But first…
(because we both know you don’t always read the P.S.)
1.) I’m having a party for my book! Join me (& the legendary Alison Crosthwait) this Sunday, 10/24, at 1pm HST/4pm PDT/7pm EDT.
There will be talking and music (and more talking and more music) and even some… oh, you’ll just have to come to find out! I promise you’ll walk away with more than you came with and also a lot less.
RSVP here and I’ll send you the Zoom link.
2.) I’ll be on an Instagram Live with Ana Lepe Vick (@stillmyson) from PUSH for Empowered Pregnancy on Wednesday, 10/20 at 9am HST/12pm PDT/3pm EDT, talking about child loss.
To watch, follow Ana. When she goes live, her profile picture will appear at the top of your feed with a colorful ring around it and the word “Live.” Tap or click her profile picture to view the live broadcast.
If you can’t make it live, I believe I can share a video of it on my page (@rachael_maier) afterward.
I can feel it. This is the day I break the streak. This is the day I reset to 0 and have to build my way back up. (Like missing too many days of yoga and not being able to touch my toes when I come back to the mat.
([Dang it! I hate this feeling. I mean I don’t care for this feeling — I’m trying not to use the word “hate” — which is saying a lot, because I care for an awful lot. I mean I care terribly for many things. I mean… the number of things I care about is innumerable. In-numberable. Can’t be numbered — but can it be bulleted? Hm…]
(I mean sometimes my feelings feel too big for one heart to contain and my heart bleeds into the next and into the next until it’s a whole network of hearts spilling over like an overzealous coffee brewer. A Rube Goldberg [did you know he was a cartoonist?] machine of hearts, each tipping off the next. [Where am I in this chain of hearts? Right here :: ET pointing to Elliot’s heart.:: Is that what I mean? My heart is like a Rube Goldberg machine, designed to perform a simple act, but in an indirect and overly complicated way? No, that’s not accurate. There’s nothing indirect or overly complicated about it. Try again.]
(Maybe it’s a heart-shaped balloon? Expanding with each breath I take? [I once had the thought of capturing someone’s last breath in a balloon. So instead of ashes, you’d carry around a balloon of the person’s spirit — “ha” means "the breath of life" in Hawaiian, as in A-lo-HA and Ma-HA-lo. This is closer to their essence than a bunch of charred remains which, let’s be honest, could be anyone’s. How well do they sweep out the oven between cremations? I don’t trust it. But then you have the conundrum of potentially imprisoning someone between worlds if the spirit is in the breath and the breath is trapped.] I wouldn’t want that weighing on me — I care too much, remember?
(But how much is too much anyway? Is there really such a thing? If one couldn’t care less [and yes — it’s couldn’t, not could. Think about it: If you’re trying to express how little you care, does saying “I could care less” make any sense? No! You care so little, you could not possibly care any less. Zero. There is nothing less than zero. Get it now?], then could one tip the opposite end of that spectrum with a weight of caring too much? And what is the fulcrum upon which this spectrum rests? What’s the middle point of caring?
(What’s the point of caring? Did I just think that? No. I couldn’t have possibly. Not me! I don’t mean that. I mean, I care too much. Remember? [I remember my mom crying in the back of the bus on the short ride from Disney World to our hotel and sitting a few seats in front of her with my arms crossed. I remember lying to my dad that my brother and cousin hit me. Then cowering behind the crack in my bedroom door as he picked them both up by their pajama collars and shook them, screaming in their faces “Don’t you ever hit a girl. EVER! Do you hear me?!”] But surely I have grown since then? Surely I no longer withhold my emotions as punishment or speak an untruth to intentionally hurt someone … surely?
(The point is this: there is a spectrum for everything. This whole damn thing. We are all living on a spectrum. Spectrums. According to the dictionary, [Oh, God, I hate when people say this in a speech or essay or anything really. I mean — I don’t hate it — I don’t care for it. No. No, it’s stronger than that… I don’t like it. It’s hacky. It’s lazy.]
(Unless you’re playing Scrabble, you should never use the phrase: “According to the dictionary…” There. I said it. Then and only then is it acceptable: when you’re challenging a word’s existence. [But why would you? Words are being added to the dictionary every year. And meanings are changing all the time. We are changing our meanings all the time. Language is evolving, like everything else. Is it also on a spectrum? And what does that spectrum look like? What is the evolved language of 2051? 5021? Will we be so connected by then, we’ll just stop verbally communicating altogether? There will be no point of trying to sort through clunky words like mismatched puzzle pieces...
([Gah! There is it again: No Point. Why do I keep saying that? What’s beneath that? What’s a “point” anyway?] Well, according to the dictionary [Oh boy… here we go again…] a point is an advantage or purpose that can be gained from doing something. Do I believe there’s no purpose, nothing to be gained from doing something — anything? Do I believe in inaction? No, I don't. Phew. OK.] so a spectrum is a band of colors, as seen in a rainbow, produced by separation of the components of light by their different degrees of refraction according to wavelength.
(So back to the point [yes! There is one. I do believe!]):
I’m not going to write today. I have nothing to say.
(The top of my head is aching and I haven’t eaten anything yet and it’s after lunchtime already and the termite guy was supposed to be here at noon and I changed into yoga clothes three hours ago and haven’t so much as touched my toes. And we should head to the store before it gets too late. I mean, we have mail to pick up and trash to drop off and groceries to buy and… maybe I’ll have something to write after all that is done. After dinner and the dishes are done and the cats are fed — then. Then, I can sit down and have the headspace I need. But by then, I’ll be too tired to think. I should just do it now, headache be damned. But what to write… what to write… what to…)
The number of things I care about is innumerable
too big for one heart to contain
expanding with each breath
between worlds.
With a weight of caring too much
I have grown
evolving, like everything else:
a band of colors
components of light.
Credits
A Young Girl’s Complaint by Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou
