April

April

April, Dear Fern, 

So nice to hear from you. I have been thinking of you this week. I am glad to hear your time in Europe was special and I am sorry it had to end under these circumstances. Oh the world... seems more turbulent than ever but I also feel my perspective is skewed. Having these babies under my wing makes me more tender to all things. You are right that time is flying (and day to day moving slow) the babies make lots of sounds.. Daniel and I debate whether or not they say Mama and Dada in any conscious way. They are on the move.. very active and wanting to walk. They are wonderful little beings. Joy Orbs my friend Millie calls them. They have bright blue eyes and crooked smiles. They are different though. Vera is more determined and a little sly, as if she is winking all the time. Summer is lost in small things, always pointing at a piece of dust on the floor, getting into dreamy trances. She wears glasses because her eyes cross. I do hope you get to meet them someday soon. 

My days are filled with babies and the minutiae that taking care of two little beings demands but also existentialism. It is hard not to see the world from a million miles away when you spend your time with a prelingual being, or two, arriving here. Depending on what my week looks like I find myself missing art and the private corners of my mind that I can’t retreat to as regularly as I once did. I also feel very in love and very close to the heartbeat of humanity. Changing diapers and dealing with saliva and sleep reminds me we are human-mammals. As a human-mammal I need inspiration and meaning but also security, warmth and food. 

I am curious how ceremonies and rituals can meet my and our needs as a human-mammal? What does a ceremony need to contain to speak to the mammal and the human parts of me? How can a ceremony offer nourishment for my mind which is always hungry for narrative and my body which is always hungry to feel whole and belonged. Is it simply in our witnessing of one another as human-mammals that we might allow all this? Who guards the intention of a ceremony and how can all the parts of all those who arrive be honored? How can our welcoming of the big and the small be a way in? Where do we meet? In a field? In a basement? A wordless night? An empty shelf. Above the woman who rocks. Above the roses. An empty shelf. On to which we place nothing. The empty shelf holds the silence. And all those who are not here. Those coming. Those gone and not returning, A shelf that holds the words that we no longer can translate. Sounds that echo against the cities. Words found at the bottom of an ocean. That flat and quiet place. To which some part of me must belong.

And meaning floats in and out. Questions mingle with that which is fixed. Thank you for your email, your words and your presence in my life. 

Sending you love, g