The pies were store bought
...and I need some oomph, what are you reading these days?
Friends. In the past month I had all four of my late-erupting wisdom teeth extracted, and I started a new job. Here in the South, someone might say to me, “bless your heart,” and actually mean it. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt quite so ridiculous with gauze stuffed in my mouth and ice strapped to swollen jaws as I tried to explain what kind of ice cream I wanted. This really was supposed to happen when I was a teenager and didn’t notice the indignity of it all.
I wouldn’t recommend this sequence of events, but the timing couldn’t really be helped. The job is lovely, and my bothersome wisdom teeth are bothersome no more. But I haven’t written as much as I should/wanted/hoped. I feel rusty and a little lackluster.
When I’m not putting pen to paper, I am making note of the things that feel intriguing enough to want to explore on the page.
I’ll share a couple rough ideas here:
The Cat. We recently adopted a stray kitten. I’ve never owned, or rather, been owned by, a cat before. So, living with a small creature that is so hell-bent on hunting everything that moves—fingers and toes, his own tail, shadows on the wall—is new to me. As we’re showing him how to “behave” (mostly unsuccessfully) it strikes me that I’m trying to snuff out, or at least soften, his primal instincts, his true nature. Which is, to be a predator. It’s bringing up a lot in me around domestication and curiosity about the ways and why’s behind we humans suppressing the primal. What it gives us. What we lose.
The Waldorf Salad. I found an old, handwritten menu my mother had written out for hosting Thanksgiving dinner. I know the list contained some of the foods common for our family’s celebratory meals, the “fancy” stuff. I never ate Waldorf Salad as a kid. I think the combination of creamy fruit and nuts was more than I could reasonably be asked to enjoy. I posted about the menu on Facebook, and a friend of mine, also a southerner, exclaimed that her family ate many of the same foods on the holidays. It made me wonder about how Waldorf Salad particularly became a thing for our families and what it said about who we were, who we wanted to be.
The Day of Gratitude, Mourning (and all things in between)
On Thanksgiving, tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains, on the ancestral lands of the Cherokee (Ani-Yunwiya), where the Eastern Band of Cherokee still remain.
The pies were store bought.
There was a smear of poop on the ruffled white shower curtain.
I wrote a land acknowledgment for my new employer, East Fork Pottery, knowing that isn’t enough, but it’s a place to begin…a dialogue, maybe some partnerships, or at least, in spreading some awareness.
Personally, I read more about the Sioux chef. And the Indigenous Walls Project here in Asheville.
Our plans to see family went topsy-turvy, and there was a Covid scare. We sniffled. I wiped up a lot of snot.
I poured my first glass of wine at 1pm, and did not feel any kind of way about it but good.
My feet still ached at the end of the day, even if I fulfilled my promise to myself to keep-it-simple.
I sensed my mother and more ancestors I can’t name, like a warm rush of wind across my back, on my ankles, brushing my neck. I missed her, even while I wished I’d felt better known by her when she was alive.
We ate by candlelight. We watched an episode of Adventure Time, a family favorite, for the second time. We probably teased each other more than strictly necessary.
The cat jumped on the counters, and I screeched and howled, and he just kept doing it until eventually I gave him a taste of turkey.
I went to bed, grateful.
I don’t know what to read, what are you reading?
Recently, the New York Times Books sentence of the day was from a novel (Witches) by Brenda Lozano:
“‘All women,’ she said, dropping the dead leaves into a small plastic bag, ‘are born with bit of bruja in them, for protection.’”
It’s actually not true that I don’t know what to read, but I feel generally a bit apathetic about reading at the moment. I can’t seem to finish a book. I have not even eyed any new releases. The sad, abandoned books on my nightstand, or scattered throughout my bedroom, are as follows:
Matrix, by Lauren Groff. It’s truly stunning, and I adore historical fiction that almost feels otherworldly.
Hamnet, by Maggie O’Farrell. More historical fiction that’s beautifully written.
The American Chestnut: An Environmental History, by Donald Edward Davis. The disappearance of the chestnut tree from eastern forests has both deeply fascinated and deeply saddened me for years.
All excellent books. And that sentence by Lozano reminded me that I want to return to them (and read her book as well), that I’m in need of calling on my own bruja to protect my rituals of nourishment and self-care. Part of which includes allowing myself the lavish time and pleasure of finishing a book all the way through.
Anybody have any books they want to call out?
Lastly, thanks for reading. Wishing you the presence of body, mind, and heart to experience all the joy you know how to hold. And then a little more.
Take Heart,
P.S. I contributed to a book called Bigger Than Bravery, where Latria Graham, Imani Perry, Kiese Laymon, Alice Walker, and many other amazing souls are among the featured voices. (I support you, supporting your local independent bookstore, but this link is to Amazon for ease of reference.)
