Life can be exhausting.
A cozy, cream blanket.
It's Labour Day and I'm thinking about the ways that labour works.
The labour of getting up, for example. The labour of tending to what needs to tending, of seeing the headlines and still eating breakfast. The labour of phones beeping and toes getting stubbed and the dentist appointment that needs to be rescheduled, guilt rising again.
I hear it constantly in my intake phone calls with new students.
I just need a break.
I want to make something that's just for me.
I haven’t felt a spark in so long.
When I’m tired I crave Drag Race and outlandishly flavoured potato chips. (Marshall is also a fan.) I don't even like chips, but the combination of them with blankets and TV on is intoxicating. I want to be nowhere, invisible, far from the noise. I'm sure you have your version. And it's good; Ru's eye shadow like a purple sunset, fake dill pickle vibrating on my lips. I'm not ashamed. Or I try not to be. Sometimes that's work too.
But that scene — the hiding out, the dulling of senses — doesn't actually make me feel better.
For me, better comes from slow quiet morning moments listening to the dog crunch his kibble. Better comes from helping, going, volunteering, small actions towards the good. Better comes from writing letters to old friends, pen pressing against the page.
I'm just ending a vacation today, a vacation that I mostly handed over to the Ru-Paul-Dill-Pickle-Chips version of rest, and I'm feeling off. Labour day, back at my desk, restless and un-rested, hungry. I know that what's missing isn't energy, it's vitality, verve, aliveness.
Now of course, I'm biased…. But I've seen a million times how writing and vitality are twisted together so tight you can't find the line. Another couple things I hear All The Time:
I was so tired I didn't want to come to class tonight but now I can't imagine having missed this.
I can't believe I'm leaving with more energy than I had coming in.
I feel like staying up all night writing.
Making stuff feels good. Being seen is exhilarating. Telling our stories shakes out our insides, moves our blood around, changes the air in the room.
If you want to breathe some fire into your fall, we’ve just launched our menu of, I believe, stunningly beautiful ways to do so.
Whatever your path, I'm wishing you sparks as the air hardens off and the nights spread out. We're here for your voice, and for the fire that's released when you use it. We're also here for crinkle chips and TV in bed, or whatever your version of that may be.
In it with you,
