every day a new sky

A year ago, I traded the narrow grey skies of New York City for the blooming vastness of my hometown’s sunsets. Then I found myself bobbing and weaving through the Dutch canals reflecting sea-like rainclouds on my cruiser bicycle with the blue basket tied to the front. I didn’t set out to seek new and different spaces to occupy, but life’s little ship granted me temperate weather from the bursting spring of the New Jersey suburbs to the apple cider season of upstate New York to the strangely warm winter of Texas to the budding summer of Amsterdam.

Starting with my time in New Jersey at the very beginning of lockdowns, I went for walks every day. On those walks, I thought about how lucky I was to be able to take walks. On days when it seemed that absolutely nothing was happening in our immediate surroundings within the walls of our homes but also everything was collapsing outside, I would wake up knowing that I would walk, and then I would go to sleep knowing that I had walked. For some reason, this tiny purpose made me feel a sense of direction during a decidedly directionless, uncertain time. Then when I returned to Texas, I decided to start photographing the sky. Every day, for one year, I took a photo of the sky; sometimes it was while running, sometimes it was clumsily with one hand on my bicycle handlebar and one hand aiming at the sun. Sometimes I forgot to post, but it gave me a reason to look upwards every single day. It prompted gratitude, sometimes awe. Even when it was raining, even the day it snowed in Houston, even when the power went out. Even while devastated by the country’s and world’s politics, disasters, and climate change- what better reminder of the need to stay engaged, to fight for change, than our determined and steadfast sky? Today is the one year anniversary of the project. I hope the photos provide you a bit of peace to browse through, and a reminder to look up.

We have been treading water, starving for togetherness while also forgetting how to be in the company of others. I remember thinking often: I don’t feel lonely, is this a privilege or a curse?

What did we allow in, when none of us should have been allowed out? I recorded my dreams in a notebook next to my bed, and some moments when nostalgia knocked at the door I let its muscular hope overtake me, quietly and then loudly and all at once.

Here, across the ocean, we comfort each other with little remnants of home; but what is home? Of course just like those who keep running from something or towards another, I want to say (and believe): different geographies cure us. But no, time runs just as quickly here and days pass just as slow. Moving doesn’t cure loneliness, it just gives it a different color, it gives it a different sky.

The Hill We Climb, by Amanda Gorman

I felt so inspired by Amanda Gorman, National Youth Poet Laureate and youngest person to read at a presidential inauguration. Here’s the full text of her poem, The Hill We Climb.

When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We’ve braved the belly of the beast
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another
We seek harm to none and harmony for all
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That even as we hurt, we hoped
That even as we tired, we tried
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious
Not because we will never again know defeat
but because we will never again sow division
Scripture tells us to envision
that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
And no one shall make them afraid
If we’re to live up to our own time
Then victory won’t lie in the blade
But in all the bridges we’ve made
That is the promise to glade
The hill we climb
If only we dare
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation
rather than share it
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy
And this effort very nearly succeeded
But while democracy can be periodically delayed
it can never be permanently defeated
In this truth
in this faith we trust
For while we have our eyes on the future
history has its eyes on us
This is the era of just redemption
We feared at its inception
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert
How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was
but move to what shall be
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation
Our blunders become their burdens
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west,
we will rise from the windswept northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states,
we will rise from the sunbaked south
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

― Dan Albergotti

(thank you to Matthew Ogle’s Pome tinyletter for this poem)

***

The days roll and mash together. Like the dough for sourdough bread under certain hands. My fingers tap tap at the keyboard and I watch E. make a different kind of dough every day: Dumpling dough. Autumn maple rye dough. Lemon peel blueberry scone dough. Buttermilk biscuit dough. My twin sister, a physician, is being retrained to work in the ICU.

We watch Elton John’s living room benefit concert. We put on musicals in the living room. J. makes a Tik Tok video. We eat cake for breakfast. Every day I have this particular brand of “survivor’s guilt” – what can I do as a knowledge worker who has the privilege of working in the safety of my home? How can I help? I collect ways to help. It doesn’t feel like enough. I know there are people everywhere who need help. I practice my Mandarin to help answer a hotline for the elderly who need assistance. It doesn’t feel like enough.

Nature doesn’t notice, it moves forward anyway: the cherry blossoms burst into song. The rain falls from infinite blue skies. From my window, I can see the red-breasted robins dance together. I watch the flowers grow. My eyelashes fall out. I don’t finish any books, I read a few pages and can’t go on. There is currently no feeling of future except more sickness, more death, so I’m relieved that the same people text me every day. We text about groceries, the rain, the garlic scapes, dating over FaceTime. It is comforting to develop a pattern again. A. reminds me of the three words of intention I set at the beginning of this year: stillness. creativity. abundance.

Here, in the belly of the whale: all of this time, abundant time. Here, in the belly of the whale: all of this stillness, abundant stillness. Here, in the belly of the whale: all of this bread, abundant bread. Out there, people are dying. There will be more soup, E. tells me when I try not to finish the soup. I don’t believe him that there will be more, so I don’t finish the soup.

He makes more soup.