April Newsletter

The human experience, the breeze through a window listening to a ball game on the radio, and not doing life alone.

I started writing this newsletter many times over the past few days; I would type a paragraph or two, then delete everything.

The last thing I remember writing was a memory of being younger, spending a summer in Long Beach, naïve and not particularly concerned with what went on in the world. I remembered the scent of watermelon body lotion, and a BBQ with friends not far from the beach; it was the summer of 2001, I believe.

But that wasn’t what I wanted to write about. It had come to mind after an Incubus song played one the radio, one afternoon, as I was headed to pick up Catherine from school; that’s when, for a brief moment, I remembered innocence and lack of responsibility. I wanted to explore the nature of that feeling as opposed to the relentless awareness of the dark and cruel days we are living in.

But the draft didn’t go far.

Did I want to tell you that two days ago I cried in the middle of my regular barre class because my left leg didn't hold me and I had to stop, and that my left arm couldn’t keep lifting a 1 lb. weight? It had never happened before, not to that extent, at least: I was scared, tired, angry.