Moonlight marks the cycle of night-lurches with the pups. Right now, sickle moon, waxing, low in the sky at 10:30, when I gather us together for our pre-bed ritual. Chloe tends to pull back at these times, insisting on a little more quality time with this whiff of schnauzer-pee, or that cat-turd. Elliot, meanwhile, tends to pull forward, yanking onward to new adventures in weed-hosing and spirit-sniffing. Sometimes I want to spank them both. Stop, you curs! I am ready for bed, and need no further nonsense today. Let the moon chill you out. Walk with me.
But of course moonlight doesn't necessarily chill dogs out, at all. They go into nocturnal overdrive, turning on the spooky lanterns at the backs of their eyes. Black dogs, like mine, have the added advantage of literally melting into the dark, each hairtip growing endings that join with the space filling everything between here and the moon.
Without them, my incidences of being out under the moon at night would rush asymptotically towards zero, as the nights get colder, as rain buckets down on the roof, as long sections of sidewalk turn into secret toboggan runs, invisible by sodium vapor light, or by moonshade. Without my dogs, I would spend almost all my night-time either under electric light, or asleep.
Without me, who knows what the dogs would do at night? Commando raids on sleeping squirrel-nests. Wild runs in the woods, guided by their supersnouts and the odd phosphorescent mushroom. Without me, they would spend more time navigating by their own extra senses, and less time flopped out on duvet, carpet, and pillow.
Sharing the bed with Chloe and Elliot is a relatively new thing. I had felt for a while that it was what I wanted. A few times, when Elliot was younger, and suffered from Restless Dog Syndrome, I'd gone downstairs with a blanket and busted both of them out of their crates, creating a dense dog/lady pile on the couch. This took real skill: one long dog (Elliot) mashed between my body and the back cushions; one chunky dog (Chloe) curled into a tight ball at my feet. To sleep this way is to be an acrobat in suspension, a bound unit of fur, bone, flesh, and skin. I loved it, but the custom remained: dogs sleep in crates downstairs, humans sleep in rooms upstairs.
Then one night, when it came time to shut Elliot in his crate, with a last treat of the day for being a good dog, I found I could not do it. I found I cared not at all for the carpet upstairs, or for the maybe-bad things that might happen if the dogs started to think my bed was theirs. I opened up the gate at the top of the stairs, closed the toilet lid, and welcomed the beasties. A moonlight festival! No one slept especially well at first, because everything was so exciting, and because both dogs are total blanket-hogs. Then we settled down into a pattern: Chloe and Elliot on the left side of the bed, me on the right. Timothy reserves the right to dog-free carpet in his spaces, and that is fine.
By moonlight, certain forms of logic and separation simply lose their power. Oh, well. That was an OK idea, but look around… The trees are dancing their leafshadows silver on the quiet street. The metal roofs beam beacons back to the sky. What could be here, could be there also.
Maybe what is so activating about full moon light is the way it bridges night and day. I remember the summer solstice full moon, twenty-six years ago, when my friends and I walked late into the night, westwards towards Santiago de Compostela. We had been walking for so long that it was as easy as breathing, and the wide, flat path across fields called us on and on, dark shadows following, gleaming earth ahead.
In the morning there would be blisters, still, and a strange combination of tuna, peaches in syrup, and old bread for breakfast. But that would be then. Then, we would split up, as I obeyed some compulsion to follow my family's grief, my friend wound up in the hospital, and only one of us walked of her own volition to the gates of the cathedral. Meanwhile, now, we were strong, and the moon reminded us of all the spaces in-between the events we tend to fixate on.
Now, now, sitting in what is definitely early Fall, my toes are frozen in my sandals, the moon and earth are rolling on, towards another full moon, and another empty one. Last night, in the bath, celebrating the end of yet another round of coursework, I felt a part of me that dreads winter moan up inside me. Just as quickly, the one who’s known winters, moons come and gone, summers begun and ended, smiled. Let it all come, and go, and come again. In the space between earth, moon, and sun, there is room for everything, unobstructed. In the space between bones, moods, dogs’ bodies and mine, there is room for every state, suffering, healing, beginning and end, without end.
This is how I keep the moon-days now. Before, a nun, it was head-shaving day, sauna day, quiet day. Now it's pack day, writing day, knowing day, the rhythm of footfalls and breaths in this aging, knowing, loving body-mind, sharp as a crescent moon’s horns, round as a full moon’s belly.
Really, this is an essay everyone writes, and writes again. Last week, after I had finished yet another round of Chen style tai chi in the junkie park outside the Manchester library, a man stopped me to say, not in any weird way, that he'd seen me week after week, and he thought it was amazing. He told me he, too, spends time sending energy back down into the earth, where it belongs. Yes, I said, we all know how to do it – it’s just a question of whether and how we choose to follow through, taking care of our shared world. You watch, he said, sometime I’ll come join you. Of course, I said, and we’ll dance as dragons together. This wasn’t just some nicey-nicing, I could see from the movement of his weathered hands that he does know how to move energy. Some grounded, wise presence shone out from his long-secret hobo being.
So it is. This morning Chloe came to meditate with me, laying her nose on my calf. Benefactor practice, this way, is quite direct. All the beings who’ve led to Chloe. All the beings who’ve led to me. All those we’ll in turn love and support, feed and keep safe, tangle with and re-shape. This web, this endless series of meetings and transmutings, always under the changing moon.
Oh, asshat! Such a rude, satisfying word, no matter how you look at it. You are wearing the ass of some other creature, qua hat, à la Davy Crockett. You are so backwards, you are wearing your own ass as hat. The simple pleasure of a small, creative detour from asshole, to something even more phonetically satisfying. In any case, “asshat” is what Larissa pulled out of the magic box of prompts this morning (in my handwriting, I will readily admit), and so asshat is my lodestone.
I remember a Gary Larson The Far Side cartoon in which a guy walks into a raccoon bar, where all the patrons (big raccoons, surprise!) are wearing human buttocks-hats. It’s a classic, and it also seems to sum up the teachings of karma pretty nicely. Any reality in which you are walking around, thinking, Oh, what’s the harm in shooting a few of those garbage-eaters, and borrowing their fluffy tails for my personal glorification and ear-warmth? is simultaneously evolving a parallel universe in which you will walk into the Raccoon Bar one cold afternoon, and think, Shit. Can’t a person grab a beer without the sins of the whole universe coming to visit?
This morning, harried, hurried, I literally surrender my ass to Facebook, click on the ad for Fancy Mouse Underpantses, and speed-order three pair of supposedly sustainable bamboo fiber not-thongs. What tells me these were produced by anyone other than orphans confined in some flammable, rickety factory somewhere in South Asia? Nothing at all! I didn't even click on the link about Why Sustainable Fibers Matter. My ass is in a hurry for some new hats, and so, voilà! $41.35 later, my perception is: problem solved. Meanwhile, reality may be setting me up for a date, sometime soon, with an underpants factory in Bangladesh.
To be clear, this is not because the universe has it in for me, or for any of us. It’s more like this: we are the ones who get to walk around embodied, actually doing stuff, and so the universe would strongly prefer that we get our acts together, sooner rather than later. My fleeting perception that the holes and near-holes in my ancient Target underwear present a problem uniquely well-suited to being solved via Facebook-ad represents a lapse in the deeper awareness that knows, Nothing is missing right now. Nothing is out of place. $41.35 to the Nature Conservancy, to humanitarian relief, or the ACLU, might be a better way of activating resources.
I don’t mean to excuse myself, but it’s worth noticing all the asshat-conducive pressures operating in our lives: the urgent voices insisting YOU NEED THIS. LIFE WITHOUT THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. YOU ARE RUNNING A GRAVE RISK BY NOT SMITING THIS RIGHT BACK INTO THE CAVE IT CRAWLED OUT OF. We’re very good at producing and perpetuating such messages for one another, in part because we depend on them for our livelihoods, and also because it would be so lonely to be left the only asshat in town. It’s easy to see how my underwear-story is stupid, and maybe harder to acknowledge other stupidities, such as the compulsions that underlie what we call careers, political activism, spiritual life, and education. In all these areas, there is goodness to be had, and the asshat part is what gets caught up to the point of rigid, defensive identification.
I spent some time on an hourlong group supervision call this morning, which included a fellow-student whose identification with the we of her internship clinical staff felt more deeply problematic with each passing minute. This well-meaning, expert we handles an array of defective they – parents, clients – whose ignorance prevents them from receiving the benefits of what we are offering. I know how easy it is to enter into this state of mind, and I also know how much relief there is to be gained in stepping out of it. No thank you, Raccoon Bar, not this time.
Back-to-school is showing up strongly in my counseling internship right now, in the form of fear and loathing among my middle- and high-school clients. They have correctly intuited that there is some asshattery going on in the educational-industrial complex, but they don’t know yet what to do about it. I had this whole Thing planned out for one young client who is dreading the end of the summer, and then she just didn’t want to do it. Like, not one bit: literally crossing her eyes with theatrical boredom. I decided to go ahead and do a pre-emptive Raccoon Bar switch, inviting my client to take on the therapist role, while I entered earnestly into being the client. She picked a Magic Animal card at random for me to embody – Wonder – and I gave her my seat and clipboard, and a few prompts for how the intervention unfolds. She did a tremendous job, obviously relishing the chance to drive the bus. And I, in the client role, found space to talk about how I sometimes struggle, as a therapist, to share my sense of wonder with clients.
Afterwards, when I asked my young friend whether she might be willing, now, to try the intervention as client, she readily agreed, taking on the role of Protect. She found a kind of boisterous, playful, boundary-setting energy that I hope comes back to visit her often in middle-school world.
That's the thing – none of our asshattery is unworkable, and none of it is wasted, as long as we are willing to attend to it. My friend George has (or had) a bright pink shirt that says I CAME TO DANCE. It's totally the best, especially on him, and it brings up the question, what does that mean for each one of us? Do we expect some sort of decorous waltz, where no one interrupts, only the right people are present, and there’s tight security at the door? If so, then the Raccoon Bar awaits us as surely as night follows day. If, on the other hand, we are attuned to something more like a mutant mosh-pit/contradance, where literally anything might be our next partner, and we need to be equally prepared for a smoochy Lionel Richie slowdance, or a wild tarantella with the angriest hyena in the universe, then we are probably in good shape. For me, I CAME TO DANCE encompasses not really feeling like getting out of bed this morning, taking a shower anyway, holding the gate open for Chloe-the-dog as she prepares to trundle down the stairs, remaining curious about what kind of good might still come out of this Trumpish era, and allowing for the fact that I will doubtless be joining all of you for a pint at the Raccoon Bar, sometime soon.
Dream of the Rump-Slicker
Here is what I dreamed two nights ago:
A friend and I are by-standing outside the glass and polished wood doors of a fancy white-people church, watching people stream in for morning services. Along comes a group that includes a blonde woman in her thirties, her husband, his siblings and their mates, and her parents-in-law. The woman’s hair and makeup are perfectly done. And yet, all that she is wearing is a set of pearls and a pair of shiny, skin-tight, completely transparent pedal-pushers, with lace cuffs at the calves. I can see her butt, squeezed and varnished by this absurd garment. Of all the people entering the church, she is the only one who turns back to look at me, noticing that I have seen her. I feel her self-aware eyes and embarrassed, constrained body-language. I turn to my friend and say, did you SEE that? But I am ashamed. The woman is sentient in her predicament, and rather than gossiping about her, I know I ought to reach out to her. The inner doors of the church close for the beginning of the service. I look through a strip of glass, and a big, thuggish man glides up to confront me from the other side, as though being slid into place on a dolly. He has a shaved head, a thick body, small eyes, and a fixed expression of hate and contempt. Is he real? Not really, but I feel fear in the pit of my stomach, nevertheless. End.
When I was a kid, growing up in Atlanta in the 1980’s, rich, white Protestant Christian male supremacy wasn’t something anyone needed to spell out: it was just the way things worked. If you were a vaguely Catholic, nerdy white immigrant girl like me, you knew in your own heart of darkness where in the official social hierarchy that put you. You were not as important as the white boys, or the white girls from good families, but you were more important than most of the Asian, Latino, or Black girls. Where you ranked in relation to boys of color was a confusing tossup, the upshot of which was: stay away from them.
This social schema fit right in with the way the academics were organized at the prep school I attended from sixth grade through high school graduation. You had your smart-smart classes (I mostly lived here); your smart-dumb classes (I lived here for math); your dumb-smart classes (no idea how these went, except that they dissected cats, and AP Bio didn’t, thank God); and your dumb-dumb classes (which is where I would have lived for PE, except that, since physical prowess mattered less than intellectual accomplishment, the most kinetically gifted kids were lumped in with the most physically dissociated, like me).
If you were a person in my position, you could consciously align yourself with the white boys, in a bid for secondhand access to their privileges. Or you could simply fall in love with one of them, and find out the hard way that they, as persons, mattered more than you did. Their freedoms and stories were never intended to be yours. You could be a nice girl, and support the white boys in their accomplishments, cheering their sports games, their grunge bands, or both. Or you could be a not-nice girl, and rebel. In this case, you would not be chosen for awards and positions of leadership. You would disappear from official view, except for insistent reprimands. If anything bad happened to you, it was certainly your fault. You were no one’s.
Really, this landscape offered no refuge for the human heart. Personal connections – especially those that broke with officially accepted categories – were subjected to intense pressures. You could love someone, and have a private space of understanding together, but then that space would smash up against the rigid contours of The Way Things Are.
Ten years after high school, when I returned to Atlanta after living in Hong Kong and in England, my first post-monastic relationship was with a fellow art student, a beautiful Black man who chose the name John Blue Sky. Going out in public together was inevitable performance: people could not resist either telling us how great they thought we were, or conversely, giving us the major side-eye. Intimate space proved difficult, too. My lover wanted to assert his manhood over me, and – though I loved the contact of our bodies – I found his need for dominance repulsive. I moved house and didn’t tell him where I was. We broke up hurt and bewildered, unable to establish a safe haven of shared space.
My dream says, Wherever there is ornamental submissiveness, there is blunt domination. Wherever there is rubbernecking, compassion in action fails. Wherever prayer is done behind closed doors, wherever boundaries between holy and not-holy spaces are drawn, we set ourselves infinitely apart from one another.
Judging by the contents of my FB feed, right now many well-meaning people think that an orgy of liberal-white self-blame is helpful. Compared with nuanced self-inventory and vigorous shadow-eating, I think this strategy is pretty useless. Blame teaches nothing about finding courage to raise one’s voice, and to risk one’s hands, reaching out beyond fear and false categories. Self-loathing is poor practice for learning to stand up for what is right.
At the moment, I’m feeling drawn to learn how to fight. Tai chi practice has been life-changing, and now I want to enter the path of sparring and moving energy with a partner. A few days ago, in the last blue light of an August evening, my friend’s little son shared his karate kata, with two three-pronged knives, and I thought, I want that. I want to keep moving towards what is difficult, with curiosity and humor, and if martial arts can help me do that, then, sign me up.
White Crow, White Raven
Let’s say that White Crow energy is knowingly hiding facts, in order to consolidate your blamelessness. When I was younger, I was very interested in others' hypocrisy, which I didn't see in the same light as my own adolescent sneaking around. I liked sniffing out the darkness in stuffy situations, getting underneath the tablecloth and looking around in the half-light, on my hands and knees among the crumbs and stray napkins, looking up at the old gum, crusty boogers, and stray words on the banquet’s prickly underside. I wanted to undo the authority of anyone I felt was claiming power over me – especially moral power. Ha! I would say. You fuckers are just writing pulp novels about bear-rape behind closed doors. You are just snaking your feet under the bathroom stall, fishing for airport sex when you’re not busy extolling Family Values in public. It was a necessary step for surviving early adulthood in the religious and social South.
Luckily, I moved on. I understood, somehow, that when hypocrisy-hunting drops its outward focus, and comes home, it brings with it fierce defensiveness and/or self-loathing. What about you, pal? In order to remain a White Crow Hunter for very long, you need always-escalating demonstrations of the sins of others, to deflect your gorgon’s gaze from yourself. Thus, tabloids, Fox News, the Huffington Post, and much more.
White Raven energy works differently, because it’s grounded in compassion and fellow-feeling. Instead of snarking and separating, White Raven weaves black and white home together again in a new form that isn’t grey, isn’t black, isn’t white, isn’t fooled by duality, and doesn’t lapse into nonsense-oneness, either.
In my dream last night, I looked up from the street of a Swiss-German village, and saw my mother-in-law brandishing a bread she'd just baked. She was absolutely ecstatic, wanting to show me, wanting to celebrate, wanting to take her creation out into the world. No ordinary bread: a dark brown snake, intertwined with a golden snake, together forming a kind of irregular, wriggly fougasse. She left the thick-timbered walls, geraniums, and mullioned windows of the house behind her, and came running out into the street with her snake-bread, ready for whatever adventure was going to happen next. White Raven as nourishing union.
Sitting in meditation this morning, I return to the dream, bringing it into my body. Here is a white-golden snake with his head above my left shoulder, a black-blue snake with her head above my right shoulder. Weave them down, crossing at the throat, crossing at the heart, at the solar plexus, below the navel, tails out the sitting-bones. Hard to stay focused – they are snakes, alive, writhing. They are not interested in behaving themselves demurely, like the frozen caduceus on an emergency bracelet.
I need to bake this bread.
I need to make this drawing.
I need to find dark flour, to roll the snakes out in my kitchen, to oil the coils while they rise, and to seed them – flax and sesame.
I need to eat this bread.
I need to be out in the world with it, and to share it.
Robert Bosnak's embodied imagination work, which I am practicing right now, proposes that dream-images are embodied imagination-states. Each figure or character in a dream addresses a different set of possibilities for the body-mind. I experience my dream mother-in-law as expansive joy in the heart, and an open gesture in the arms. The snake-bread, I experience as an intertwining of energies: right and left, dark and light, not symmetrical, but writhing and changing.
The dream begins with a network of old, dull-red trains, pulling themselves into the village, grinding themselves to a stop. The trains are full of coal, or shadowy men, or both. They are incredibly heavy, weighted to the earth. They are the circulation of the body of the town, opaque, powerful, metal and earth. In the body, I experience them as ground, roots, earth, stability in the legs and seat.
In the dream train-station is a corner alcove, containing a tower-shaped white marble instrument that flutes all by itself. No coins needed, no visible mechanism, no musician – it simply allows air to pass through, and makes sound. If I listen in, the music is high and sweet – not annoying, as I first take it to be. It pours forth, whether anyone listens, or not. The windows in the tower may or may not be finger-stops for different notes, but there are no fingers. The top of the tower tapers to where a mouth could blow, but there is no mouth. This tower-flute, in the body, I feel as a clear channel from root to spine, and as a fluttering in the fingers.
Here, then, is an embodied dream-prescription, a White Raven soupe-du-jour recipe, for body-heart-mind and soul:
Take the deep ground and power of the train, in the lower body,
the joy in the heart and the outward motion with the arms,
the snake-paths bringing together left and right, light and dark, in living patterns of energy throughout the body, especially the belly,
the whole-spine clarity of the flute that makes music without any visible cause,
the fluttering in the fingers.
…and hold these together in the body for as long as possible, as often as possible.
White Raven will be there.
Bringing White Raven energy home in the body requires both real work, and deep relaxation. Relax does not mean fall asleep comfortably in your chair, and hope for the best. Work does not mean stiffen in your chair, solving the world’s problems as your own. In fact – what are you doing in that chair? There’s dark flour to be kneaded. There’s drawing to be done. There are tears to be wept, dogs to be combed, dreams to be dreamed, unruly snakes to be followed, coaxed, harnessed, and set free.
Elliot freaks out, goes beyond what his dog-mind can tolerate (the mailman! the horror!) and goes medieval on Chloe. She fends off his freaky ass, and one minute later, they’re pals again. White Raven knows: there’s this, and there’s that, but there’s also this-that, always dancing just beyond the categories we think we need, to keep things straight.
Mavis Staples would make a wonderful Weariness Advisor. She's never going to tell you to just chipper up. Instead, she'll point out how what you feel in your bones is essentially what countless other bones are feeling, right now. Mavis Staples will remind you that her mother, and grandmother, and all her ancestors somehow made it through, and not because their lives were any easier than yours. Mavis, I think, will not get into some pissing-match of weariness. She will look at you, suss out how much weh-weh, and how much pain, and mirror back what she sees, laughing in a deep, husky voice.
Here's something I am weary of: casual bashing of white feminists. Really, friends? When Trump and the Koch brothers and the rapine of the world are unfurling, your best bet is to reach out and bite other humans who are standing against this? Also, what do you mean, “white feminists”? Me, for example? Because I somehow ought to be wearying myself on your behalf? And why is that? Are you committed to wearying yourself on mine? Is there some kind of unwritten mutual-wearying-contract between us? Because, if so, let’s break it. Let’s stop. I officially renounce you, as a source of weariness for me; and you can officially renounce me, too. Let's just go ahead and make this broader: I renounce all beings, as sources of weariness. I refuse to be wearied by anyone. Feel free to call me a white feminist cis-het witch, if that’s unwearying to you. Just know: I am not going to take the bait. I’d rather be flying ICBMs in my dreams. I’d rather be hunting for Elliot in the woods. I’d rather meet whatever I meet, without labels.
Trump has set up weariness-centrifuges in warehouses deep under the White House and the Golf White House, to spin disgust and contention into power. You don't believe me? How else do you explain the fact that he is still in office, and hardly anyone laughs in his face? Weariness is not a force for change. It is the power of resignation. Oh, well. I guess that’s just the way it is. White feminists and Republicans are idiots, and there’s just isolated, radical me out here, carrying the banner of truth. Purge that. Remember: we are all making this up together, and no one knows how it will turn out.
You think calling me a slippery theory-word is going to undo the harm you’ve accumulated from other people calling you slippery hate-words? You think mocking my "allyship" is going to yield better results than staying open to what’s available to you? I think it's completely infantile, and it won't work. You’re looking for ways not to connect. You’re looking to protect yourself from taking responsibility for what you feel, hoping never to get hurt again. Making me say/think/do what do you think is right will only make us wearier in the long run, Friend.
Tell me what hurts.
Tell me what makes no sense.
Tell me who you are as a person, not as a label.
And I will do the same.
My Dad has a running refrain: the Democrats need to come up with something believable to say, or else we’re in for a thousand more years of trumpitude. Part of me bristles: the Republicans need to stop suckling at Satan's teats, or else we're in for a thousand more years of much worse. Radical responsibility, though, says he’s right. Standing for we are nice to everyone isn’t the same thing as having a coherent vision for this country. Where's the warrior side of the left? Where’s the willingness to say uncomfortable truths, and to scrape back to a sound foundation? Obamacare is nonsense. Necessary nonsense, granted, but not a sustainable solution. Someone needs to say: medicine is not business. Insurance is a nonsense model of paying for non-care. All of us need to agree on some guidelines about treatment, non-treatment, and what's reasonable to expect from the world and its resources. If it's left to the Republicans to be the only voice of restraint in health-care spending, the Democrats lose the opportunity to lead real conversations about life and death. I am weary of the party of the Good Breast, rainbow-bright, supportive us, vs. evil, selfish them.
Weariness makes it impossible to think straight. Someone says something, and you don't have the bandwidth to tease it apart into visible strands. So, you mean you're not a cis-het white feminist? What swamp bubbles up through that question? Which losses are you attempting to transfer from your own set of distortions, to mine? What’s that smell?
There's this argument: You have the luxury to live as though labels don't apply to you. I get it. Many times, reading, say, Tolstoy (or some much less accomplished white male), I get a gross whiff of My Experience Is Universal, Let Me Explain. It's a stinky stink, for sure. But that’s not all Tolstoy’s got to say. Alongside his overreaching voice, he’s capable of fine observations of how individual humans behave. This is so for all of us. Parts of us speak truthfully, from embodied experience, from a particular moment, from a vulnerable heart. Other, more tyrannical, universalizing parts, claim to speak to and for categories: All Black Men, All White Feminists. These statements can sometimes be temporarily useful, as a means of distancing ourselves from the burning quality of experience, but they become a direct path to weariness, if clung to for any length of time. All dogs. All old people. All mountains. The living particulars disappear behind a fog of theory and bias.
Law deals in categories, as it probably must. But the application of law should include awareness of what is happening right now. Am I acting from my human-parts, or my tyrant-parts? Am I allowing myself to see this person or situation as uniquely arising, as well as arising from systemic causes and conditions?
Thinking about all of this makes me weary. Our country makes me weary, if I let it. Trump’s weariness-centrifuges spin up dark energy of powerlessness and resentment, violence and poverty, into a reservoir connected to his bottomless thirst for being hated. This can go on for a long time, especially if his opponents refuse ever to acknowledge their own dark sides. I am a blameless victim! I am a virtuous rescuer! I am looking for someone to wrong me, and there you are.
Weariness means you stop looking for the particularity of each moment. You generalize. You fall back into patterns, and the whole thing just slips on by. Weariness is a bitter laugh-track, a wonder-proof blanket, a stinky shirt that never quite washes free of yesterday’s wearing, and a back-bending ditch in the place where you go to sleep.
Julie Püttgen is an artist, expressive arts therapist, and meditation teacher.
108 Names of Now