the slowdown
Welcome to Mommy’s El Camino.
Cords of tension seized in my back on Monday.
I want to move faster in the world and the pain forces me to move much slower.
Every day I wonder how I can simplify my life further. I’m exhausted by the avalanche of bad news.
In the mornings when I can linger in bed, I’m soothed by my dog, who has no idea she’s soothing me, I think. She’s just being herself. Likewise, my cats. Being themselves. Completely oblivious to bad news, robber billionaires.
I read Neko Case’s memoir this week, The Harder I Fight the More I Love You. Did I see her live once, or twice? In my memory I can only think of one time, at a venue that doesn’t exist anymore, at a time when just hearing her open her mouth for any song live or on CD made me cry. Like holding back a sob crying. I stood in the dark at that venue that’s dead now, glad no one could see me crying. Her voice has the power to make me feel—not bad, not down, just—so open— that it scares me.
But this post isn’t about that. It wants to be about finding an anchor, what we carry physically and metaphorically on our backs, and moving more slowly to accommodate the pained self.
This week I got to read a draft of an essay by a friend whose writing always surprises and thrills me. In class we got to talk about successes, and joy, and what to do when joy isn’t present. We got to experiment and in experiments, I see hope. I’m remembering more dreams at night, again. I’m preparing my kid for an enormous adventure.
Each day the pain diminishes a bit—a fresh breath of relief.
My next note to you will come from the desert.
I wish you all relief from pain of all kinds. Keep moving, as slowly, as leisurely, as you like. With love. xo