I have a lot of thoughts about shit going on. Those are the Big, Heartbroken, Angry, Mourning, Painfully Desperate Hope thoughts. But life is still going on, (which I’m continually surprised feels absurd, by the way) and my brain offers me things I don’t really know what to do with. It’s been half an age since I put anything here, so– uhh, tada, I guess.

I’m fighting the urge to take on every project that catches my attention right now that I have energy and I’m feeling the drive to Do and Create. I know it’s depression-low-tide time and I want to take advantage of it, but I really don’t want to burn myself out. But it’s hard not to get excited and want to do all the sewing and cooking and gardening and painting and crocheting and tear through the house cleaning / rearranging and maybe plot a massive move to a whole new life, a whole new world, for when the lease is up.

Babies make me cry.

So does “Rainbow Connection”.

Why am I ‘lucky?’ Why do we talk about my marriage like I dodged a hail of bullets? Why do you all talk about yours like that behavior is normal and surely I relate at least a little bit. (I almost don’t want to say I don’t, because you’ll feel bad for things that aren’t your fault and you’ll stop talking to me about them, even though you clearly need to talk.) Why were these people the best ones you could find to marry? Why were there so many bullets? (We know why there are so many, though, don’t we?) My partner isn’t perfect, but he’s a good egg, and I hate the idea that he’s some kind of anomaly. I hate that I believed for so long he couldn’t possibly exist, even being raised with a fair collection of what good male figures could be. And I’m worried that you don’t do something about the way you’re all being treated, because this is just your normal. It’s not normal. It’s not okay.

Art! ART! Art.

It is not ridiculous to think love could save the world. The practical work of operating in love and compassion is by its nature to push past and utilize the concerns that arise from being in fear and anger.

I never went back to figuring out how to write happily ended stories.

To give the benefit of the doubt must be a nice luxury to have. To have ever been in a position to afford to doubt despite evidence immediate and across the experience of generations. I can’t and won’t fault you for a position you were born into, and for wanting to be just and fair to all, but please mind at whose expense the cost of your effort falls.

How do you know it’s worth it to ignore the signs of almost certain doom? When you see patterns lined up behind you with no indication of change ahead, is it ever worth it to keep going toward what appears to be a poor outcome? Just because it isn’t a hundred percent certain?

Who am I if I give even just this much on a core conviction of my life to do absolutely what must be done, whether it’s what I want or not?

Are my plants really okay? I need more ceramic pots.

I am as terrified as I’ve ever been to want to bring a baby into this world, but I’m also still mourning the one confirmed miscarriage (and the handful of suspected), and feeling an intense need to squash hope before it hurts me whenever I don’t know what my uterus is doing.

I’m exhausted, you guys. I am bone-sinking-to-earth, soul weary. Not that it’s new. It’s just there. It just is.

Your guilt is not useful to me.

Why the ever loving hell does my office have to be ice-freaking-cold???

Yes, ask questions. ASK QUESTIONS. Ask questions especially of the people in positions of power you feel the need to support, and be ready not to like the answers. It’s not a failing on you to have to change your mind about someone or something as you learn more. It’s how you grow and become a better person. Anyone who wants you to dig in your heels and plant your fingers in your ears wants you ignorant and pliable. Do not become complaisant in your trust.

Idioms in other languages are fun, because the direct translations are often very different from the intended understanding as it translates, and I really want to understand the logic behind why they work in those languages.

Seriously, where the heck do I look for local ceramicists to get some pottery for my plants? (I want to support local artists and I want beautiful homes for my babies who have somehow survived me thus far. Good job, little friends! I’m so proud of you!)

I wonder if I can grow a lime tree in a pot on the balcony.

How loud does my music have to be before the passive aggression is just obvious aggression? How long before you figure out I refuse to listen to your bullshit?

I thought I might like to be a mulberry tree when I die, but maybe I want to be a lime tree. I want to be useful even in death.

On that note, why is it strange to be unafraid of death? For myself I’ve never been afraid, but for the people who’ve made it clear they want my company, my continued presence as an option, my thoughts and affection and laughter– for those people who’ve made it clear they would hurt without me– this is the thing that bothers me most, even as it baffles me to receive this sentiment. That they would ache for the loss of me is the thing I hurt to think about when thinking of my own death. This is why I’m still here. Because I love you.