Notes from the margins of a manuscript soaked in red
April 10, 2015
Los Angeles, CA
My story is changing it’s structure. I am restructuring my story. The story is reshaping me.
It remains a mystery to me whether art makes itself or are made by us. Or maybe art makes us. Maybe surrendering to it is the key to resilience. Except that it’s more than surrender. Resilience demands a kind of relishing in change. That relishing is a learned skill. If you listen and smell the rain, the soil will teach you.
I tell myself to trust the process: that if I am to design anything to support it, to make it elegant as a backstrap loom. I remind myself to never interrupt the chatter and songs of a weaving woman.
For months now I’ve been underground, in hibernation, reinventing, rewriting. I am still in the inbetween. After seven years of theorizing and studying liminality, the rites of adulthood and the framing of this epoch of human history as an initiation of sorts, I’m beginning to wonder if liminality is the new normal.
It seems to be. At least for me. And when I look around at my friends, my peers, my cohort, I get the feeling that I am not alone. Change is a changing thing.
Almost daily I remind myself of these words from Terry Tempest Williams:
“I want to feel both the beauty and the pain of the age we are living in. I want to survive my life without becoming numb. I want to speak and comprehend words of wounding without having these words become the landscape where I dwell. I want to possess a light touch that can elevate darkness to the realm of stars.”
The change is still coming. The stars still abide in the vacancy of night beyond the reach of our days. My thoughts are only partial now. Intimations. Seeds. But the soil is rich and the rains are coming.
I send you my love from the inbetween. I don’t know where I am anymore. But I know I’m home. And here, I remember the ones I love, the ones who love me. Even in my solitude, I do not walk alone.