Contrapasso

No going back.
Don't even try.
Why bother.
You don't get it.
It's too late.
I've seen this type and know this world.
I have no choice.
What's done is done.
It won't work.
She/he/ they will never allow it.
Some of us don't get to be happy.
I worry about good fortune.


Word by word, block by block. With each assumption and unplanned intention, you slay your own choices and build your own monsters. Each time you call I walk through your demons. Each time I fight to leave the shadows, and you choose to stay. I wish you'd come with me instead, find your true name.

But this is your blue pill, your story. I can stop reading, or I can keep letting the shadows scar me. Choosing how the tale ends is up to you:

"You take the blue pill, the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes."
You'll find me by the red pill. I promise it's magical.

Just for today

Dear today,

You started with an alarm I slept through, making me late for work. Then you swamped me with one annoyance after the next: silly meetings, unreasonable boss, petty things that went wrong, a pile of chores that'll take hours but can't wait another day.

As if that weren't enough, you sent me a slew of reminders of how great everyone else's life is. Great stories, pitches accepted at magazines that turned mine down, another assignment to a friend that made me wonder if I'll have my space when I return to one of my favorite editors. A reminder that an old prof likes a classmate more than he does me.

Here's the thing I'm telling myself: You have five more hours to flood with annoyance and envy. At the end of it, I'll still be here, but you'll be gone forever. Petty consolation, but on a day like you, I'll take it.

Until tomorrow,
Yours.

A work of darkness

I've been coming to terms with medical uncertainties for a while now. There's little to be done with fresh sharp pain but to feel it. After a while, though, it sinks deep and stitches itself into skin and muscle. I can speak of it, often, without tears. The brittle pull during the day is discomfort not hurt, the sort of dull ache when flesh knits together but a scar has yet to form.

I still don't know how the story will end, or when. I don't know if the solution will be physical or mental, a coming to terms of some sort that some things aren't meant to be. I don't know how I will be changed on the other side. I'm trying not to grow bitter, not to ask the "Why me?" question to which my 25-year-old self would have replied: "And why not you?"

Really, it's an overwhelmingly common problem. My optometrist, the lady who gives me facials, my therapist and my mother are quick to share their stories, the stories they've heard, the things I should do. Everyone has a solution, except apparently the over-educated, wonderfully sensitive specialist who calls to check on me after every painful procedure. So really, why (or why not) me?

I wish I knew. I'm trying, for now, to reconcile the mental confusion with the physical. Is this something I brought on? Is there a reason I shouldn't have this thing I didn't know I wanted until I was told I couldn't have it? Are these medicines hurting my body to heal a problem that isn't meant to be solved? I could perhaps write a book (or at least a really long blog rant) with such dilemmas.

For now, I'm beginning to try to frame the issue with words, name it into something tangible I can nurse into healing. My own words elude me still, and so I pick from others', slip my hurt into their stories to try them on for size. The ones that fit right now are those of permanent loss and uncertainty: Death, cancer, the loss of a loved one. (I wonder if someday this feeling will shrink, so the words of a struggling snark writer for a popular website don't feel quite so skimpy when held against my hurt.) The words that resonate the most: "It is one thing to endure pain. It is another to have hope."

The days of physical pain I tolerate are minuscule compared to those who live these tales. It seems, probably is, silly to resonate with them. But measuring pain in this way always is futile. Yet I find myself -- the person who promised herself she'd never weigh feelings against each other -- doing precisely this thing, if only because I can't find another way to wrap my words around this problem. To a writer, finding the right words is always the answer. And I still fumble for phrases in the dark.

"Ode to Healing"
John Updike

A scab is a beautiful thing - a coin
the body has minted, with an invisible motto:
In God We Trust.
Our body loves us,
and, even while the spirit drifts dreaming,
works at mending the damage that we do.
Close your eyes, knowing
that healing is a work of darkness,
that darkness is a gown of healing,
that the vessel of our tremulous venture is lifted
by tides we do not control.
Faith is health's requisite:
we have this fact in lieu
of better proof of le bon Dieu

Wander some

There's an odd peace that goes with the words "I don't know."

Once in a while, it's comforting to simply face the facts and know that something hurtful crossed my life, but that is all it was. It had no evil intent, was not part of some divine plan, and lacked any medical basis. It could happen again, or it might not. It happened, and it sucked, but that's all there was to it.

It's easy to slip from this peaceful ignorance to rationalizing, piecing facts together to spot patterns so I can avoid future hurt -- whether through action or inaction. Worry, fear, hope -- all the things that squeeze the heart so painfully -- they come from this squished up mess of fact and emotion.

Better, simpler, more peaceful to only accept that I don't know. And neither does any higher power, or my doctor, or anyone else. There is no greater plan guiding us here.

But without one, I am free to choose my pace on this windy road: sometimes halting, sometimes racing. When I can't read the signs, I can simply follow whatever instinct forced me down this path, even when I don't know where it ends, or how, or why.

It is written

Remember these things: the food your mother cooked for a celebration. how your parents marked your twelfth birthday. the first time you called someone for Valentine's day. who you picture when you think of a successful person.

We collect these experiences like pebbles, and as we grow we piece them together to make sense of the world. It's how we put the things we saw, heard, or touched together with emotion, memory, and reaction, then attribute meaning and intention to the characters who played parts in a certain scenario. To put it simply, we tell ourselves stories about our lives.

In every story, however, there are spaces we fill in for ourselves. What was he thinking when he said that? How did my mother feel about packing lunch every morning? Why did my girlfriend turn down my proposal?

Whether we fill these gaps with kindness (she was strong and loved us), or with anger (he's a horrible person), or with self-loathing (I'm so ugly, no wonder she said no), the most important thing to remember is that these are fictions. So our life itself is, in some ways, no more than facts strung together on a fairy tale. In other hands and minds, the facts might weave a different yarn.

And in a world where so few facts are controllable, where the ground beneath our feet shakes more than we'd like, the greatest power we wield is this: we can change our stories.

When we start to think of our strung-up stories as rigid sticks, however, is when we stop seeing both possibility and improbability. Those random acts of change, redemption, fortune or miracle that make so much of joy and sorrow are also what make for edge-of-the-seat drama, nail-biting tension, walk-into-the-sunset happy endings in our lives. And when we put the yarn away and say "been there, done that, I know how this story goes," we leave no room for these surprises.

We are the writers, and we can choose to leave unwritten open spaces. Or we might say, as in the old parables, "and so it is written" -- and thus omit newness from the stories of our lives.

Crush

First this connection, the way I end up smiling over something you said. Then I see you face to face when you give an interview. Then I hear from someone else who connected with you over a different book. You made her think of literature as a white knight in a fairy tale, she writes. Her description bumps my heart just a little. 

I'm not committed enough, just yet, for an actual date. But the coincidences are just as delicious as bumping into a crush on the college campus. The frisson of pleasure, the way you lift my spirits with just a few words. 

I never know where I'll find you next. But soon, I might just borrow one of your books and settle in for a good long read. Will we connect, will your words find a place on my shelves? For now, I'll enjoy the anticipation of discovering a writer new to me. Keep it up and we might just spend a weekend together soon. 

Spin

With shadows so dark and thick I'm certain the light blazes bright and strong and close behind. But there is no turning time back, is there? I must hold faith instead that the earth spins and spins, and so must spin back into the light. If only I could feel the slightest shove, a little give as the path dips forward into deepening night.

Faith like water

Faith in the divine is not a flag to be hoisted at every opportunity with the expectation that all bow to your definitions of divinity. My faith is quiet like water. For starters, it's fluid. And secondly, I don't often discuss it. It's a small molecule with not much to be said for it.

It's more obvious at some times than others. Sometimes I get thirsty and want more. Too much faith makes my stomach bloat uncomfortably, with no room to hold other sustenance. Divinity, like water, is everywhere: in every cell, most soils, even on other planets. There's a big giant ocean of it around us. But still there are places where it is not -- and yes, this is okay too. Not everything must be divine or contain water.

The best food has water, and the worst. But it's not what we speak about when we discuss flavor, or texture, or the way some foods comfort and delight. There is no need to discuss the water, is there?

Unless you have discovered for the first time that water is in your vegetables. Like a child with a new word or toy, some who have "found" divinity tout it everywhere: Look what I know! Hey, did you know water is everywhere? Did you know that love is God, and kindness to all men is God, and .... is God? To some it is excitement, to others a need for validation. It's as though they can't fully believe that everything has water unless someone else does too. But just because vegetables have water, doesn't mean they are nothing but it. Just as all love is a bit of a miracle -- but it's also just a bit foolish, funny, mad, and more.

Faith, like water, comforts me. I swallow big gulps of it when I'm hurt and stressed. I stand under a steaming spray of it to sort out tricky questions. Once in a while, I dunk my head deep under until it leaves me breathless. Faith, like water, can drown everything else out. Including reason, and love, and logic. Too much water will kill you for lack of air. As can too much faith, when it cuts you off from the dust and heat and trappings of life.

There are variants of water: sparkling, iced, flavored, sourced from mountain streams. Pick your favorite kind of divinity. But here's the most important courtesy you can afford others: Sip quietly.

And in my view of faith as water, these are the simple rules:

Don't push your preferred brand or style on others. Don't claim they are all the same. Don't argue over the differences. Don't hold someone else's head underwater. Don't expect others to see the water in food. Some like to focus on the flavors and colors and other wonders -- let them be. Don't interrupt to demand they spot the water. In focusing on the divine, don't forget the rest of who a person or thing or place or emotion is.

You are water. But you are more than just water. Accept it as you will. Remember it. Hold it close. And stop talking about it.

On wanting

(You who never arrived/ Rainer Maria Rilke)

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt
landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and
unsuspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-- , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and,
startled, gave back my too-sudden image.
Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...

Hear no prophets

When considering a partner -- whether it's a college crush-turned-boyfriend or a traditional arranged-marriage type scenario -- we try to answer certain questions. How does this person fit into my life? Is he kind? Is she funny? Do we value education/financial security/hobbies about equally? And so on.

Then we leave a little room for uncertainties. Markets may crash so jobs are lost, people fall sick without warning. Life happens. The future is uncertain, and so we hedge our options in the here and now. My boyfriend cares for his grandmother, so he's probably going to be kind to our parents as they age. She volunteers to read to the blind, she'll probably be a good mother to a disabled child. And so on.

The future is a mystery. There are risks. Etc. And so we make our choices in the present with these things in mind. Some assume that our actions now are a good karma stockpile for the future. Others say that all we have is the here and now.

To quote the cliche: Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why we call it the present. Break that down some more, and the present turns from this day to this hour, this second, this moment. Only now.

And so we choose a lover or a spouse to share our life based on moments.

I wish more of us would do the same when we choose a religious leader to follow. Does my faith distance me from the people I love? Is my religion disconnected from the life I live as a regular human being in the world today? If I had to choose, at this moment, between my family and my faith, which would I pick?

Recently, a 17 year old girl with a highly curable form of cancer refused chemotherapy because her religious faith forbade her from filling her body with toxins. In another context, this same girl might say her God placed all life on earth with a purpose. So was her purpose to die at 17, or was it to cure cancer at 45? We might never know, because a court overruled her decision and she's receiving treatment.

The trouble with such faith is that it drowns out the possibilities. Life emerged from randomness -- a beautiful, miraculous coming forth of molecules in perfect harmony. When we focus single-minded on a certain faith/ religion/ guru, we lose the diversity that comes from seeing the big picture.

Serendipity -- and yes, miracles -- stem from remaining in the infinite potential of now. Stick your head too far into the clouds, fill your ears with the ringing of a prophet's voice, and you might miss the soft strength of the earth you stand on, the very earth that lifts you high enough to reach the clouds in the first place.

That earth is ground reality -- the people that tend your basic Maslow-ian needs. Just for today -- for this moment, NOW -- try this: Feel the ground beneath your feet. Drown your beliefs. Hear no prophets.

They promise that their voices will ring through all eternity. But the earth slips away.

Walking without wizards

Middle Earth is littered with orcs, demons, giant man-hating trees, and power-hungry kings. But my teen self was more terrified by one character's death. Years after I read the books, I'd wake night after night from a recurring nightmare of being Frodo, knowing Gandalf was dead, and having to walk on anyway.

With a wizard around, you can be fairly sure that no matter how many monsters attack, the world will sort itself out at the end. The lack of certainty that haunted my nightmares was, as I'm beginning to realize, excellent preparation for being a grown up. Being an adult is essentially an act of embracing uncertainty.

Unlike the stuff of childhood, there aren't any grades or peers to tell you how cute you look, or how good or terrible you are at a certain subject. There's no grading curve to simplify the hard bits, and no parents to swipe away hurt with a hug. There is no binary outcome to most of life's tests, and several come with no guaranteed returns for the work you put in. Every once in a while there really is no version of the story where the good guys win. And no, there certainly aren't any dashing princes -- or wizards (who seem more useful anyway) -- charging up on shining white horses to rescue either hobbit or helpless human.

Sometimes you know the wizard is dead, but you walk into the scary dark places anyway, because there's a job to be done. If you're lucky, you'll have a friend to hold your hand. Maybe it'll even be someone who will carry and drag you through the hardest parts. Be certain there will be armies and giant spiders and trolls to throw you off your mission. If you're lucky, you'll hold something precious, and have someone dear to remind you of why you're in this mess.

Some  of us might get to go home at journey's end: to hillside hobbit-holes, or palaces with elvish queens, or more eternal dwellings. Maybe, just maybe, the walk will be worth it. But however it ends, we'll all have a story to tell.

And so, this year, a wish to remember the good parts: I hope you remember the precious things you carry. I hope you love the story you tell yourself when it's all done. And when magic is sparse, I hope you find your own light to shine through the darkest places.

glimmer

Just another interview today, like any other. We talked about signaling pathways and molecular biology. But her voice was all yours. Its deep sincerity, accent and tone, the firm roundness of her syllables, a hint of caring, unafraid to question, to laugh, eager in its understanding of the subject -- it was so fully yours that my note-taking faltered as your face filled my mind. The idea of you, who might have soon have had your own lab, as she does. You who I might have called for an opinion on a paper. You who faltered, but still --always -- glow at the edges of memory.

Worth it

Thinking about words is what I do for a living. It's also what I do when I'm not working. And I never tire of asking people to choose their words carefully.

Mean what you say. Intent, I find, is easy. Most people don't intend to be hurtful, thoughtless, silly, etc. However, most of us also don't make sure that our words reflect our true intent, which is often caring, affection or simply a friendly exchange.

Here's an example:

"That's expensive! What do you get for [that much money]?" -- asking for information about the object.

"That's expensive! Is it worth it?" -- asking for an opinion; open to the idea that maybe it is worth the expense.

"That's expensive! Do you really think it's worth it?" -- asking for an opinion; the "really" inserts a hint that the questioner's opinion is perhaps that it's too much money.

"That's expensive! I don't think it's worth it."  -- expresses an opinion

Have you ever used one when you really meant another?

Before you pick an option, know whether you want to know the features of a pricey purchase, or whether you merely want to express your view that it's too expensive.

The words you choose are worth it. As a corollary, the words you hear matter just as much. Take the time to know what they mean. Is the other person requesting information or dissing your choices? Ask, listen, understand.

And if this seems like too much work for a casual chat, create -- or find -- a conversation that deserves the effort. That might mean changing how or what you communicate, or it might mean finding someone else to talk to. Either way, it's worth it.

Just some words

Excuse me while I rant a little. If you've read or otherwise cared to learn the basics of communication in any relationship perhaps you can help. How many communication errors can you spot in the following line?

"If you just answer the question instead of being smug and condescending all the time it would be better."

Here's what I came up with:

1. "Just answer the question" -- a poorly couched demand. Consider this conversation:

"Hi, my computer screen went purple and it makes a beeping noise. I tried pressing the power button and it didn't work. Can you tell me what to do?"

"What were you doing when the problem occurred? Is this the first time it's happening? Have you tried restarting the computer?"

"Can you just answer my question?"

As you can see, that went nowhere pretty quickly. Even experts sometimes need more information to answer a question, and non-experts such as myself often do.


2. "Smug and condescending"

I assume you asked because you wanted an answer. How does calling me smug and condescending invite a response?

3. "All the time"

If I'm smug and condescending all the time, why are we even talking? The first bit of relationship advice you'll hear from any person/book/website/wise aunt is to avoid the words always and never. They're rarely accurate and add little to the conversation. Amplifying or diminishing faults and good qualities to absolutes is also the quickest way to lose your own perspective.

4. "it would be better."

Better for whom, and why? To me, "it would be better" if you held back on nasty adjectives.

It's only one line, a few words out of the millions we have spoken with each other over the years. I hope there will be several billion more. Yes, I could overlook this, as I've done countless others. "It's just a few words," my mother might tell me. "Why do you have to analyze everything so much? Why can't you stop criticizing and just let people be?"

I could, and I have, and I probably will. But for once, I wanted to say this: It's only words, but words are how we connect, how we break apart, how wars start and relationships die. Scream enough words at a tree or a person and you can kill their spirit. Words are worthless -- try telling a depressed person to get over it, try telling them they're loved. Words are priceless -- remember feeling safe simply from the sound of your father's voice, the thrill of hearing you had won an award.

It's only words, and it was just one chat, and they're only feelings, and it's only someone I've known all my life. But knowing someone well seems, to me, like an excellent reason to nourish conversations with thought and time and affection.

They're only words, but they're the only thing we have to span distances that are physical, mental, and emotional. Why not choose with kindness and with intention?

Home thoughts

Nine years to the day since I left home to find my own. The word I've  carried most frequently close all this while is this: "Belum" -- because in a different, simpler time, I learnt that it meant "not quite yet" in a language I don't speak.

Each day is still a little discovery, and I still spend months, even years, chasing falsehoods I construct. For instance, this past year I've told more people than I care to count how I've found a home in what I do, how I learned to belong in many different cities, languages, cultures. Is a lie more honest because I believed it, thought it true while I told it? It took a professor's wish for me to realize it's reality.

"What I want for you? I want to see you belong, truly belong, in a group of people," he told me over a late lunch that we ordered off a brunch menu.

I wondered at that, how he had noticed my stranger's soul through all my words of homecoming. And wondering, I realized that perhaps some of us only truly belong as outsiders. We can never go home, because we only belong in a space that is not-home, our hearts and minds only rested when they search, constantly.

A line from Mary Oliver, a poet I've just begun to read: "They say you spend your whole life re-writing the first poem you ever loved."

This isn't the first, but it's one of the dearest:

"I live my life in growing orbits
which move out over the things of the world.
Perhaps I can never achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt.
I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song."

(Growing Orbits, by Rilke)

What I might miss

Some days are productive because stories flow seamlessly and I check everything off my to-do list (this happens approximately once a year, at best.) Others are productive because of the hours I spend removing material from stories. No-one except myself knows the work I put into removing 100 words from a little news story that will slip into internet oblivion within a few hours, assuming it ever emerges from obscurity in the first place.

It would have been easy enough to let the two quotes slide. They added a little zing to my story, weren't entirely inaccurate, and would have been easily forgiven if found, I think. After all, I'm a journalist, they're the experts, and I faithfully reported what they told me. My previous editor would have chided me for being pedantic. My current editor didn't particularly care until I brought it up. Perhaps I am being a stickler, and I'd be more productive if I wrote fast and didn't stop to think. But I did, and I probably will every time I write.

Without an organization, an instructor or a boss to back me up, I'm the only one who can convince myself it was worth the extra hours and re-writing. This, I tell myself, is why it's called my reputation, not my editors' or my sources'. There's one misleading quote less among the reams of misinformation that inundate the interwebs. I've learned to fact-check at every single stage, even after an editor I trust reads my copy, even when I quote reputable sources who mean perfectly well. Some days, being productive is about spending three hours triple-checking my facts and teaching myself how not to screw up. Hello, freelance life.

Elemental

Some books have a way of coming home to roost. This one wandered in from a box left outside a library near a park, recommended by a friend as we browsed together. I sneezed over the musty pages, snuggled into the old-fashioned language, and remembered how a simple story can feel solid as the earth beneath my feet.

"She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still stop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow revealed the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and rearing and harvesting at last. All the strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tireless in serving generous emotions."

(The book: My Antonia, by Willa Cather)

Warp

I'd be happier, I think, if I could forget a little more. As it is, strands of memory slip and snag through time as I try to weave this story of us, continuous, a wholly unbroken pattern through my life. Each time leaves a little knot in my pretty picture, the unblemished version I tell people when I say we've been friends for so long that we've known each other longer than we haven't.

But remembering, I begin to see more clearly -- not the picture I was so focused on crafting -- but the pattern of these snags, how different we are. How far apart we've grown, and the impossibility of a pattern where we stayed close through nearly two decades.

Was the picture in my mind just a pretty fiction? It would be foolish to say the knots are reality and my weave wasn't. The knots only exist, after all, because I was intent on forcing the threads together. And would there be a pattern to the snags if I had forgotten where and when each one occurred? Perhaps this other picture only exists because I see it now. Perhaps if I forgot, we could simply let the threads of our lives mesh where they would, unravel where they chose. Perhaps if I forgot, I could stop seeking patterns where there's merely happenstance.

The song without the words

We fought once again last week, over something she and I have argued for years. She's held down, she says, by children and house-keeping and a husband who does not understand her. How much she'd love to let go and be like the women who work, she tells me every so often. She'd love to have a career, go out and buy her own drinks, dress up and be more than just caregiver and home-maker.

So do it, I tell her. Nothing stops you, not your two-year-old or your eight-year-old, not the house or your husband. Figure out what you want to do and make it happen. Hope and dreams are only the spirit of it all. The heft of getting what you want comes from commitment. Give it effort, set your goals firm, create the body of this life you claim you want.

We fight, and she backs into her self-righteous shell again. I don't know what it's like to be a mom, or to have an un-supportive husband. It's easier, I think, for her to believe in her helplessness than in her immense capacity to do and be everything she claims she wants. After all these years, I know better than to cry over her. Her words are as fickle as her moods, and tomorrow she'll harangue me about having kids soon, because they are so much more satisfying than anything I might do with my life.

I don't doubt her words anymore. I think, in her mind, she truly does see herself as helpless, trapped in her little house and life, unable to build anything greater than her misery.

Today, tonight, I feel her shell. I know, for perhaps the first time in my life, what it is to NOT have a way to get what I want. To be clear, I don't always achieve everything I aim for. Nine times out of ten I fall short, or it takes me three times as long as it should have, or I realize I was heading in the wrong direction and switch tracks. But in every one of those attempts, I knew what the results of my actions should be, and what I'd do if method A didn't work, or plan B fell through.

For the first time, I have no control over the outcomes of my actions. I feel completely helpless even as I work toward my goals, and know that if I fail, I must start over again at the beginning. The experience and the effort do not count, this time. There is nothing to be learnt, except perhaps how to process sorrow.

I do as I'm told, and I listen when well-meaning souls like my mother or friends tell me to take care, be strong, have faith, expect a miracle. But when there are no guarantees that hard work and following the instructions will bring me what I want, I don't know how to do this thing called hope. Without the solid presence of knowing the commitment and effort count for something, hope flops over and dies too easily. Even as I mop up the blood and check for a pulse, it is gone quicker than it flickered alive. How do you hope, when nothing you can do gives that hope a physical form?

For now, I turn to the miracles I know. The impossibility of genetics, and yet, here we are. Human flesh and form, a million species on a piece of rock hurtling around an impossible star, an improbable universe. What are the chances that life as we know it could have existed? Atoms bunched together from stardust, molecules that bumped together in a primordial ocean, clumped into a living, breathing planet. An intricate dance of chromosomes that split and recombine and keep us going. The miracle of comets, of the earth, of us. Life finds a way, as a fictitious mathematician once said. And perhaps this hope will too.

Waiting

I spend a lot of time waiting. Okay, fine, procrastinating. After a while, the lines start to blur. So much of writing is this space where I wait for sources to respond to interview requests, editors to accept my stories, or instructors to respond to questions.

The one thing I'm much better at is not waiting for inspiration to strike. Feeling creative, I've learned, is 99% about refusing to look up from the page until I get the damn thing written. Sometimes the "not looking up" takes the form of a run, or a long shower, or cooking up a week's worth of food. But through it all the words fester and somehow, at the end of whatever process a piece takes, a story appears. I don't wait for words as often as I used to. This isn't to say there isn't panic, desperation, horrible first drafts and much worse. But I can make them happen. There's little waiting.

It's easy to wait, people say, when you distract yourself and keep busy. I have no dearth of things that must be done. Some are time-sensitive, others less so. I have hard deadlines, even in these last few days of spring break. Appointments, reading, research for new projects, prepping my house and life for another ten-week sprint of classes, assignments and other madness. There's so much to occupy my mind. This waiting should be easy. Instead, it balloons effortlessly to fill every crevice in my brain.

The list  lies untended, while the waiting blossoms into a life of its own. It weighs my limbs down, lifts my fluttering heart into my throat, reduces words to meaninglessness. This waiting, it has grown into my whole self until I cannot give shape to what it is I am waiting for. An email. A phone call. A test result. A feeling. A life. The little delays meld into a formless whole, a waiting presence in the midst of what should be a mad rush to get the rest done. Distractions, work  -- even sleep -- fall to the wayside as this grows, this waiting. I lie awake, and when I dream I hold a talisman, bright blue and cats-eye to ward off some unknown evil. I could not tell you why it is I held it to my lips as I dreamed last night. When I woke I remembered the colors, the feel of the cold stone against my fingers, as though the cold and bright would hasten the end of the wait.

And all of this when I know full well there isn't an end. There will always be another editor, another story, another medicine. It's called being alive and a grown-up. In my brain, I know this. And still, I
struggle as though somehow, the world will be different at the end of my watch.