Thinking this morning of how good it is to be with other creators … longing still for a collaborator … but also trying to give myself permission to write and explore. Writing once or twice a week on a project, carving out time. Holding it close, going slow but steady, having faith.
Marveling at the crookneck squash plant in my humble garden – how it keeps putting out flowers but nary a squash as of yet. Wondering what’s up with that? Why don’t the flowers turn into little yellow veg?
Thinking of all of the places I want to go and soon! LA, Yosemite, always the northern Cali coast, Kripalu, Costa Rica, the Tetons. Scouring maps. Dreaming forward.
Hugging Tobey after a week at camp, so glad to still be able to bend down and smell his hair, pull him to me. Hearing about his bunkmates – the kid who was “mildly racist” and the other who just swore all week, sometimes repeating a single profanity over and over as though the thrill to say it was worth any reprimand he might receive from the college-age counselors. Tobey rolling his eyes at this, and yet my heart breaking a little at the reality of these kids and their lives. Thinking of the not one, not two, but three pro-gun t-shirts I saw on different passersby in downtown Iowa City this week.
Smiling at the biker-writers-photographers, the Type Rider II team of Maya Stein, Amy Tingle, Stef Renee and Maude, who just left after helping us throw a word party on the lawn of the Obermann Center. Thankful to live and work in a place where people gather to type and have words calligraphed on their limbs (“beauty,” “details,” “silly sausage,” “phoenix”) and perform poetry and mini-act plays. It was a dainty party but heartfelt – just right. As Teresa always says, the people who came were the ones who were meant to be there.
Convening in our living room, sharing projects. Finding friends in common despite living on separate coasts and in this in-between place. How alike we are when we stay in our little ponds of creative liberals; how connected. Thinking of a friend’s story from early this week of his company trying to start a project with a so-called gangster gardener who ended the meeting by ask-demanding, “So, are we gonna fuck?” and how unprepared the creative liberals were to answer him. How important it is for us to leave our ponds, but how startling it can be.
Laughing at the read-aloud porch party later in the evening – a group of friends taking turns reading Twelfth Night. I was Maria, the tart maid; Chris was the fool Feste: “‘Hold thy peace, thou knave,’ knight? I shall be constrained in’t to call thee knave, knight.” (Say that one three times fast!)
And now, doing laundry – the dirty clothes from camp, every napkin and kitchen towel in the house. Preparing to teach two yoga classes tonight. Considering the week and its options, as though studying a map and its possibility of directions, its contours and telltale hues. Holding the beginning of the school year at bay a bit longer. Wishing on the squash. Trusting in art. Holding out offerings for new projects and ideas yet to hatch.