How do we repent the fact we live on stolen land that we cannot give back? How do I reckon with the constellation of privilege against a sky so black?
Tonight, working on my dissertation (I am working on my dissertation) I googled a phrase: “I understand myself as a series of stories.” And it brought me here, to my own blog, to memories that don’t feel like mine, like the day in May when I wrote about swimming, and feeling so strong.
These few months passed, I have been brought low by my own body. I am recovering from a surgery that I had in September, a procedure that gave me back my life, is giving it back even now, day by day and little by little. I fought hard to strengthen what remained. I have never been so determined. And even now, tempted to write about my disappointment, the hope holds sway. I believe, absolutely, that a year from now I will be the best I’ve ever been.
How did I learn to hope like this?
It’s been a hell of a year:
“been scared and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,
Looks like between ’em they done
Tried to make me
Stop laughin’, stop lovin’, stop livin’–
But I don’t care!
I’m still here!”
Yeah baby. Still here.