I’ve written and deleted and rewritten this blog post six times now. I wanted to talk about how crazy it’s been in Alaska this month—heatwave wise, and complete political meltdown wise. I wanted to say how overwhelmed I feel as someone who is born and raised in this state, and loves it wholeheartedly and intends to raise my family and live out my years here. I wanted to say how worried I am as a mother to think about our children’s futures as our ocean warms and our natural resources dwindle. I wanted to say how heartsick I feel as an educator over the complete gutting of educational funding at all levels. I wanted to say as an Alaskan how much I love the way we come together and rise above our political and religious dogmas to help each other out when times get tough, but I’m not sure that people are willing to do that anymore. As someone who struggles with anxiety and depression I have had to take a hiatus from social media because people are so divided right now they can’t hold a civil discussion without it dissolving into complete and total ass-hattery and communicating via snarky memes. There is a lot of anger and confusion and hurt going on in our state right now; it feels almost insurmountable. Add to that the insane combination of national and international happenings and its just… I can’t. even.
When I feel this overwhelmed I find it’s helpful to reconnect in small ways. I spend time in my garden, I read & sing with my kids, and lately I’ve been tackling all the unfinished projects that have been waiting in the wings—mostly building and painting and repairing stuff. It’s meditative, and constructive in a way that nothing else seems to be at the moment. I haven’t been making any brooms, but I think I’m almost at a spot where I can get back in my studio and make some without dripping tears all over them. Did you ever see the movie Like Water for Chocolate? I watched that so long ago but I still vividly remember the scene where Tita is crying while she’s making the wedding cake and when the wedding guests eat it they all start crying and feeling ill. I think of that anytime I make stuff that I will be selling or gifting to people—you gotta put the good mojo into your art! It’s fine to drip tears in the garden though—plants seem to have better emotional filtration mechanisms than humans.
There is something reassuring in the perfect adaptation of this tiny spider that looks like part of a sweet pea blossom so it can sit un-noticed while insects fly into its waiting arms. Okay, now that I’ve written that it actually sounds kind of terrifying—but there is an order to this creation that gives me faith that things will work out the way they are meant to. The sun will come up, people will remember their humanity, the pumpkins will grow, and eventually the rain will fall and put these fires out.