I wrangle with the fact that the things I don’t hear talked about very much are harder to start talking about. And I know that’s really what we’re all doing here... trying to give shapes to shapeless things. But I am not a poet, so I don’t relish the challenge or meet it with a full kit of magical superpowers like attentive patience and receptive determination and the crucial willingness to be burned and torn and unmade and then remade stronger in the process of giving birth to things that are taking their form through me for the very first time.
I notice that with things people talk about more, like the brokenness of systems, or the foolishness of other people, speaking can be like sliding into a groove that’s already been worn into the air by all of us talking~ kind of singing~ about something over days and generations. There are rhythms for talking about injustice. And melodies for remembrance and triumph and grief. But for the things that most want me to talk about them, I haven’t heard any songs. And so, talking about them is more like slowly knitting a full body sweater for a very patient, invisible elephant.