Going and coming back, the impulse to reactivate this blog has swelled, retreated, and now reached a tipping point where posting something every so often is a better use of the energy I put into wondering whether or not to resume posting.
Why return here, rather than start over under another header? Because the Place Between Stories won’t go away. It’s always present: in the moments that pass, expectant and unnoticed, between one breath and another. Because I haven’t left it, and it certainly won’t leave me, except with a mind-tangle of partly-thought thoughts that have no place else they want to belong. The question has arisen of who or what I am obeying by denying a home to this particular family of thoughts, these pressures of impression and experience that seek shape in writing.
In order to thrive, things have to exist in shapes you least expect. Before getting to here, the re-gestation of this blog has shed a number of skins of outdated formulation. Threads and patterns from before can indeed be left hanging there, gestures towards understanding generate resistance. Encompassing the world in a grain of sand, squinting at it from a distance, and passing judgment; that had to drop.
This much carries me on: that the world appears a stubbornly darker, crueler and stupider place since I last wrote regularly here. (Dark in the sense of mechanical destruction on repeat, not the fertile dark of rest, winter, the insides of womb and soil). It also appears, in the same momentum, stronger and lighter, as more intricate, just and joyful possibilities for living, deeper wisdoms, greater love, all stubbornly gain substance and traction.
It never satisfies me to weave, or be told, a story that makes too much anticipatory sense out of these two simultaneous growths. Some important wrinkle in reality is inevitably flattened out or overlooked, the encultured expectation that the heroine will make it to the other side of the abyss builds in only the gagged possibility that she won’t. Without a story, experience of the present world doesn’t file away so readily behind labels like ‘positive’, ‘negative’, ‘hope’, ‘despair’, ‘optimism’ and ‘pessimism’; words that are worth weighing, whenever you read or use them, for the extent to which they silence, oversimplify and police what is being admitted, and how far they allow the honest, unqualified movement of experience into expression.
Expectant and unnoticed, change waits between one breath and another. There is no point trying to force change to happen: as soon as you try to fit it to the pattern of what you already know, it slips away, and goes back to waiting. Waiting for the change that you already are, and that you do not know is possible, to ripen. Waiting for the light you have named inside you to crack open, and shine another light into the world. Another light which, until you know otherwise, it is better to leave nameless.