What I know to be circling inside me

Written by: Baily

It’s bigger, that’s for certain. It carries more weight, more importance, more eredita. 

It’s so much bigger than just 1 on 1 impact, although I do feel that’s important too. But this feels different.

Being pregnant has caused me to think across a more long-term timeline, one that doesn’t even include me anymore at some point (hopefully far down the road.) What impact will I have on the world that my son is soon to enter? Will I be able to rest peacefully and reflect upon my time here fondly when it’s all said and done? Or will I feel like I didn’t think, act, or impact things on a large enough scale on my Earth vacation?

The thing circling inside of me isn’t ego-driven, I’m thankful that’s become apparent. It’s humanity-driven. 

If we’re all given a talent or mission or purpose that we can choose to act upon or disregard, or worse, recognize but only ever go a little way in on , then who am I to plant seeds in the garden of small potatoes when it could be so much more?

Imposter syndrome absolutely feels the need to join in on this internal dialogue, because it too has a purpose - to hold you back, convince you that you’re not the right person for the job, that there are better, more qualified people to step up to the challenge. 

I’ve allowed the imposter syndrome voice inside of me to win many times in the past, but I wasn’t as stable and confident and unphased by irrational fears then as I am now. Perhaps it’s due to seeing so many people who I’d never recommend for a job not only get that job, but find a level of success I could have never assumed possible for them.

So if they can do it and do it well (or in many cases, mediocre at best), then why NOT me? 

Imposter syndrome also wants you to believe that there’s only one position to fill when it comes to life purposes and the like, but that’s unequivocally false. Moving humanity forward or leaving this planet and our society behind better than you found it is a team sport. What you can bring to the table will be different than what I will contribute, and it’s our powers combined that move the needle. 

What’s circling inside of me knows this, and always has. But know so do I. 

In the black house

Written by: Chelsea

In the black house there will be windows, big, tall, wide ones that bring the outside right in. The sky, the tops of the trees, the rolling, unruly meadow that just goes and goes and goes, maybe a couple sheep dotted in, snacking on the grass. In the black house there are more of us, three or four or five. The black house is about mothering. It is music playing on the house speakers in the morning as we brush our teeth. It is out together in the garden pulling the littlest weeds out from the rows of kale and carrots, all our feet in the earth, sitting down to eat a strawberry just off the vine and dripping red. The black house is where there is time for everything. We go fishing at dusk because it means we put our feet in the river and wash away the day’s dirt. The sign of a day well spent. Pete has a big barn, where he is building a line of furniture. The littles go visit him and he gives them a small hammer and a little nail, teaching them how to drive it into a piece of wood. They pretend to be hammering it in while they watch him, sawdust flying everywhere, turning a tree into a chair. He’s a magic worker. The black house would be too quiet if it was just the three or four or five of us, so we invite people in. In the forest there are three cabins, tucked amidst the trees, they can’t even see one another. We have visitors come— artists who paint in the adjoining studio, writers building a world of language, people thinking up what’s next, what’s best, and how we bridge the gap. They stay for a week or two at a time, coming to have supper with us a few nights a week, at a long, long table outdoors that we cover with a tan linen and line with bowls of vegetables from the gardens. Pete builds a fire when the last bit of supper has been eaten, and we sit and watch the flames crackle and dance, while we chat. The color melts out of the sky, and all the constellations come out. The littles curl up in our laps, and snuggle into us, too tired to be up still, but not yet wanting to go to bed. Life is better than dreams. I spend a few afternoons a week in the room at the tippy top of the house, the room with windows on all four sides, a greenhouse just for me. I read and read and read and write and write and write and think and think and think. I don’t know about what. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Our friends come visit from the city all the time. They come with their littles and they each get a cabin. We get out the sprinklers during the day, and the kids run around with the sheep, everyone getting soaked. We make them treasure maps and have scavenger hunts, and we make art out of the sticks we find on our walks. We paint with our fingertips and say our favorite lines of poetry out loud over and over and over until we live with the words within us. One night we set up a projector and screen, watching a film in the meadow with big bowls of popcorn and a nest of cozy blankets, everyone in their jammies.

What is circling in me?

Written by: Jillian

a confetti storm of messages
about fire
volcanic eruptions
lightning strikes 
of illumination
prophecy
revolution 
and sacrifice

sit, then
at the center of the hurricane
and let all the pieces settle
the notes dropping at your feet
one, then another
message upon message
galvanizing and confounding

sit then
and wait for the one that falls in your lap
read that one first
and then?
always the question of what to do then

just lean back and watch
watch the ember crawl and catch
feel the heat take hold and let it move you
where it will
let it open your throat
and use your voice
if you stay at the center and give the fire your hands for its use
somehow the work will start to play
with fire
with the joy of burning brighter and hotter
than the sun

sit very still at the edge of the fire,
feeling the press of its heat on your shins,
watching the blue at the center of the flames,
and wait for the message born out of the burning
the one that rises and then falls in your lap, 
a bit of still-hot ash with writing on it
a piece of the mystery revealed in a few words entirely for this moment 
that only you can decipher:
read that one on a searing inhale
and let it settle in deep
let the fire of it seed itself in your belly, your gut
and offer it the use of your body, your voice,
as its vehicle and chauffeur.

Here’s what might happen next.
You might find yourself wandering sidewalks, looking for feathers
or writing a letter you never thought you’d send.
You might feel compelled 
to look up
to buy a ticket
or board a boat.
You might suddenly fall asleep, and in sleeping, 
dream a new dream
of a new way forward
that only just now seems worth wondering about.

What might happen is
the courage to dance off that cliff you’ve been staking out
flirting with
or you might just decide to reinvent yourself on the spot, inside out. Starting now.
You might, there’s no telling.
And when you come to the next question, or the next full stop
sit again at the fire, ready and awake
or ground yourself in the eye of the whatever storm rages within you
sit again and again in still quiet waiting
for the next message to come and perch on your knee
and whisper its mantra 
its operating instructions
its fairy tale
its one small new thought
into your ear.
Don’t stand up
don’t get busy
until it does.