I love writing lists (especially with a quality pen): summer to-dos, groceries, bird ID’s, books to-reads, quotes by my 90 year-old besties, and truly, the list of lists goes on. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to approach this blog post because it’s been too long. Most ideas felt stale and/or completely missed the mark. During those 6 months, so many monuments were built for collapsing empires and dreams shattered in congruence with foundations setting as seasons changed from cold, to wet, to sticky. But the idea of a list felt like a start, or maybe just an illusion of control given the fluctuating circumstances.

>Jan 2021: I wrote my first song on guitar in plenty of years in honor of my partner’s 30th birthday (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvqkVgCkwFk). Gabe has the pleasure of checking out the next age for about 2.5 months before my planets arrive to blow out their candles. I wrote this diddy with the idea that it would be my first love song ever. What it ended up turning into was a piece reflecting about the give and take of relationships rather than straight up L.O.V.E. Thankfully our dear friend and fantastic bass player, Pat, got a last minute text a day or so into the process and was game to help me. Fast approaching deadlines are my love language. I gave myself Thurs and Fri to complete my end and Pat finished his within a couple hours. Gabe’s Sunday birthday started out with us sitting in the car blasting this thing I’d thrown together that just worked out. When the spirit moves you, I guess…

>Feb 2021: Relief came in the form of the first Moderna vaccine. The side affects were still pretty unknown and I seemed to get all of them. I would 200% do it a 1000 more times if it didn’t mean getting COVID again and watching people pass away from afar.

>Mar 2021: My best friend died in the earlier days of March. She would have been 101 this year. I played all the songs she’d requested at her funeral. I stared at her open casket the whole time and hummed in duet to “How Great Thou Art” imagining her singing boldly, eyes closed, toes tapping.

She watched me attempt to Charleston while she decorated the construction paper Mardi Gras hat only weeks before. She’d scolded me for slacking on my facility wide decorations and gave me the side eye throughout the week. I secretly love getting scolded from my elders. It’s the only love language they know.

>Apr 2021: My stepma turned 70 and I wrote this to sum up my April.

‘An Outline’

I approach each day on point shoe. A plate spinning on a pencil tip in the left hand. Three tri-colored bean bags circling the air above the right. A parrot squawks and yammers atop my head at the thoughts I thought I was not speaking.
Surely today will be less caffeinated. Surely today will have less rotations. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to be still enough to feel a revolution.
It’s too close to the newest moon for night crawlers to bare themselves on grass. The moon wears a mask tonight. I see its eyes and wrinkled forehead. Again, she forgot to put on spf but at least her 14 days are up.
I wish the werewolves would come already. I want my dog to teach me a thing or two. I want to see what true packs are made of and who governs who. I want to travel by foot and forget warm showers and plush sleep. I wish a couple sacrifices and a plant medicine midwife might set me free.
I hold it out like a newborn, a rebellion to death. Here is my love to you, my loaves and fishes. Here is my revolution of bloody water on our hands, into wine. Here is my sacrifice to you, facing the change, certain that it may not. Here is my bell tolling to all of us sinews, flesh of my flesh, of those we have crucified.
Good night moon.

>May 2021: Gabe graduated with a 4.0 and received a technical certificate in Entrepreneurship. Right after he started guiding with The Wisconsin Fly Fishing Company where he continues to blow my mind week after week. We can’t give enough thanks to this community and how it continues to prove it is brimming with good people.

At the end of the month, I handed over my job at the retirement home to a beautiful soul and caught my PR fish a week later (it was a Northern, for those who wonder).

>Jun 2021: My ladies and I scoured the streets of NOLA for good-times and what-have-yous. All in good fun, I assure you! But damn do I miss me a good back-alley crawfish boil and my beautiful sisters. Also more and more big-ups/tidings of great thanks to my high school homie turned coven constituent, Brooke Sauvage. We could not have raved, sipped, indulged as savagely without you.

>Jun 2021: As of the 15th, I am the conductor of the youth orchestra within my community. Let’s just say it is hard not to answer the backdoor for that life-sucking imposter syndrome. 2020 to now has been all things tough reflection or as we witches refer to as, shadow work. I don’t think I’m alone here. The stagnation of our communities and world compels us to slow and watch our struggles rise to the surface. We’re forced to sit with and stare at all of it. So I’ve decided that’s what I can bring to the table. The honesty that comes with genuine passion fueled by intuition, but is also in the struggle alongside your struggles.

>27 Jun 2021: I sip my Spotted Cow in the canopy of trees now blocking my view of the city streets below. My dog stretches out sopping wet in the perfect amount of sunshine to dry. Gillian Welch sings softly while I type up this wild six month list and I’m glad, for what it’s worth. And it is worth it! The healing, the grieving, the recognizing, the prayer in words on paper, and letting go for more space to love and more life to live.

On Wednesdays, 8-12 of us gather round, masked, peering through each other’s space between the ear lobe and trapezius, and sit in our assigned spots 6 feet apart along the linoleum. My metal folding chair is located about halfway down the corridor between a resident’s apartment door and the shower room. The wire music stand has seen better days a good couple decades ago. I lost my rockstop yet again and have to stick another hole in my ratty cello backpack strap. Anything to keep from slipping mid sea shanty.

The hallway has surprisingly awesome acoustics, helping my cello sound ring past the North wing. My crew of 8-12 varies depending upon enthusiasm, energy levels, and if those who are bedridden want to listen in too. I make sure to travel down the hall to corral and include as many as possible before I set up, even if it is just to open a door to usher the sound waves in. I almost always begin with Amazing Grace. This is purposeful; start and end with a crowd-pleaser.

I choose music the morning of the Wednesday concert. We have various hymn books laying around the facility and I throw in random lullabies, patriotic diddies, spirituals, old-timey folk tunes, jazz standards, and musical classics (oh, the musicals!). It is always a gamble. The crew’s ages range from Baby Boomers to The Greatest Generation. Some missed whole time capsules of music genres because their parents were barely out of diapers. I make sure to keep a solid selection of tunes that wake up all the vocal chords and slip a few new ones in every week to keep them on their toes. Some weeks I pick better than others. Most wouldn’t tell me straight off but I know them well enough to know when I’ve pleased their punch.

Amazing Grace settles everyone into their respective posts in our hallway church. They know the words even if they can’t speak them. They hum in their heads, or hearts, or through their gap-toothed grins. Sometimes I can even get them to howl or whisper by swaying a little bigger or raising my eyebrows real tall. I have a hard time not crying almost instantly, especially when they start feeling warmed up on the reprise. It is as if even their ghosts quiet down and listen.

After our precious and packed 30 minutes are up I thank each of them for coming in different ways depending on the person: a nod, a hug, a smile, a hand squeeze, folding up their chair and replacing it in a corner, or wheeling them back to their beds for a late afternoon snooze. Little do they know that those 8-12 are the best audience I’ve ever played for in all my years of music making. Little do they know that those 8-12 are the reason I continue through the grief of losing it all and finding something I never knew I had.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I am found
Was blind, but now I see

And now we’ve forgotten what was

Circling in like gnats over strangled fruits

Checking for warmth and breath with sweaty plastic fingers

Days with no fervor, thirsty, a dry county–odds against

All’s left are gingerbread crumbs to your maker’s front stoop

Apologies for my lack of comfort on blissful mornings

What once struck oil now chips away the crust alone

Surely there comes a time for a postlude, marking an era

But first, a quick game of charades

Candor, hors d’oeuvres, sacraments

Bells on hilltops ringing for those filing six feet apart

To meet their Jesus

A month has slipped by in ghostly fashion and somehow every single day carries weight in stone. The temperature has slowly dropped, humidity subsided, leaves turned and piled high along root edges, chicken stock bubbled on the stovetop, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away, Louisville police officers were released from charges of the murder of Breonna Taylor, fires kept burning down the West, and POTUS got COVID. It’s a guarantee these weeks will hold historic value. I’ve written about it everywhere I can think to. Mostly so my (someday) offspring can be handed the truth in pen scratches, when my mind can no longer hold on to it.

I started a position a little over 2 weeks ago in a small town outside of Eau Claire. My position title is Activities Director for a retirement facility, or “Director of Fun,” as a dear friend corrected. This would be the first position of its kind on my resume. The job is a typical 40 hour per week, Monday-Friday position but without any of the typical-ness of said job. My dad called it “a ministry” the other day on the phone and that really stuck with me. Everyday I am greeted with stories. Some are spun from dreams or worries, non-sensical words, colorful memories of the past, a fear of death or a need for it. At the end of the day, I am a stiff drink’s worth of exhaustedly in-love and needlessly concerned, but also fulfilled to the brim.

My adult career was formulated around working with children and teenagers. My task was to teach them music but also to guide them as they inched into this big world. Now, I am seeing the flip of the coin; one might go as far to say the end. I’ve witnessed the gamut of humanity in just 14 days. Those that have worked in this field smirk at me regularly. Some even shake their head, questioning constantly why I am doing this or that. And man, do I love those people! Those folx light a sky-high bonfire under my ass to prove them anything but right.

Is this job it? Is this my calling? Too soon to tell. All I wish is to share these withering, calloused hands with the world.

5 days left waiting and oh how I feel that Waiting and I know each other’s innards and outtards like old lovers. I’m not alone in this notion, that’s the one benefit of 2020. We’re all running through this shit storm as one. Even the untouchable 1% can’t party as hard as they once did. A level-ish playing field, I’d say; soon to be a civil war in the making. But praise be the small sshtuff! Maybe I’ll get a job soon that has nothing to do with my 6 years of school. What better time to toss the bouquet and sink my teeth into humble pie?

Amongst my weekly bouts of cynicism, I try and stick my tongue out in every thunderstorm as a personal rain dance to send forth to my fire laden Western brothers and sisters. It seems Mother Dearest has her own bouts of cynicism. Another playing field to level?

The introductory page of this summer’s journal is titled “An Age of Questioning”. I began this journal a week after George Floyd was murdered. This was a desperate attempt to self-reflect and analyze my own actions in light of the current turmoil. The hope was through written word, I’d uncover the “answers” while also giving space to unleash my privileged ego. Ergo, so that it may be eventually snuffed out. But here we are, 3 months later. Another black body (SAY HIS NAME! JACOB BLAKE) endured the wrath of police authority in the form of 7 bullets inducing paralyzation. More protests erupted. More lives burned at the stake by 17-year-old white, child terrorist. No matter how much I scrub, my hands still feel bloody.

In her book Their Eyes Were Watching God Zora Neale Hurston writes, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” But what about 2020? Each day gets angrier. Our bodies, our souls, our futures are quickly becoming dismembered. Soon enough, we won’t know which way is up. The focus is getting lost. This year feels neither like the question nor the answer. This year feels like the gauntlet.

#10.5: Learning To Be Human

My husband started attending AA meetings in 2017. I found myself occasionally jealous of these weekly gatherings. And no, it is not because of the free, self-serve, styrofoam coffee, but moreso because he was essentially attending therapy without spending a scrap of dead president paper. I won’t go into detail of his story because it’s his own. However, I will expand upon a thought that I’m sure my brain is not the first to thunk.

Imagine yourself in a room, with terrible carpet, most likely a drippy roof, plastic chairs filled with folks of all shapes and sizes, and a bearded, sage-like leader center circle. There’s a spot for you, the chair closest to the coffee and furthest from the windows. You like it when the sunlight sets through the dusty shades and warms your face as it drops behind the trees.

The core group has attended these meetings for years but you are new. The gathering is not affiliated with any religious sect or outside organization, it is simply there to practice active listening. The leader is a volunteer who has participated in various trainings on listening, human psychology, group management, and of course, some first aid/cpr basics. The leader is expected to keep the flow of the group moving forward without pressure or needless additional talking. People are allowed to share whatever they need or want on their turn. This is a safe space for anyone.

Some choose to share their stories, other pass and listen, and some merely emote. You can tell who the newest additions are by their constant, uncontrolled reactions to other’s stories. Some rare moments can escalate but the leader jumps into action by using quiet hand signals. This immediately gains order amongst the group. These signals seem silly at first, but eventually prove successful.

Herbal tea and water are available in the name of peace and quiet. There is no book from Bill and Bob. In fact, there is no book at all. The meeting is about people and recognizing humanity for what it is in others and in yourself. It is more about the observer opening his/her/their heart to listen with love, than of the person sharing.

Maybe this is an answer.

One more breath 
from a butterfly wing
Bruising easily 
from a kick in the pants
A sweet realization
that I’ll never truly know 
what I mean.

I want to get close enough 
to insanity 
that I only recognize myself 
in the moon
Little girl asked,
“You wanna be a werewolf?”
and that was that.

The constraints are heavy
or maybe it's caring
So I let myself get extra dirty
A scoop of algae from the dock
That I don’t eat.
 
I can’t stand another minute 
of your impassioned speech
I sold my soul to expectations 
Sure is a weary way 
to die each day.

Moved to tears 
by how the afternoon 
splits the leaves
Too caught up in how 
I’m gonna hit the ground running.

Too little not-so cigarettes
Too many acquisitions 
Too fool--your fingers
Slieght of hand
A chord that hits your molars
rolls down thick
that esophagus.

Clap your hands to the anthem
Clap your hands— 2 and 4
Clap your hands if you still believe
In water,
to see
In broken bones,
for bread
In shattered dreams,
for safe keeping,
To Innisfree,
with honey-bees. 

At this point, it feels as though Gabe and I have traversed most of the major highways and gravel roads north of Highway 10. Yet each day we find ourselves barely nicking deer on new routes to the same places. For whatever reason, this feels symbolic.

It’s customary for us to move substantial distances around Wisconsin approximately every 2-4 days. Sometimes we caravan, other times we lollygag together. Sometimes in a vehicle with a/c and a tire light on; other times sweating the reality of summer and toting a scanoe atop the roof. Lilah becomes endlessly bored with the hours holed up in our vehicles. Occasionally a fly will trap itself within the vehicle and she comes alive for a small and slightly awkward hunt, unsure every time if she should in fact eat said wriggling, buzzing creature. A couple weeks ago temps and humidity danced around the same solid 80/90 level and I suddenly remembered, “Ah yes, these are the moments that made me.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————-

Roxy Lake cabin and I have come to an understanding. After 2 ½ months of discussion her final requests are these:

• Care for the land.
  • -The deer flies, ticks, mosquitos, and horse flies remind you that even the top of the food chain can topple, ie. David and Goliath.
  • -Take care to cherish the lightning bug show. They’ll come Mid-June, rising from the soft soil floor to wink at the moon.
  • -The lawn must be mowed every week plus three but only what is needed. Let the wildflowers take root through the tall grass and the milkweed shelter the monarchs. Ride that mower like the Harley you never had.
  • -The bird choir may be mostly in the trees but Mr. Bunting has popped in a time or two. Fill the feeders, even just for the fashionably late.

• Clean my insides.
  • My iron orange waters will clean you. True, they may stain your hair, shower, sinks, and clothes with a rusty reminder that you are now sharing below what the worms and roots made.
  • -No one likes a sandy, grimy bed, especially your sweaty, sunburnt body crevices. Sweep on the reg.
  • -Don’t wait to do the dishes or the ant army will return and maybe the power will go out again. Good luck!

• Do not overfish.
  • Your luck upon the line depends on it.
  • -Those you do catch for keeps must be thanked. Offer up in grace, in light of future full bellies.
  • -Gabe will teach you how to humanely prepare each fish. Steady your hand. Use a sharp knife and carve straight. Save the tails, bones, and heads. Their bodies’ end will be a beginning, but earthbound.

In return, Roxy will nurture you into someone who can.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

In light of this “Great Awakening” Year of 2020, the full moon lunar eclipse in Capricorn, 5 planets in retrograde, and Sun awash in Cancer, I created a spread to encapsulate all things heavy in the sky as well as transposing on Earth as we speak. Through my short studies of each planet, their placements, and the important effects of retrograde, I hoped to translate each into a question that would resonate with all three aspects. I have included a picture below of my spread, the planets assigned to each, and the questions I formulated. I will include a short summary of my conclusions in regards to my specific spread but my thoughts seem to be ever-changing regarding this spread.

• Mercury in Cancer/retrograde:
  • Where can you add more self love in your daily life?
    (pull-8 of cups)
• Jupiter in Capricorn/retrograde:
  • Within your chosen career path or journey towards it, what areas need more focus and/or diligent work?
    (pull-2 of cups)
• Saturn in Capricorn/retrograde:
  • What clear goals need to be brought into focus in your current life path?
    (pull-2 of wands reversed)
• Neptune in Pisces/retrograde:
  • When taking an outside look at yourself, what past burdens come to light?
    (pull-9 of cups)
• Pluto in Capricorn/retrograde:
  • What conscious or unconscious thoughts need clarity or release?
    (pull-Knight of Wands reversed)
• Full Moon Lunar Eclipse in Capricorn:
  • What beliefs are no longer serving your pathway towards success?
    (pull-Queen of wands reversed)
• Sun in Cancer:
  • Where can you use your innate nurturing side to better humanity?
    (pull-7 of pentacles reversed)

Right away you see a ratio of 3:3, cups to wands and an entire spread of minor arcana. You could interpret this as unstable emotion met with unstable energy. However, given that many of these planets currently reside in retrograde and the lunar eclipse is in self-loving Cancer, I would take this as a sign of feeling and reflecting on whatever emotion is needed, as it may be the only way to survive the insecurity of it all. Recognize, review, release, and reflect. The 7 of pentacles, the last card I pulled, is the only one with grounding, cautionary, motherly energy. One that begs you to trust, holds your hand, and keeps on planting seeds even when everything’s on fire.

Self-love, forgiveness, grounding practice, purging fears, deep self-reflection, and truly feeling every past and present emotion that harbors within us, is seemingly the message these planets intend upon us, whether we like it or not. The sooner we grasp the concept that huge societal changes are taking the reins and the world as we know it now walks the plank, the sooner we can get to tackling our inner egos.

    First of all, Black Lives Matter!

    Second, the thing I feel I am lacking most is an air of questioning. 

    Third and last, the only way I will be able to do my duty is to roll up the cuffs, dream big, and dig for truth. 

   

If I am to spur this curious bone to grow, am I to start at the very beginning? Perhaps I take notice of the first codependent formations, that were only discovered a handful of years ago, and sit there and hold her through quiet explanations. As I lead her, we will discuss a harder way of growing but one that might help her feel right to question. She will build boundaries. She will not run. 

    Perhaps I applaud her imagination but ground her in facts. We float past piles of homes on the way to cello and gymnastics and we talk. She starts to let her mind wander but I make her see a little more. I start to expand upon the creation of us and them in the first place. I lead our imaginations back down the generational line, but for its facts. She dreams big. She digs deep.  

    Perhaps she learns to stand her ground when a teacher, or guardian, or friend throws ice cold lies into life. She holds them accountable and stutters but asks more questions. She ties us to others with the words “love your neighbor” tatooed on their foreheads, an invisible brand from all their years of practice. She starts to turn down distrust. She opens more and finds better ways of conversing. She signs up to join the ranks for persons, for the love of people and their lives. She and I make terrible mistakes but only once. 

————————————————————————————————————————–

    Some of my earliest memories are of a child psychologist’s office that I visited from ages 2-6. I had to text my mom to remind me of my appointment frequency. She remembered we usually went once per month. I am surprised because all I can recall is the smell of his office, a typical doctor’s office smell with a large waft of leather. In his office occurs some blurry interrogations with jostled paper dolls used to explain family dynamics. Besides that, a bad taste in my mouth collects but without concrete memory to back any solid reasoning. 

    My parents divorced when I was one and my dad remarried when I was two. It was a 50/50 time share between both families which was tough organizationally and during holidays, but was a blessing in disguise. I knew plenty of people whose parents tried to “stick it out for the kids” but ended up dragging the whole ship down. I was grateful to grow up split in two. Both families influences soaked in me deeply. 

    My mother raised me at her home as a single parent. We had a very distinct schedule at her house because she worked downtown during the day until 5. I attended an afterschool program until I was 10 and then joined many of my friends in the latchkey club. I spent a lot of time alone after school which turned out to be a kind of delicious freedom. Occassionally, I hung out with my girlfriends down the street but mostly I stayed home, watched The Simpsons, pretended to do my homework, and made Pillsbury biscuits. Somehow my beautiful mother was able to juggle everything. She worked all day to then come home and make me dinner, for which she had to learn how to do quickly after the divorce. She drove me to all of my sporting events and music lessons and somehow saved up enough energy to help me build clay layers of the earth’s crust or watch Brigadoon. She says to this day, “God gave me what I could handle when he gave me you.” She’d said this so many times before but recently, it truly struck me. I know that I was a relatively easy child plainly because of my stark lack in curiousity. I liked comfort in famliarity. I needed no adventure. I wanted no arguing. I just wanted a smooth road to coast on. But what my mother doesn’t know, was that the gift was mutual. She gave me a fierceness in stillness.

    My dad’s house was a complete flipflop from my mom’s. With his new marriage came the perks of older stepbrothers and stepsister, and stepmom. The house was always full, always moving, always loud. There was usually some kind of problem to fix or situation to handle. People broke limbs, played baseball in the backyard, made peanut butter shakes, had calc exams, and practiced instruments. These new siblings and stepmom and I grew together. I call them as they are. They offered me a bonus present my blood would not have given to me. I found my loud there. I made lots of big mistakes. I got scraped so I spit on it. I learned to take up my own space and not back down, through hell or high water.

————————————————————————————————————————–

    My jolly ol’ husband of 8 months and partner of 12 years, is in large part the catapult to my curiosity.  This person I get to share my life with fosters me like a lame bird into the sea of knowing. His fire and passion for answers and his even-keel demeanor make him the posterchild for instruction of all sorts. He reads and comprehends. He listens carefully and remembers exactly. He watches, he practices, and achieves goals. Damn you, Capricorns! 🙂 

    Early on, I recognized my learning differed from many, including Gabe’s. Without a keen interest for research or a mechanical mind, seeking to learn became trivial. I read incredibly slowly. I was taken out of certain classes for my inability to comprehend as quickly as my peers and I had to study hard and long using 45 different methods in order to remember half of the answers. The thing that really got me in trouble was my inability to trust myself. On occasion, I’d finish tests with time to spare and scan the room. Seeing fellow students scribbling, sent my mind into spirals. The eraser was unleashed and my probably correct answers were scathed by my secondguessing. This mistrust is still in need of a shift.

    Over the years, Gabe has singlehandedly opened me up to new music, broader, more critical thinking based in love and acceptance, pushed me towards pursuing other answers than my intuition, shared with me experiences, adventures, and places that have challenged me physically and mentally, and encouraged me to find my footing in becoming a lifelong learner who is capable of grasping concepts in her own, imperfect way. It is a breath of fresh air to have grown with someone who has been so patient. I think he saw the me I could be long before I did. 

————————————————————————————————————————– 

    With the world on fire and my fellow millenials growing into our places in the workforce and as parental units of this country, I find myself scouring. Everyday I am looking for something to fill my cup. Typically, social media gets my ass to the plate. But what I’m discovering more and more is that yes 100%, we have to show up immediately for those BIPOC individuals. Storm the streets. Patronize their businesses. Vote and write letters to the forces supposedly leading our country. But, in addition to this, what else for the long term? Well white folks, I’d say it’s time to be quiet, listen carefully, foster curiosity, seek people out for differing opinions, and look backwards at yourself. We cannot change what has come and gone but we can explore our whys. All of us have an inner child harboring deep pains and triumphs that bring our very own specialities to light. It is with those gifts of experiences and the desire to learn deeper that must join together to change the future. 

Everything,

I thought I knew, 

In fact I did not know. 

And all those things,

I did not know, 

Will show me how to grow.

PART 1: A Solid Green

    June has come ’round with solid green hues on leaves and fewer bird choir members to snack upon the feeders. I wash my hair with lake water of only the best sediment and loam and pause to blow bubbles on the surface. A pileated woodpecker shrieks abruptly greeting the forest morning. His call to the nest reminds me of the noontime sirens forewarning the August tornadoes. Although the pileated’s song is a little more throaty and jagged, it still has the same piercing effect through forest trees as that of the town’s daily heed. And I wonder, is the whole world forewarning me?

PART 2: Lost and Found

    On the last Sunday in May, my mother and I hurriedly gathered all of our belongings and rushed downtown. The sun finally poked through the clouds as if to lay some shine upon the people gathering in the streets. As we drove, we spoke of our plan of action. If either one of us felt uncomfortable, we would leave. If the cops started getting physical with protestors, we would leave. And of course, stick together always. We began our journey towards the city an hour later than the march start time. We knew only of the meeting place and had no idea whether the march would still be occurring. The plan was to take the Locust street exit and follow the police blockades East. We circled around and caught sight of late protestors heading towards the police station. We quickly parked on 6th and walked the rest of the way. 

    The neighborhood was alive. People were joining from every direction with signs held high in gloved hands and shouting “No justice, no peace.” muffled through masked faces. Some were passing out water and juicy clementines. Others were waving from their doorsteps or bumping music wildly from their BLM decorated vehicles. From the moment we started walking, the hairs on my body stood on end, to attention, electrified. There seemed to be an overhanging heaviness amongst the crowd, perhaps some spirits of the past come to bear witness. 

    We gathered with the rest of the group on the intersection of MLK and Locust. There were hundreds of folks listening intently to individuals holding megaphones in the center of the road. I couldn’t help but notice the heavily armed policemen guarding the front steps and rooftop of their station while Milwaukee’s Martin Luther King Library sat silently side by side, closed and dark. A thought flickered in my mind that we could all assemble inside and read, read it all together, but that was for another time. 

    My mother and I chanted and whistled, clapped and howled, but mostly we listened. I wondered occasionally what she was thinking. To have gone through this very protest 50 years prior and now to do it again with her daughter. Of course, she would do it 500 more times with her daughter, with her granddaughter, and with her great-granddaughter, but that notion only goes so far. She taught me to plan and to love but now was the time for physical and monetary support for our black communities. I made a pact with myself then and there that I would do everything in my power to begin again. I would acknowledge everything I claim to be as a white woman in this torn society. Then I would start again as an ally, the one I was born to be. 

PART 3: New Eyes

    If you asked me two weeks ago about my Summer 2020 plans, I would have replied simply reconnecting with myself and with my home, Wisconsin. That meant listening inwards, learning how to be curious, soaking in the waters, practicing more cello, and coming to terms with a major life shift but also recognizing this piecemeal process, one day at a time. 

    Sunday, May 31^st, will now be my response to anyone who asks me about my Summer 2020 plans. Last Sunday ripped off the privilege bandage and revealed all the work undone. I’ve gone through every emotion that all new and old white allies are feeling. The guilt, the shame, the disgust, the anger, the angst, the pain are cracking us wide open and rightfully so. Let us all see my ancestors, the Maryland planters, the Mayflower pilgrims, the New England farmers, the Midwestern businessmen. Let us look closer to see what lives they have claimed and convinced to be less than. Then let us look towards me, a teacher, an artist, a communicator, an organizer. Where has my complacency landed me today? I can say with certainty that I have never claimed to own any individual. I can say with certainty that my choices have not lead to someone’s immediate death. But, I cannot give my title as educator any validity until I take my new path of ally-ship seriously. I will wake up every morning and say, “How can I be the best ally today?” and “What can I learn in order to heal my future from my wretched past?” I will be the sage. I will cleanse and heal. 

PART 4: Born-Again 

    I do not claim to be an intellectual. I do not know that I am touched by something bigger than me or feel any different from the average body breathing on the street. I will never ask anyone to follow me, except maybe my little fox so she does not lose her way. I think, though, that I am ready to rewrite everything I know. The entire concept is breathtaking. I feel like a babe laden with ancestral chains. I see the world opening up and exploding in fireworks of so many hopes and changes and yet, I am still unaware of all that tethers me. 

    I feel magic around me everywhere but cannot seem to harvest it or ingest it so that I may pass it on to the newest generations. I have only just begun to understand connection. I think it may be the answer to everything. Freedom may truly be what connection is at its core. Freedom may be the connection found in communing with history, or with magic, or with children through their eyes. 

    This is where I will begin. 

    What appears “curiouser and curiouser” is the way in which details come to light. Time slows to a heartbeat and keeps around hunger and sun direction. Summer arrives via humidity resting in pools on the floor and in my hair fixing to a frizzy halo atop my head. Lilah basks in the gentle Midwestern sun streaming through the front door, only lifting her head to stalk scurrying chipmunks. Gabe delves deep into maps, and boat books, and fishy guides until the wee hours of the morning and I practice cello. By and by, the bird choir gains a certain sense of familiarity with our house traipsing and coffee grinding. Spring peepers and bluegills eye me in my mustard bikini right before I take the daily plunge into the chilly lake. The waters are dark and deep, sort of an over-steeped English Breakfast brown, and stacked with millions of mosquito larvae squiggling next to shore. The first hair-raising storms of the summer months blow through the forest, testing bird nest structures and chick survival but also turning trees chartreuse overnight. I continue to write letters using coloring book paper and take too many pictures of the male ruby-throated hummingbird, who displays his stunning neck proudly to the female nestled in the pine. Sometimes in the early afternoon he’ll dance for her, swooping in large, quick curves to catch the light. I secretly hope he will always dance for her.

    There are moments when I feel my toes touch ground, when I feel something inside me settle. My natal chart is chalkful of fire signs but privately, I hold fast to my earthy Taurus in Venus. Don’t get me wrong! I love flourishing energy, spontaneous adventures, cooking without a plan, dancing all night, and storytelling with strangers, but I also crave a home. The need for a physical plot with a garden to harvest roils those inner coals hotter every birthday. There is something sacred about a home space; whether it’s an altar of the mind, or four walls and a roof, or both. Since my youngest childhood memories, I have built this altar of the mind. It is tweaked and steadily engrained with each calendar year. I send some delicate thoughts out into the universe hoping someday to be rewarded, and maybe, just maybe, I check Zillow 4 or 5 times a week. 

    In light of all that makes us feel unsettled, we are lucky enough to have 3 very supportive families who are an easy couple hours drive away from our summer landing spot. It is surreal to sit around the table and know that we could easily come back to see a nephew’s swim meet, a mother’s choral performance, a brother’s birthday, or just to plant some Russian sage in our stepmother’s garden. In previous visits home, we would fly or drive 1,000 miles in a flurry of a maximum 5-day stay and feel an extreme pressure to make the best of every ticking second. Now there is a sweet, quiet relief that hangs over each conversation. There is peace that there will be more of everything together. 

    This trek home is one drenched in faith. Not necessarily one of a higher power, but more a faith in the future. My tendency is to lead first with heart intuition and Gabe with realist conclusions. We mostly even each other out beautifully but on occasion, miss one another’s mark completely. In those moments, it is when the most learning occurs. In the past, I have given way to learning more efficient paths for planning and he let go and dreamt with me, but this move home was a journey of the heart. There were many discussions of failure and lost opportunities. There were tearful arguments and overdrawn checking accounts. There were endings left unfinished and hopes shoved by the wayside. Yet, our communities stepped up to pay forward every ounce of love and have continued to check in.

    For now, we will commune with the summer months: deep-fry walleye, suffer from the scourge of mosquitos, read to escape, paddle new waters, snuggle the furbeast, tie flies for big musky dreams, pick off ticks and singe them on the stove, knead biscuit dough 15 times, practice spiccato the way Mendelssohn would have wanted it, greet the hummingbird couple, and cross our fingers and ankles that our faith and hearts know what lies ahead.