Look at me, not crashing

Doing my best with what's left. And a poem.

If you prefer listening, you can do that here. But do let me know you stopped by. ⬇️

Frozen in time: I have a thing for old houses and barns. Grabbed this picture on my way to a farm event early one morning.

Many years ago, a man twice my age, of whom I have since lost track, made a remark I’ve never forgotten. If we were pioneers headed west together in a prairie schooner, he said he would want me driving the wagon. I do not think of myself as especially bold or particularly brave, but I am someone who tries to pay attention even when I am not sure what to do with what I see.

Lately that has felt harder. There is a lot of pressure to speak with authority, to have a take that cuts through the noise, to offer leadership or solutions, an exacting analysis or the right kind of outrage, and the truth is that I do not have much of that in me right now. What I have instead is a strong resistance to pretending I do.

This past weekend I attended the inaugural Wham Bam Thank You Slam, a live, virtual storytelling event hosted by Nan Tepper and Eileen Dougharty , two people I deeply admire. Ten feminist Substack writers told honest, witty, wonderful stories that polished up parts of me that had gone a little dull. With votes from the audience, one writer was chosen as the winner.

A day later the hosts came back to say they’d changed their minds. They didn’t like the competition, didn’t like the isolation of it, or the way it pitted people against one another. They wanted something more communal and connective. They are keeping the slam but ditching the voting, because when everyone shows up with something true, winning starts to feel beside the point. Especially now.

For the record, I am not a “participation award” evangelist. In fact, I think teaching kids—and their parents—that awards come easily is counterproductive. The world is not short on ways to measure, rank, and reward. It hands out plenty of gold stars and occasionally, Nobel Peace Prizes, but it does not offer much recognition for showing up with a willingness to see yourself honestly. That part is mostly on us to recognize.

I’ve known for a long time that I am not competitive. But the truer truth is that I do not seek out spaces likely to erode my confidence. I’ve worked a lifetime to build it, and I’m still not done; I’m of no mind to offer any of it up for sport now.

I think a lot of us are confusing courage with performance. We talk about bravery as if it always has to look like charging forward or proving something, but there is a steadier, less assertive kind of courage that looks like examining your own privilege, checking on your neighbor, joining a sledding event while ICE occupies your city, telling your own story and making room for others’ voices—in spite of it all.

My recent sleep-dreams have been unusually vivid. I’ve been moving too much too fast, veering off course, flung airborne above open fields and dense forests, forced to prepare for a deadly crash. Instead, using skills I did not know I had, I’ve managed to land, controlled and intact. I don’t take that as prophecy or symbolism so much as reassurance. We are learning as we go even when it doesn’t register as progress.

The poem that follows came out of all of this, a set of instructions I needed right now: sit, read, notice, and share; apply pressure where needed; be generous; do not go alone.

We don’t have to be fearless or exceptional to trust that every time we keep ourselves and others from crashing, it is a way of carrying the torch.

Pull up the chair

Pull up the chair to write the words
Even if you’re sure they’ve stopped working.

Sit with the words to witness the feeling
Of placing your hands on the pain.

Let them caress the wounds of corruption
Add pressure to stop the bleeding.

Boundless darkness stippled with stars
The work is in the carrying.

Sit in the circle to share the stories
Ancient wisdom is speaking.

Then lock arms and expand into the night
Listening and listening for dawn.

~Elizabeth

A working chair is a good place to sit.

And now, I’m excited to read your thoughts. I keep thinking about the difference between crashing and carrying — about how much of life happens in that middle space where nothing is especially triumphant.

If you’re inclined to comment, I’m curious:

Where are you applying pressure right now, and where are you letting something rest?

What are you carrying that doesn’t look like much from the outside but matters to you?

What’s one small way you’ve not crashed this week?

A sentence is plenty. A fragment is welcome. Pull up the chair. Nobody’s grammar checking here, and there are no winners or losers. Also no gold stars for participation, but I will happily give out gratitude.

Or you can just sit with it. No matter what, I’m super glad we’re in this together.