The Vulnerability of Now
Originally Published July 28th, 2020
Dear Friends,
First, what you will find in this email: 1) a meditation on the vulnerability of this moment and our battered creative spirits, 2) writing updates and good news, and 3) information on how to claim one of the remaining spots for the third session of Writing in the Dark: Survival Strategies for Creating in Uncertain Times, the remote writing workshop I have been teaching since April.
Last things first, Writing in the Dark, because it is time sensitive and because this accessible, sliding-fee scale workshop has been a lifeline for me and for many other writers. This workshop is not specifically about writing pandemic-related pieces or discussing social justice (although both of those things can happen). Rather, it is a place to intentionally celebrate the astonishing capacity of language, the healing power of close observation, and the immense force that attention can play in our writing and in our lives. It is a place to reclaim creativity by coming back to the source. We read and discuss outstanding very short work (flash, poetry, excerpts), we write and we share, and, most of all, we hold a space for creative spirit to flourish as we honor and test words for what they can do when we simultaneously take them seriously and allow ourselves to play with them, like stones on a beach. Although publication is not the ostensible goal, several writers have published work generated in this course. Writing in the Dark is now entering its third section (response has been amazing), and there are six spots left. Please let me know if you would like more information or want to sign up.
First things second, the vulnerability of now. I experienced yesterday, holding our newborn grandson, a moment of grace emerging from a gentle surrender. After spending this day with our sweet granddaughter, then holding her tiny newborn brother again and feeling his breath against my chest, that little ah-ha-ha-ha that newborns do as they transition from light sleep to deep, it came to me again: gentle, gentle, all around, in every way. This pandemic is a heavy cloak of grief. None of us are at our best. We are like dogs in a thunderstorm, except there is no table to hide under, no couch to crawl behind, no blankets to pull over our heads. There is only the next thing in front of us, still needing to be done, needing to be done right now, even while we are wearing this straight jacket of sadness. Covid permeates daily life with fear, stress, distress, and heartache for everyone in myriad ways, both shared and particular. The mere fact that touching is scary threatens what our bodies understand as survival. We are mammals. Our skin needs skin. The mere fact that breath might be deadly undercuts the biological truths we have carried in our bones through millennia. Money is only money, but money is how we live. Pay cuts, furloughs, and job loss. Loss upon loss upon loss. Lost celebrations, lost milestones, lost plans. Lost lives, so many. The weight of knowing, or, actually, not knowing, how interminably long it is going to take to repair all of this--if and when the virus is finally contained. We only know it will be a long, long time, and the horizon of some other, better reality grows more distant every day. This is a time of grieving the world as we knew it only a few short months ago, except there is no funeral, no memorial, no gathering hand in hand to honor what we loved and lost. On top of all this, fear of an upcoming election that could, if things go wrong, destroy the planet. All this to say, I'm not at my best. None of us are. And that's okay. Right now, our best is not our actual best, our old best, but it is still our best, our new scratch-and-dent best. I am trying to look on everyone around me with as much understanding and compassion as I possibly can. I want to look on myself that way, too, which is harder. But the deeper into this we sink, the more imperative it feels to embrace gentle surrender to the brokenness of this time, and the accommodations it demands in any given moment. To me, gentleness does not mean always being capable of a gentle demeanor. No one meets that standard. To me, gentleness means allowing space for a lot of imperfection and benefit of the doubt all around. That's my wish for all of us today, that we can extend that kind of gentleness not only to the people in our lives, but also to ourselves. That we can make room for the fleeting grace of a desperately needed ah-ha-ha-ha. (A video reading of this meditation will be shared on an upcoming session of Kai Coggins’s Wednesday Night Poetry Virtual Open Mic, and I will let you know when that goes up.)
Second things third, writing updates! I just learned that an expanded version of my essay, Overview Effect, created for a Poets and Writers Against the War on Earth event last January, will appear in Tupelo Quarterly’s spring issue. Meanwhile, I completed final revisions on my memoir manuscript, so now it’s just editing (!!), and the cover art is nearly ready to unveil! Sparks of happiness during this sad, scary time are hard to reconcile, hard to fully experience, but, even still, these moments, too, are real. I am trying to learn how to make room to feel them, and I hope you can make room to feel whatever small bursts of joy occur in your life, too.
Finally, as this pandemic settles in to stay for a while, and the grief settles with it, I am more keenly aware than ever of my gratitude for my writing community, especially my students. You are a light in my world, and I appreciate you more than you can know.
With so much love,
Jeannine
