May 18
I am learning to hold two things at once: the grief of watching the world behave badly, and the quiet determination to live well regardless.
Not as escape. As resistance.
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Pakistan
seen from Singapore
seen from Indonesia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from Sweden
seen from China
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
I am learning to hold two things at once: the grief of watching the world behave badly, and the quiet determination to live well regardless.
Not as escape. As resistance.
The things I remember most clearly are not the grand occasions.
They are the ordinary afternoons. Someone making tea. A particular quality of light. The feeling of having nowhere to be.
The bougainvillea has taken over the wall again. I keep meaning to trim it back.
Every year I don't. Every year I'm glad.
Democracy is not a destination. It's a practice. And like all practices, it deteriorates when you stop showing up.
There are people who knew you before you knew yourself. Who remember the version of you that existed before the losses and the adjustments and the becoming.
Those people are worth keeping very close.
Some mornings the only news I need is whether the light is good and whether something in the garden has opened overnight.
The rest can wait.
I lived near the sea once. I still reach for it when things get heavy.
Some places stay inside you long after you've left them.
I've started noticing what makes me reach for my phone.
Not to check anything. To photograph something. A flower that wasn't there yesterday. The light at a particular angle. Something ordinary that suddenly looked worth keeping.
That noticing feels important. I'm not sure why yet.