One grief-stricken autumn a decade ago I hovered at my bedroom window like a ghost, glowering at the neighbors’ jack-o-lanterns.
How could they? I thought.
How could time?
Now the world is ending and the days are passing anyway. I do my little part to stop it, but the world is ending and someone’s stapling a LOST DOG flyer to a telephone pole. The world is ending and someone’s patient portal pings with more bad news. The world is ending and I’m reading scientific papers, trying new medications, watching good-bad movies, laughing with my friends.
All this feels unjust, as though if something terrible is happening, it should be the only thing. This perspective is both irrational and self-defeating, a way of doubling down on suffering. Still, I know I’m not the only one feeling battered by the tide of Life Goes On.
Amidst all this (and in part because of this), it is still hard, verging on impossible, for me to string together more than a few words. So I draw pictures. I re-read my favorite haiku and Hanif Abdurraqib’s “How Can Black People Write About Flowers at a Time Like This.”
A few weeks ago the world was ending and I had a doctor’s appointment. I arrived way too early, as always, and found myself sitting in my parked car, gazing over the steering wheel into a riotous mass of beach roses.
The world was ending, and I had nothing but time and flowers. And a notebook.
early for my appointment
the bushes flowering
with crumpled brochures
early for my appointment
the nurse fans her cigarette smoke
into the wild roses
early for my appointment
in the parking lot, an overgrowth
of thorn and bloom
small + spooky magic
Those of you who’ve been around for a while will have heard me say over and over that few things bring me as much joy and fulfillment as creative collaborations (teaching is up there, too). For the last few years, I’ve been working—playing, really—with painter Rebecca Chaperon on a number of spooky delights. Our latest little oddity is a FOG SAFETY brochure to accompany an eerie serial short story that Rebecca’s been mailing to her Patreon subscribers.
At a time when public health communications have become fraught, to say the least, it was especially meaningful for me to use my health writing skills for something unequivocally good.
Even more exciting things are in the works for the rest of this year; watch this space and/or check out Rebecca’s Patreon and Instagram for updates.
pride + joy
Another collaboration that’s been consistently bringing me joy is my sticker shop, Big Challenges.
and I are ardent believers in the healing power of laughing through the pain—not instead of feeling it, but at the same time. Or, you know, alternating.Building this tiny business with Elinor has been an even greater blessing than we anticipated, in part because it’s bringing us closer to our communities and people we already love and admire.
For example: Our summer/Pride collection debuted at York County Pride this year, thanks to the overwhelming generosity of
and Paintbox Soapworks. Seeing photos of happy Pride attendees holding things we created instantly made me burst into grateful tears.The world is ending, and the miracles continue.
The title of this post is borrowed from Joanna Newsom.
Thank you for staying alive with me. I am so, so glad you’re here.
At some point in the last few years, I set my "no, really, you have to get up Right Now, i'm not joking" alarm to play "Time, As a Symptom," which means that, many mornings, the first sound I hear is a mourning dove, followed by Joanna Newsom. I cannot recommend this tactic strongly enough.
The world is ending, I’m almost 71 years old, and there’s still music and my dog somehow, so I guess I’ll go on a little while longer. Thanks as always for sharing your thoughts and experience. If you don’t know how sustaining they are, now you do.