The hula hoop led me to accomplish social success far before I was ready. I met around 5,000 people in my twenties and slept with 1%.
I feel the descent now and am plateauing in my 30s to a place of reflection and introspection. I don’t like it much. Sedentary, silence, finding myself, not you, just me. Instead of talking, listening. It is easier to find my presence hiding in a room of people and magnetize with extroversion than it is to sit here now and write. It’s hard to tell the truth.
A week ago I had a Montana moment under the sun as the aspens turn gold and the hunters arrive with guns and realized I’ve been running like a fucking deer from the woods for half my life. Maybe longer. I’ve been hunted, but I’m in the woods still. Yes, my tenses are inconsistent. #meToo
I’m not old, and I don’t believe anyone expires in the sense that they lose semantics or meaning or value on this earth. Perhaps our wrinkles are the rivers and similar to the Grand Canyon or the Seven Wonders of the World our lives tell a story. Our bodies do, too. The story can be miraculous and transformative. It’s important to tell the truth. I don’t think mine is worth much but I won’t survive without writing it. #ohDeer
There are billions of women on earth who traverse continents and give birth to humans. Many of my foremothers created families, streets, buildings, dinner, jobs, poems, books, musicians, artists, leaders, dog breeders, cooks, sisters, brothers, fathers, husbands, wives, marines, preachers, good humans.
There are men who have done the same with their sperm and historically brought home the bacon; sometimes raise humans. We know that procreation depends on the investment of women both physically and biologically more than men, not that male input is useless, but 9 months or 270 days (+/-) are required (75% of a year on earth) is essentially demanded by the female body for a new human to birth in the Milky Way. Men opt in. I’m proud of every man who has opted into families. #imBusyThatDay #notOkay
Patriarchy is funny to me: it requires vaginas. Men must last long enough to ejaculate to procreate; the end. Those who do more, Thank you. Rise up.
I’ve never asked anyone to carry anything for me quite like that. My piano, be careful, but it’ll be okay if you fall…
Not really sure how I could ask a man anyway. “Hey boy, wanna carry my baby for the next nine months?” …
Statements are better for writers, but the narrative requires self query, inquiry, honesty, word vomit, questions, justice.
I ask myself 15 years after I started running. I can’t run now cuz cartilage and staples and my knee isn’t a homie. Sitting still I ask:
- What am I running away from?
- Why do I leave?
- What am I running towards?
- Why can’t I stay?
- How come flight is stronger than fight?
- Where in my life did I become afraid?
- Who taught me to run?
- When can I love someone?
- Isn’t there a book about this?
- How do people trust each other?
- Where can I find friends who swim, sing, and bike every day?
A few years ago I met someone who ignited the idea of “future” in my mind.
The questions curdled like spoiled milk. Everything I held in began to percolate and rise up and explode. I had a communal thought for the first time since my brothers Ben & David. I came to care about someone else. (It’s hell for a solo artist when this happens but even Charlotte’s Web comes undone). I fell in love.
I’m not a geologist and don’t study internal movements closely but I promise you that for the sake of my metaphor, falling in love shifted my plates and warmed up my heart and caused ebullience of love, light, and disaster. You can feel a thing, but that doesn’t mean you can do the thing. Love is a verb, love is a noun, love is all we need.
I felt like a geyser at Yellowstone National Park. Not Old Faithful, but the Grand Prismatic Springs, or maybe just beautiful. For the first time, I felt something deep, remarkable, powerful, important. Regardless, I’ve got a fire to put out now. Or to tame?
Pretty, but pretty unstable. Full of love, but remarkably unlovable.
So, I run from the fire in my belly. I’m running from the men who disrespected me and the woman who taught me that it was okay. I was angry at both sides of the aisle for the illustration depicted to my young eyes. I forgive concrete and walls and fences and every day choose to love and be understanding, not angry. But there’s still me and I love and I love and I love, still. I have free will.
Where I come from is everything. I come from my mom. She chose to carry me and love me without knowing who I would be or might become. I’m not running from anything anymore. Sure, I wish I grew up in a place where those who grow humanity are given the love needed to cultivate healthy children. But word on the street is nobody is perfect. Including my father and my mother.
I choose love (n), I choose to love (v), I grow, I move, I become what I believe. Practice makes Perfect. I’m done practicing running.
When you disrespect my mother, you disrespect me. My mom taught a few million people about Motown and Rosie the Riveter. SO guess what? It takes TWO BABY. #dadAndMom #nancyaletafinney #motown #michigangirl #music #magic
Aretha Franklin, I hear you.
Next topic: trust. #godHelpMe