i guess i should thank the construction crew that i've been cursing all week; they got me to work on time this morning.

wake-up call

it never occurred to me that my own sister may find me interesting or important enough to want to read my journal. i was shocked to discover that she did and always had. i was even more shocked to discover that, although i write publicly and want to be heard, on some level, i don't really expect anyone to listen. 

maybe it wasn't "shock" after all. maybe it was disappointment--even for me, the low opinion was very low indeed.

during this first and sudden blizzard,

when a normally 30-min drive home took 2.5 hours
when i had to switch between the heater and the window because the heater was giving me a headache
when the window--or, more specifically, the -20C--gave me a different kind of headache
when i had to put on my hat but take off my much-too-warm coat
when i thought, "the good news is we're barely moving"; and then, "the bad news is we're barely moving"
when my filling decided to ache at the worst possible moment
when i got so hungry i thought, "if i have an accident here, god forbid, the police will have to feed me before i'm able to speak"
when my fear made me forget my hunger

when i was met with songs, aash, and warmth, after the final insult of the temporarily blocked driveway

i think i understand what happened. i joined with the intention of starting #RightToBreakSilence. i tried and tried. i quickly realized, in utter disbelief and frustration, how difficult it was to do anything with my limited network of non-strangers. "while i'm here," i thought, "i might as well share some writing." i remembered: "i don't want to just see causes"--and i felt less idiotic. i thought further: "this profile might as well look like a real person."

the more futile my activism, the more things spiral into this huge attention grab. but, as we discovered, i've never before been so intently focused on myself; on my own physicality; on my own weakness; on my own capacities and incapacities. i'm deeply aware of how childish this is.

i'm not ashamed.

perhaps everything will be easier if i learn to accept the (many) things i'm not. i'm not an artist. i'm not a photographer. i'm not a musician. i'm not a singer. i'm not an actor. i'm not overly intelligent. i'm not a scientist. i'm not an architect. 

these stark labels--labels whose boundaries i don't believe in--are simply to say that i have no talent in any of these fields. 

the things i am feel inadequate because i admit inadequacy.
the things i am are tiny shards of glass.

this is not "striving for better." this is not how people live.

a co-volunteer at a literary event this summer asked if i'm a writer.

no. well.. i write a bit of poetry, but no, not a writer.

she probed:

so...when do you move from "someone who writes poetry" to "poet"?

when indeed?

even while i think nothing of my work, my life is nothing without it; if i'm not writing, i'm not a person; i'm not worthwhile.

but to say "poet" is, for me, impossible.

what am i good at? quickly putting people at ease--making them feel like they can talk to me with little introduction or acquaintance. what's that called?

i was happier without social media.

i was aware in general but not in detail... i was upset and outraged and heartbroken, but i wasn't heavy as rocks, hurt as the hills... trampled, really, by the knowledge of every shooting, every detention, every settlement, demolition, smear campaign...

i wasn't faced with my insignificance every moment of every day.

the devil really is in the details, boys and girls. ignorance really is bliss.