It is tempting, for it is flattering, to think of ourselves as trees — as firmly rooted and resolutely upward bound; as creatures destined, in Mary Oliver’s lovely words, “to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.” But even if the highest compliment a great poet can pay a great woman is to celebrate her as a human tree, we are not trees — we don’t branch and root from a single point, we don’t grow linearly; we disbark ourselves at will, at the flash and flutter of a heart, self-grafting every love and loss we live through; our growth-rings are often ungirdled by self-doubt, by regress, by the fits and starts by which we become who and what we are: fragmentary but indivisible. The difficulty of growing up, the hard-won glory of it, lies in the self-tessellation.
feeling more bog body than human being, i realize the more i fight, the harder it gets. i relax.
i take a deep breath.
the realization that the choice to give up on themselves or keep trying is, ultimately, completely up to them.
Just as any experience of convenience has the inconvenience of others built into it as part of the "pleasure" that it affords, so does effortlessness signify how effort has been displaced onto someone else.
We find ourselves now in a global pandemic, where expressing love online is no longer a mere desire but a visceral need. Again: What is expressing "real" love or affirmation about? In a world without touch, is love about generous presence — new ways of saying "I am here" and holding space together, or is it something else? How might we do this online?