Back to the Mother[s]
It always circles back to the mothers...
Posts
A Wayfarer Reflects
"Kismet was borrowed into English in the early 1800s from Turkish, where it was used as a synonym of fate. This was an expansion on the meaning of the original Arabic word that led to kismet : that word, qisma , means “portion” or “lot,” and one early 18th-century bilingual dictionary says it’s a synonym of “fragment.”" — "It's Kismet", Merriam-Webster.com
The Return of Our Lorde (and a word from our sponsor)
"Now if you're looking for a savior, well, that's not me." -Lorde, The Path So Lorde is back. The significance of this -- of all the little things that had to fall into place to be in a similar headspace as this literal pop icon after whom I've patterned myself since 2013 -- is astronomical (hehe). First things first, however... I sleep through the night now; I no longer look with yearning at certain tools of destruction; I wake up and want to live; I can tell my story without dissolving into sobs; I drink hot tea every morning before work; I serve my small town as a bastion against illiteracy and misinformation, spending paid time amongst the quiet and the sacred rows of books. I've found kindred spirits (read huge nerds ) in my fellow laborers. I've read 11 and 1/2 books this year (but that's a post for another time 😉). I spend a little less time on my phone placing the weight of the world on my shoulders and a lot more time smil
Sleepless Thoughts
When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why Michael Jackson bought so many toys and super soakers. I didn’t get the childishness and the yearning for younger days; I wanted to grow up and do the traditional Motherhood thing I was always pretending with my baby dolls. I get it now. Now that I know the scope of my tragedy, I totally get it. Lately, I find myself unable to sleep at night. My mind just won’t turn off, tumbling over and over the same fragment of a song, or searching to find the tactile part of a memory of my little sister playing with my hair as we tried to fall asleep during a long, dark night in North Carolina. I’ll toss and turn until finally I grab my phone and start looking up old toys from my childhood: a dollhouse here, a set of pretend play plastic there; recently, I purchased a book, a Beanie Baby, and an old movie I remember watching in 2013. This new part of me, this yawning ache for the untainted familiar, wants to buy every piece I see — every pre-owned bit of d