Saul Good and Co.

Rut Busters

Life, am I right? It's been happening around me in so many intense ways lately, and I don't feel like writing about any of them, so I won't. Ok then, that felt good.

It's like this when I go so long between posts, like, where do I start? So I put it off and put it off and nothing ever gets written and I know from way too much experience that if I ever intend to get back to it, the best way to start is to close my eyes and jump into the nothingness. I don't need to do any recaps or offer explanations, just pick up and go. It's like deleting an entire overwhelming inbox - some information might go missing, but it feels like freedom. In blogging, you've gotta conquer the white space, just fill it with ANYTHING. I don't know why but it makes it easier the next time. 

I haven't been disciplined with writing at all lately. I've been unapologetically lazy. I know it's ramping up again though, even if it's just putting the pedal to the metal in my quest for publication. My fellow writing people know the deal, it's classic codependency. Writing always pulls you back in. The goal is to make something of it when it does, and we'll just see about that.

HR has been back to school almost a month and has taken to it way better than expected, so that's a happy happening. The sun is shining, all manner of purple flowers are popping, the Sox are playing at Fenway and I'm this close to seeing my family whenever I want. The country and the world are, as ever, an overwhelming 24/7  hellfire cavalcade, but if I can do one thing every day in service of making it less so, in any way, I consider it a decent day.

Onward. Forward.   

All in All is All We Are

Where were you when you got the news that Kurt Cobain died? Most people in my generation can't remember what we had for dinner last night but we can recreate that moment for you in a word-picture so detailed you'd think it had been commissioned for a million dollars. I was a freshman in college, in the pre-internet days when news traveled at its own pace. I didn't have cable tv in my room, and as I went about that business that beautiful spring morning, I noticed that the TV in the common area, which was often tuned to MTV, was playing the Unplugged version of "All Apologies" every time I passed through the lobby. It's not like it was a new release at the time, so when I finally got curious enough to slow down and watch for a few seconds, I saw the news of his suicide scrolling across the screen. There were a few other young women gathered at that point, and we all stood in silent shock, as it sunk in. 

The truth is, though I was a Nirvana fan, I wasn't rabid. It was sad news, but it didn't rip my heart out like it did for a lot of people. It's just such a galvanizing cultural moment. Where were you? Who were you with? How did the news break? Today makes 27 years that we found out he was gone, exactly the amount of time he was alive. Pain is pain, and enough pain can make death look like a better option. I'm extremely lucky to never have gotten to a point where I can identify with this feeling, but anyone who does certainly has my sympathy. That's the overwhelming takeaway of the loss of a human, any human, regardless of the number of lives he may have touched. 

Back to it from the standpoint of cultural impact, though, if you have read or heard anything about the novel I wrote (even just the title), you're aware that Cobain/Nirvana has something to do with it. That's because coming of age in the grunge era, as I did, the band and their music becomes a touchpoint, a common reference whether or not you're a fan. Let's not leave out the clothing of the time, which I took to wholeheartedly about halfway through high school and didn't look back for another decade and a half. Seattle bands and, to an extent the hip-hop artists that I favored, ruined fashion for me, I mean, it didn't exactly ruin it because what's wrong with being comfortable, but it ruined my ability to properly gauge what fit me and I wore things two sizes too big for way too long. When I wear a 90s vintage piece now, I remember swimming in my clothes all the way through to my 30s and I enjoy the resurgence of fashion as a hobby. It's frivolous, but it's an indelible marker of time.

You may have noticed that I lost the writing mojo I so smugly cultivated in the first few months of the pandemic, and I have lacked the motivation to force myself to recapture it. That's ok, we're all treading water in some way, but thinking about the significance of the date today made me want to sit in front of a computer and do something with it. The product is...errr. The point is not totally abandoning the practice. 

RIP Kurt, and flannel forever. 

So Tired, Tired of Waiting

Have you gotten the sense that joy has been on hold, if not outright cancelled in the past year? I've experienced good times, but always with my fingers crossed, trying to appreciate the moment but aware that in the background, something just isn't right. That's the pandemic, of course. That was also the election cycle. And that's gun violence and transphobia and racial injustice and... life. That's life and that's always been life, I realize, but something about the past year crystallized it all to the point where I put up a wall between me and my access to inhabiting life in a full way. I think I lost my ability to insist on carving out room for the good within the absolutely, piled-on bad. I don't want to live like that any more. Once and for all. I want to prioritize delight, not in a way that denies the strife all around, but defies it. Yeah, shit's shitty. It will be even in the barely-imaginable future where we've regained a semblance of control over our lives and at the minimum don't live in fear of being other people. Yeah, activism is necessary to make change and always will be and it occurs to me, finally, that I can infuse what is a lifelong commitment with a sense of positive purpose. I can take joy in fighting for what's right, even when it's painful. It doesn't have to feel like taking medicine, even as it is medicinal. Of course I'm still sorting out the hardest parts, but changing my mindset about it helps me feel less stuck and useless. This is more of a pep talk for me than a thought out bit of writing fit for publication, but fuck it, that's 70% of this blog isn't it? I'm tired of waiting on whatever it is I'm waiting on to give myself permission to experience my maximum happiness potential, whatever that is. 

Anyway, I think it's time to call a Goddess Week sometime in the near future. Join me!

 

Sharpen Yer Boot and Bludgeon Yer Eye

I promise I won't keep doing "this time one year ago" posts, but today marks a pretty significant date. It's been exactly one year since Mike got "furloughed" from his main gig, writing questions for a trivia company. Like so many things being thrown at us at the time, we had no idea what was going on or what we were going to do, and thankfully it turned out ok for us. The loss of that job changed our life, and strangely for the better, but when the news landed we were understandably buggin'. I know we've been very, very lucky in how we've fared over the course of this pandemic. I don't say that to brag. It's been hard in its own way, not even counting the loss of Mike's dad to COVID. I just look back on what I wrote a year ago today before we got the news about the trivia job and I don't know how exactly to feel about it. Good for me for being such a precious Molly Sunshine or whatever? Even if I did manage to capitalize on those positives I identified and managed to find many more on top of that, it still seems too soon to reflect meaningfully. In some ways we thrived. We forged new routines, got into a home-based groove that it's kind of hard to imagine giving up now.

There's no doubt I'm over the moon with joy anticipating seeing our friends and families again without fear, and at the same time, the idea of resuming "normal" is like, what? It feels as foreign as lockdown did to the before-version of us. Everyone in this country and in most of the world has been tested, and ruined in some way and here we still are, the fortunate ones anyway. There is much unresolved rage and heartbreak amid the gratitude, and I don't think that's going anywhere. The pandemic is not behind us yet. There's hope, but it's still happening and I guess it's OK to not have any wisdom to offer. I won't even speculate on the long-term effects on our psyches. Just let the days keep bleeding into each other, appreciate I woke up able-bodied, and look forward to the Friday afternoon transition into the sweatpants I've grown an unhealthy attachment to. All right it's not so rote and depressing as all that- there's plenty of big and small lights in the drudgery of everyday existence and today's is doing the same thing we did on this date last year, which is using St. Patrick's Day--plus now the anniversary of Mike's unemployment--as an excuse to drink some Guinness and irish whiskey and hang out. Slainte and all that. 

And She'll Never Never Be Any Good

I've been spending a fair bit of time with my old journals for this little instagram project (it's still fun, so I'm still doing it), and one thing that strikes me over and over is how much I just... left out. Specific memories. Traditions and rituals. Details that live only in my mind. For example, I'm several years into my chronicles at this point, and there is not a single mention of my grandfather, who I saw every single day and was one of my most beloved people. I know it's because I took his presence for granted at that time and I didn't need to remind myself that he was there, but if you only read my journals, you'd never know he existed. I know I've written about him a lot LOT in other venues, including my various blogs, and I have plenty of photographic proof of his presence in my life. There are so many other examples of this, and as I've gravitated toward memoir writing, it really hits home just how many pieces are needed to complete the puzzle of representing a human life. I'm not really even talking about myself here (for once), just in general about what goes into biographies and such. You can do your best to be thorough and rebuild from the ground up with whatever information is available, but at the end of the day, nobody can ever really knows anyone else's mind.  It's an obvious conclusion, but no less WHOA to me. That's my big think-piece for now, taking those baby steps back to bloggy productivity. 

 

It's incredibly warm in New England today, that kind of false spring that you know will only break your heart when it's 32 degrees the next day but you don't care in the moment, it's just enough to give you hope. People are getting vaccinated left and right. I'm finally ready to start sending out my book query. We're moving ahead, as a country. I'm trying to take this opportunity to stay vigilant and double down on the fights that still need fighting, but overall it's a cautiously good time. I never take smiling selfies because even though I think my smile is one of my defining features IRL, it looks goofy to me when I'm taking a pic. I gave it a try anyway because I'm a rebel like that.

 

Don't You Forget About Me

Who's out of blog practice? Yow. You'd think I'd have tons to say since I haven't written in so long, but you'd be wrong. It's nice that March is here, but it's also such a heavy thing to be aware of considering March was the last time most of us did anything that felt like normal. A year in this thing, with no sure end in sight, it's not something I could have fathomed handling back when it was, "oh, go into lockdown for a few months, you can do it." It's probably better that I didn't know what was ahead of us, it's probably always better. Having the vaccine is no small scrap of hope at this point, though. Mike and I were extremely lucky to get the vaccine due to our workplace's classification in phase one, and I do not take it for granted. It means we're that much closer to being able to hug our parents, if not to be out in the world without feeling like there are mines everywhere and stepping in one is inevitable. Being fully vacc'd changed the way I look at the world. Things are still bleak but so many shades less bleak, you know? Thank you for that, science people. I hope everyone can put on the vaccine-colored glasses ASAP.

Obviously I don't have a structure or even much content today, just a stream of consciousness hello to get me back on the horse. I'll be back with some more thinky stuff real soon-like. Things are pretty good for me, considering...oh, everything. 

Just Go Ahead Now

Hi yo - I don't think this will be a blog-heavy month. I'm concentrating on honing my book query and researching agents, then once I have that up and running I'll be sketching out the framework for book 2. We'll see where that gets me and how long it takes. 

 

This WILL be a music-heavy month, if not year, because I am hungrier than usual to expand my listening palate. Send me all your musical recommendations, new or old, and help me bust this audio rut. I'm super opinionated, but I'm open minded, genre wise and will give your darlings a try. I look forward to writing a classic album review as well in the coming weeks.

 

Anyway, that's all I've got for the spectacular now. Keep up the fight, everybody, and keep up the tunes because everybody knows any revolution worth a damn requires a soundtrack. 

 

 

OK-ish

I think I might have said this is going to be a big writing year for me, or I intended for it to be in any case, but if the first month of the year is an indicator - well, let's hope it's not. It's a pandemic, who cares? (How long can I milk that sentiment, you think?)

I've become aware over this last year or so just how much I depend on the idea of comfort, how my happiest, safest place is snuggled down, physically as well as mentally. It's understandable, especially now, but I can't deny that I have structured my life in a way that I'm rushing through everything without really experiencing in order to get to what I love the most. Most everything I do--work, household chores, exercise, eating a fucking salad--is something to be endured, something in service to my true goal which is to end up on my couch as soon as possible to wrap myself in blankets and read and watch things and generally zone out. I have an ever-expanding adventures list for when the pandemic is over and I can move about the world, and it makes me happy to dream and add to the list, but the nook I've carved out is increasingly more attractive than anything else, and I've gotta say, that's maybe not 100% healthy. Sure, I've always been a person who craved her cozy space going back to my childhood bedroom, but this year of isolation has thrown me out of balance. I don't think it's depression. Ok maybe it's a shade of depression, but it feels so good to sink into doing nothing. What a life of contradiction these days - I have so much time, so much opportunity for great ease, HR is in heaven with remote school, yet the circumstances, the background, is but constant anxiety and heartbreak and pain. It all feels so wrong. 

 

Anyway, I cried so much on inauguration day. Did you? Everything just got to me. By 1:30 I was exhausted, and I barely watched anything in real time because I was holding my breath in case something went tragically wrong. What stood out to me the most is how much we have been collectively holding these 4 years. The dawning of an official new beginning had a physical effect, I've heard it from a lot of people, the relief in their bodies. Shoulders relaxed. Muscles unclenched. What a time, what a time. I followed everyone poppin' bottles and celebrating all day and I wanted to celebrate but it took me awhile to get there. What trauma that makes us suspicious of our feelings of joy, christ on a cracker. I slept like a baby that night, though. 

 

So in the past week I did take some time to celebrate and to appreciate the historical significance of this moment, but I'm not under the impression that everything will magically be ok. It certainly helps that everything from the top down is so much less chaotic, the overload and damage pile-on seems to have slowed. Every day I wake up with a skosh less existential dread than the day before and that's not nothing. But it's more important than ever to stay on top of the fight, keep up the momentum. I can't disappear into a pile of mental blankets. Bernice King's words drive it home for me:

 

"Kindness matters. But kindness does not = justice. Civility counts. But calling for civility is not the humane response to injustice. Justice is. Love is essential. But love is not a passive, weeping bystander. Love puts in work."

 

The inborn comfort of white privilege is seductive and easy to fall back on, but every day I can choose to do the good work that this kind of deliberate love requires, even if  I only sometimes I feel like I've succeeded. 

 

Takeaways

Gee whiz guys, I write a halfway positive blog entry and within hours there's an insurrection at the U.S. Capitol. COOL. I'm hesitant to court that kind of jinxery in the universe again by going on about things that aren't strictly horrible, but I'd like to shine a light on things that have kept me going over the course of this endless period of suck.

 

- I quit my longtime yoga studio after doing some serious thinking about what I want from my practice and re-examining yoga in our culture. I still love it, but I decided if I'm going to pay for instruction, it would do me good to seek out studios with philosophies that line up with mine. This led me to some great online classes through some local studios like 4 Corners Yoga and JP Centre Yoga, places I would not have gotten around to checking out if I had stayed in my complacent, mindless bubble. I also bought a monthly subscription (it's super cheap) to Underbelly Yoga, which I highly recommend, especially if you're a beginner, and if you like your teachers playful, profane and hilarious. Jessamyn is a personal heroine. 

 

- I joined a few groups to help keep me inspired and accountable, to push me out of my comfort zone and help me to be a better, more committed accomplice in the ongoing fight for racial justice. To my white ladies who want to do better, Becky's Anonymous is a cool community and a great resource. I've only been attending their circles for a few months, but I've learned a lot. 

 

- After a stagnant, unsettled few months of not being able to get into books, my library re-opened for curbside pickup, and I started making online requests whenever a book I'd heard of or always wanted to read popped into my mind and I read a TON. So much good stuff, just to name a few: Deacon King Kong by James McBride, Luster by Raven Leilani, Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward, Mill Town by Kerri Arsenault, The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom, the entire Jasmine Guillory catalog (too short but she's still writing!) and the almost-complete works of Joan Didion, another heroine. Books are medicine.

 

-Mike and I have been making a ton of Spotify mixes, and picking up a lot of new music along the way, which is good for our old butts. Music is also medicine.

 

-I have put a high premium on being cozy, My life is the pursuit of hygge and will be so as long as it has to be. I don't have a fireplace but invested in some high-quality candles and I have a full wardrobe of soft, warm clothing and I'm just riding this out. Yes I look forward to going out and dressing up again someday--I have complete envy when I watch a movie or show set in non-pandemic times--but for the forseeable future, I'm about that homebound life. About making the best of it, anyway.

 

I'm still working full time and I'm trying to write with varying success and I'm having fun with my latest social media endeavor, and I'm spending way too much time obsessively following the news and I'm worried about all my loved ones all the time. All in all this is how I stay occupied, relatively sane and sometimes even happy. 

Don't it Feel Good

See you in hell 2020, I'm going to take a cue from the staggeringly hard-won results in Georgia and start this year INSPIRED. Inspired to be a better person, every day. To write. To move. To have the hard conversations that scare me. To volunteer my time, energy and resources to help end systemic racism via ending systemic poverty, voter suppression, police brutality and carceral violence. To make up for lost time in restaurants and bars and clubs and airplanes and highways and in the faces of my loved ones as soon as it's safe. To put clothing on my body that isn't strictly activewear. 

Look, time is arbitrary. I know that. The change of a calendar year is meaningless in a lot of ways but it's not entirely without meaning. We have a chance, because the year changed, to make real change in this country. To further the fight for what is right and just for all, to distance ourselves from corruption and to make strides to heal the Earth and its people. I truly believe this and embracing that belief makes me sit up straighter, breathe deeper, hope harder when my first instinct for so long has been to hunker down, cowed, too scared to hope. 

I don't do resolutions, and if last year taught us anything it's that making plans is like peeing into the wind but I DO occasionally have goals and giving them a loose calendar year structure helps me stay accountable. This year I am going to get my damn book published and finish a draft of the sequel. That's roughly 359 days to make good. Piece of cake, right? I've got more that I want to do, a fuckton of a lot more, but that's the only one that gets a timeline for now.

Welcome, 2021. Welcome, love and light.