Trouble

writing that is

I’m working on a complicated academic piece about Pamela Colman Smith and it’s just that: complicated. My usually pretty quick brain is muddied and I have intelligent ideas at 2am which then dissipate by morning. I know I should write them down in the moment but I don't. Questioning my competence to discuss issues of race and gender after so long out of academia, feeling like this this format is too small for something so big. Still grieving. Two weeks. A drop in the bucket.

What do you do when your brain becomes thick with sadness but the proverbial show must go on? I go to work and am pretty effective for a few hours, then aimlessly walk around straightening books, back to my desk to stare at the screen, thinking about Trump's new sneaker line, and how can we possibly live in this world? How can I live in a world without the comfort of Amy? Two weeks ago today she left us. On a new moon. On Shabbat. On another dear friend's birthday. Her death day.

I'm in a writing group, not writing very much.

I'm in a get things done weekly accountability group, not getting much done.

Food is going bad in the fridge because I committed to five home cooked dinners a week but strawberry cheesecake ice cream sounded better last night.

The show must go on. Shit needs to get accomplished. Our taxes need to be finished. There are deadlines. And still. I cancelled going to the gym this morning. So much effort. I went yesterday. That’s good enough.

I saw two friends this week. It was nice to sit and talk and in the moment it felt like a salve. But that was plenty. I could write an essay entitled “How To Avoid Social Situations And Still Keep Your Pals.”

Who knew that starting Below Deck back at the first season could be so rewarding? It’s comforting to know there is also Below Deck Mediterranean. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, keep it that way. If you do know what I’m talking about, hop aboard!

Dogs are helpful. I feed them, take them to the park, rub their bellies. They sit nicely for their treats. That’s all they need. Cadet has been licking a patch on his tail. The fur is worn away and at the age of fourteen I’m not sure it’s coming back. I spray bitter tasting liquid on it to keep him from making it worse. Freya has a bizarre looking skin tag in the shape of a brain on the top of one of her back toes. I joke that she’s learning Arabic and calculus in her toe brain. For now, they are my best company. I leave Bravo on for them when I go to work. They probably know more about the Housewives of all the places than I do.

Reality TV. Very far from reality, and that’s the point. Right now watching the constructed reality of the yachting show feels stabilizing, comforting, dependable. I can count on many seasons in my back pocket.

I live with this other human. He’s letting me be. He’s known me for long enough to know that I’ll be better eventually but that he will have to endure my moods for the foreseeable future. Is that love? Yes. Is that what marriage looks like sometimes, often, always? Probably.

I pull cards every day. The Four of Cups. Remember what you do have, not what you don’t. Fuck that. Pull another card.

Full moon tomorrow.

Messy house messy mind.

The blessing of my therapist being on vacation.

Fragments. That’s it. Fragments of phrases, memories, conversations. That’s what’s left.

So, a poem by Mary Oliver:

Love Sorrow

Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must
take care of what has been
given. Brush her hair, help her
into her little coat, hold her hand,
especially when crossing a street. For, think,

what if you should lose her? Then you would be
sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness
would be yours. Take care, touch
her forehead that she feel herself not so

utterly alone. And smile, that she does not
altogether forget the world before the lesson.
Have patience in abundance. And do not
ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment

by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,
abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,
sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.
And amazing things can happen. And you may see,

as the two of you go
walking together in the morning light, how
little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;
she begins to grow.

Mary Oliver

That’s all folks.

xo Hanna