Dusty White

I spent Saturday afternoon in a Presbyterian Church I’d never heard of, in a suburb I rarely visit, for a racial justice training. I’d do it again. Show Up For Racial Justice is an anti-racist organization meant to organize white people for action. The underlying premise is racism is white people’s problem and it is on us to fix it. I went to a training for people of faith. Do it. If you have the opportunity, just do it. Here are a few rough ideas that I got from it, which I wished to share.

Perfection is the expectation of white supremacy, the facilitator, Rev. Anne Dunlap, said. Aha, she is right. Your actions are unworthy if not perfect, you shouldn’t speak up unless you have exactly the right thing to say, your tone of voice and delivery have to be perfect. The person needs to be in the right sort of relationship with you. The stars need to align and then you can talk about racial oppression, this giant machine that pushes forward with every turn of even the littlest gear’s teeth. Your work is slowing the machine, sanding down the teeth, maybe even dismantling the gears. White supremacy demands waiting for the perfect sized hammer that will never come, instead of the one you can reach.

It was illuminating. Prior to that moment I’d struggle to understand what people meant by white supremacy being a scourge on white people’s souls. Listen: my concept of my own soul is like a cup of water held over a lake, only without the cup, just in your hands. It spills out, it’s poorly bounded, prone to evaporate – I mean, what is my soul? My humanism sits on the border of secular and religious. And to say it damages us when we were never meant to be whole to begin with (who gets through life unscathed?) seems a bit melodramatic. I have so little patience for that. But the expectation of perfection made sense. I’m not sure if it’s whiteness or the supremacy (what is whiteness without the supremacy?) but I appreciated that insight.

I’d been saying this, but I appreciated hearing it elsewhere: too many progressive tactics create boundary policing instead of persuasion. Are you a good person who agrees with me or a bad person who does not? Turns out the insult of saying someone is wrong or bad (white supremacy demands perfection for value – being wrong is a threat) is not really strategically effective. So ways to pull someone over. And I appreciate this because I keep finding myself in circumstances where it seems we’ve all forgotten we have to share this country with people we disagree with, and that is frustrating. I would like a shift towards a cultural value of compromise.

White supremacy has defined racism itself, and the way to cope with it, in such as way as to prevent it from being unraveled. Speaking of whiteness is taboo. I have started describing myself as white to strangers looking to meet me, and I sense discomfort with naming my race. It is invisible, co-opting a national culture as its own and claiming everything else is deviant. We have racial prejudice and system participation as making someone “bad” and then made “bad” the worse thing you can be, no acknowledgement of human failing. Thus confronting racism becomes a threat to a white person’s self-worth.

I wonder if having experiences where I feel I can no longer claim moral purity helps on this path. For instance, I’m not a vegan anymore. For a time I was an ardent one. And I wish I could go through the world with the vegan vision: not harming any other life with my own. I learned the hard way that a plant-exclusive diet was incompatible with my health. It was a myth, anyway: we live in houses made from the corpses of trees, wear clothes from the corpses of either plants, cows, or dinosaurs, farming hurts rodents, and I accidentally and unknowingly kill bugs as I walk. Washing my hands kills bacteria. I remember realizing this and felt like it had to be possible, if I just tried harder! Life requires death. I hate this. It’s a tension for me, that I hold, because I do value my existence, and the health of the other two people who have relied on my body for their well-being. And so white supremacy is also a tension, and confronting it feels less like an existential threat to my goodness because goodness is an ideal more so than a reality of perfection.

In any case – good training, you should go.

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Steel thread

photo by https://www.morguefile.com/creative/dave

photo by https://www.morguefile.com/creative/dave

I have been awake most of the last year, caring for a love of my life who can be forgiven on account of his youth (not yet 1 year old). When I am not at work, I’m holding at least 25 pounds. I’ve never been so muscular, or tired. Life feels intense.

Sleep deprivation is insidious. As much as the short-term effects railroad you, the long-term changes are subtler. Sleep deprivation becomes a thing that arrives on a schedule. You get so used to seeing the rails as co-occuring with the natural world, you forget that it’s a distortion, that it’s supposed to be uninterrupted forest. While my body became accustomed to traveling through the day on less sleep, its function has been sub-optimal. My brain is a computer with a lot of RAM and no hard-drive. The things I do to pull myself together are starting to contribute to a greater sense of coming apart. I sewed myself together with steel wire. Strong but brittle, the edges sometimes break and poke out, scratching others. The holes the wire passes through get wider, the rest of my softness no match for the thread. I am abrasive, and a touch less kind. Spiritually (for lack of a better term), I feel unbalanced. I am inclined to be to-the-point, but I am shooting off ideas like bb pellets. Ideas, particularly challenging ones, sometimes need to come delivered on a cushion to soften their landing and people are not targets. I saw this, but my body took on more of a marionette’s figure, with the wires clumsily guiding the conduct of the body.

Thankfully it is getting better.

My unpublished posts are dark, and full of terrors (but the delete key burns it away). Fatigue informed a perspective that was more nakedly fatalist and existential than I am. And I had just enough self-awareness to recognize the clouds, and wait for that to pass.

Thankfully, I am sleeping more.

I remember a throw-away comment from a professor in one of my psychology courses, that depressed people have been found to see things not worse as they are, but they just don’t have the buffer of optimism that psychologically healthy people have: they are more realistic. And it is very real that the world is full of suffering and that any moment’s peace is likely to be interrupted with countless potential disasters and that everyone you love will eventually die. These are all true. The world is also beautiful despite the suffering and despite the risks, and the ability to co-exist that is proving to be my personal indicator of how well I am doing.

My closest friend reminds me, “Don’t believe everything that you think.” Before they said that, it had never occurred to me to do so. I recommend it.

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It’s like a conversation at the cafe or a letter you threw out.

Cloud encroaching over a lake, sun reflecting on the unencroached part

photo by https://www.morguefile.com/creative/sarablu7

Some years ago I needed advice on a rather sensitive private matter. Unless you are in the web of family and friends I sought guidance from, I don’t really talk about it. I don’t need to; it is more or less resolved now.

I mention it because I also read a ton on the subject, mostly books and blogs, to figure it out what I needed to do. Reading is my therapy. Writing feels that way, but that is deceptive. Writing the sentences, structuring the argument, finding the flaws in my reasoning: those activities help me figure life out. But hitting the publish button? Eeeeeeeee, that is a different story. Then working out my issues becomes a social act. Then, get this, sometimes people READ IT, and then they know. Oh, they know. I love Anne Lamott, but the way the spotlight on her own life reflected onto her associates seemed too harsh to aim at anyone I know. Reading her books feels like inadvertently getting into her friends’ business and still feel like maybe I should not be there.

Other people did not necessarily have that inhibition, and fortunately for me, they were writing about that sensitive topic that I am still too bashful to discuss. They wrote their truths and self-published them on websites using their real names as the URLs. The wordsmithing was usually excellent and the content was desperately relevant. Wow, I thought. This is helpful. And you are bolder than me. In any case, thanks to all those writers out there: I needed to hear what you apparently needed to write.

Fast forward some years later. Most of those blogs are gone.

Let me explain something: there was an ad-hoc network of writers on these topics. They were religious for the most part. They hosted each other as guest-writers on each other’s websites and some of the bloggers got book deals. The books, alas, were disappointing as they read exactly as blogs did and often did not feel like anything new. But they were there. The writers had speaking gigs and conference addresses. I attended none of these. I just know they existed. I also was under the impression that everyone’s writing career was on the rise and I am surprised now to see how much of the work just vanished.

It is normal for fame to flash and fade, and I find myself wondering if the internet version is a spark of even quicker death. It is not just that the writers seem less prominent, but many of them took down their sites. Even a website that I wrote for disappeared, a fact that I discovered when I was looking for a particularly well-written extended metaphor that Tim Atkins wrote. I get it. I, too, have deleted most of what I wrote for the web. I have a kill clause on just about everything I put on the internet too. In 2018, this post will not be here.

They were good writers and the internet feels a bit emptier for their absence. This feels unexpected. Like how you know everyone is going to die eventually but are shocked to find out that an acquaintance’s day already passed. No, no, no: It is too soon. Everything is ephemeral, and while it feels like a death, it isn’t, it is just the world shifting and moving. The internet, in this mass-distribution form, is young. There is no reason to assume permanence except in the ways that it facilitates memory of the people using it. Unless, of course, it is incriminating, and then everyone screen-capped it.

Perhaps the writers deleted the websites when they too resolved that part of their life. Perhaps they fatigued of mentioning their troubles, and found the best way to move on was to cut ties with, and then delete, their art. The internet, and public discourse at large, has a nasty habit of transforming everyone and everything into two-dimensional cardboard cut-outs, and who wants theirs to be of intensely private and difficult matters? What happens when your public persona (as many of these writers were) is associated with a redemptive narrative around screwing up? Is it uplifting when it is fresh, only to feel like a tether later?

Some of the norms that people practice are informed by journalism, which act as if everything were still printed on paper and delivered on our front porch. If you consider writing art, then the internet can be more venue for performance than publishing house if one is liberal with the delete key.

I’ve come to consider blogs more a savored conversation at a cafĂ© and less like a book on the shelf. Perhaps like a piece of discarded correspondence, only the opposite of Onegin’s letters to Tatiana Larina: the sender, not the recipient, determined they were too dangerous to keep and tore them apart, shoving the pieces in the stove*.

*Or so is done in a movie adaptation. There’s no such reference in the original versed novel.

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Each day I rise

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I love my children as if it were breathing, as if it were instinct and vital to my being itself. It does not matter who or how they are, but it turns out I love these too.
I love my husband as I get out of bed in the morning: each day I rise, actively choosing to depart the bed, usually with ease but sometimes more deliberately. I have never regretted it.

On my left hand is an emerald ring; my husband gave it to me as a keepsake of the decision we made to marry each other. Emeralds are stones of imperfection: inclusions, fissures, tiny cracks. Its beauty is in the manner of which you come to appreciate its flaws; its endurance is in how you care for it. It seems a more appropriate stone to commemorate the very human institution of marriage than lauding the so-called perfection and indestructibility of a diamond. I have yet to meet anyone whose marriage was such, including mine.

The stories in our culture of love seem to prioritize dizzying infatuation and the sparkle over the sharp-image consideration. Unwise. There are too many stories (I am looking at you, Disney) that make all love seem like breathing and it seems to me that chosen partnerships simply do not work that way. There is no truth value to attraction beyond the attraction itself. I want to tell my kids – everyone has flaws, but find the person whose wholeness is of beauty, find the person of strong character whose personality works with their own, whose quirks they appreciate. A relationship is a deliberate act. Each day I rise and it is far better for the love and companionship of my spouse – deliberately chosen, every day again.

(With that said, he makes it easy.)

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A story, an observation, and a thought on Columbus

A story: Two tenants ago, after the previous owner of the house purchased it, my apartment had to be gutted to the studs. The house had been owned by a woman who lived in the upper flat; she let her nephew lived in the lower flat, where I live now. He moved out when she sold the house to a man on the street nicknamed “The Governor” because he owns most the doubles on the street and lives in one himself. By all accounts, the nephew struggled with hygiene, and the Governor decided that the apartment was uninhabitable. He hired the neighbors of mine who are contractors to rip out all the walls, all of the floors, refinish the wood and repaint the ceilings. My neighbors have told me stories of an excruciating stench of cat urine, of maggots under the floorboards, and general grossness.

My neighbors are disgusted just thinking of this job. Here’s the thing: it turns out they are good at what do and my apartment is currently really nice. You can tell the walls are new. There’s no lead paint anymore, which, in Buffalo, is a big deal. Any damage to the floors are from my family. They redid the insulation and replaced the windows so the apartment is snug and our heating bills are affordable. I really like living here, and we’re not leaving until we buy a house of our own.

That’s not to say that we celebrate the fact that the tenant two occupancies ago was a slob. That’s not to say we are happy to hear that there was tens of thousands of dollars of damage done to the house. It’s that we like the present circumstances, and the past happened.

An observation: More than a few American cities, San Francisco, Seattle, Spokane, Chicago, Boston, and to a much less degree Buffalo owe their current cityscape to the fact that there were enormous fires that cleared blocks of the city (and usually killed tens if not hundreds of people) at some point in its early history. In Seattle’s case, this allowed the city to upgrade a less-functional plumbing system. In other places, it often means that buildings were rebuilt, or new ones created, and so forth.

I think most people in those cities like the current layout, and few are nostalgic for the wooden-frame buildings that were lost. At the same time, you don’t see anyone celebrating the fire as if it were a good thing. It was a thing that happened, and we are generally glad that the product of our resiliency and ability to cope with the circumstances lead to something much nicer. I have yet to see a statue of fire, or stories told to kids of the great work fire did for our current society. I’ve never heard a discussion of these fires go, “Well, it was OK because look at our lifestyle now!” It was a thing that happened, and that is how we remember it.

A thought: American culture is strongly influenced by Judeo-Christian beliefs, and the origin story is one of original sin. Adam and Eve ate the forbidden apples and so humans occupy the world and not the garden of Eden as a result. Yet. The American myth surrounding our own origin story is one that’s cast in virtue, despite the fact that it is hardly virtuous. Columbus was a murderer. White Americans enslaved people. European settlers killed millions of indigenous people so that we could occupy this land. But we’ll tell a story of the American republic as if the European-origin perspective is the one that mattered, that we “discovered” land that other humans already knew about, we’re casually dishonest to ourselves about exactly how brutal slavery was. We, at least white people, tell a story of our own origin to our kids that creates the expectation of moral upstandingness when that is not the case. And then when the truth is revealed, like a family whose dark secrets inevitably come out, there is resistance to believing. No no no it is not true.

Add to this resistance that most white Americans, most Americans, would simply not exist had history not happened the way it did. European borders would have prevented most of my ancestors from meeting if they never came here. I suspect the same is true of my husband. I like existing. I believe most people do. And for white Americans, given our culture’s struggle to hold difficult truths in tension, acknowledging how dark and immoral our history was feels like an existential threat. If people behaved ethically in the past we would not exist. We want to be both virtuous and exist. But that is not possible, so the past is recast for lack of knowing how to cope, and with the privilege that comes of being in power, the story of the dominant group is the one that is most routinely told.

I think American society would be better off letting go of the need to be a squeaky-clean city on a hill and look with clear glasses at who we are, how we got here, and then decide moving forward how to be most ethical. Rewriting history to make ourselves seem virtuous is a liar’s errand. While we should acknowledge the dark parts of our history, I do not think we should celebrate it, and loft those whose actions were atrocious upon pedestals and declare their atrocities virtuous.

There is a petition in my city to recast Columbus Day as Indigenous People’s Day. If I were the one dealing in the symbolic economy, I’d petition to make the second Monday in October pass as unceremoniously any other Monday and give Indigenous People’s Day it’s own piece of the calendar, rather than have it marked in the shadow of the colonizer’s commemoration. But it’s not my day to do so, so sign that petition so I can tell my kids a story about how our society’s moved incrementally forward with being honest about our past.

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My Before-I-Turn-30 Bucket List

The Grim Reaper chases the author

An (Over) Dramatization

A woman I love a lot, whose relationship blurs between “friend” and “family” (literally – she’s marrying my husband’s brother) posted on Facebook a To-Do List Before Turning 30. All of the people who are older than her insisted that this is a silly idea. Age is just a number, they said, an opinion I’ve noted most popular among those who have lived a greater-than-median number of years.

I also have a before-30 list. Mine is far less fun than hers, which was a collection of interesting experiences to have and desserts to eat. (She is, by far, more fun to spend time with.) I figured I might share it though, as I am interested in how other people approach their milestone birthdays. I hesitated to post this, fearing sharing it was more an exercise in narcissism – it’s my own life after all. Who cares besides me? At the same time, aging is a universal experience among the lucky, so why not.

In no particular order:

1. Figure out how to wear makeup in a flattering way. I am aware this is what most women’s teenage years are for. I was too busy wearing nothing but black and participating in my own alienation. In college I was resentful of the patriarchy (hey, still am) and expectations that I be beautiful, and so I did not use makeup for that reason. Now? Well, I’m now One of Those People, people who don’t sleep, courtesy of a 23 pound eight month old who is as adorable as he is inclined to wake frequently. I decided I am too old not to know how to paint my face, so with the help of Google, Youtube, and Buzzfeed, I’ve been figuring it out. I think I can cross this one off, actually.

2. Get rid of the clothes I don’t wear and only keep the ones that look great on me. This is called a capsule wardrobe, and I’ve more or less done it since I was a teenager. I don’t have a lot of clothes, and most of them are black. Most of them match each other. Yet. It took years of thrifting (I buy almost nothing new) to figure out what actually looks good on me, and then I had children. My body’s still a strange shape from having babies so I decided that my gift to myself before turning thirty was culling my wardrobe of the stuff that no longer works, or doesn’t fit.

I am really lucky here – I have a good friend who is the size of Thinner Me. Being able to give her many of my too-small clothes has made culling it less an exercise in trying to mute society’s voices about women of a certain size and more an exercise in gift-giving. She could be donating everything afterwards wondering why I have such bizarre taste in clothes. That’s her prerogative and I’m totally cool with it, but it’s been such a better process thinking “Oh, [name] might like this!”

3. Accept the inevitability of death. Y’all, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to make this deadline. This is the root of all age-related anxiety, isn’t it? That our time is so short and our bodies are going to deteriorate (if we’re lucky to live long enough). I’m too old to pretend that death is something that happens to other people, and other people’s loved ones. It’s been clarifying thus far. I am embracing the ephemeral through my social media practices, which is liberating. The existential terror of knowing everything, and everyone you know, is temporary? Uh… about that.

4. Get better at letting go. It’s a combination of non-attachment and forgiveness of self and others. Once upon a time, I thought I was really good at not holding a grudge. I then learned that I wasn’t, it just so happened that few had angered me enough to be grudge-worthy. I also did not recognize how unreasonably high expectations for knowing things beyond my experience led me to begrudge myself rather harshly. I think I am improving, for a few reasons. One, I’m more discerning about my social circles, and slights from people outside of them? Whatever. The people in them? We’ve been able to work stuff out. Another thing that’s helped is having kids – my emotional energy goes mostly into them, and they provide a great lens for perspective. There are a few things I would like to leave in my twenties, all of which are some flavor of forgiving myself for stupidity or inexperience. Being on the older-end of 20s, I see that some times, but not all, I was too hard on myself for not understanding something or thinking I should be feeling something other than what I was. I am no longer holding my emotions to high moral standards. I am being real about what they are, and processing accordingly, that’s helping me let go of things. Recognizing that it is not completely possible to be the SuperWoman I aspire to be, and to be more compassionate to myself when I am not, has made me more effective as I accept my limitations. You can work with feelings and limitations that you’re brave enough to admit you have.

5. Get more sleep. Hahahahahahahaha I mean, a girl can dream, just not while she’s sleeping, because I’ve got babies.

6. Think ahead professionally. I have a fantastic job where I work with wonderful people doing meaningful and necessary work in ideal working conditions. It’s perfect, perfect for the moment. So on one hand, I am working to get better at it and learn more. As soon as I think I know what is going on… something else comes up. On the other hand, something this good risks complacency, and complacency kills creativity. I am old enough where I should have a 20 year plan and I should keep looking ahead, staying on top of the research, and figuring ways to do the work I do better and to figure out how I can keep adding to my community professionally.

7. Narrow my goals of what exactly it is that I want to accomplish in the community. I’m all about social justice. I’ve chosen to narrow that down to empowering the traditionally disempowered. Professionally, that means right now I’m working in homelessness alleviation. I dabbled a bit (I suppose that’s a fair way to describe it?) in other political stuff, and it is a useful somewhat-ongoing experience, in that it’s clarifying that I am not entirely sure what I am bringing to that table, or to the table of my community at large. I’ll always write about social justice, I’ll always be thinking about it, but what is my value-add to my community at large? What holes exist that I can put my talents to use? I have ideas, and by the time I am thirty, I want to have a clearer sense of something to explore, at least. I am old enough to realize that wide-eyed idealism is too naive to be practical, and to assess things a bit more accurately. I am also starting to see some glaring weaknesses in my social justice skill set. I need practice fundraising. I need to sharpen my political nose. I could stand to be better in the persuasion economy. These aren’t going to happen before I am thirty, but it is a goal for the next decade.

8. Relationship goals, writ large. Too personal to detail except that I have a happy family, with a happy spouse and happy kids, and so watching how we grow together. No one makes me feel so young and old simultaneously as my kids. I continue to seek to be a better member of my family, which is a learning process every day.

9. Re-anchor myself in my faith. To the extent that it is possible, I think can cross this one off. One of the ways that keeping my faith explicitly on my radar (it’s always implicitly there) is going to church. I tried to integrate into the nearby brick-and-mortar church’s community, but I came across a few structural obstacles, the greatest of which is my habit of taking weekends to visit out-of-town kin. Kin happens to be the reason we returned to New York State. Finding the challenge of becoming a member of a community without actually showing up to be a bit daunting, and because the friends and acquaintances I have in it are all fantastic people, I joined The Church of the Larger Fellowship. I am inspired by the work they do as a church, especially the prison ministry, and I am inspired by the faith-driven work of those involved in it. It’s not to say I won’t be darkening the door of the local brick-and-mortar churches when the opportunities present themselves; I will, but I am not relying on them for my spiritual anchor. I have been wondering what the implications of this mode of thinking could be if people started making such decisions en-mass; we’d need a new model of church.

10. Be OK with lists that are not an even ten items. Working on it.

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It feels like death but it is also very very freeing.

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I wrote those words in my journal (and then copied them with a steadier hand so I could take a picture). It feels like death. Obviously, I did not die. Mortality is on my mind with a milestone birthday in less than two months.

The thing with death is that it’s a when, not an if. And it’s not just me, it’s not just you, it is everyone, and it is every thing. My spouse, parents, children, friends, coworkers: everyone I know is going to die. Everyone you know is going to die. The world as we see it now, it’s only here to us now. And then time passes and circumstances shift and everything’s different and some things are gone. This is the way it is, this is the way it has always been.

I had a few things happen in the past year where I decided I would prefer to be in the memory of the people with me at the time, rather than accessible later on. I wanted to approach my ideas and presence like it was a gift to those with me then. So I did it. I deleted all the Tweets that Twitter allows (turns out, you can only access your most recent 3,200 of them), my tumblr posts prior to January 2016, and I marked all but the most policy-wonky posts on this website as private if they were posted prior to 2015. It felt like a death – one’s online presence is their content, after all – but it also felt very freeing, and very proper.

We do not take videos of our every moment and relive them later. If I want to think about the times I went with Jude to Diva Espresso, I need to go into my memories. I talk to them about it. I use social media as a conversational medium more than letters, and I wanted my presence to have that same wispy quality. I was inspired by how Jude uses tumblr (with an easy trigger-finger on the delete key). I read on Anil Dash’s Twitter that Prince often deletes posts after a few days. I have no idea if this is true, but I loved the idea.

So I deleted the tweets and posts and spent the rest of the day wandering around with my breath tight, like I just did something. Like I broke up with a boyfriend who was holding me back, or like I secretly acquired a passport. Like I did something so reckless, but it felt so proper. Yet, of course, no one cares as much as I do about my online content. No one is reading my twitter, over and over, now missing the absence of old tweets. And so it is with our lives too – our life is most important to our own self, a gift to be intimately savored. Our lives are uniquely ours, and no one else experiences it the same way.

I suppose I wanted my social media content to be more like me – mortal.

I am turning thirty in a few months. I am OK with it, happy even. My life has been very full, and overall I am content with the growth I have done and the experiences that I’ve had. Not everything worked. I had some very big failures. Life went on, and I went on with it. A colleague told me that she met a former student of mine and she described me as, “Intense.” I can’t dispute the description, though I never thought to describe myself that way. Generally, if I went towards something, I went all in, and experienced it for what it was worth. And when I chose to walk away, be it from graduate school, veganism, a few failed friendships, it was with a lot of hard-earned lessons.

Thirty brings a lot of consternation to a lot of people, though all my friends who reached the age say they prefer it. I am approaching it happy – I love my life. My husband and I have a fantastic, loving relationship. Our kids are wonderful, even beyond the much appreciated fact that they exist and are healthy. I feel like I have the job I am meant to have for this phase of life, and it’s a good one. When I look back on the last decade, I feel like I can say I tried a lot of things, I tried them fully, and learned so much. I feel like I belong- I belong to the universe, I belong in this era, I am supposed to be here doing the things I am doing. This is a feeling I would not have if I did not approach everything with my all and experienced the consequences accordingly. I am grateful for what has been a wonderful life thus far. I am thankful not to approach thirty with the sense that I am old, but the sense I am here, that life is a privilege that I get to live.

Life is a fleeting privilege.

And my social media now has an expiration date. I’m only going to keep the previous calendar year’s posts unless they are really policy wonky. And my tweets will delete after three months. I am going to sit with this way of internet existing, for awhile, and see how it goes. So far a few people on Twitter have mentioned a preference for expiring content. I wonder what other (your?) thoughts are.

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