don't wear it out

I remember vividly that the year I turned 14, suddenly it seemed as though all three-year-olds in spitting distance had my name. I'd be in the grocery store and I'd turn around every other minute because someone would be shouting it. Certainly, my name never did live up to the key reason my parents bestowed it to me - that it was unique. They always chalked up its popularity to the soap opera character with my name who was popular when I was a toddler. That and the fact that we moved into the heart of the Boston Irish when I was two. But there was a definite explosion around the late '80s, early '90s. All this to say, that instinct was confirmed for me today when it dawned on me that all those three year olds must be around 20 now. When I'm at the Starbucks where I hold my office hours (the Starbucks that used to be the Indiana Memorial Union Gallery, for those interested), one out of every five people waiting for some sort of coffee drink has my name. And as I sit there doing my work, I look up every few minutes wondering who's calling me.

cold praise

Paula's in town and we're going for a walk in the autumnal splendor. Last night Alyce Miller and Ross Gay read beautiful pieces at my house while lots of people looked on in delight. V made mulled cider with rum and I made a Turkish feta/parsley/filo dish whose name I can't spell. I took pictures and maybe I will post some later. It's always nice having people in my space. Opening up the household makes me feel as generous as I want to be all the time. It makes me feel better about my capacity for open-heartedness, especially in times in which said capacity can feel like a handicap or a challenge. Ross Gay read poems that were praiseful, including one about Roti which made me think of Elissa. Listening, I immediately wished I had more capacity for writing joyful poems. When I asked him about it, however, his answer made so much sense to me. His joyful poems are in service of a larger project which is much more painful. His poems were written into this project as an attempt to reconcile the joyfulness in his character with the strident qualities of his writing, which if you know it, is often more political, more cutting. Of course I'm paraphrasing entirely.

Praise the cranberry pancakes at Uptown. Praise the thick-knit sweater. Praise the bits of yarn that change hands, even after the hands are closed. Praise the sway Nina Simone calls out of the hips. Praise the navigating mind. Praise lip balm. Praise the empathy that engenders guilt, even as you surrender guilt. Praise mopped floors. Praise toes even the cold ones. Praise language even when it lets you down.