“Today, my small child, Joyce,
love your self’s self where it lives.”
                -Anne Sexton, “The Double Image”

                Sometimes my self’s self lives in melancholy. Sometimes it lives in colors: the walnut stain on my hand, the water stain on a tree trunk, the changing oil stains when it rains. Sometimes it lives in dense, difficult texts, the kind you crawl through like a spelunker, trusting your light and getting your whole self muddy, and sometimes I feel claustrophobic inside those close pages. Sometimes my self’s self lives with people. I look up and I’m overjoyed, wonderstruck, giggly at the thought of talking, laughing, sharing. Sometimes it lives alone in the quiet of rooms I don’t know how to open up for others. Sometimes I live in the sweet of ice cream, and sometimes in the sizzle of oil and onions.
                Over the years, I’ve gotten mad at my self’s self for living where it does. I’ve pointed out other impressive homes that it should move to; I’ve watched the neighbors, and asked my self’s self why it doesn’t have her easy smile or his dancer’s grace. I’ve thought that my self’s self would only grow when I questioned it, when I demanded answers from it, when I stuck it with pins and measured its responses and gave it a workout routine. There’s a lot of work I want to do in the world, but reading Anne Sexton, I think one of the hands that lets us reach from ourselves to the world is love. Or maybe, more clearly, it’s love that lets us plant ourselves in the world.
                Imagine this: you walk home, with a breath or a smile or a meditation, and find your self’s self building something on the porch. You walk home, and find your self’s self crying in the grass. You walk home, and find your self’s self lost looking at the stars. And wherever it is, wherever it wakes up, you love your self’s self where it lives. Imagine that.

                “I thought, This will be a comfort. It will remind me of my friends and I’ll be able to make some connection between the past and the present.”
                -Wendy Wasserstein, Uncommon Women and Others

                In some ways, I feel like the same person I’ve always been. I’m not quite thirty (not yet!), but in other ways, those past selves seem far away.
                I remember being in India. I remember the cave in Cave Rock, a dark gap that was actually a tunnel that we could crawl through, sliding our hands through the dust. I remember another rock on top of the hill, like a stone boat on top of a stone wave, with overhung sides tall enough that I could only climb up with someone’s help. And by making a pile of rocks to use as a step ladder, I think. I’m not sure. I remember the faces–the friends, and I think they are still friends, though I haven’t talked to them in years. That would have been in early 2012. The memory fades.
                I remember playing with legos on the floor in my room. I remember shapes I used to make–if you start with only the square pieces, and connect them diagonally to each other, using only two opposite corners, you can make a solid surface that bends back and forth. You can make a circular tower. I remember the pattern, and the feel of it in my hand. At least, I remember remembering.
                I remember the sprig of ivy that found its way through our wall in Santa Rosa, California, like one of Bacchus’ mischievous smiles, there in our living room.
                I remember a very, very tall tree–the picture in my mind looks a bit like an oak–in Windsor, California. A firetruck came. Someone’s parakeet had landed in the top of the tree and wouldn’t come down. I’m not sure how much of that image I’ve constructed since then, while hearing someone else tell the story.
                I remember a person who climbed rocks, and a boy who built legos, and a child who stood, watching the tree.
                Do I string myself onto one line, like beads on a necklace, and call that me? What about when the beads seem to catch the light in different ways? What about when they roll apart? When you look back, are you one person, living through time–or are you solid surface built from many pieces, bending back and forth, or birds landing and flying from a tree? Are you a tall hill, with children climbing around you? What do you do with your present and all your pasts?

                “Do you ever think that what makes you a person is also what keeps you from being a person?” -Wendy Wasserstein, The Heidi Chronicles
                “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when?” -Rabbi Hillel

                I think one path won’t lead you all the way through the forest. There are different paths, and different ways of walking them; follow the setting sun, but not forever. Swim the lake, but then climb out and warm yourself on the stones. Close your eyes and follow the taste of the air–until it’s time to see again.
                To be a person you need to believe in your own heart, your own mind, your own life. If you don’t, you won’t value yourself talents enough to hone them; if you don’t, you won’t value yourself enough to care of yourself. If you don’t, you won’t be able to help, because you won’t think of yourself as the kind of person who could help. We start by believing in our own worth–we start by being for ourselves–but if we’re only that, what are we? We’re lost, I think. “Sad” isn’t strong enough–we’re forlorn. We’re smaller than we should have been, cut off from what we should be a part of.
                These days I hear people say “you do you.” It’s a good idea–or at least, the beginning of a good idea. As a teacher, I see students who’ve forgotten how to make a mistake, who don’t remember that they’re curious. I tell them to learn for themselves. I tell them to follow their hearts into whatever questions and dreams they see. I think that’s an important path, and it takes us into the woods. But if I want to come out of the woods–if I want to have what I am become something more than just what I am–I need to find a different path once I’ve begun. I need to find something that goes beyond me.
                It’s like inhaling and exhaling: unless you’re doing both, you’re not breathing. We look at ourselves to see what gifts we have, to see what we can share with the world. We look at the world to see where our gifts are needed. The next time I forget that, I’ll try holding my breath until I realize that just inhaling won’t get me very far.

                “Pessimism is an emotion, not a philosophy.” -Immortal Technique, “Mistakes With Lyrics”

                Sometimes I feel pretty discouraged about it all. My work, the world–the possibility that my work could help the world. I get in these rational tailspins where I explain to my friends, intensely, that I just can’t do enough to make it matter. Over the last year, I’ve noticed that when I’m in one of those spirals, I really want the other person to somehow disprove what I’m saying. I want someone to point out my logical mistakes. Of course, in that mood I’m also an arguer, so once I pick the point I’m defending I want to sink in my canines and just hold on. I’m not quite as determined as the dogs you play tug-o-war with, but it’s close. I want someone to pull me out of it, but as I growl and argue and argue, I usually just go deeper.
                When I’m stuck in that place, I understand what I’m doing as ‘explaining the truth.’ I pretend I’m pulling back the pretty picture of all my illusions, and seeing things how things really are. Really I’m just hurting. I’m just sad, and confused. A week ago, I would have said that “pessimism” meant seeing the worst parts of things. I would have said it was something like a philosophical perspective. I would’ve been wrong. Pessimism, for me, is a gasp of pain, and I don’t want to follow that gasp into an approach to life.
                If you follow the word back, pessimism comes from ped-, meaning “foot.” (The meaning probably evolved from “lowest;” I don’t mean to get all pedagogical with you fellow terrestrial pedestrians, but our habit of demeaning what is ‘earthly,’ what is ‘low,’ is itself pretty weird.)  Despite what I’ve told myself, pessimism is not a rational conclusion; it’s the rationalization I fumble towards when I’m feeling hopeless or hurt. It’s an emotion, not a philosophy. Sometimes it might be where I’m standing, it might be the soreness of my feet or the thorn bush beneath them, but it’s not me, it’s not a way to walk, and it’s not where I’m headed. As soon as I find my way back to philosophy–to love of wisdom, or love of anything else–I recognize pessimism as just one of the plants in my garden, and I stop trying to read the future in its leaves.

                “Americans seem to be obsessed with exercising, doing mental puzzles, consuming various juice and protein concoctions, sticking to strict diets, and popping vitamins and supplements, all in a valiant effort to cheat death and prolong life as long as possible. This has become so pervasive that it now defines a cultural type: what I call the American immortal.” -Ezekiel J. Emanuel, “Why I Hope To Die At 75”

                “Get over it!” -The Eagles

                I’m going to end up bald. My uncle’s been promising it for years: before his sons and I hit our teens, he started taking off his hat, presenting us with the reflective cue ball of his head, and announcing, “It’s coming for you!” It hasn’t come yet, but it will. The forest–that’s self aggrandizing; the shrubbery?–is definitely getting thinner. A few months ago, someone started suggesting treatments that would “let me keep my hair.” I listened. I didn’t know what to say.
                Here’s another one. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a spot of white hair on the side of my head. The hairs there are thinner and crinklier. To be honest, I’ve always kind of liked them. They’re there. They’re mine. Five years ago a friend said, “You know, a spot of mascara could cover that up.” My friend wanted the best for me. I appreciate that. In his mind the best involved mascara, but I had never even considered covering up the little spot.
                I don’t have anything against people who are trying to “keep their hair.” That’s their choice, and they should make it. But culturally, I do have something against the American Immortal. I have something against my shampoo which promises an “anti-aging formula” and the ads which question whether my skin is strong enough. I don’t think that Azlan, that this bit of functioning stuff, needs to go on for almost-forever, and I don’t think I need to be handsome and flawless for all that time. Don’t get me wrong, I want to connect and help while I’m here. But 2058 doesn’t need a toned, tanned, dark haired me in it. If our culture talked less about preventing balding, and more about how, yeah, you’ll go bald, you’ll age, and that’s okay, then I think we’d learn to be more accepting. I think we’d learn to walk more gently across the earth, and to participate more kindly in our communities. Maybe we wouldn’t be so mean. Maybe we wouldn’t be so self centered, so scared, so desperate. I’ll go bald, and in the mean time, my life doesn’t need to be about how handsome and young I’ll always be. It can be about ants on a fallen log. It can be about the trees. It can be about the kids playing outside my window.
                The next time I look in the mirror, and feel sad because I’m balding or aging or just generally falling apart, I’m going to pick up my soap like a mic and let the Eagles remind me: get over it.
                Then there’s the electric guitar.
                RINNNRRRRR.

-“Summer Resort,” by avogado6

                I often start my English classes by asking us to look at some contemporary artist’s work, and talk about what we see. It’s a nice door into thinking about themes, metaphors, and symbolism, and it helps us start out by exploring instead of deciding. That’s why I found avogado6 this fall.
                I know people who spend all five weekdays miserable, and then go crazy on the weekend. I know other people just counting down the days until they can go to a “summer resort,” go on vacation, get away from here and all their usual patterns. I think it’s important to take time to reconnect and rejuvenate, but when our relaxation is a refrigerator’s freezer in the middle of a desert, I think we’re in trouble.
                That little refrigerator is going to run out of energy. It’s spilling its guts out, and you can see everything it has to give disappearing in little wisps on the wind. Holding the door open so you can breath in winter isn’t just inefficient, it’s destroying the thing you’re after. It’s cutting down the tree so you can reach the first ripe fruit of the season. It must be possible to recharge ourselves in other ways. Besides, putting your head in a box doesn’t change what’s around you. It must be possible to make a society that isn’t a desert–socially, politically, economically–for so many people; and in whatever ways the heat and sand are inevitable, it must be possible to build a civilization that thrives within them. The answer to misery isn’t one day of insanity. The answer to inequality and existential angst isn’t a weekend in a four star hotel.
                I’m going to watch myself for the moments when I stick my head in the freezer. I’m going to keep my eye out, and watch for paths that lead beyond the dunes, or else for places where we could live open-eyed in the desert. I think we can live, not only in the few nice (expensive, walled off, pampered, sunscreened) moments of a summer resort, but in the quiet, meaningful, working moments of every day.

                “The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind.”
                -David W. Orr, Earth In Mind: On Education, Environment, and the Human Prospect (1994)

                I think we all navigate by the stars in our sky. These stars give us a way to chart our course, to decide where we are and where we’re going. Steer towards knowledge. Steer towards money. Steer towards love.  These stars give us a way to understand our actions. Pushing around two chunks of melted, refrozen rock-stuff doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but “health” and “shallow self love” might both lead towards lifting weights. I don’t know if it’s possible to live without stars, without looking up to check your progress against some set of goals and values–I suspect it is, and I’d like to think about that–but as long as I’m doing this kind of celestial navigation, I should be careful about the lights I steer by.
                Growing up in America, I kept seeing people point out “success” as the most important guide. Were you succeeding?  That’s how you knew when you were doing terribly–or, sometimes, when you were doing well. The thing is, if I go out on a clear night and look up at the sky, I’m not at all sure that “success” is my favorite star. In college, I spent some months living by friendship. I gauged my days by how much time I’d spent with the people I loved. I liked that.
                These days, as I watch my students, I’m reminded again and again how we point out these constellations for each other. Young people pick their stars, but they usually pick the ones that other people seem to talk about. It’s easy to do that, and it’s hard to leave the talked-about ones behind.  When I try to go ahead as a peacemaker, I sometimes find myself wondering why I feel like a failure. In that moment, Orr walks by, and asks, “Well–has your ship gotten off course, or did you choose another star to steer by?”
                I’d rather be a lover of any kind, I think, than a success. And I wonder: if you’re honest, if you’re brave, if you go outside on a clear night and look at all those stars, what do you want to be?

                “We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is: ‘Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won’t say anything. Just leave us alone.’
                Well, I’m not gonna leave you alone.”
                -An honest TV commentator speaking to his frightened country in Network

                “You may say I’m a dreamer  / But I’m not the only one.” -John Lennon, “Imagine”

                When we’re disappointed, when we’re scared, it’s easy to retreat to smaller goals. If a country (our country) can’t be just, we’ll just make ourselves safe, and call that good enough. If I can’t make good friends and close connections, I’ll just keep myself entertained. If the world is going crazy, if it’s getting smaller, just let me have my toaster, just leave me alone and that will be enough.
                In January I was accepted to a graduate program. In June I gave up my spot because I didn’t get the funding I needed. The graduate program had been a big dream, an expansive leap, a hope; as the door closed, I felt myself retreating. I found myself settling for smaller goals, for weaker hopes, for caffeine and sugar and entertainment instead of fire and water and love. I played video games. I stayed alone in my room. I told myself it was comfortable, and it was okay.
                I’m letting that go, now. Everything calls to you when you listen. It’s not going to leave you alone. That’s a good thing. I think we need the world to shout at us every now and then. That reminds us to shout back. That reminds us that the world isn’t as small as we’ve been pretending. There is more to it than the room we picked when we were frightened, when we were discouraged; there is more to it than the ‘safety’ of a closed heart. I’m afraid, but I’m not only afraid. You don’t need to leave me alone. There are dreams and there are dreamers, and we don’t need to give them up. If you weren’t holding onto your toaster, if you knew you weren’t the only one–what would you hope for? What would you do? What would you dream?

                “The word ‘weird’ descends from the old English wyrd, by way of the Old Norse urðr, meaning fate.”
                […]
                “I am not inclined to elect you arbiter of normal.” -Mishell Baker, Borderline

                A fantasy/crime novel that, on its way to a stakeout, stops to talk about the etymology of “weird”? Cupid has his arrows, and this one’s for me. Here’s a word, slipping along through time and changing as it goes. As a self-respecting sleuth, how could you not follow it? What will you find if you follow along in its tracks?
                The transition Baker describes from “fate” to “strange, different, otherworldly, unusual” comes with the “weird sisters,” the German interpretation of the three Greek fates, who originally did a whole lot of weaving and later did witchy dances in Macbeth. Here’s another: the Latin word “arbiter” is used to describe a witness or judge, but it’s root, baetere, means ‘to come, go.’ An arbiter is someone who travels out to hear and decide a case. One more: ‘normal’ is from the Latin norma, meaning ‘carpenter’s square’ and therefore, more generally, the usual pattern or the rule to be followed.
                I like those three words. I like them even more together, lit by the changing lights of their history. Maybe you have to go (baetere) and see what’s really happening in order to settle a dispute or set a rule; or to put it another way, maybe the norms we set–our normals–are about the places we go, in the world, in our community, in ourselves. Maybe your rule (norma) is about the tools you’ve made for building, the patterns you’ve learned to recognize–but things don’t always fit in the right angles we hold up to the world, and there are different tools, different patterns, different paths to pick up. And the forces that govern our journey, that draw us this way and that, tying us to each other and to the world, they’re not always what we would expect. They’re wyrd.

                “His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself.”
                -J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, published 1955.

                The last two years have been hard for me. I’ve been sad a lot, frustrated a lot, lost a lot. I’ve been hurt by all the hurt I see around me, by the injustice and the cruelty and the thoughtless ambition. No matter how much I try to do, I don’t seem to help very much toward a place with more peace and compassion.
                And then there’s Sam in The Lord of the Rings. I don’t think I’m very much like Sam. I’m not as wonderfully short, I’m not as good a cook, I’m not as steady. But he tells me that the difference between hope and defiance is a difference in scope. Defiance is about setting your individual power against the injustice around you. It’s about Sam, walking towards the mountain where he might be able to burn away a big part of what threatens his world. Hope is about the stars and the grass and all the people he’s never met, before him, after him. Hope is about the wideness that goes beyond our world.
                I think defiance is important. I haven’t done enough, but in the last years, I’ve tried to educate myself, write to senators, attend marches. I’ve tried to add my little push to the side of justice. We need to keep doing that. But we need Sam’s hope, too. I learned recently about the vaquita, the rarest marine mammal in the world, and the scientists who’ve spent their lives trying to keep it from going extinct. It’s going extinct anyway. Their act of defiance might have failed, but whatever happens, their love for vaquitas existed. So did the vaquitas themselves. There is all the depth of history, all the wonder of uncounted species and a planet and a future that includes splashed light, love, and far stars. I–we–are a little, little part of all that. Look up. Look around. Look in. That’s why there’s hope.