Emergency Kit: Questioning Catastrophe
It’s long been my tendency to postpone launching until I’ve found a really complicated path to start from. My year of writing is no exception. I’ve long threatened to do it, laid out an easy plan a few months ago and am only doing it now because reading my fabulous friend and her husband’s offerings everyday is a magical snack. I need to eat.
I had a long, laborious and drraaawwwn out metaphor heavy piece mapped out, but I scrapped it. It broke all of the rules of writing worth reading — even I didn’t care. Keeping it all the way live, 100 and REAL — all you need to know is:
I lost my job. I lost my voice. And I’m losing my Dad.
Imagine a Neanderthal girl emerging from the protective enclosure of the shrub that hasn’t really been covering her, but it was hers.
It feels like a mid-life crisis, awakening, revealing, use the descriptor of your choice. Being shoved out of the velvet lined rut of my thirties and into the open of my forties and who I’m going to be, isn’t cute. I suspect me being a wild child, single mama, free spirit, means the red convertible, hair plugs and rocky marriage looks more like me folding in on myself. I treat everything from the flu to insomnia with luxe brand French tea, and splurge on buffalo milk gelato soft serve or maybe Indian, Puerto Rican or Pop-Up artisanal delivery. It’s like a relationship that isn’t great, but since there are no black eyes or broken bones, I don’t feel like I have much right to complain.
Big Ass Bags
Growing up in California, everybody packs or plans on packing an emergency supply kit: basic medical supplies, non-perishable food items, water and battery power to last a few days. It’s your “in case all hell breaks loose” stuff. Whatever you need to survive the “Big One”.
Being here, mid-life mom with a daughter in middle school — feels like I’m on an extended layover in between incarnations. When I think about what the last 13 months has been, (stopping, dropping and covering my ass), I’m not sure what to pack for the next leg. The usual torch, hand crank radio and canned goods probably won’t cover it. I can’t get caught bringing toe clippers to fight on the front lines of the resistance. It’s hard as fuck to manage the feelings around parenting with a gun to your head as your own parent progresses toward the light and the world courtesy of 2017. Say it with me HARD AS FUCK.
Resting and Resisting
Everybody from Rilke to my latest and favoritest writing teacher Claire Light recommends living in the questions. Building and planning what, with the faith that how will flow from my effort and energy.
What have I delayed?
What do I really want?
What makes my heart sing?
What do I have to offer?
What do I have to say?
What will the next chapter(s) look like?
What’s it all about, Alfie?
So here I will report, the best I can, in service to the way forward, with heart.