#280: A newsletter (re)appears on shaky grounds

"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." —Anais Nin

Hi there,

I return to this space and the familiar flow of thoughts and trepidations from my brain to the keys. But as I type this, after an unintentionally long gap while I dealt with some personal issues that have just been overwhelmingly real.

I’m acutely aware of how much vulnerability it takes for anyone to write, or show up, or make art, or write newsletters, and wear their hearts on their sleeves and actually share what’s going on, as cryptic or direct as they may choose to be.

I’m in awe of the healing power of words and hugs and softness in hard times.

I’m grateful for the people in my life, and for the journeys we are all leading, alone and together. No matter what pains and obstructions life hits us with. We keep getting up. Again and again. You with me?

---

Poems that helped

René Groebli’s The Eye of Love (London, 1954) | via

1. And Now You Want to Know If There Is Anything Good to Say about Getting Older by Judith Viorst
   We aren't as self-centered as we used to be.
   We're not as self-pitying--or as just plain dumb.
   Middle age has come, and we find
   (Along with the inability to sleep all night without
       a trip to the bathroom)
   A few compensations.
   
   We aren't as uncertain as we used to be.
   We've learned to tell the real from the tinsel and fluff.
   Getting old is tough, but we find
   (Along with the inability to shave our legs unless
       we're wearing our glasses)
   A frew compensations.
   
   We aren't as compliant as we used to be.
   We choose our own oufits and musts and got-to's and shoulds.
   We're deep into the woods, yet we find
   (Along with the inability to eat a pepperoni pizza at
       bedtime)
   A few compensations.
   
   We aren't as judgmental as we used to be.
   We're quicker to laugh, and not as eager to blame.
   There's time left in this game. May we find
   (Along with the inability to tell ourselves that
       we'll keep playing forever)
   A frew compensations.

2. I Am An Older Poet Now by Andrea Potos
   More and more with my open notebook
   and my coffee in one hand,
   I pause, gaze at the air,
   growing toward laziness or serenity,
   thoughts unrolling
   always returning
   to my mother, gone to the invisible
   these two years now.  At 85, she told me
   with lit eyes, the most precious moment
   of her day was when she sat on her blue couch
   each morning, by her oval coffee table,
   holding the silver-rimmed cup I gave her, black
   Folgers warming the tissue-soft skin of her hands.
   She would sit, breathing in the contentment of
   the hour, happy for her solitude, to do nothing,
   interval of coffee and stillness. How honored
   I would be to become her.

3. Mourning by Akwaeke Emezi 
   i only know the softness
   that is cherished before
   the small violences set in

4. Potato Soup by Daniel Nyikos
   I set up my computer and webcam in the kitchen
   so I can ask my mother’s and aunt’s advice
   as I cook soup for the first time alone.
   My mother is in Utah. My aunt is in Hungary.
   I show the onions to my mother with the webcam.
   “Cut them smaller,” she advises.
   “You only need a taste.”
   I chop potatoes as the onions fry in my pan.
   When I say I have no paprika to add to the broth,
   they argue whether it can be called potato soup.
   My mother says it will be white potato soup,
   my aunt says potato soup must be red.
   When I add sliced peppers, I ask many times
   if I should put the water in now,
   but they both say to wait until I add the potatoes.
   I add Polish sausage because I can’t find Hungarian,
   and I cook it so long the potatoes fall apart.
   “You’ve made stew,” my mother says
   when I hold up the whole pot to the camera.
   They laugh and say I must get married soon.
   I turn off the computer and eat alone.

5. The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write by Gregory Orr

   Will contain an invention for turning ants' tears
   Into hummingbird wings. It will hold every
   Elegy the night sky ever wrote for the moon.
   It will reveal the answer to the question "Yes."
   
   It will feature a rosebush that grew naturally
   Into the shape of a woman, a man, and a dog.
   It will contain all our sorrow and some of our joy.
   
   It will exhibit glass slippers worn by the last queen of mice
   And also the invisible cathedral built on the spot where we met.
   It will display a tree whose leaves change color
   With the weather, turning bright blue at forty degrees.
   
   It will contain a replica of the ice ship that sails
   Through dreams, searching for survivors.
   It will contain all our joy and some of our sorrow.

---

A collection of things

• Maira Kalman: Thinking and Feeling (THNKR)

• My Tumblr feed is like my own little museum. (Tumblr)

• Every Page of This Book Is a Slice of Cheese (Atlas Obscura)

• A Day With Chef Elena Reygadas (Bon Appetit)

• Kierkegaard on How to Save Yourself

  

• Oh, David Lynch (Tumblr) ^

• Jason Polan’s Taco Bell Drawing Club (ZEEGISBREATHING)

• Anthropomorphic Japan - The Frogs (50 Watts’s new book with vintage illustrations + collages by Samplerman)

• Eliza Telfer’s floral scrapbook from1868 in Dunoon, Scotland (Paper of the Past)

• This Are.na collection of Manifestos (Are.na)

“I am my own experiment. I am my own work of art.”
-Madonna

Wishing you a gentle rest of the month ahead.

Stay cozy and safe,
Rohini