Dear Somebody: Nothing, nothing.
Five things from this week that I'd like to remember
A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:
MONDAY
It’s been awhile since I wrote. There was some travel, some sickness, some coming back to life. I’m still figuring things out; I’m still dedicated to the daily task of figuring things out. What else can I do? Nothing, nothing.
Failing friendships, abandoned resolutions, the agonizingly slow crawl towards progress: these were all things that clawed at me a few months ago, seeping into my brain in-between my dreams and demanding more of my time, more of my efforts. Now, I let them fall away with ease. What can I do? Nothing, nothing, so I pour the skeletons out my window and raise the blinds to the morning ahead.
Each day feels less like it’s getting away from me, and I feel less like I’m trying to get away from myself. Somehow, the smog has lifted. My brain is less dreams-and-pollution, more dreams-and-strangeness. I am reminded of time’s simple magic: its ability to transform a dilemma so magnificent into a pebble, into a not-problem so small, so ordinary, that I forget to think of it.
I slip on my shoes, small cloud-like things, and head out the door. I listen for the cardinals and the mourning dove; I follow the clouds through the sky. I like my little walks—to the corner coffee shop, the neighborhood library, the community garden. To nowhere at all.
I walk to the library, but it’s closed. I walk to the coffee shop, but it’s closed, too. My timing is amiss or the world wants me to stay still—what can I do? Nothing, nothing. I turn around. A mile away, my sweet little family breathes childhood into our sweet little house. Quite happily, I take the shortest way home.
TUESDAY
I have a new collection of cards out with Biely & Shoaf, and I’m especially charmed by how the gold foil on these turned out! All of my new cards are available on the Biely & Shoaf website and at stores throughout the country.
WEDNESDAY
I flew to my sister’s for a quick few days to celebrate her birthday. It was a sweet treat to sit around a table with a very large martini and so many wonderful friends who love her as much as I do.
THURSDAY
There are many versions of Conference of the Birds, a 5000-line Persian poem written by Sufi poet Farid-ud-din Attar; I treasure the edition I have, illustrated by the skilled Peter Sis.
Serendipitously, I stumbled upon this article by The Heritage Lab which summarizes portions of the poem and distills some of the symbolism within it—but what I love most are the many included paintings, many dating back to the mid 16th-century, all inspired by this classic poem .
FRIDAY
My husband and I held the films up against the sliding glass door in
Oregon the summer it seemed my sadness might never go away, trying
to make sense of whatever illness swirled there in black and white and
gray, so terrible the river winding through me seemed more real than I
was, somewhere beneath the Douglas fir's shawl of liquid silver, the
grape leaves unfurling their fuzz of green.
Here were thought and memory, feeling and dream. I stared into those
transparent sheets of myself my husband traced with one finger as I'd
seen him trace our route across a ten thousand foot mountain, follow-
int the convoluted folds and cross sections as patiently as he followed
the slow lines of elevation.
And I thought, This is what matters--the transparent mind that lets the
world through like a window, one we can open any time, whenever we
want, the wind in our hair, mysterious, fern-delicate, human. Or is it his
standing beside me that I remember, ready to remind me that what felt
crazy was only a matter of degree, my footing on that mountain easily
recovered by reaching my hand out to his as he balanced, just a few steps
ahead, impossibly steady before me?
—Looking at MRI Scans of My Brain by Alison Townsend
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See you next week!
xx,
M
This felt like exhale. That line—“each day feels less like it’s getting away from me, and I feel less like I’m trying to get away from myself”—stopped me. Isn’t that the quiet miracle we’re all hoping for? That our pace can slow enough to feel like presence again.
And “what can I do? Nothing, nothing”—it’s such a freeing mantra. Not resignation, but release. A kind of surrender that doesn’t mean giving up, just giving in… to the moment, to the breath, to the sky above the snow.
Thank you for sharing your color swatches and MRI poems, and for always reminding us that beauty can hold what survival cannot.
Your cards are so beautiful! As was this post.