And just like that, 13 days have passed since my last blog. I have never been this aware of time passing by in a single month, until I swore to do the impossible task of writing everyday. Though I live and breathe through the words I speak and read, I can’t seem to produce the words necessary for other people’s consumption on a daily basis. It takes a little bit of something out of me each time.
Don’t get me wrong – the reason I host and participate in writing workshops isn’t just to force myself to write – it is also restorative. I find that after I read a certain piece like “The Mapped and the Spoken”, no matter how many years I have done this – my voice always trembles, my heart beats too rapidly and I end with almost a half-breath – like I’ve ran out of air at the last second and I am struggling to find the energy to take my next inhale. But I see faces around me brighten and fill with emotion and they tell me what my words mean to them and just like that, I am restored, I am nourished, I have found permission in my community to continue. Though they have consumed my voice they return it to me so graciously, so generous are they with their feedback and their appreciation, and I truly fall in love with each and every one of them.
Some days I feel like I am not doing enough, like the hours slip away unnoticed in my current reality, where exhaustion becomes its own language.”
And then I realize that I’ve been working 12 hours a day, somehow sneaking two writing workshops weekly in between and seeing a friend on the weekend and realize that I haven’t sat down to appreciate a good movie, or truly paused and meditated. Or even just finding a corner of my time just lying still and listening to music, and dreaming, letting minutes pass by with my ears full of sound and my heart full of desire for the living. Though my eyes are closed, they flutter left and right with vivid images of knotted limbs and pressed cheeks, of truthful words pouring out of lips with no regret nor fear of repercussion, of the kind of warm days and summer nights where the sun shyly kisses the smooth, curved nape of your neck and you let it – you let it happen – you let anything happen – your will and discipline lost in the tender bliss of wild, innocent abandon – my mind reels – painting the sky with barely visible wisps of clouds so soft they remind me of the edges of your thinning hair so bright against the dim light of the many rooms we spent in, huddled close together at the end of the day – forever at the end of our days, talking, talking, talking.
When I used to volunteer at a Toronto hospice for the unhoused population who simply needed a place to stay for the rest of their limited days, a topic that came up almost constantly was the question of legacy. How others will remember you, how you want to be remembered. In a lot of ways, caregiving, my pregnancy and taking care of a toddler has metamorphized my understanding of loss and my own mortality. The most bittersweet thing about legacy is that none of us will ever get to see how it plays out – we can only hope that the things we do today, end up mattering enough to some people, so that they may continue to speak your name. So in a way, we don’t just die once. We leave our bodies but our name and stories get passed on, and on and on, and with each retelling we become a little different, a little transformed, less vivid over time, before tenderly fading with the night.
I often wonder what memory I will carry to the end of my life. What story I tell my nurse, my curious observer, my patient child. Even as I watch my toddler grow up today, I wonder what small part of me, what version of myself, my child will hold dear and precious to him, even after I’ve long forgotten myself.
I would say, “Let me tell you – this is who I used to be, these are the things we did back in the day – back when the world seemed simple, and me, and everyone else around me, seemed to matter a great deal, like we were the generation that was going to change the world.”
“Yes, my dear,” I’d say, responding to the familiar light of recognition blossoming in my listener’s eyes, “we used to be just like you.”
for #NanoPoblano2025
NanoPoblano is the world’s least official November blog challenge. Participants and supporters are called Cheer Peppers. The BIG goal is 30 posts in 30 days. You can share your goal and your progress and your posts on the Facebook group at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1336744293025187/
Leave a Reply