On Stillness

We don't have to be literary first responders

Hi, Friend.

I’ve been quiet here since sharing a poem, “How Dark the Beginning,” right after the election. I’ve been quiet here as I take care of myself and my kids, reach out to people I know are also reeling, and try—with varying degrees of success—to keep writing. To keep moving forward.

“Keep moving” was my mantra through the end of my marriage, as many of you probably know. It became my mantra in daily notes-to-self, daily pep talks to myself, at a time when just getting up in the morning, packing school lunches, and walking the dog felt difficult. If you’re nodding along because those basic tasks feel difficult to you right now, I’m with you.

Grief is like an anvil, whether it’s for a person, a relationship, or a country: grief for what you dreamed was possible, and then were shaken awake from that dream.

I still believe in “keep moving,” the way I still believe—must believe—that we could make this place beautiful. We can, and we must, despite it being an uphill climb that just got a lot steeper. “Keep moving” is what we’ll do, because what choice to we have? Giving up isn’t an option. And—not but, but and—I also believe that taking some time to be still, to listen to one’s own inner voice and to listen to others who are grieving, is essential. I want to move forward with purpose, intention, and care. I’m giving myself permission to slow down, to keep the door to my heart open, and to see what steps inside.

I’m listening hard, the way I might after hearing a sound in the woods. My experience tells me that sometimes the answers to difficult questions are whispered, and I don’t want to miss them.

Let’s listen together?

In the meantime, here’s a page from Keep Moving, a note-to-self, that has been speaking again to me.

My door is open.

Take good care—
Maggie