Forty-three
February is the cruelest month.
The snow has been unrelenting; when it hasn’t been snowing, the cold has been frightening. The early morning walks to the school bus stop, once one of the best parts of the day, have become forays outside that I don’t look forward to anymore because of the inevitable frostnip I will have on my extremities and face when I return. We slip and fall on the ice-covered sidewalks. I shovel again and again.
This February, the world seems more tumultuous than usual. I have lots to say about the political turmoil down south right now but will reserve those for in-person conversations. Mostly, the world feels like it is on edge, with people around the world feeling more uncertainty and less stability than before. It has been a February of global tumult.
We decided to escape for a week at the start of February and spend some time soaking up the sun and going down waterslides. It was a balm for a frosty winter; we left when the temperatures were unbearable and returned to a massive snowstorm, but while we were away, we delighted in days spent on the beach and in the pool. We swam in the ocean every day. The trip was a small slice of kindness to ourselves in the cruelty of February.
Last week, I turned forty-three years old. There is a certain hardiness that comes from being born in February, during a month when nobody is in the mood for celebrating and many of us live in self-imposed isolation while we wait for the frost to dissipate.
Our furnace broke the night before my birthday and the family spent the night, and part of my birthday morning, shivering and surrounding ourselves with blankets until it all got fixed, thankfully quickly. It wasn’t how I expected to spend part of my day, but in the end, it all worked out: we went out for an unplanned breakfast, we made it to all of Zoya’s activities, and we were still able to celebrate with friends that evening.
In the past, the furnace breaking would have put a damper on my birthday, and my mood would be similarly down. This year, I accepted the situation for what it was: a small challenge that could be fixed, a part of life that would sort itself out with a little bit of work. It wasn’t a disaster, but instead a small setback that I could overcome. This, perhaps is a small gift to myself at the age of forty-three: the ability to give myself grace and time and patience, and to trust that things will work themselves out.
February is the cruelest month, but it is also filled with kindness. Today, I’m celebrating not just the kindness others extend to me, but the kindness I extend to myself.
A poem
Remember
Joy Harjo
Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.
Some links
This one is an old one that I’m sure I’ve shared before, but as I do a critical evaluation of my career as a “glue person” in the public service, I’m emboldened by this post on the tough reality of being a “glue person.” Among the points:
- Your wins are (mostly) silent, but your missteps are very public.
- Glue sits at the joints, and joints are where the stress is.
- Leaders and managers often resent the need for glue people.
A beautiful ode to Black History Month, and growing up in a place with a past that shunned people like you, by Kaitlyn Greenidge:
Black History Month began not as a business move or a way to build monetary wealth or a desire for white American understanding or a marketing push. It was an effort of Black librarians and researchers to preserve memory and build self. It was started not by CEOs or "disrupters" but by the people who keep and safeguard our archives. Before the concept of affinity history, before the idea of American counter histories was normalized, those people understood and codified this practice. It's one many cultures have bitten from us since. The intentions of Black History month have nothing to do with a multinational corporation's shareholders or a tech CEO who has never been more curious about anything other than himself. It's reminding us that even when the dominant narrative insists that Blackness is on the outs (an absurd belief) that "DEI" has been eliminated, we keep creating and building and planning and making.
“I don't know how to attend conferences full of gushing talks about the tools that were designed to negate me.“ A powerful, and imperative, journal entry that reminds us all that tech is political:
Tools tend to exist between us and a goal, and the shape of the tool tells us something about how to proceed, and what outcomes are desirable. Tech enacts and _shapes_our world, our lives, and our politics.
What would your favourite Bluey episode look like as a live-action feature-length film? My friend James made these gorgeous movie posters based on Bluey episodes.
Is there such a thing as a happy list in literature? The blithe verbal sum of possessions, achievements or experiences? Isn't the very act of setting such things down evidence of some vexation, a clue that something is missing? The collector's catalogue, the merchant's tally, the seducer's black book: they are all examples of compensating control.
“Doing something you’re bad at can make you better at what you’re good at, as well as potentially making you good at something new.” I’m too reticent to try new things these days; I need to push myself to break out of my comforts. Have ideas on how/what to do?
Back when I was more fashionable (before I had a kid) and took much more care of my clothing, I always dreamed of owning a bespoke suit made by a high-end tailor. This piece in the Atlantic describes the elation that comes from a bespoke suit and all the facets that go into making one. (And it sounds like the author’s body shape and size is eerily similar to mine.)
This is a guide on how to write public comments for scientists, but the principles are clear and applicable for anyone making public comment on any regulation or policy.
One of the things I want to start doing again this year is editing Wikipedia more regularly. If you’ve never done that before, this video by Molly White is incredible and walks you through all the steps you need to know to get started. I’m going to be revisiting this video before I start again.
Tinned fish is part of one of my favorite meals: a baguette, some cheese, and a tin of sardines packed in good olive oil. Usually, I don’t do much to the fish and just eat them out of the tin, but this website with recipes using tinned fish has me thinking I need to experiment.
Most of my reading happens with audiobooks these days. I loved this piece by Allegra Goodman on listening to audiobooks in the car with her son and how it changed their lives.
Worth reading: this fascinating essay on the past, present, and future of fashion shows by Eugene Rabkin.
And to close, your Mastodon post for the day:
Lúmëcolca: The Information Super Highway became the exact sort of monster its name describes. What we need is a Communication Scenic Bike Trail. I want to be able to see what my friends are up to and get comfortably from point to point while surrounded by beauty and wonder.
I feel like getting “comfortably from point to point while surrounded by beauty and wonder” should be what we aspire to in every part of our lives, online and off.