Join me for my weekly practice, Through the Glass Backwards. The title of this series came from my former commute into work, when I took the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually ended up facing backwards, watching as the city slipped by. Now that I work from home, these vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see and I am fortunate enough to see, but not necessarily from the light rail window.
I’m sitting at our kitchen table, which is covered with papers and textbooks. I’m in the midst of finals week and can’t concentrate.
I feel myself trying to shut down. I’ve been opened by impermanence (again). I’ve been opened by life, by death. Less than an hour ago, I was wandering around Staples, arms full. I walked over to the pen aisle, picking up a pack of colorful pens that I don’t need, ready to add them to my pile. I try to touch my heart. Too tender. I look down at my arms. I know this dance; I’ve perfected these steps.
I put the plastic sealed package of pens back on the shelf, retrace my steps the way I came, putting items back on the shelf. Not this time, I gently tell myself. I walk out to the car, no bags in hand. As I’m driving home, I feel the weight of my shoulders bowing inward. My heart is raw. It is screaming for creation. Make something, anything. Fill the space left here. I’ve learned after 31 years, buying things won’t do that.
So I come home, write. Create. Make something.
This is what my heart needs in this moment.