could not get any wetter. The strand of hair hanging out of my hood dripped onto my jacket and rivers ran down the front creating an almost-waterfall into the sidewalk. The puddles at intersections too large to jump over, and rivers of rain flowed against the curb, so I walked through them.
I walked home with a slow step and enjoyed the rain. I could not save myself from the it, I could not get any wetter, so I walked home and enjoyed having the sidewalk to myself — everyone else huddled under overhangs with their umbrellas in front of them as shields.
I remembered the early years of high school, before we had cars, when we would walk in the rain to the beach, hoping for a downpour. How we planned to walk on the rainiest days, miles downtown, miles back, in the warm rain and drenched clothes. How alive it made us feel — squealing, faces turned up the sky, tiny streams flowing down our faces. The warmth of the rain cooling the hotness of our skin and the steam rising from the pavement. The smell of the first downpour of the day. The heaviness of our clothes wrapped around us, clinging to us, how the fabric feels so differently when it’s warm and wet and heavy.
I walked home and let my jeans be warm and wet and heavy. I let the streams roll down my legs and waterfall off my jacket. I thought about turning my face up to the sky and squealing, the way I did when I was 14.
When I got home, I squished up the stairs and left my sponge shoes at the doorway of my apartment. I peeled off my pants in my bedroom and learned my rain jacket, after all these years, is waterproof and not just water resistant. I didn’t have a drop of rain on my top. I took it off anyway and thought maybe it was a bit of a waste — this rain jacket that worked so well. I took my shirt off anyway. And I missed the feel of the warm rivers of rain on my face, falling over my shoulders, and drenching my shirt.
I missed the feel of the total immersion in a downpour. The kind that drenches you from head to toe and even the rain jacket, packed so carefully in the middle of your overnight bag. The laughter, the squeals, the release.
July 3, 2016
Showing Up
I’ve spent the majority of today in bed, inhaling Momastary.com, The Racial State, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream — chocolate therapy, thankyouverymuch — and salad. It’s allllllll about balance, I told him.
I’m slightly obsessed with Glennon Doyle Melton — I’m re-reading her book Carry On, Warrior even though I just finished it about a week ago. That’s what I’ve been doing this past year though: finishing a book and then immediately starting it again. Sometimes the first time around isn’t enough to learn even a fraction of what it is one needs to learn.
Glennon says some version of this (see, still haven’t really learned it all): Show up, be brave, be kind, do the next right thing for you, rest, repeat. So that’s what I’m doing. Brene Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert and Martha Beck and Rob Bell and Oprah all seem to be saying the same thing. I know because I’m reading and re-reading and listening hard — podcasts and super soul sessions are the same thing as reading, right? This day in age, no? I’m old, I’m learning. (I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.)
Last year, on this weekend, I watched fireworks in front of a cornfield and thought I knew things. I almost want to laugh out loud at that thought now, except I’m trying to be kinder to myself — a year: what a difference. All the things I got wrong, and hopefully a few I got right. I got a couple of the most important things right, that much I know.
I know because I’ve been very quiet. When I’m unsure now (which is often), I get still, I get quiet, immediately. Or as soon as possible. And I move through the next few minutes. Sometimes I take a large leap and move through the next few hours. That’s it; that’s all I’ll be doing for a while, and I’m so very good with that. (Good with it, not good at it — there’s a vital difference.)
I’ve made a thousand mistakes in this past year. I’ve said and done and been hurtful things. And I’ve been forgiven. I’ve been loved anyway.
Last summer, I learned that every cell in my body is actually made of glass and every cell can actually shatter. Those shattered glass cells can prick and poke and scratch and pierce every inch of your skin from the inside out. But over time, they melt and become heavy molten and although it feels far too heavy to carry on most days, you can, in fact, carry it. And eventually, ever so slowly, it drains out of you, and becomes less heavy.
As it drains, it takes away all the old and leaves wide open spaces for new. New feels as new is — uncomfortable and uncertain. But it isn’t the hot, heavy molten glass, and all the empty space is a bit airy, a bit light, and there’s plenty of room for the uncomfortable and the uncertain to hang out and just be.
That’s what I do now, mostly. I just be.
And I listen for myself in the stillness, so I can show up as myself.
It’s that simple (and yet still, always, hard — I’m good with that).
(And there is love, too, also, as well.)
—————
As a reminder to myself, if/when I should need it again, and to anyone else who may need it, this helped me get still and quiet, so I could hear myself:
1. Therapy
2. Yoga
3. Meditation
4. Routine (with a strong emphasis on sleep)
Other things that helped:
— Reading (Brene Brown — Rising Strong, Martha Beck — Leaving the Saints, & Pema Chodron — Things Fall Apart, over and over again)
— Coloring
— Watching the bears for hours because there’s something about nature that’s healing (http://explore.org/live-cams/player/brown-bear-salmon-cam-brooks-falls)
— Saying yes to myself and no to everyone else
I’m slightly obsessed with Glennon Doyle Melton — I’m re-reading her book Carry On, Warrior even though I just finished it about a week ago. That’s what I’ve been doing this past year though: finishing a book and then immediately starting it again. Sometimes the first time around isn’t enough to learn even a fraction of what it is one needs to learn.
Glennon says some version of this (see, still haven’t really learned it all): Show up, be brave, be kind, do the next right thing for you, rest, repeat. So that’s what I’m doing. Brene Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert and Martha Beck and Rob Bell and Oprah all seem to be saying the same thing. I know because I’m reading and re-reading and listening hard — podcasts and super soul sessions are the same thing as reading, right? This day in age, no? I’m old, I’m learning. (I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.)
Last year, on this weekend, I watched fireworks in front of a cornfield and thought I knew things. I almost want to laugh out loud at that thought now, except I’m trying to be kinder to myself — a year: what a difference. All the things I got wrong, and hopefully a few I got right. I got a couple of the most important things right, that much I know.
I know because I’ve been very quiet. When I’m unsure now (which is often), I get still, I get quiet, immediately. Or as soon as possible. And I move through the next few minutes. Sometimes I take a large leap and move through the next few hours. That’s it; that’s all I’ll be doing for a while, and I’m so very good with that. (Good with it, not good at it — there’s a vital difference.)
I’ve made a thousand mistakes in this past year. I’ve said and done and been hurtful things. And I’ve been forgiven. I’ve been loved anyway.
Last summer, I learned that every cell in my body is actually made of glass and every cell can actually shatter. Those shattered glass cells can prick and poke and scratch and pierce every inch of your skin from the inside out. But over time, they melt and become heavy molten and although it feels far too heavy to carry on most days, you can, in fact, carry it. And eventually, ever so slowly, it drains out of you, and becomes less heavy.
As it drains, it takes away all the old and leaves wide open spaces for new. New feels as new is — uncomfortable and uncertain. But it isn’t the hot, heavy molten glass, and all the empty space is a bit airy, a bit light, and there’s plenty of room for the uncomfortable and the uncertain to hang out and just be.
That’s what I do now, mostly. I just be.
And I listen for myself in the stillness, so I can show up as myself.
It’s that simple (and yet still, always, hard — I’m good with that).
(And there is love, too, also, as well.)
—————
As a reminder to myself, if/when I should need it again, and to anyone else who may need it, this helped me get still and quiet, so I could hear myself:
1. Therapy
2. Yoga
3. Meditation
4. Routine (with a strong emphasis on sleep)
Other things that helped:
— Reading (Brene Brown — Rising Strong, Martha Beck — Leaving the Saints, & Pema Chodron — Things Fall Apart, over and over again)
— Coloring
— Watching the bears for hours because there’s something about nature that’s healing (http://explore.org/live-cams/player/brown-bear-salmon-cam-brooks-falls)
— Saying yes to myself and no to everyone else
May 28, 2016
Hope & Yoga
"And hopefulness is really, for me, is not optimism, that everything’s going to be fine and we can just sit back. And that’s too much like pessimism, which is that everything’s going to suck and we can just sit back. Hope, for me, just means a Buddhist sense of uncertainty, of coming to terms with the fact that we don’t know what will happen, and that there’s maybe room for us to intervene. And that we have to let go of the certainty people seem to love more than hope, and know that we don’t know what’s going to happen." - Rebecca Solnit in conversation with Krista Tippett for "On Being"
On Saturday mornings, I pour my coffee into a paper cup and take myself to yoga. Hair disheveled, almost the way my pillow left it, on winter mornings the same leggings I slept in the night before, warmer mornings a pair of cotton shorts, an oversize t-shirt perhaps still wrapped around me from the night before, and a clean sports bra, always. To get there by 8am is the only goal, "Get onto your mat, Emma," I prod gently to avoid the whirlwind of morning demands.
And I do.
I get onto my mat and stretch and reach and let myself be. Cranky some mornings, bone-marrow sad on others, lightly refreshed, energized, scattered, sore, head-chatter too loud, weak, tired, annoyed with myself, all of it, I let myself be. Reach into the pose, not able to reach as far as..., let it be. To reach is all I ask. Let it be. Balance on the tiny places my body connects to the earth, the right foot, the left hand, falling, trying again, falling, laughing. "Play here," she instructs, and I listen. I play and laughter follows, and it's more than I could ever wish to ask for on some mornings. I play with the greatest stretches, the most tenuous places to find balance. "Find your down-dog,"she guides us to find the stability. I breathe in, I breathe out, release it all out, release, out, out, release, move into child's pose. Rest.
Let it be. Reach. Play. Rest.
I walk home on warm mornings, with my yoga mat slung over my shoulder, and headphones in my ears. The volume low enough to catch the hellos from the stoops and the good mornings from the sidewalk and toss them back. The week gone and only the block ahead in front of me. On each block, hope finds me well.
On Saturday mornings, I pour my coffee into a paper cup and take myself to yoga. Hair disheveled, almost the way my pillow left it, on winter mornings the same leggings I slept in the night before, warmer mornings a pair of cotton shorts, an oversize t-shirt perhaps still wrapped around me from the night before, and a clean sports bra, always. To get there by 8am is the only goal, "Get onto your mat, Emma," I prod gently to avoid the whirlwind of morning demands.
And I do.
I get onto my mat and stretch and reach and let myself be. Cranky some mornings, bone-marrow sad on others, lightly refreshed, energized, scattered, sore, head-chatter too loud, weak, tired, annoyed with myself, all of it, I let myself be. Reach into the pose, not able to reach as far as..., let it be. To reach is all I ask. Let it be. Balance on the tiny places my body connects to the earth, the right foot, the left hand, falling, trying again, falling, laughing. "Play here," she instructs, and I listen. I play and laughter follows, and it's more than I could ever wish to ask for on some mornings. I play with the greatest stretches, the most tenuous places to find balance. "Find your down-dog,"she guides us to find the stability. I breathe in, I breathe out, release it all out, release, out, out, release, move into child's pose. Rest.
Let it be. Reach. Play. Rest.
I walk home on warm mornings, with my yoga mat slung over my shoulder, and headphones in my ears. The volume low enough to catch the hellos from the stoops and the good mornings from the sidewalk and toss them back. The week gone and only the block ahead in front of me. On each block, hope finds me well.
May 17, 2016
Not Just A Paper
Three cop cars, a van, seven police, two undercover, arrested two boys under my window this afternoon. Mid-sentence, typing, at my desk, The Racial State section of my dissertation, a few paragraphs above the role of defense counsel in juvenile delinquency court, I heard the woop-woop of sirens that don't intend to travel far, feet against the pavement, a scuttle, a man's voice command, "Get him down," and a boy cry, "Why would you do that?"
I made a bee-line for my window. They had him down on the ground in handcuffs. Pinned tightly to the pavement below. Shoving hands in his pockets and patting down his thighs. He cried, "Why would you do that?" I held my breath, waiting for the gun. There wasn't one.
Two undercover cops wearing bullet-proof vests walked the other boy within feet of the one held against the ground. "Why would you do that?" "Why would you do that?" The seven police officers put the two boys into the van and drove away.
Boys.
I sat on my bedroom floor, under the window, and exhaled the tiniest sob. Without tears. Without a second. Walked myself back to my computer and continued typing.
The racial state. The role of defense counsel. Boys.
Two boys.
May 6, 2016
Values
They're written on a pink post-it note on my bedroom mirror. Only three of them so far, hard earned already – I'm turning right, they're steering left, bringing me to my knees, I have to show up for myself as myself, again and again and again -- hard earned. And yet, when I live them, with integrity, despite fear paving the way, they hold me, calmly, sweetly, gently, giving me back to myself.
May 1, 2016
Look for the Light
Cold, rainy day. Not enough layers to wear and too many for May. Chocolate ice cream for dinner, but when I step out the front door the mist looks like snow in the streetlight. The drenched sidewalks glowing golden under the streetlight, forgetting to be gray.
“We can do hard things,” she shares time and time again, these past months. I match my breath to my movements, let it unravel on the mat, and follow her lead, this wom_n who walks the same path, the one lit by the starlight in the darkest nights.
We can do hard things. We can show up in the dark, in the rain, and look for the light.
April 28, 2016
Stoops
I sat on my stoop last Friday, with a cup of coffee from the coffee shop down the street, “Good to see you, my dear,” she said as she passed me the cup. Soft and steady and without needing a response. A warm morning, summer steady on spring’s heels already, my favorite season in this neighborhood. Open car windows and 90s hip-hop and the trees with tiny leaves, we’re all emerging again. These blue-cracked-paint steps and a tiny promise to sit here on summer mornings, sipping coffee, letting the sun warm me, letting my neighborhood warm me. With gratitude for a summer without a 9am office time clock. And last Friday, with gratitude for the black car that rolled up with the window down and a life-force smile. With gratitude for the second cup of coffee from the coffee shop. “Black please, I’ll add the sugar.”
April 26, 2016
Battles
Last night the lightning woke me up before the thunder. I know it’s supposed to be the other way around. But that’s what happened. A flash of light bouncing off the walls, I could see with my eyes closed. It snowed in Maine this afternoon, and we had 80 degrees and sunburns here just a few days ago. “New England weather,” we’d grumble, but I no longer can lay claim to that title, have laid it down among the sharp swords of battles lost.
Losing battles I’ve walked away from, crawled away from, pulled my bones by their skin far enough away to feel the flames of the battlefield scorch only second degree burns.
Or perhaps battles won. So often the destruction looks the same.
Losing battles I’ve walked away from, crawled away from, pulled my bones by their skin far enough away to feel the flames of the battlefield scorch only second degree burns.
Or perhaps battles won. So often the destruction looks the same.
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