I’ve been thinking a lot, a lot, a lot…
about wounds and pain and discomfort. bell hooks visited my campus and I found the conversations I attended somehow circling back to a point related to: these are my wounds, and this is how I’ve worked through them, and this is how I’m working to help others overcome, yet first nurture these same wounds…
I found myself sitting behind the two white men who have threatened my existence here the very most. They didn’t raise their hands when the speaker asked for sexists in the room, and for the first time I found myself wondering, what are your wounds?
What’s your gap? When the body says, No; when you feel the floor of your chest fall away, when grief hits, how are you working through it? Are you finding your grief, catching it with the light? Shining it high and low until it’s nailed in the center of that beam, then holding it, nailing it down to name it, making sense of it, and then letting it go. Setting the monster free for greener pastures? The spaces we exist in are complex, and the borders we build to keep ourselves safe have to respond with complexity. It’s the only way to build up your immunity to new grief. It’s the only way to make a guard rail out of your scabs.
Protect your spirit from the violence of the world.
Stop waiting for a hero, for a mother to pick you up and dust you off and kiss your scars.
Life is not about heroics. Life is hard work.
Sometimes you’re just going to feel bad. I don’t know what else to tell you. Think of it as a privilege–the some times–because that means there is enough joy in your life that it isn’t bad all the time. That you can feel the ebb and flow of it. Deconstruct yourself: Question what pushes you up and what pulls you down. Chart it. Plot out your rollercoaster. Recognize yourself, then. Find the meaning in the chaos. Be something. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Become. Or rather, maybe for you it is: Remember. Yo recuerdo