Today I want to write about round things: full circles, or partial ones, I don’t care and am not feeling particular.
- I think roundness is the wave of the future, cresting being a curve I can get into.
- I’m looking at an old plastic drink cup full of eggs, it should be on everyone’s countertop, but maybe if it were, I would stare at it less. A cup full of curve.
- Our faces, all of our faces have it in common, this round, a series of squashed and stretched circles, combining to our individual mashups. So much fullness just rolling around in us, of us.
- I have a painting in my kitchen of the stains the bottom of a glass can make. I spent a lot of time with a red wine drinker in my early days, and I am less-constantly, but still dealing with it, it was an ugly and dying time, and long, so long. But the painting is beautiful, and I keep it to acknowledge that past and deeply bow to what I have done with it. It is on the wall of beautiful things.
- The round mouth of a coffee cup. The joy of that first sip, better than all the rest. (thank you tina, for the soundtrack I will carry now for the day.)
- My Instagram can go back to my small actions for breonna taylor. My brain has reconnected and it’s a full circle everywhere. The black and indigenous communities carried biden into office (and hopefully trump out, eventually, the whiney baby!) and none of the work has been completed in the circle to make the community a nation-wide one. All Americans.
- I sit near two wrought-iron plant-holding objects. They are as round as can be, and have been empty and sitting in their spot for at least a year, if not two. I don’t know what to do with them except look, trace their lines with my eyes.
- My former mother-in-law found them somewhere. I’ve known her since I was 15 and loved her then, my favorite teacher. She has lung cancer and dementia now. I cooked for her and her husband this past six weeks of treatment and visited each week. The first time I cooked, I lost my bits and sobbed into the food. It’s a lot. It’s all a lot. I wanted her for my mom in so many ways, then i got her as family. and its a lot.
- There is this illusion in me that circles don’t hurt, the roundness means no piercing, no wound. The first bullets were round though, right? and the simplest things can pop a balloon. So I am pierced, and deflated and flying around the room sometimes, my wholeness radically rearranging. And there is always still laundry, which is humor, but truly sometimes, a lifeline. A way to ‘do my job’ that never ends, and pulls me back down to purpose.
- Every houseplant is centered in a round. There is one in an owl’s head that is somewhat rectangular, but they are all still centered. Still. Centered. Its all about ‘around again.’ Perhaps I am too strong with the metaphors. Bring it back, Kate. Bring it back full circle.