I’m always weird on Sundays.

It’s my blog I can do what I want to, so instead of expressing any broad or specific opinions about the election (as I feel my politics are fairly evident, and we can always speak privately), I’d like to share Mary Oliver’s consistently timely Wild Geese. 

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

And now I’d like to talk about me.

————————————————————————————————-

You do not have to be good. 

And I’m not.  And I’ve tried being grey.  Sometimes out and out bad.  My friend Justin told me at the end of the Odyssey, Odysseus is “No Body”, because a journey razes you to the ground and births you anew, stripped of your past.  If you do it right.  When he tells Polyphemus he is “No Body”, it’s a testament to his clever nature, but could be critically read as a point in his journey in which the “he” he was is gone, and the “he” he will be is yet to be born.  Sidenote: Odysseus No Body would be a badass punk band.  I wonder if No Body is beholden to ethics.  I wonder if cruelty is necessary.  I wonder if you do not have to be good, but you have to be kind.  I wonder if I’ve gone far enough to find kindness.

You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

I’m tired of not living anywhere.

I’m weary, of being No Body who lives No Where.

I never gave myself an end date.  I couldn’t have predicted how my body would feel.

Maybe it’s the post-election, maybe it’s getting sick, maybe it’s winter.  Maybe it’s just the desire to walk in a front door and have it be your own.  To fall into a bed, with the three plants you picked out hanging in the sunlit window, and not have to worry about someone finding you naked as a jay bird.

I want my own space.

I’m tired of not living anywhere, and I miscalculated how risky coming back to Cincinnati would be.

But here we are.

It’s hard to deduce comfort and security from fear, sometimes.

Sometimes.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

I dream about what my space will look like.  I dream of windows, clean surfaces, a bed that fits just me, and cooking utensils.  I want a painfully simple life.  A space to write.  The time to travel.  Money to cover bills, loans, the occasional splurge.  I want a pet rabbit.  A place to hang my dresses.

I want to feel safe.  And I do.  Here. I feel so safe, despite our political climate, despite despite despite.

I miscalculated the risk of coming back.

Perhaps part of this trip is learning to accept when I’m wrong.

Perhaps part of this trip is finding an ending.

Perhaps putting down roots doesn’t mean stagnation.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Thursday I went to a protest, walked with others as dissatisfied, as hungry for change.  Friday I worked, went to a birthday party, and sat with a dear friend to wind down the night.  Saturday, a friend and I hiked.  We talked about working out, sex, college, the future.  We breathed in the crisp air and didn’t think twice about the election.  Later, I saw the Girls and laughed so hard I cried.  Stine and I got piercings.  I slept well and worked today.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

I love you, I miss you, I hope to see you soon.

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