despite, despite
news / not only sticking around, but finding a semblance of peace amid calamity
my dear one,
hi, you. good morning. “good morning” feels like it takes the cake out of all greetings—as if we are waking, stumbling to the kitchen of the universe in our slippers together. how did you sleep? have you eaten yet? there are some washed blueberries on the counter—please help yourself.
with eyes set on spring, I’m making some considerable changes in my life—including a big move and a set of wheels to get there. in order to offset some of the costs that come with this, I’ve put together a project I’m affectionately naming “Going Postal.” last Thursday, I bought an armful of empty vintage postcards, ranging from greetings from Japan, to best wishes from San Francisco, and have begun writing poems on the back of each one. some poems are thoughtful wanderings set to where the card is from, some hold ponderings of the past, and plenty of different wish you were here’s—each card, one-of-a-kind. the dynamic of this feels exciting: breathing new life into postcards that have sat collecting dust, researching more about every spot, being able to craft tiny stories and lives from each one.
of course, this is just to let you know. if you feel so inclined to buy one, you can find the Google Form here, as well as my deepest appreciation.
(for more information: this is a limited sale, though I might open them back up if I’m able. postcards will be picked at random, so no requesting cities, I’m afraid. you can find a few examples on my Instagram, @ hiitssky . the postcards are $10/each, but set to a sliding scale if you prefer to throw a girl more $$ 😉. I’m really proud of these, so I hope you enjoy.)
with that said,
what the fresh hell has been going on? this palpable collective psyche we’ve strengthened through pandemia-times seems to roll in waves of overwhelm and relative calm—and right now, the sense of doom is a little too thick. between how many times I’ve jumped ship from news feeds mentioning UFOs getting shot down, to sweeping layoffs and social media coverage of the weekly environmental disasters, (I’m not meaning to add to the stress via list—I’ll stop here. you know what I’m talking about), it is difficult to shake the feeling we have been trudging thigh-deep, muscles strained, through sticky marsh while solid land dances like a mirage, farther and farther.
it is hard to imagine this time is easily enjoyed by anyone, but my growing panic attacks and relentless optimism beg for a way to sit with this, understanding: this may not be the happiest I will ever feel. I may not miss this time when it’s over. but by the grit of my teeth, I need to love this life. I cannot let these years, important and beautiful in what remains of their youth and possibility, corrode in helplessness.
I’ve made a list of how to get by on the bad days, and I think it’s time to refresh/add to our coping list:
does golden hour reach a particular window in your house best? set an alarm/reminder for when the sun is just shifting her gaze in your direction, grab a living room chair to prop by the window, and for at least five to seven minutes or so, bask. leave your phone unlit at the table. savor silence if it feels good, classical music if it doesn’t. no words, no worries. just bask.
indulge in a daydream or two. (harmless, lighthearted ones, of course.) at the beginning of the pandemic, I often coped by letting my daydreams grow in finer detail. what began as a wish to drop everything, move to Maine, and chuck my phone into the ocean then morphed into a “we can do better than that”—and several non-panicked hours of Google research later, I’m far more familiar with the tempting coastal small towns, the lobster shacks I’m sure I’d frequent, the perfect, just-seedy-enough bars I’d throw my shoulders back in a cushioned booth after a long day of lighthouse keeping (the chosen profession of this daydream). all I’m saying is, time is much better spent giving names and locations and soundtracks and poems to a story you’re building than doomscrolling.
small addition to the above—there are troves of calming playlists like this one that add a little something to the daydream-building ambiance.
stretch before bed. reach up and feel where stress sits in your shoulders. rub the knot below your neck with a reminder that you deserve to rest. twist side to side in exhale. if you forget for a few days, try incorporating it while you brush your teeth.
I cannot stress this enough: listen to your body. if you clock out of work on a Tuesday afternoon and the only thing in the world that sounds worthwhile is a ripe mango and a few episodes of Schitt’s Creek, please do it. you do not have to quantify if you have done enough to deserve it or if you are worthy of it—you are. if your chest tightens with too many headlines, please step away from it, choose the most grooveable, beltable song you know (Marvin Gaye’s Ain’t No Mountain High Enough or Come and Get Your Love by Redbone should suffice) dedicate it to yourself, and shake it.
it is a humbling experience to set those screen time limits, but it works.
tiny reminder of the magic that is your local library. I recently rediscovered its wonders (many even are connected to apps with e-books and audiobook services as well) and cannot sing its praises loud enough.
some excellent, excellent hopeful poems for times of worry: In Spite of Everything, the Stars by Edward Hirsch, Good Bones by Maggie Smith, Meditations In An Emergency by Cam Awkward-Rich, and won’t you celebrate with me by Lucille Clifton.
if not hopeful, here’s some writing that will make you laugh: Miss Piggy Does the Cool Girl Monologue from Gone Girl by Laurie K. Batzel, We Play Would You Rather At The Galentine’s Day Party by Melissa Lozada-Oliva, and An Evening of Carnal Desires as Envisioned by My 10-Year-Old Self by Lillian Stone.
essentially, I know these lists, and their methods, are nothing new, but I theorize that our brains put up less of a fight in being gentle with ourselves when quarantine made a great reason to—it’s important to remember that level of care, of thoughtfulness toward ourselves, is not a one-time deal. shit’s still scary outside. be good to you.
there is a poem I love by silas denver melvin about a poet’s place at the end of the world. it ends, “I bring war drums. just war drums.” there are times I know to rally. to support. to stoke courage. but I also know how important it is to have the gauze ready. to haul the water pails. to sit with the scared until they shake less.
I cannot keep a beat. at the end, let me bring my companionship.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
Maine daydream fund (venmo): schuylerpeck