flying and falling the difference between looking ahead to open air and an anxious gaze at the ground
Note: This was inspired by a bird flying outside my window.
I played with different versions of this poem. Initially, there was more structure – firmer sentences, more words, capitalisation, punctuation, but it felt airier stripping that out. I tried to tease out exactly what phrases captured those feelings of an optimistic vision ahead and staring down in dread; there were so many more words I could have used, but I thought these feelings might be familiar enough that stripping back the adjectives would engage the reader’s imagination even more.
There was a version of this where ‘looking’ was ‘a look’ – making it a poem free from verbs (suspended in a sense?). But instinctively this contrast felt better, and actually highlights the difference between verb/doing (‘looking’) and paralysing ourselves with the fixed state of a noun (‘an anxious gaze’).
It was interesting choosing a photo to match with this poem, and made me reflect again how much those visuals can impact the feel of the words. Photos that were bright or that featured a crowd of birds had a totally different feel. I actually pictured a calm sky when I was writing, perhaps something blue and hopeful – but this image of an ominous mist or brewing storm feels like it makes the message land even more powerfully.
Any student of fairytales will tell you Almost nothing is as essential as A missing mother.
The journeys and adventures belong To the orphaned and abandoned; Not to those tucked safely in bed, Left with a warm kiss on their brow.
For the longest time I thought This must be a plot imperative. Of course there must be an absence To trigger the journey. And critically, No parents to stand in adventure’s way.
As I grew older, I began to suspect that This was instead a form of misogyny The women are deleted, made invisible Killed by the hands of an unseen author, That of our own collective unconscious, Erasing the women who create and raise us
(Can you imagine the self-proclaimed stars of The Hero’s Journey putting up with the same?)
But now that I am a mother, reading stories To my own daughter, I have encountered this as A more complex puzzle. If women are the ones Originating and perpetuating these fairytales Why do we leave ourselves out of them…? I know now that it is because we are desperate –
(Not thinking that we don’t matter, But knowing how much we do – )
– Desperate to believe That our children will survive without us And to give them the tools and imagination to do it. Even though we may not appear in the narrative It is our voices that carry the stories forward Through generation after generation, bedtime After bedtime, with a love so profound it can only Be made clear by enacting its own absence.
Note: This started as something I was puzzling over during the nightly bedtime routine. Wondering about the mothers – and the meaning, at least for me, hit like a ton of bricks with the line ‘we tell fairytales with missing mothers / to believe they will survive without us.’
I jotted this down as soon as I left the room, and returned to it today.
The absent mothers in fairytales are not a result of who don’t see themselves or don’t realise their value and importance – it is women who feel it almost too deeply, wondering what to do with that alongside the fragility of life.
These stories have existed since a time when motherhood was a risky endeavour, childbearing always carried a risk of death, and we knew that while our love sustained our children both physically and emotionally, it could be stolen away by circumstance at any moment.
Sometimes we tell fairytales simply because it is traditional. But for me, it feels like something deeper is at play. I think we tell stories with missing mothers not necessarily for our children, but for ourselves – believing that children on their own can successfully navigate their way through life to the happy ending.
For me, there is a poignant fear underlying this, but also a powerful belief that it can be done – and it is our belief in our children’s own resourcefulness and goodness that will ultimately help light the way.
Note 2: I ended up revising this poem after recording it. I found that it was too easy to lose the sense of the sentence unless ‘desperate’ was repeated. And when I added this in again, the line started to feel too long to fit the style, so it added another line break. I think there’s something to be said for it in both ways, but I think for now I’m choosing consistency between the performed and written version as the best choice.
Every year as I honour Thanksgiving, I’m mindful of the complicated history that accompanies it – and in particular the legacy of pain for indigenous folks in America.
I find myself sitting square in the middle of this contradiction. I want to hold space for this holiday’s tangled past – and it seems to me, with each passing year, that more and more when we scratch the surface imbued with the golden glow of nostalgia, there are darker things lurking beneath.
Still in my own personal history, Thanksgiving holds a precious place. I always think of it as my mother’s favourite holiday – one that is about family and gratitude.
Remembering her talking about it, what stands out to me is the feeling of inclusion.
This is not a religious holiday – one that by definition excludes nonbelievers even as it honours tradition. It does not rely on specific objects or actions. Yes – the turkey feast is emblematic, but I always think one of the great treats is seeing how different generations of immigrants have made this meal their own. It is mutable – evolving and full of potential.
In my mother’s Thanksgiving, all that is really required is an open heart full of gratitude for life and for each other. It’s a beautiful thing.
I’m aware that this is the view through a child’s eyes. Now that I am an adult, different realities and histories are layered. But that sense of love and connection is still precious to me, and I’m loath to write it off, even though I now see through wiser eyes.
As we talk to our own daughter, I find myself wondering how to on one hand share the values I think make up the best of what America is as a nation – while at the same time making space for old harms to be acknowledged and addressed.
Many of these are issues that will take a lifetime to reckon with – and certainly go beyond the attention span of a three-year-old.
So I find myself asking: how do I model honouring this holiday?
It is a truth and a tragedy that many so-called ‘minority’ groups must grapple with being externally defined by their legacies of pain – ignoring the full reality of these cultures and all the bits that deserve to be embraced and celebrated.
When I wanted to reflect on the incredible richness of Indian/Native American culture, and the perfect thing came to mind:
This is – in a perfect bit of parallelism – another legacy of my mother’s within my life.
Always passionate about music, she has opened my eyes to so many artists and traditions. She is the one who introduced me to this documentary charting the influence of Native Americans on American music, and particularly rock and roll.
Watching this film – and the incredible performers it depicts – is an incredible celebration of the way these cultures have enriched and shaped the soundtrack of American music in ways that have gone unseen and unacknowledged.
It’s a fascinating and well-deserved tribute. And somehow, it feels like the perfect way of honouring indigenous culture on this day.
I feel like traditions often creep up on us – happening over and over again until we suddenly realise they have become essential components of our lives. And who knows what next year will bring, but I love the idea of consciously trying to make this an ongoing tradition.
And on that note – if you’re thinking about what you’d like to do after the turkey has been eaten and the dishes are washed – I would really recommend thinking about supporting indigenous filmmakers by buying/streaming this film. It’s really an incredible piece of work, and full of warmth and appreciation for these Native artists.
While a small gesture, I think every effort we take to rebalance the scales of life and history within our own hearts is a step towards a better and kinder future. That is something I would be truly thankful for.
There are some acts of kindness So profound that they go beyond Our ability to ever return the favour. All we can do is pay it forward In a spirit of blessed gratitude, Marvelling that the world can be Full of such kindness and grace. And at the very darkest of times That spirit of generosity will shine Warming our hands and our hearts As we reach, yet again, for each other.
Yes, I see you there Back arched with Luxurious grace Your thick and feral Tail swaying like A hypnotist’s trick
Leading the eye Exactly to where You want it: That perfect little Pink puckering A delicate terminus
I envy your shining fur Your effortless athleticism And your all-seeing eyes But most of all That parading bottom On proud display
I hold my milk-stained Child in my arms And think the sacrifice Was worth it Yet I can’t stop staring As you flaunt past
The baby follows you With her eyes, reaches Out for the silken limbs That dance just out of reach As you keep your target Square in the line of sight
Oh to have an uncompromised Ending – a luxury Of the very young Or creatures whose Bodies have kept Their animal wisdom
I was made, unmade Repaired, sewn back Together again And in a miracle I am Somehow whole (I suppose?)
Still I long For the innocence of That perfect rosebud A gift only realised With cheeky regret Once the bloom is lost
Note: I have yet to meet a cancer patient whose experience has not forced them to think in great detail about poop. The side effects were in full force today. I made an off-hand joke by text to a friend about being jealous of a cat’s perfect bottom, and realised actually there was the root of a poem in it.
The backstory: And suddenly, there was a Newsletter!
One of the things I’ve loved most about creating within the digital space of this blog is having the flexibility to play with things on my own schedule.
That’s been amplified by the fact that, up to this point, no one has known it exists.
Having the ability to place posts where they fit into my personal chronology means that it’s the truest reflection of my experience. But it also means that it’s almost impossible to find new posts, since they are often buried deep in the archive.
There is really something to be said for the immediacy of blogs – the fact that writing is created and pushed out so quickly.
There’s a reason that on blogs, the newest posts are always on the top. They are about what is happening now.
I’ve embraced that spirit in my own writing – trying to capture the moment rather than a longer period of experience.
But the truth is, sometimes I like to take a bit more time to reflect on those stream-of-consciousness musings.
Some of the things I write on this blog are quite personal, and sometimes I need a some space to decide whether it actually feels right to share them.
I also appreciate having a chance to reflect to make sure the words I’ve written reflect how I truly feel – an articulacy that can get lost when working in haste.
Over time, it became clear to me that when I reached the point of sharing this work, I would need a newsletter or mailing list to share new musings.
And so, here it is.
Why Substack?
I’ve decided to go with Substack for a number of reasons.
The first, and most important one for me, is that most mailing list software options aren’t really designed for writers. They’re set up for marketers.
The Substack interface puts the writing front and centre. There’s no requirement to add things like marketing buttons or get bogged down in technicalities.
Also, it stands out from the crowd by being free – both for creators and users. Most other softwares start charging at a certain point. There is zero obligation to monetise on Substack. Win for everyone!
I’m intrigued by the fact that the Substack platform is still relatively new. I think there are some interesting creative possibilities to explore, and I’m interesting to see how things develop.
What will be in the newsletter?
I’m going to be playing around with the format a little bit until I figure out what feels right. But you can expect to find:
Notification about new posts on this blog
Information about my health and how I’m doing with my current cancer treatment
Ideas on how you can help if you want to (Example: I’m currently looking for hot tips on good pillows) – I’m calling this ‘Hivemind Fun’ for now
Links to cool art that other people are making
And I suppose we’ll see how it goes from there!
Thanks for reading. If this work speaks to you it would be lovely to have you along for the ride.
A camera Is a machine, but Behind that machine is the Eye of an artist Watching
Or seeing That’s a better word For eyes that look deeper And find truths that Need light
But is it Powerful enough For the alchemy that goes Into capturing life Via a lens
I need New words for Turning vision to language – Maybe silence Is best
A life Seeing stories Is a life dedicated to magic Of the purest Kind
What a gift To see so much beauty In the world, and to share it With others, a marvel Of gratitude
Note: I’ve been lucky to work with some truly extraordinary collaborators, but Mat Hale is among the most generous and hardworking of the bunch. I’ve learned so much through our work together, and I’m so grateful to have gotten to see the world through the unique perspective of his filmmaking eyes. Here’s to hopefully many more in the future.
Update: I originally wrote this poem on the 11th of June. He had learned that he had Stage 4 cancer, and was trying to get to grips with this news and what it meant for him. I was able to share it with Mat before he got really ill. I am grateful I got to articulate a small amount of what he meant to me.
I’m still trying to take in the news that Mat died yesterday. I just got off the phone, and the tears are still clinging to my eyelashes.
I feel stunned with grief, and the only thing I can think to do is to reach for his memory by publishing this poem.
This wasn’t the ending I would have wanted for him – it was far too fast, and cruelly painful. But over the past few months, as we exchanged emails about our shared cancer diagnoses, offering each other support and strength.
I will miss Mat as an artist, but most especially, I will miss him as a friend.
Godspeed, Mat – may you know peace, rest, and infinite beauty on the other side.
It would be an understatement to say that my cancer treatment the first time around was not a whole lot of fun.
I was so traumatised, both from the birth and the cancer experience, that I felt like I was living in a state of continuous PTSD for much of my treatment.
The level of exhaustion that accompanies having a baby who doesn’t sleep and the intensity of my medical demands also really took it out of my husband.
There were moments of joy. But on the whole, the experience was not a particularly happy one.
When I received my new diagnosis, one of the things that went through my head was ‘I can’t go through this again.’
What I meant by that wasn’t even the treatment – it was how I felt about having the treatment.
It was the perpetual slog of low-level irritation.
It was the overwhelming sensation of feeling I was falling behind in everything.
It was the isolation of feeling guilty for being so ill, that could not be alleviated no matter how many visitors I had.
Yes, I might be heading back to the chemo suite. But there was no way I was heading back into that emotional maelstrom. My heart just can’t take it.
And that’s how I stumbled across my treatment motto: “More fun this time.”
I can’t change that parts of this are going to suck. But I don’t want my life to be awful. With a new sense of uncertainty hanging in the balance, I simply can’t afford to waste time being miserable.
After this popped into my head, I turned to Zach and said, ‘Hey, I know what our motto should be…’
He loved it.
So at each turn, each decision point, and each bump in the road, I’m trying to pause to ask myself ‘how can this be more fun than last time?’
The good news is, there is almost always a way.
Note: This image was created for me by a very kind stranger named Rachel Tripp. I will be forever grateful.
These hands have held babies, Soothed fevered brows, Held tightly to others in excitement And in love.
These hands have created beauty, Shaping art from life, Finding the line, the gesture At the essence.
These hands have tied themselves In imagined knots, Working over worries and problems – Then releasing them.
These hands have crafted feasts, Made a thousand sandwiches, Fed hungry mouths with More than food
These hands have wielded flame To transform life’s delicate materials, Forging their own language in The future’s kiln.
These hands have wiped bottoms, Changed sheets, captured spiders In acts of fearless engagement with The necessities of life.
These hands have snapped shutters, Preserved memories that hold Together the souls of families, Including her own.
These hands have wiped tears From trickling paths down cheeks, Sharing times of sorrow And finding solace.
These hands have linked generations, Providing safety, care and love, Unbreakable links made By clasping fingers.
These hands have written letters In looping, graceful script, Giving equal beauty to words of wisdom And grocery lists
These hands have travelled widely On wild youthful adventures And they adventure still: tasting, looking, feeling the Wonder of life.
These hands have sat quietly In folded contemplation Holding a cup of tea, or watching the pattern Of the rain.
These hands have knotted rugs Built blanket forts, pressed flowers Seeking novelty, creating magic In constant evolution.
These hands have given gifts, Both solid and insubstantial, Unrepeatable, and unmatched In this world.
They say our lives can be read In the careful lines of our palms. In these hands, the stories are infinite. What beauty. What joy.
Note: This is a poem for a special woman on a special birthday. The image of the hands came quickly, but the last stanza came as a surprise – though it needed a bit of crating to turn it into the shape of an open palm that felt so right.
