Born of Dust and Silence

Several months of silence have elapsed since I last showed up to pour my thoughts into this space. Much has been unfolding that is more personal than I am able to explore in this format at this time, and I trust that as stories arise that want to be shared, words will accompany them. For now, know that much is shifting beneath the surface, and perhaps the surface itself is shifting, the landscape of my life changing shape a little, taking on new elements of beauty and fascination and curiosity to marvel at.

I have wondered on and off if it is time to retire from blogging for now. It seems I have less to say here than when I was a student, and it is at least as much personal as it is about midwifery. And then, at the ACNM Annual Convention last week, I spoke with no less than a dozen people (many current midwifery students, or new midwives) who told me that my blog was instrumental to them choosing this profession, or helped them through the rough waters of school, or reminded them that they were not alone. And I realized that I could still do that, even though I am in a very different place now than six years ago when I first sat down to write about my excitement about becoming a midwife and explore my journey towards this career, this calling of mine. Six-years-ago me could not have imagined that I would be sitting down during a lull on a call shift (I didn’t say the “q-word…” I learned never to say the “q-word!”) after a busy day in clinic to blog about being a midwife and becoming myself. Or, perhaps, could have imagined it, but not what it would be like from here.

But six-years-ago me isn’t the part of myself I’ve recently been most strongly connecting with. Ten years ago this summer, I was ill to the point of bordering on death. I look back at the photos of my emaciated body, hollow eyes staring at me through a decade of time, and I have so much I want to tell the person I was then. Last week, I went back to my childhood home (one of them) to visit my parents and my sister, and I spent some time connecting with myself. It felt like a deep healing sort of magic, to be able to send love back through time to myself when I desperately needed it.

Brene Brown put it this way:

A deep sense of love and belonging is an irreducible need of all people. We are biologically, cognitively, physically, and spiritually wired to love, to be loved, and to belong. When those needs are not met, we don’t function as we were meant to. We break. We fall apart. We numb. We ache. We hurt others. We get sick.

A number of those things happened to me a decade ago. I was newly out as queer, and newly in love with the person who would become my wife. I was living in a place where I did not get to express my queerness with a sense of safety or acceptance of who I was, and I managed to internalize the unspoken message that I needed to be small and take up less space. Combined with some undiagnosed physical health issues that spiraled together with anxiety and systemic oppression and not feeling a sense of belonging or knowing where home was, I made myself small. I lost 70 pounds in a year, dropping from an average weight to one that I still cannot believe I could survive at. I broke. I fell apart. I got sick.

I didn’t know if I would get better, or if I could, or even if I wanted to. I could not conceive of a life where I got to be my whole self and was loved exactly as I was and where delight was a theme woven through my days alongside the complexities of sadness and beauty and loss and heartbreaking joy.

I remember a singular moment that felt like a tipping point, where I sat alone in my room, my stomach raging in pain and nausea, gnawingly empty. I watched the pulsations of my aorta through my gaunt belly as I sat staring at a banana and trying to decide if I could eat it. I sat with that banana for hours, feeling like choosing to eat it despite how ill I knew I would feel was an affirmation of my intent to stay alive in the world, and uncertain if I had it in me to say yes. I journaled about this inner chaos. On July 1, 2007, I wrote of how “frighteningly low” my weight was (below 100 pounds), and described all the medical interventions that were on the horizon if I couldn’t force myself to eat, and what my choices were there. And then three small words at the very bottom of the page: “I choose life.”

I ate the banana. I somehow pushed through walls of pain and mountains of fear and kept eating. I left home and built a little family and fell in love with my life again. I didn’t die. I dreamed big dreams and from the depths of myself found the courage to follow them. I moved again, by myself, went to school, got divorced, became a nurse, became a midwife. And here I am on my couch at 11 p.m., pager clipped to the waistband of my shorts, hundreds of babies later, blogging about it.

In my grand tradition of writing letters to my past selves, here’s one specifically to me in that moment when I was sitting there with that banana:

Dear Rob (yep, that’s your name now; hang on),

I see you. Where you are at right now SUCKS. You feel sick constantly. Your body is wracked with pain and your mind with terror. You can’t imagine ever feeling alive again. You are eating your own flesh to stave off death for a bit longer, uncertain how much more you have to give. You are possibly the loneliest you’ve ever been, there in the solitude of your descent into illness.

I know, trust me I know, how much you don’t want to do this. You know how sick you will feel if you eat. You know what it will cost you. But just for a minute, I want to plant the seed of the idea that you not eating will cost me everything I now have. I need you to survive. I need you to do whatever it takes to keep your body alive. I can go back and repair anything else, can return with new perspectives and skills and coping strategies and will happily clean up any messes left behind. I just need you to feed yourself.

If I could, I would give you a glimpse into what lies in store for you on the other side of not dying. In the way that time is not as linear as we think it is and magic is weird and knowing that I went back last week with the intention of reconnecting with you, I’ll give it a shot. If you eat that banana, and keep eating, and keep doing whatever you need to do to stay in the land of the living, I promise you on everything you know to be holy and good that you will come alive again. This is not where your story ends. Far from it. You will keep writing.

In a couple of months, you will move to California, and you will meet people who won’t bat an eye at your queerness. A year from now, you will be married. You will put on a dress (sorry, next time it can be pants) on International Women’s Day and say “for today, and for the days to come” to a woman you love, and you will mean every word of it. You will explore together to the end of your exploring, and your paths will diverge, and you will be sad, and you will feel broken, and you will crochet and write and cry and study your way to feeling whole again.

During this time you will have moved again, to Seattle, on to one of the biggest challenges you’ve ever given yourself. You will dream a seemingly impossible dream, and you will have no idea until you’ve actually done it whether you can. From where your emaciated body sits, banana in hand, you can’t fathom being able to take on the role of caring for anyone but yourself, but you will do it. You will kick ass at one of the most accelerated intensive nurse-midwifery programs in the country. You will rise to the challenge of the dream your grandmother offered you. You will sit in a session at a midwifery conference ten years from now and hear her whisper, from somewhere, that you are her wildest dream, and you’ll realize that she gave you yours as well.

You will get a job that will stretch you and teach you a lot about how to be and how not to be a midwife. You will stay there until you need to leave it, and then you will go to a new place. You will bring your whole self to your work. You will receive babies into your hands and stories into your heart. Your presence with your patients is being cultivated by the quality of the ways in which you are showing up for yourself right now. So keep showing up. Keep doing the hard work of staying alive in the world.

Know that you are not alone. I promise that I will come back for you. Ten years from now, I will return. I will sit in the bedroom you spent your adolescence in, and I will bring all of my accumulated love and wisdom and magic with me. I will sit in the living room eating an apple (because I can’t stand bananas anymore), and I will feel the weight of your frail body sitting there with me, and I will reach out a hand to you from across the decade and lend you all of the strength I have built in the 80 extra pounds of muscle and fat and blood and bone and life I hold in this body you now occupy, and through our collective tears I will call you home again. I must leave home to stay alive, and I promise I will come back for you and through some time-warp magic I will reach back through the past and whisper courage to your palpitating heart, the courage you need to stay alive so you can grow into me and I can go back for you.

Your (my? our?) pager will go off while you write this, and you will go catch a baby and not come back to finish blogging for another week. What will remind you is a sunset that is so astonishing in its simple brilliance that it will move you to tears. You will stand in a spot a block away from where you now live, the fading light of day dropping down over the Olympics before you, and the way the sky makes a perfect silhouette of a sprig of Queen Anne’s Lace will flood your cheeks with saltwater because you are alive to see it.

You will be listening to “Turning Wake” by Ayla Nereo right then, and you will stand still with the cool evening breeze caressing your face as she croons,

I’ll be dancing’ with the ones who remind me
we are born of dust and silence
we are made of ancient songs
and there are ones who’ll keep us sleeping
and there are ones who bring the dawn
put your back to the birch and your mind to the matter of a
listening kind of way
we are born of dust and silence
we are made of ancient songs…

I will stare into the lens of my camera in that moment as if I could look through ten years of history and catch your eye.

I will gaze unblinkingly at the memory of your dying body as tears pour down my cheeks, and I will smile because (spoiler alert!) I know you made it out alive. You can’t know that now, and that is terrifying. Your body will indeed die one day, love, and you will return to the dust and silence you were born of. But not yet. This is not where your story ends.

 

I will stare back across a decade and hold you with limitless compassion, borne out of all of the precious life I’ve lived in the 3644 days between these two photographs. I will grieve with the embodied memory of what happens when I try to take up as little space as possible. You have no idea what you are capable of, how you will proceed to gleefully and unapologetically refuse to fit into anyone’s boxes, how in claiming your authentic wholeness and all the space that is yours to occupy you will create for yourself a life that you can thrive in.

I imagine myself with you in my lap. I would kiss the top of your head and stroke your bony cheek and tell you stories of the life you will live if you eat that banana. I would whisper in your ear the names of every single baby your hands will catch. I would sing you songs you have yet to learn and recite to you some of the poems you will write. You have to stay alive, love, because the world’s best cat has yet to be born, and yours are going to be his favorite shoulders to sit on.

Oh, my love, the tales I have to tell you of who you are becoming! You have so much life left to live. I wish I could tuck you in at night with stories of how brave you are, how resilient, how you will create a home and a life and a chosen family for yourself. It will be a long, tough rode; I won’t lie and tell you otherwise. Dozens of healthcare providers, well over a hundred appointments, several surgeries, and countless medications and treatments of a variety of kinds will be required to keep your body alive. You will do so much inner work, filling journal after journal with your thoughts and reflections. You will come face to face with your own shadow and welcome it. The journey of a lifetime is to integrate all that you have seen and done and experienced and been in the world, and I promise you that you have within you a seemingly endless well of courage that you will draw from again and again to show up and do the work.

Your beautiful queer self belongs in this world, Rob. Despite what you grew up hearing and what you still hear: there is a place for you at this table. You will discover, as you do the work of staying alive, just how much the world is in love with you. Oh, I wish you could take just a tiny glimpse into my bank of memories from the past decade! You have no idea what a ridiculous life I’ve built for you to come home to. I need you not to give up on living just yet, because there are full moons to admire and queer humans to kiss and mountains to hike up and songs to dance to and heart-shaped rocks to discover in all of the places you go. There are books to read and baths to take and poems to take your breath away. There is love to give and receive and make and fall into and fall out of and do it all over again. There is so much delicious food to eat (I promise that nourishing yourself won’t always be as hard and painful and scary as it is now). There is this incredible body that you get to inhabit, and as you put in one of your poems, “to live in this skin and come alive here.”

And so you will, dear one. You were born of dust and silence, and one day you will return to the same. But not yet. I came back for you. I came to bring you home with me, to carry you to a life you’ve made for yourself to thrive in. I left a heart-shaped stone behind so that you can find your way back to me. I’ll take care of you; I’ve learned how.

Come home with me.

All my love and magic,

Rob (roughly 5,247,360 minutes later)

Between Earth and Sky

It’s been over a month since I last sat down to pour my thoughts into this container, and what a deeply moving month it has been. Each day has set before me an ever-changing landscape, and I have made it my intention to be present and deeply listen to what my life is asking of me. So far, what has been coming up is a request from myself to show up as my whole self wherever I am, and to take up all of the space that is mine.

It is the nature of my work to hold a lot of things. I accumulate so many stories during my clinic days and the nights I spend wiping sweaty brows and supporting perineums and welcoming new little lives onto the planet. I hold with my clients the intensity of pregnancy loss, the discomfort of aching backs and swollen ankles, the sweet relief of that first newborn cry. My hands guide babies safely into the world and their parents through the process of birth, mostly without excessive effort (aside from careful watching) on my part, though occasionally swift intervention to save a stuck baby from birth injury or a hemorrhaging person from complications is needed. I show up and occupy that space between life and death, and I feel it deeply when I do. I am learning that my education in science and the skill and training I received can coexist with my intuition and more subtle ways of knowing, and I am working at trusting them both.

I find myself in an endless process of becoming. I am in transition, now and always. I will never not be changing. Nothing feels solid to me right now, because I exist in the dynamic tension between beginnings and endings. There is a certain sweetness in just being in the discomfort of transition without having to know how the story ends, without having any idea if the paths I am walking will take me where I want to go, or even if where I think I’m headed is where I actually want to be.

I stand here in this singular moment in time, occupying this particular space between earth and sky, gravity holding me fast, feeling deeply into the strong force that unites the particles of matter that have come together to form this thing I call myself. I hold gently to my heart the groundlessness inherent in being human. I sit in the questions without having or needing the answers just now. I can breathe into the restlessness in my heart that wants to know what is going to happen, or if I made the right choice, or if it is all okay in the end.

Several times before in my life, I have felt a sense of being invited to do something by something larger than me, and of that being something I just couldn’t not do. I didn’t have answers, or even certainty that I would be able to do it. I felt this when I decided to come out of the closet 13 years ago. I felt it when I was deciding if I should go on the Equality Ride in 2006. I felt it as I was trying to figure out if I would be able to survive midwifery school. And I feel it now.

Mia Hollow put it this way:

every now and again,
you will feel a dull ache in your soul.
a gentle humming around your heart.
a longing for something without a name.
if i ever told you to obey anything,
this would be it.

listen to the call of your authentic self.
that part of you that lives just outside of your own skin.
let it have its way with you.

i have died a hundred times trying to ignore it.

I have learned to deeply trust this voice, because every time I have followed it, the subsequent journey it has invited me on has become a vital part of my becoming myself. It is a call to my deepest courage and most audacious visioning. It is, as Mia Hollow said, “the call of [my] authentic self.” And I have made a commitment to myself that I get to show up whole and take up space, which means claiming all of the parts of myself as mine and not making myself small to make other people comfortable.

Standing at the edge of this unknown, I feel a pull from what feels like a future iteration of myself whispering, “Yes, take this next step. You don’t have to see the whole path now. But take this step.” I also feel an immense surge of gratitude to my past selves for all of the times that I’ve shown up for these invitations with an open, curious heart, and how each of the steps I’ve taken so far have led me right here. There is a sense of continuity here throughout my evolution thus far, and as I sit with my own liminality, it is becoming clear to me that while the destination is uncertain, I know that I am coming home to myself.

This word that I’ve chosen for 2017, belonging, is already challenging me to show up for my life in brave ways. This afternoon, during a meditation on grounding, I felt a fierce sense of belonging as I sensed myself occupying the space where earth and sky came together. There was a wholeness, a continuum between the farthest reaches of space and the solid core at the center of the earth, and I existed in that expanse, taking up a miniscule fraction of it, but nevertheless belonging here.

So much is happening under the surface, and I keep coming back to a question posed by poet William Stafford: “Ask me whether what I have done is my life.”

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

I’m sitting here at the edge of the river, trusting the current, asking myself whether what I have done is my life, taking up space between earth and sky.

The Antidote to Despair

I don’t know about you, but the last week and a half (the entirety of this current presidency thus far), and even the past couple of months since the election, have brought me closer and closer to feelings of overwhelm and exhaustion that previously I had been better able to keep at bay. Seeing my newsfeed filling up with story after story of injustice and trauma and an all-out assault on my values and the communities I care about seems to drain all of the fight out of me and push me right into my trauma response of choice, which is to freeze and find a way to numb the overwhelm of it all.

Self-care is and has long been vital to my survival, and recently it has become ever more so. I find that doing multiple things every day to care for my whole self (physically, emotionally, mentally, relationally, spiritually) is so important, and takes so much time and energy, and it is a privilege that I have those things (not always, but usually) to put towards the activities I need to do to keep myself as well as I can be under the circumstances.

When things are out of balance, I feel it everywhere. When my sleep is interrupted by nightmares of hiding in closets from Nazis out to get me (the second part of that dream was not untrue, but I no longer hide in the closet), when food is not interesting to me, when I spend days without reaching out to people I love and deeply connecting, when I hide inside instead of moving my body to metabolize the accumulating trauma… I hurt. I hurt in mind and body and psyche and soul. Sometimes I can’t seem to shift out of the hurting place, especially when I have to care for others. It is hard to be in deep trauma and still show up authentically and hold space for someone in labor or in my clinic room or in the operating room. It is hard and I do it, because it is part of my work and my magic in the world to show up as my whole self in spaces and give myself room to feel everything, not necessarily in that moment, but to create daily space to feel.

One of my self-care practices is to get out in nature. Because of the weather, I hadn’t gone for a hike since Christmas, but a few days ago, despite a drizzling rain, I took myself out to one of my favorite Seattle parks and wandered around, not entirely aimlessly but definitely without my usual drive to explore and move my body. I felt like I was right at the edge of despair and could tell that it would take very little to push me right into the thick of it. I searched in my awareness for some answer, some of my unique magic, that could provide a shift to bring some greater ease into this situation, and as my mind went into a state of inquiry, the question asked itself of me, “What is the antidote to despair?”

At the time I was asking myself this, I was unfamiliar with Joan Baez’s quote that would answer that question with a single word: action. She believed that moving forward and doing something would provide the shift I was looking for. And she may well be right, except that I was so overwhelmed with inertia and pain that finding actions to do felt almost impossible.

Sitting in the question, and holding it gently to my chest, I ended up on a rocky beach and found myself looking for heart-shaped stones. To my dismay, I wasn’t finding a single one. I searched and searched, and these stones that always find me easily were staying invisible on the beach. Tears began dripping down my cheeks along with the drizzle of the rain, and I squatted down by the water and let myself feel everything. “What is the antidote to despair?” I asked myself. And I instantly found my answer in the word I chose for this year: belonging.

Belonging is my antidote to despair. I brought to mind the humans that I love, by name, one by one, and as each name appeared in my mind, I noticed that my magic was returning to my body. I thought or whispered a name and a heart-shaped stone appeared on the beach. I called to mind folks I consider my chosen queer family: Dylan. Carey. Emily. Maggie. Nico. Simon. Meg. Susan. Katie. Brooke. Tasha. Maddie. So many others. I thought of my family of origin and my complex love for them. I pictured my community of midwives and nurses and physicians. I thought of all of the folks I’ve shared dances with over the past year since I started dancing. And yes, I thought of my cats.

And I whispered my own name to the stones. I meditated on what belonging deeply to myself might mean to me. I thought of how complex it is to belong in my skin, to feel at home in my body. I thought of all of the love and labor that I have put into belonging to myself, and I sent gratitude back in time to all of the iterations of me who have worked for my survival and to help me have the chance to thrive. I also sent thanks to all future selves I will become, and to the love I know they are sending back through time to me, as I do now, as part of my work in the world. I thought of all the bodies I’ve lived in already in this lifetime (young, fat, gaunt, sick, athletic, scarred, tattooed, frozen, dancing, and oh-so-queer), and how many more I might get to experience. I fell in love with my life again.

I thought of what it means to me to explore the concept of belonging while living on stolen Duwamish land, a land rightfully belonging to people who are not my ancestors. I thought of the lands my ancestors belonged to, scattered throughout northern Europe. I thought of all the heart stones I might find on the beaches and in the fields they called home, before they left to become settler colonists (some of them coming over on the Mayflower). I reflected on the violence of their actions towards Native peoples, towards people of color, especially Black people who were brought over to serve as slaves whose labor was foundational to capitalism’s beginnings. I felt into what it means to belong as a queer and gender non-confirming white person to a community of activists working to create a world where there is room for everyone to belong.

I wove for myself the fabric, the web of belonging that holds me fast in the world. By the time I left that beach (forty-four heart stones later!), my pockets were heavier than my heart was when I arrived.

As I made my way back to my car, damp and grateful, I thought how important it was that belonging is my word for 2017. This is a year that already promises a lot of intensity, with no sign of letting up. Reminding myself over and over that I belong here, in this world, at this time, is going to be vital to my well-being and indeed, to my survival.

There are other things that act as antidotes to despair for me, and I will name them in case any of them speak to you. Just the sheer act of existing as my whole self in this world that attempts to deny me that is an example of fierce defiance and resilience. My existence is resistance. Here are some of the things that help me keep existing:

Sleep: easier said than done when my nights are plagued with nightmares, but I find that if I do not sleep well, I do not function well. When I am able to allot sufficient time for resting my body and mind (quality of sleep aside), I have much more reserves to cope.

Community: Staying in contact with the people who give meaning and purpose to my life fills me with love and oxytocin. Checking in with my loved ones whom I know are also struggling with various heavy burdens is important to me. Making some effort, daily, to reach out and love someone, whether in person or over the phone or via social media, helps keep me going.

Food: this is an edgy one for me, as my body has a complicated relationship with food (due to both allergies and chronic stomach problems from a birth defect). Choosing to eat foods that nourish me and give me energy, as well as intentionally making food and feeding others, gives me stamina. Choosing not to use food to mindlessly help numb my feelings can be hard, but it feels important to make an effort to tease those two things apart and let my feelings have space to be expressed and not conflate them with food. Letting myself be fed–in all the ways that can be interpreted–is one of my goals for this year.

Organizing: as much as I have reserves to do it, showing up in activist spaces and working with existing movements for social change and resistance helps me remember that there is work that needs me and that my voice and my efforts can create good in the world. There is a balance between exhausting myself in all the doing and letting the action feed me, but here is where I do agree with Joan Baez, that action is indeed one of the antidotes to despair. Especially getting behind efforts led by people of color, and queer and trans folks, who have been doing this work for longer than I’ve been in it, is vital.

Movement, and especially dancing: when I move my body, either on my own or in connection with another body, I get out of my head and the swirl of trauma I’ve accumulated and emotions I haven’t gotten to process and I land fully in my own skin. I feel into my strength and flexibility and resilience, qualities that fuel my ability to keep doing the work of this moment. Physical activity helps me to metabolize all of the build-up and keep it from drowning me, giving space for big feelings to come up and move their way out of my body. I deeply appreciate collapsing in a sweaty heap after a good night of dancing with folks I love.

Poetry and stories: words are my lifeline home to myself. My walls are plastered with poems that remind me where home is, what healing looks like, that I am whole, that loving is worth it, that living is worth it. “We need to share our wars,” Nayyirah Waheed said, in one of the quotes I taped above my bed. Writing and reading others’ writings keeps me going. Stories link me to the experiences of others and simultaneously help me come home again. Language is a bridge across solitudes.

Therapy: I need to have a place I can go to download and process things so I don’t only rely on my friends and loved ones to do this emotional labor for me. If I let them build up, they sink me. Having someone in my life whose job is to hold me, and who does not require any holding in return, is so necessary to my well-being. Mental illness is so highly stigmatized in the dominant US American discourse, and speaking openly about it is part of my activism.

Pleasure: living is full of pain. We know that far too well. Taking joy in the delights that also make their way into my life reminds me that living is not ALL pain. A lot of experiencing pleasure is about mindfulness; pain and pleasure often coexist, and noticing both when they arrive and when they go is one of my practices. The heat of my evening shower on my skin as I step into the water and rinse off my day is pleasure. A bite of kumquat dipped in honey and topped with a Szechuan peppercorn is pleasure. Watching the colors of the sky as the sun dips below the horizon is pleasure. Feeling a lover’s lips on my own and being aware of nothing else in the world is pleasure. Hearing a newborn’s first fierce cry, announcing their arrival onto this planet, is pleasure. Snuggling into my bed at last after a long night of being awake welcoming new people onto the planet is pleasure. Pain is mingled in each of these in different ways (the bite of the peppercorn feels different than the ache of up-all-night-babycatching exhaustion), but all of them also hold delight.

Nature: I have to go outside to stay well. I need to bury my toes in cool grass and jump into chilly lakes and feel the smoothness of stones in my palms. I need to kiss trees and tuck bits of lichen in my hair and smell the sea and let myself get lost in the wildness outside me as well as within. I need to inhale fresh oxygen and remember that I am a part of this, that I belong to the world. I need to let the crashing waves remind me where home is. I need the animals to teach me how to be. I need to wear out my body climbing trails in the middle of nowhere so I can find myself again.

Unplugging: this one is hard for me, because I feel so drawn to staying connected with what is happening in the world around me. But I have found when I am outside of cell reception range or wifi access for a day or five, I return feeling recharged. When I mindlessly scroll through a newsfeed of despair, I lean closer to that edge myself. This one is most definitely a work in progress, and I don’t often do it well, but I am committing to finding a balance between informing myself and overwhelming myself with information.

Breathing: staying in my breath helps me stay in my body. Whether through singing at the top of my lungs in the shower, or consciously slowing down my rate of breathing to quell anxiety, or moving my body hard to get my lungs going and my heart beating faster, mindfully being present in my breath brings me back to what is happening right now and diverts my attention from catastrophic thinking. Meditation also fits into this category.

There are so many other self-care strategies, so many other antidotes to despair that are possible. I am so grateful to be finding mine, and I want to be authentic in this writing and make it clear that I don’t have this all figured out, not by any means. These are things that help me survive and sometimes even thrive in the world, and they are not easy to do. Some days I want to hide in my room and eat chips and ignore my work and not talk to anyone, and that is okay. Some days, survival is my work, and I do that as best I can. Every time I choose to do something to preserve my aliveness in the world, I am part of the resistance. As Audre Lorde said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

Belonging is political warfare. Belonging is raw power. Belonging is my antidote to despair.

I would love to hear about your equivalent to heart stones. What speaks to you of belonging? What keeps you going when despair looms in close? What fuels your resistance? What reminds you that you have a home in this world?