PicoBlog

On New Year’s Eve, I always sit with a fire in my backyard and write to finish up my yearly journal. This has been my tradition for nearly a decade and this year was no different, besides the fact that when I finally went inside I came down with a very intense case of food poisoning. It only lasted about forty-five minutes and honestly, I didn’t take it as an omen for 2024. Sickness is part of being alive in a human body on planet earth and hey, I ate the salmon willingly.

But the following day, the first of this fresh year, I was planning my trip out west and recognized how it felt to start a new cycle under the weird veil of bewilderment that Covid shrouds over us all. I’m not going to get into the new numbers or disconcerting data because heck, the details are disordered and triggering, and I’m a only poet with access to the same information as everyone else. I’m taking all the precautions I can for this trip. I have to accept these precautions as enough, if only so I can get some sleep.

I haven’t been sleeping well for quite a while. The second my head hits the pillow my mind starts spinning, eyes wide open, in a whirlwind of repetitive thought. I’m disheartened by this pandemic that continues to boom onward in the face of our collective exhaustion and desire to ignore it. I’m enraged about the genocides and constant killing that we can’t seem to stop no matter our demands. I’m heartbroken over ecocide and the way earth is ravaged daily without pause. How could I not be upset?

But I’m not saying poor me or throwing up my hands in defeat. I take a bath, meditate, and sing my soothing prayers. I call my inspiring friends and talk to my loving husband. I practice using my many tools to find balance, to be with the Divine and show up for my work as a writer. I try to turn my mind off in the dark, but it’s been a real doozy lately. I decided to share this with you because I imagine it’s been rough for so many of us. I imagine we’re all upset about so many things and well, I’m right there with you. You’re not alone in your broken state.

I try to make sure I also practice holding joy with my other emotions. The other day, I took our dog on a long walk out at Belle Isle because it was finally sunny. It hasn’t been a snowy or cold winter, which also worries me, and it’s been so grey every day. The constant grey definitely adds to the weight of things. I got my work done early in the day and let myself wander the trails, stare at the water, and soak up the bright light. On the walk back, I saw my sweet friends and wrote a love poem for them that I tucked under the windshield wiper of their car. A surprise for later. This made me happy for a while and I felt better after moving, recharged and even a bit relaxed. But when it was time to go to sleep, my freaked-out mind showed up again. Not even a glorious walk can replace the need for sleep.

I keep repeating: It’s a lot we’re holding right now. Way too much, all at once.

I read a beautiful piece in the New York Times by Mira Jacob called “Things I Thought Made Sense Just Don’t Anymore” and I hope you read it, too. Great writing often leaves me with a deep sense of interconnection. I read Jacob’s words and felt seen, known, and aligned. She touches on a feeling I have often, this deep hope that we’ll suddenly evolve, that we’ll find our big change and discover a way to shift our human story. I love believing in this. How could I not? Change is the reliable thing that happens on this planet floating in space. Something different will inevitably unfold, even if the cycle repeats itself, even as all of this horror looks so familiar, there’s still a chance for something new and we’re the ones who make that occur. I can hold on to that spark today and most days, but I admit, not all days.

It’s been a month since A Year in Practice came out and I’m so grateful for those of you who tell me what you think about it, who let me know that it’s just what you need right now. Currently, it’s easy for me to lose the thread of importance when thinking about this work of mine, but then I remember ecocide, then I remember how art instigates transformation, and I remember you, the way my words reach you, and something makes sense again. I’m thankful for this connection, for this cherished opportunity to listen to the earth, write it all down, and share it with you.

I’m bringing my book on a tiny two-stop California tour because that’s all I can muster up this time around. Los Angeles on January 16th - 7pm at Skylight Books and Arcata on January 20th - 7pm at Northtown Books. I’ve been stuck in a loop about this visit, playing out every potential scene, mulling over the best order of events. It’s the worst time of year to travel, because it’s winter and I should be taking my own advice from A Year in Practice, tucking myself into the sacred cave of rest and reflection. But the fact is my book just came out and it’s important to usher it into the world with care and timing. I want to bring it to my people and I’m eager to offer it up.

A few of my dear friends asked if I might postpone this book tour and wait for the right season. Normally, I would hold off until spring or summer, but now it’s finally time for me to pick up Tio (my beloved cat) and bring him to Detroit. Those who know me best know how seriously I take my responsibility as Tio’s guardian and his time in California has ended so…I’m coming for him!

Also, I haven’t been back to LA since the beginning of 2020! I’m so excited to see all of you, my loved ones, my creative west coast family who I miss every day, but I’m also full of grief and deep concerns about our world. I’m reeling because Covid has me whipped up in confusion and concern, yet again. I want everyone to wear masks and take tests before my events because I want to take care of each other. I know I definitely can’t afford to get sick, so I bet you can’t either. If you’re feeling even a bit sick, please don’t come out. I’ll offer more virtual experiences with the book in the coming months, I promise.

In all of my mental spinning, one thing is very clear to me: it’s absolutely worth it for us to continue creating, sharing and celebrating. We can be tired and worn and safe together to the best of our ability. I’ll read to you lovingly in my favorite bookstores and delight in seeing my work in your beautiful hands. I can hardly wait.

All of this to say, I’m with you in the chaos and pain, trying my best to weave in some bright visions, some tools of relief and inspiration. Even as I work with my personal tangle, I always find my way back to loving this planet, and that means all of us, too.

Below is a list of some podcasts that I recorded for A Year in Practice. You can find my brightness and hope in these interviews, especially in my most recent talk with the one and only Tami Simon. Every time I speak about the book, I resonate with the wisdom of seasonal rhythms and remind myself how important it is for us to remember the earth and its infinite guidance. Also, if listening to my voice is soothing or something you enjoy, don’t forget there’s an audiobook version of A Year in Practice read by yours truly.

Podcast links:

·       Insights at the Edge with Tami Simon

·       SoundFood Episode #74

·       Creative Culture Episode #79

·       Common Shapes with Marlee Grace

·       Mindful Minutes Episode #276

·       A Little Too Quiet – Ferndale Library Podcast

·       Emerging Form Episode #99

·       For the Wild Episode #352

I hope you when listen to and read my words, you can feel how much I care. The following poem is my first spontaneous verse of 2024. The person who placed this order simply wanted a poem about “emptiness” and this is what came rushing out of me in response. These typewriter poems often present the dark mixed with the light. When I read this one aloud, I gave a big exhale.

Here’s to holding hope and hopelessness all at once.

Here’s to a new year of much needed evolution.

I finish this month’s update with a piece by Anna Fusco. I love her work so much and feel such a kinship with her expressions. In my sleeplessness, in my devastation, I need not turn away, detach, or pretend. I’m here with you, feeling it all.

With infinite thanks,

Jacqueline

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