A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:
MONDAY
“There’s a 23-year-old girl in my MFA cohort that I secretly admire. Daniela’s an excellent illustrator, very technically skilled, and her work shows an emotional depth that resonates deeply with me. We begin sitting together at lunch, and though her company is welcome, it quickly becomes clear that we couldn’t be more different. She’s outgoing and open-hearted; I am reserved and overly critical. She drips with the confidence only youth can bestow; I am anxious, intimidated by my own expectations and what a younger cohort thinks of me. Motherhood has stripped me of my confidence. The reality of being thrown into a powerful role that’s impossible to prepare for has me questioning what, if anything, I’m qualified to offer—to a friend, fellow student, and of course, my own child.
Daniela is comfortable with vulnerability. In each conversation, she invites me into another part of herself—her dreams, her ambitions, her own insecurities, and mistakes. She asks me for advice about relationships and building her career. She is genuinely curious about my experience with marriage and parenthood. I’m not familiar with a lot of her vocabulary—like a true millennial, I have trouble understanding the shorthand Generation Z slips into so easily. When I ask her to define a word she uses, she laughs at me gently, like a sibling. I feel at ease, comfortable in her company, starkly aware that the only person she wants me to be is myself.
Often, I think about how easily this friendship could’ve passed me by; it was only through a small crack in the door of my heart that she came through.”
—excerpted from An Open Heart, an essay on friendship I recently wrote for issue #57 of Taproot Magazine
TUESDAY
This embroidered version of The Wind in the Willows by Rachel Sumpter that I bought months ago. I have yet to begin my own embroidery project, but this sits on our dining table (buried under a heap of N’s own paintings) patiently waiting for me; reminding me there is still time.
WEDNESDAY
My days pulse with an air of desperation: I am uncomfortably aware that time is passing with rapid speed—that although the days feel long, full of to-do lists and diapers and laundry and tears—they are, in fact, steamrolling right through me.
My child turns into a young girl before my very eyes, my infant into a curious baby; my body fails me not because it is weak but because it is neglected; my art won’t make itself and no one, other than me, needs me to make it; I will always, always fall short of my own aim and expectation; I cannot have it all, full stop, most likely—but I definitely cannot have it all at once. My brain agrees that there is a season for everything; my body does not physically understand it. My blood courses with agitation.
I find comfort, as always, in all the familiar places:
“People always ask me how I managed to paint when my two boys were small. My children were a joy to me, and there was no problem working with them around—I just let them play at my feet as I painted. They would even run toy fire engines up and down my easel, but it didn't bother me. The only problem was how to keep them safe when we were doing field work, such as plowing with the horse. Once on a TV interview I was asked about this and I said, "Oh, we just tied them to a tree." When I listened to the program later, I was horrified.” —Dahlov Ipcar
“It’s my belief that even the freest, most single and childless writers rarely do more than four hours of intense writing a day. I do the same, but I just have much less spare time to waste. In order to write, I cut out a lot of things: reading the newspapers, for example. I listen to the radio, because you can do that while cleaning. And I have to avoid all social media and most daytime emailing. But I have also absolutely given up on the idea of peace and quiet as being necessary to writing. I just don’t allow myself to think about that.” —Zadie Smith
“I used to have these acres of time. And I didn’t particularly realize that until they went away. But one of the things that I at least have found from having a child is it’s not ever just one way. For a while it will feel like there’s no time, and then time will feel expansive again. And then there will be times when I don’t even want to write because it’s just kind of completely compelling to me to be doing other things. And then there will be other times where I feel like if I can’t write and have time to myself, I’m going to scream. But kids are so funny, too. They’re much more fun than most of the things I did when I was just a depressive-freak single person.” —Jenny Offill
THURSDAY
“To love, to be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of the life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.”
—from Arundhati Roy’s Azadi
FRIDAY
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
—The Way It Is by William Stafford
xx,
M
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