May

10

2025

WHAT MAKES ME CRY

I find myself crying at parades, particularly when I watch marching bands. How does such a diverse group of individuals come together to play music while marching down the street, often clad in identical, uncomfortable uniforms? Yet they are committed to the whole. Their individual contributions are vital to creating a shared moment for themselves and for the audience.

This experience reminds me of home, which is filled with countless items: photos, furniture, old letters, books, tables, and chairs—everything that transforms a house into someone's home. When one of these elements is removed, it fails to capture the essence of that home on its own. It becomes isolated, diminishing in significance. Just like a marching band, a home is built from many components that must coexist to evoke powerful emotions and a recognition of a singular identity. 

Occasionally, I come across displays in stores of large collections. Recently I saw one featuring an array of beautiful ceramic bowls in various colors. I found myself wanting to take the entire collection, as a single bowl felt lost and empty without the others.

We had 25 minutes to pack our home and evacuate. A wildfire seemed to appear out of nowhere. Flames were moving fast from the canyon close by. We could see the glow of the fire and even watch embers dancing in the air. In the chaos, I hurriedly grabbed hard drives and photo albums, but eventually found myself standing frozen in the middle of my home, overwhelmed and unable to make decisions. Everything seemed equally valuable, integral to the life we had built together. I simply couldn’t envision my life in fragments; I question whether it’s even possible.

So, I carelessly tossed dirty laundry in with my clean clothes to fill the suitcase, neglecting beloved clothing, cherished books, and artwork adorning the walls. I packed what felt necessary in that frantic moment: notebooks for teaching and current classes, forgetting the notebooks filled with inspiration—those from my college days studying dance with Betty Walberg, and choreography notes and ideas collected over the past 30 years that still resonate deeply.

Now, we are grappling with the ramifications of starting anew—collecting, creating, and marching in the parade of a life that has suddenly transformed. As I look around the house we plan to call home for the next few years, it feels more like an Airbnb than a place of belonging. Excitement coexists with regret and mourning. I am left waiting and hoping for that familiar feeling I get when I watch a parade. Will it return the second time around?

May 21, 2025

PING PONG BALLS

On one of the first nights after the fire, I thought about the giant bag of ping pong balls left in the closet. A kid who came to one of Nuala’s birthday parties, played a little too hard and fast in the backyard and lost most of our balls. He felt bad and ordered a bag of at least 100 of them. When they arrived we had already gotten rid of the ping pong table. So, I stored them in the closet. Did they melt when the fire hit or did they pop as the air was sucked out of them. 

These balls meant nothing to me but they appear in my mind and they reappear when I find myself remembering things we lost in the fire. I have a very clear image of small white balls in a plastic bag on the top shelf of our hall closet. A bag I no longer needed, and I see them almost every day. Perfect white round shapes, that reminded me of the eccentric items we all store somewhere.

Some people listen when we retell the story of leaving our home with just a car full of belongings, others seem to be listening but turn the conversation toward them. Sharing stories they think are the same as losing almost everything you own. It’s not the same. It’s not even the same between those of us who have all experienced this. 

I want to walk by the framed photo of my mother as a toddler sitting next to her twin sister. The picture where she looks most like my daughter. I want to be reminded of my sister’s engagement party on a hot day in a park which ended in a water fight. Paul captured her at a moment of exhaustion, looking at the camera, her shirt and hair dripping. The one painting from Gene that we hung in Nuala’s room even though it was too big and took up the entire wall. I loved it. And how odd that so many visitors never even noticed it. Mike’s painting I bought for Paul. A man standing on the corner of a sidewalk with his hands raised as if he was in the middle of performing one of my dance phrases. 

I want to know what happens when a refrigerator burns, a bed, my shoes, all the VHS tapes stored in a closet. The drawer in the bathroom full of hair ties and strands of hair. All the towels I folded over and over again. The full length mirror in our bedroom and Paul’s hats. What did it look like when the flames took over the photographs spread along the dresser - Nuala at the beach. The giant framed photo of a man in China picking up take out food. His face looks right at Paul’s camera, he leans to one side and his bike leans agains the building. A bike that looks as if it barely stays in tact with wire and rope. No longer will my friend, April, ask me how I sleep in a room with a man like that looking at me. 

People tell me their stories thinking they know. How could anyone know until it happens. 

June 10, 2025

June 21, 2025

PATIENCE

Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard by Kay Ryan

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.

How is it so effortless for people to navigate the world oblivious to how difficult it is for others? They don’t see that your mother has just passed away, that you are battling a terminal illness, or that everything you possessed has been destroyed. At times, you feel the urge to stand on a hill and shout, “Do you know what just happened to me? Do you realize how hard this is?” But you restrain yourself, knowing that everyone would rush up that hill to share their own burdens. The overwhelming cacophony of all that suffering would be too much to bear.

Still, I wish we all had more imagination and curiosity to understand how others cope. The echoes of such events never truly fade; we are marked, scarred, and forever changed. I often find myself wishing I could simply move on, that this new life I’m leading could erase the memories of the past. Sometimes it does, but I cannot deny how my experiences have shaped me. My home, my belongings, and the everyday habits I developed in the place I lived longer than anywhere else have all contributed to my sense of self in ways that only loss can illuminate.

I miss seeing the titles of the books on my shelf, even those I hadn’t revisited in years. They were reminders of how to think, how different characters and authors engaged with the world. I cherished all of Iris Murdoch’s novels because my mother once worked in a bookstore and was able to send me each one until I had the complete collection. She even sent me Edward Tufte’s books—not because I asked for them, but because I mentioned him in a conversation, and she recognized the titles when she saw them in the store. I remember my numerous art books on artists like Joan Mitchell, one of my all-time favorites, as well as Hilma af Klint, Douglas Dubois, Yvonne Rainer, Marlene Dumas, Jennifer Packer, and poetry collections by Atsuro Riley and Kay Ryan. I had all of A.S. Byatt’s novels. Being reminded of these artists every day was a gift I took for granted; it enriched my life not just through physical things, but by inspiring me to think more deeply, question, create, and imagine.

This grief process seems to resist simple understanding. I don’t expect others to comprehend my struggles while I am still grappling with confusion myself. Therefore, I extend patience and compassion to those who cannot see how challenging this continues to be. I am skilled at compartmentalizing, managing my responsibilities, and maintaining control. Maybe now is the time to ease off on that instinct and allow a little more patience and compassion for myself.

July 14, 2025

WHEN WILL I EVER REALLY SLEEP AGAIN?

I woke up at 3:30 AM, thinking about the photographs of my younger self that I will never see again. A dog barked in the distance, too close to ignore. I felt a sense of sadness knowing that I may not be remembered like someone famous, which is ridiculous and embarrassing to think is important. There’s no evidence that I was once a young person or an artist.

I remembered the emails K and I exchanged, printed out and saved. My notebooks filled with handwritten notes. The photos from our first trip to Europe—the Polaroids I took every day and awkwardly taped into notebooks with captions that didn’t add much—are all gone now. Some memories remain in my mind, but they feel heavier as time passes.

I had written a letter for P and N to open only if I died unexpectedly. That’s lost too, likely too dramatic for its own good.

I put earplugs in my ears, feeling hot then cold. My hip hurt, and I couldn’t decide which side to sleep on. I wished I could sleep on my back, but snoring and leg aches kept me awake. I set the alarm for 6 AM, realizing it was only 3:45. I could easily oversleep before class at 9.

There’s so little of my past that a historian might find. But why does that matter? Is it just a fantasy of mine?