Humanity

Hello. I am a racist too.

Another unarmed black man was murdered by the police in America. I am not even sure that he was the only one that day, but this one, was filmed. Many people have actually watched a murder. A real, live, vital human being just suffocated in front of our eyes.

Its no good, saying, but I love black people. My brother is black, so I can’t be a racist. I love my black friends, so I can’t be a racist. I kiss my nephew’s face off every time I see him, so I am not a racist. I’m a good, smart person, so there is no way I can be a racist.

You know what a lie that is, right?

and how meaningless it is, if we’ve accepted a society that STILL has to be reminded that black lives actually matter?

the quiet complacency is literally killing black people in the street. and in their beds, their cars…

the fear and anger (from fear) that makes us white people say all these things:

i’m so ashamed to be white.(while doing nothing) but what about the good cops? i’m not like that though. its not all white people. but they must have DONE something to get police attention. why did they resist? they live like animals, no wonder they act like animals. the looting though, that just ruined the whole thing, made it about stealing, took away the whole dignity of protest. I wish they weren’t so ‘angry’. what about ALL lives matter? I’ve had a hard life, my whiteness hasn’t saved me from any hard things. they should just learn to be submissive to the police already.

enough.

white people, do more.

Book List for ‘you want to be anti-racist’ white people.

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Humanity

GREENWOMAN, undercover.

I am in a spot of bother, as Toad says in Wind in the Willows, at some point. I am. I’m having to learn this whole quarantine thing all over again, as a single woman/mom, starting at week 78. all this food that I keep having to make, the weekends that I sit alone in my living room, the lonely lonely lonely. I fucking lost my shit because my kid threw a green bean at me. I almost cried. Laughing would have been way better. But I’m frazzled.

guys, I can’t handle tv anymore. its the most depressing and deeply sad thing ever. and yet, at 8 pm at night, there is nowhere else I can be, nothing I can concentrate on.

and I hate my phone. madly. and it never leaves my side. and I think I have carpal tunnel from it.

I went for a walk this morning, a short one, because I was going to do an online yoga class. its happening right now, i’m not doing it. its too much social pressure because they might see me, and i’m not fit, and they might see me.

yoga teachers are SOOO judgey.

i’m having microwave popcorn for breakfast.

I planted cucumbers this morning, and watered everything, and put the eggs out by the road for unsuspecting shoppers. Its 4 minutes before 9. did I mention that I took a walk? before 6 am? because I need to make this day longer?

I read an excellent book. And herein lies the GreenMan reference. And I’m not sure I have the werewithal to write it up with the sincerity it deserves.

Lanny, by Max Porter. Lanny is the little boy of an artist’s green dream. (I say). Weirdly charming, full of the world of mystery, magic and growth. witness to the beauty of the world. curious. birds eggs, northern lights, bowers, toad stools, charcoal smudges. illuminated.

and its about him. and you have to read to the end, because of what you hold dear, you have to.

as a friend said, notice what you value, and love that you love that. be consoled.

I love it too.

sigh. more hours to fill now.

-hang tight.

uwmf

Love on a Walk Unwifedmotherexpletive

Divorce, Humanity

Right Here.

right here.

I think I wrote about this ages ago, when my dad died. BUT that was another lifetime ago, and I just tried to go look it up and find where it was,  and reading that stuff was too hard, and too foreign. The lifetimes having slipped far away down that river.

when my dad died, I was wrecked. Not only was his heart attack in my backyard, and my now former husband was giving chest compressions that kept him alive long enough for all his kids to get there to see a living body…  but the suddenness of the loss and the incontrovertible NO, HE WILL NOT MAKE IT. . . there it was, there it all was.

I found my mind racing and racing and racing, and I couldn’t get back to where I needed to be to function as myself and as the mother and householdrunner that I needed and wanted to be. it was memory, and memory and more memory world-shift and fear and grief welling and complete detachment from the people I was sharing a house with.

and oh, the racing. the fucking racing of my mind. pinging from wall to wall. a highspeed badnews montage, looped.

Quickly after the death, I drew a hand and wrote ‘RIGHT HERE’ and I don’t know if someone suggested it to me or if the HUBSJatthetime suggested it, but I hung it on the cabinet door next to the stove. I saw it multiple times a day.  and I physically put my hand in front of my face multiple other times per day. I smelled my skin. I closed my eyes.

Here I am. Here is my skin. This is all that there is, RIGHT HERE.

the circles are small. the physical space I am is all that there is. when the quakers say ‘center down’, this is how I feel, all the energies bringing me back to the RIGHT HERE.

I kept it up there during the long and painful divorcing process. Really helped when I put out the wrong number of plates, or when all I could hear was his disapproval, even after he was gone.

Somehow the hand fell off the cabinet, or I replaced it with another missive. Its been quite a few years now.

And, this week, I noticed it moving from place to place in the kitchen, showing itself in my new time of need. In this new sadness that is so familiar.

so, i’m going to put it back up. because…

HERE I AM. HERE IS MY VERY OWN SKIN. BLESS WHAT IS RIGHT HERE.

 

Right HERE hand Unwifedmotherexpletive

Humanity

Misses (our lists are long)

I miss being able to go to a diner and have someone pour me questionable coffee in a white ceramic mug that I want to steal, each time.

I miss smiling at people with my whole face at the grocery store.

I miss putting my hands on my mother.

I miss LM, but I think its still right, because I missed myself, too, and hadn’t realized the depths to which I had gone missing, again…

I miss not feeling sad sometime each day.

I miss not worrying about the health of my kids, in a death-fixation way.

I miss browsing tangible things, and buying something I can’t assess from a practicality perspective.

I miss being lazy about food.

I miss school busses.

I miss editing and proofreading other people’s stuff. in quietude. in a timely fashion. without interruption.

I miss being able to not go to a yoga class when the kids are away. I miss the choices I didn’t make.

I miss the potential of meetings, to offer more choices in writing, in expansion of subjects, in simple conversations.

I miss coffee rolls.

I miss spontaneous visits.

I miss opening the door to let someone into the kitchen.

The world is going to be different, for quite a while. and I miss the old one, with all its problems, because at least I knew it.  Now I’m missing something I don’t even know. and that gets complicated, this not-knowing of the world.

peace be with you,

uwmfHouseplants Unwifed MotherExpletive