“The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.” -Sheryl Strayed
It does seem hopeless at the end of days. The monotony, the constant chatter, the escape to the toilet as haven. The balancing of earner, partner, parent, daughter, coworker. How do you even carve a moment for self, other than sleep? But the mornings, the mornings are promises. Promises of opportunities and in the hush of the enrapturing chill I wake up and imagine the possibilities. Today is the day I will immerse in rapt attentiveness, segmented of course. All these little things, the witnessing of pencil grips, the figuring of codable action moves, the listening to “Hello, blankRoads”, the deciphering of crusts on or off, the caterpillar curves before students congregation virtually, spiraling towards human connection, futurising place health relationships. Slivers of our becoming.