After I let go of my car, a weird thing happens. I finally give up bleach. I stop buying Ajax, switch to Bon Ami. It’s as if making the choice to live car-free leads to ending household chemicals. But it is not conscious effort. It is more subtle, maybe even cellular.
[19 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
When I let go of my trusty, old red Jetta, I didn’t expect it to last. But it did. It stuck. Cars and trucks produce nearly 1/5th of all U.S. emissions. In southern California it’s akin to treason to suggest this. But if you want to change the world, give up your car.
[18 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
I’m scribbling lists, writing prompts for my retreat. Old beloved ones, new ones from the messy pile of books on the couch. “This is how lonesome feels,” I read. It stops me. The ache in my belly and heart lights up like magic from the quiet place where it was sleeping.
[17 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
The teacher reads Etty Hillesum’s work out loud. It is beautiful prose, steeped in wisdom and love. (Later she is killed at Auschwitz.) Etty holds the horror and the dying. She finds joy in the jasmine, white against the dark wall, lets her heart lift. She cradles both.
[16 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
I read the last page of Starhawk’s The Fifth Sacred Thing, brimming with hope. I cradle the book, both arms against my chest, kiss the cover, cry grateful tears. Nonviolent resistance wins. Bird, Maya, Madrone—all safe. I’m awake with longing. Oh, to move people!
[15 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
The #MeToo movement makes me see I stopped challenging our patriarchy. How much my own world view is shaped by men. Has me seeking the women in books I love. Starhawk’s Maya and Madrone. Bujold’s Ista. McCaffrey’s Moretta. Odd heros, maybe, but today I want to be them.
[14 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
I gesture wildly so my mother can spot me, pressed up against the upstairs window of the train. We throw kisses, wave like little kids, not stopping until the train pulls away. After, a pool of sadness sits in me, and the image of her small waving form on the platform.
[13 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
No Holds Barred 