from 2 writing sessions, 21 October & 16 September 2021 | moderator: ?
To clarify: I did not always keep track of the moderator for each writing session, and I didn't always copy the exact prompt. These two pieces to kind of speak to each other, though; self-rebuke answered with self-compassion. Be gentle to the soft animal of your body. Besides, there can only be one Angela Merkel* so why even try?
Prompt phrase:
“At your Best, you are What?”
“At your Worst, you are What?”
Whose version of Best? Whose version of Worst?
For myself, I am my best when I’m hydrated. When I’ve got good sleep. When I take my medications. When I connect with people – not too much. Practicing good boundaries and respect for others. When I’ve planned out my lessons. When I’ve called my friends, seen my parents, walked my dog twice a day, eaten a healthy and nutritious meal. Had a good run. Bathed and lotioned. That’s when I become Her, this magical deity, a shimmering orb of wit and kindness and strength. Patient. Tender yet fair. Grounded but expansive. Swift but relaxed. The goddess Athena with the heart of the Virgin Mary and the integrity of Angela Merkel.
But I’m my worst, most days. Sleep deprived and forgetting medications, strenuously avoiding colleagues and friends, throwing together lessons at the very last minute. I am always late. My dog goes unwalked, her poor body (and mine) fretting with inactivity, and my parents haven’t seen me in weeks. I eat nothing but snacks — vending machine candy and fast food. I even steal M&Ms from my co-teacher’s cart, where she keeps them to share with her students. I snap and snarl, my waist thickens and I lose my hellenic figure. I am impatient, passive aggressive, and my boundaries are made of wet rice paper, tearing pathetically under the weight of the first ask. My spirit becomes a shriveled thing, haggard and dry, demanding leeway and understanding from others though I don’t have any to give.
— 21 October 2021
Prompt unknown
The very idea of being carried so often feels like a cop-out. There, I said it. I wanted there to be a nobler word for “copout” but there isn’t one, and that’s the nature of copouts, I guess. I spend so much time trying to avoid being carried, struggling to stay up late and finish that bite that was too big to chew, if you will. I have followed a dozen Instagram accounts that strive to assure me (and everyone) that rest is necessary, asking for help is healthy, saying “no” is a sign of strength. The part of me that believes these things is a seedling, a mere sprout next to the primeval forest of my martyr-complex.
I believe those new ideas the most when I share them with other people, passing them out like pamphlets in front of the Salvation Army. And I *do* believe them — there’s data, dammit, proof, and centuries of medicine from the East and the West that declares these things to be true. I find more faith when the belief is reflected back, shared with someone who needs it as much as I do, watching their eyes fill with apprehension and then the tiniest tendril of new dogma sprouts, bright and adamant. “I DO deserve rest!” “That DOES make sense!”
Light reflected creates more light.
I think this must be how the Great Awakenings happened, First and Second, among the American settlers of the 1800s. It’s a crude approach, word of mouth, often woman to woman, growing as strong as mulberry runners in fertile soil, until the trees rise brilliant and strong with a new forest and a new doctrine.
— 16 September 2021
*Did you know Merkel grew up in East Germany? And her departure ceremony from the office of Chancellor (she served for 16 years) featured an East German pop song by the godmother of German Punk, Nina Hagen? I'm here for it.
The Body Year 