Thirty things

Notes from the ashes

1

I am new again, though still recognizable — which is to say, something else entirely. Like a snake shedding old skin. Like the ship of Theseus.

2

While writing my last post, the phrase semper femina — borrowed from Laura Marling who reclaimed it from Virgil — kept ringing in my head. In renewing what was once Eat Well, Take Care, moving towards the mystery and mutability of being a woman seemed like the natural direction of its evolution.

3

This month, I enter the second half of my twenties. Flow, chaos, and adaptability had been the defining values of the last five years. Instinct tells me strength is the focus of my next phase. Fortitude in mind, body, and spirit. An impervious sense of self. Conviction in the strides I make moving forward.

4

Still on strength: weightlifting is one of the best decisions I have made for myself.

5

I often wish my voice sounded differently, lovelier, but singing very, very badly by myself in the car is surprisingly liberating.

6-10

These are some of the women whose voices have been keeping me company lately.

11

Still on voices: “Immersion” by Denise Levertov

There is anger abroad in the world, a numb thunder,
because of God’s silence. But how naïve,
to keep wanting words we could speak ourselves,
English, Urdu, Tagalog, the French of Tours,
the French of Haiti…
Yes, that was one way omnipotence chose
to address us—Hebrew, Aramaic, or whatever the patriarchs
chose in their turn to call what they heard. Moses
demanded the word, spoken and written. But perfect freedom
assured other ways of speech. God is surely
patiently trying to immerse us in a different language,
events of grace, horrifying scrolls of history
and the unearned retrieval of blessings lost for ever,
the poor grass returning after drought, timid, persistent.
God’s abstention is only from human dialects. The holy voice
utters its woe and glory in myriad musics, in signs and portents.
Our own words are for us to speak, a way to ask and to answer.

12

The truth is, wine has no place in human health — but it does in the kind of life I want to have. I keep a small place for it in appreciation of its artistry, the tender pleasure it brings, the story it tells me of the place that reared it. I find worthwhile beauty in a good bottle (though I haven’t had a remarkable one in a long time).

13

Existence isn’t always beautiful.

14

Restless as always, I have started planting the seeds for new endeavors — another shift, a new project, a distant dream. To stand at the beginning of what I know is a long journey is daunting. Worse, thinking about it too much may keep my feet from moving in the first place. I remind myself to not look too far ahead, just as Elrond advised the Fellowship.

15

Ironically, my recent interest in Christian theology came from works of fantasy: Paradise Lost, His Dark Materials, and Lord of the Rings. Last night, Michael and I watched this short video on Frodo’s failure and the grace of Providence:

16

I still wish there were more women in Lord of the Rings.

17

I feel the most wealthy having an unhurried breakfast on the weekend with Michael: brewing fresh coffee in our own house, the smell of toasted sourdough in the air, morning sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window, the promise of an entire day ahead of us.

18-22

Some of the best meals in the last few weeks: seared halibut from Otto’s, butter cauliflower, homemade pesto alla genovese, lemon butter pasta with salmon and asparagus, thali with paneer tikka masala, chana masala, daal, turmeric rice, naan, and gulab jamun from Curry Up Now

23

I frequently get the urge to buy colorful, glittery eyeshadow palettes thinking, this is it — if I had this, I will finally learn how to be good at makeup. It isn’t really my craft, though, unfortunately; I still only have that one drugstore palette with four neutral shades, and even then I only use one color. The way I like to present myself best is still just with a sturdy winged liner and velvet lipstick. The soft brown shadow is an occasional touch.

24

I still feel embarrassed talking about myself — online or in person — but I know now this is cowardice, though it wasn’t always. To grow up as a girl has never been easy; to grow up as one in an age of surveillance and an increasingly virtual world has its unique horrors, and unlearning certain safety mechanisms takes time. Exiting the tunnel of a trauma response takes time. But I am no longer a girl, and the weight of others’ gaze is no longer unbearable. Old habits just die hard — but this one I will kill.

25

I sometimes still surprise myself with the rage I am capable of.

26

And the joy, too — the countless times I’ve laughed this week alone, over moments large and small, the milestones I’ve made and bore witness to —

27

Still on unlearning: refusing help. I had internalized individualism to the extreme and had associated help and support from others as frivolous and unnecessary, as signs of weakness, as cheating. Obviously, this is silly; doing things completely alone is an illusion.

28

Half the time I want to be a recluse, and the other half I dream of living in a commune.

29

I hope all my friends know that, despite time and space apart, and my inability to chat consistently for longer than half an hour, I think fondly of them and wish them nothing but the best — truly.

30

I have been moved so many times and don’t know what else to say — to the people, the food on my plate, the painting on the wall, the rocks and wildflowers — but thank you.