Ten days ago, I had botox injected into 31 spots in my temples, scalp, neck, and shoulders in the hopes that it would do something to help the chronic migraines I’ve been getting for the past few years. It’s kind of terrifying to be at the point where I’m voluntarily paralyzing some of my neck and shoulder muscles just to be able to live my life, but at this point I’m desperate. I’ve tried yoga and meditation and medication and massage and vitamins and basically everything else, and here we are.
Do you ever have those moments where you know you’re acting completely irrationally but you’re so deeply invested in what’s happening and you have so many feelings about it that you have no other option but to just follow your shitty behaviour through to its unpleasant conclusion?
I ask becauser currently, I find myself sitting in my bedroom – my adult woman bedroom – sulking, because I hate my Christmas tree.
Last month, Olive turned six years old.
I woke up in the soft grey of early morning and made waffles in our quiet kitchen, my feet cold against the stone tiles.
As I did, I thought about each of the past six years, right back to the beginning. Those months where I carried her inside of me; when I became so used to her tumbling, kicking, curious presence that my belly felt oddly still and empty after.
My little sister Hilary (now almost twenty-nine, so I suppose not so little anymore) has always been swimming in creativity. From how she dresses, to the direction she steers her life, Hilly exudes warmth and light and charisma in spades.
Within the past year, she’s channelled this energy into spoken word poetry. First independently, then joining the Victoria Slam Poets team, and THEN qualifying for a national slam-poetry competition, like she’s some badass, spoken-word version of Glee.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Excerpted from her poem, The Summer Day
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to have a good life. This topic might seem calming and contemplative but it actually stems from a deep sense of grief over the fact that I’ve started to think that we are, collectively, doomed.
Ha! Happy Monday, folks.