I may have written my last novel. Who knows; I’ve said that before. But what a marathon they are. How exhausting. How far you have to travel outside the world—away from your loves, away from the living world.
No regrets, Coyote. I don’t regret these books of mine. Or the time I spent on them. They are my heart stitched onto sleeves; they are things left in drawers for my children to discover when they are older; they are strange smelling satchels for my unborn grandchildren to pull down from shelves and crack open. I wrote them and they exist—what a thing! What a feat. What a cache to leave behind: my little songs about how one might live well in this world.
But I don’t know if I want to do it again. My goal is to live on this sweet earth while I am still here, while it is still here. That means as much time as possible in the woods; as much time as possible in the garden (flowers, herbs, vegetables). My goal is to invite friends over. To put the kettle on for tea.
My goal is to help others find their voices, which is really helping them believe in and know themselves. I don’t think that’s going to happen via academia in the way I want it to, and so there will be some other pathway. Some room. Some gathering space. Some portal for connection.
There are not enough resources on this earth for all of us to keep living in the ways we have been living and so we must start living in other ways. Maybe that is what all my books are about—living in other ways. A poet with a bowl full of apples. A neighbor who sets out seed each night for foxes and porcupines. Every block of wood I place in the wood stove for heat was once a tree felled by a machine and split by a machine and driven to my house in a truck burning diesel. One must live with that knowledge now. One must tread carefully, not with fear or shame or anxiety, but with awareness and accountability.
How will you live, going forward? What promises will we make to ourselves, and which ones will we break? When is the flight worthwhile? When the fruit wrapped in plastic? When the Joy? What new footpaths can we find leading toward that Joy?
Sweet forest, everyone. Happy March. Month of madness and becoming. Sap and croci. Jean Valentine:
Never ran this hard through the valley
never ate so many stars
xx
Robin
READING:
Patricia Lockwood’s NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT THIS. (Loved. Also: we share a birthday.)
Jean Valentine’s DOOR IN THE MOUNTAIN. (We also share a birthday!)
ON THE STACK NEXT TO MY BED:
Brandon Hobson’s THE REMOVED
Jessica J. Lee’s TWO TREES MAKE A FOREST
Daisy Johnson’s FEN