being unsettled

do we need new words for emotions?

Song Sparrow that has stopped by for a visit the last couple of weeks. photo by anne richardson

dear sojourner,

the hanging baskets that added a splash of color on my deck throughout the summer are looking ragged now. almost devoid of the blooms that reached for the sky-high Sun a month ago, i am allowing them to linger, the few remaining blossoms a source of nourishment for the hummingbird that stops by for a sip. it has been weeks since the house finches have visited to take advantage of one of the birdbaths. from what i’ve read they are not migratory though i suppose they could have moved within the neighborhood after their young fledged.

recently a new bird emerged from the Laurels that create a natural screen at the side edge of my deck, a Song Sparrow. Sparrow drinks or splashes in the shallower birdbath, momentarily hangs out on the rim of a chair, swoops down to a planter to see what’s of interest to snack on, then dives back into the safety of the hedge. some days Sparrow pauses long enough to offer a call or song. but most days Sparrow never rests in any one place for more than two, three seconds.

Sparrow’s flitting movements could be construed as being nervous…or instinctual, safety being a priority for such a small being. though i don’t see Cooper’s Hawks or other birds that would prey on my guest, i occasionally hear their calls and Sparrow would be much more aware than i, sensing something beyond my “knowing.”

i am unsettled these days. restless. as i watch Sparrow i see a mirror of myself flitting around inside my own abode. meandering around my mind, often unable to stay with any one thought for more than a few minutes. this unsettledness infiltrates my dreams. dreams, which i don’t expect to have a rhyme or reason, but at least have an archetypal underpinning. these days they are in chaos. my thoughts too are jumbled. i try to write cohesive sentences. instead words stammer, tumble, overlap, trip each other. they emulsify into a gooey pulp. frustrated i set my writing aside. first one day, then another until a week…now almost two has passed.

so i offer this post to you knowing it will never be “finished” but as an “offering.” why? perhaps you too are feeling unsettled. i imagine i am not the only one sensitive to the disquieted energy pooling at my feet and vining up my body. i am reading and (over)hearing about tendrils of unease in other Substacks, in conversations, in “random” encounters with strangers. so here, my fellow sojourner, are threads for you to weave in a way that makes sense to you, even as it is still unfolding for me

my head has been tired. my whole body weary. been dancing around with my migraines with more frequency than my dance card allows. one left me flattened for the better part of a day last week. already one this week with one tapping on the edges as i write this. when i lie down my body hums with a low vibration. is that coming from Earth? Oak outside my window? Moon as she ebbs and flows?

the Hunter Moon, a Super Moon, had a momentary reprieve from cloud cover wednesday night and dazzled me and was so bright my attempt at photos looked like a flashlight beam.

i was born in the darkest hours of night. my body syncs with Moon, but she is also one contributor to my migraines. still, i am faithful in my love of her.

full-ish Moon (98%) friday morning. she dazzled the pre-Sun morning Sky as Clouds waited to arrive until she had completed her passage through Night. photo by anne richardson

unsettled is a kind of scattering. writing is scattering words on the page. word seeds. idea seeds. blank-spaces-between-letters-not-seeds that are really seeds. i don’t know how they will land. which will find soil that will root them. which will become nourishment or decay (which is nourishment too.) which will lie dormant for years, waitingwaitingwaiting. some may fall into a dark crevasse and fossilize. seed fossils for some being to find as this Earth becomes its next self.

i notice the word|metaphor|concept of “seed” appearing in posts, poems, art at every turn. what is being seeded in me? in us? in the world? what am i planting? are we planting? what would it look like to be a seed?

emotions: mine are unsettled. as someone who tends to not be anxious, and, as i guess a therapist would say, “emotionally regulated,” i am finding this a rich area to be curious about (though not particularly comfortable.) my exploration as led me to this: i want new names for emotions. thundertides. quakesnaps. nightstills. owlshrills. talongrabs. windwinding-sandchatter. sheepcurls. emotions tied to landscapes|seascapes|desertscapes|animal bodies. raw and sensual. emotions with names so when you say them aloud your body responds viscerally. a room full of bodies vibrating with thundertides. softening into each other with sheepcurls. what emotions would you conjure in these unsettled times? please send me your names and ideas. let’s rewrite the “feelings chart.” (note: the word “emotion” and “feeling” are often used interchangeably, though if we were being picky they are not “the same.” we are not being picky.)

a lament is a song, poem, or piece of music expressing deep grief, sorrow, regret, or mourning about a thing or person now gone. (definition from online dictionary)

i’m an advocate for bringing the lament back into our public spaces. laments can be used to freely express emotions of grief, loss, sorrow. wailing, rending clothing, gutteral moaning are part of lamenting. in our button-up society only certain folks are allowed to express anger…and wailing, rending, moaning…well that might be considered “hysterics.” so the rest of us need to “regulate” anger and those other “troublesome” emotions. crying may be allowed at “sad” movies or other socially sanctioned events within reason. there are so many cultural rules as to when one can display what emotion, it is no wonder anxiety is on the rise in the west. i will likely annoy the therapists out there when i say perhaps we have gone too far in trying to “regulate” our emotions. so be it.

while i wholeheartedly find time in stillness and solitude that nourishes my soul, what i wouldn’t give to be able to wail, scream, and moan. but, alas, what would the neighbors think! what to do with all the thundertides roiling inside? the ever shifting inner landscape that has me unsettled. scattered. pacing.

once, when i was working as a hospice chaplain, the wonderful social worker i teamed up with and i did a Grief event at a skilled nursing facility where folks could throw eggs against a sheet. if they wanted they could yell, name their feelings, or anything else that needed a voice. it was powerful. got any eggs you want to throw? have you ever engaged in a lament? does it interest you? please share.

i find reassurance that i am not alone in my unsettledness. this is a time of deep transition. it is why i am drawn to the ponderings (and that feels like a puny description) of Báyò Akómoláfé and engagement with the emergent network (ten), where those in “community” (a word that is open to definition) dance with monsters and edges and thresholds. there is no striving for consensus or answers. instead an openness to imagining what will be as we let go of control as humans. ten is hosting a festival, becoming monster, a convening at the end of human from oct 30th-nov 3rd, 2024. it is a mix of zoom, hybrid, and in-person events.

to spark your curiosity this is from the registration page:

Welcome to the Threshold

Close your eyes. Let your senses blur. Breathe. What do you feel when you encounter the words “becoming monster?” What might it mean for you to see yourself as a process of encountering between modes of sensing? Is there resistance, fear, confusion, a queasy sense of disorientation? Or maybe there is a feeling of release or relief, limbs loosening, posture shifting.  Perhaps there’s excitement, a curious agitation or erotic stirring that you can’t quite name. Maybe it is the bewilderment of all at once.

Welcome to Becoming Monster, an ecology of spaces to feel, share, experiment and practice opening ourselves to the unknown, the unthinkable and unsayable. The aim of the festival is not to identify or name monsters, nor to redraw hard lines around the right and the good. Becoming Monster isn’t a prescription to cure the world’s ills. It is an exploration into a different materiality of grief and care in a time of loss, a celebration of our failures to become, an invitation to reimagine, re-feel and re-intuit what else it might mean to be human beyond the carceral narratives of white modernity.

thresholds. once i realized my call in the world was to be a “threshold dweller|dancer|navigator|guide” i couldn’t avoid the call, even if i wanted to. the sacredness of being in threshold spaces with others is not about being a dominate presence, but about paying attention. about noticing the wisping threads of stories and weaving a cloth to be used by the recipient however they desire, offered without attachment.

in my own unsettled time, this time where i sense i am in the midst of my own threshold, i grasp at wispy threads and wonder what they will weave. i watch Moon as she cycles around us. note the decay of summer abundance. wait for the first morning chill to mirror my breath. i allow practices that ground me to offer some “settling”…my regular lap swims and walks. time with friends. moving to favorite songs at the end of the day to connect with my body. and talking to my ancestors, especially now as we enter into the time of year when the veil is thin. and i wait. i wait. i wait.

substacks that resonated with me this week that might interest you:

gratitude: in their oct 8th substack, to make a snow angel on a stranger’s grave, Andrea Gibson shares their list of their “tiniest biggest dreams,” a kind of “bucket list” (Andrea is living with a terminal cancer diagnosis.) Andrea says:

My bucket list of little things aims to live every moment as if it’s my first. To find the glory in what a seasoned eye might falsely consider mundane. In the process of writing it, I was reminded how incredible every single moment can be if I allow myself to be truly present.

a timely reminder to focus on the small things, like the hummingbird that stops by for a sip, or the friend who sends a text to check in just because. and something for my list: to thank the crickets for their last chirp even though they have packed up their instruments for the season.

discovery: in her oct 8th substack, “do you have a ‘nerdy dopamine pathway,’?'“ Susan Cain’s (she writes about introverts) guest poster, Scott Barry Kaufman wrote about “wild introverts” and i saw myself. i feel seen! here’s a wee bit from the post:

“Here are a few statements that will give you a sense of how active your nerdy dopamine pathway is:

• I love spending time reflecting on things.

• I am full of ideas.

• I have a vivid imagination.

• I am interested in abstract ideas.

• I am curious about many different things.”

perhaps you have noticed this as you have read some of my posts as i try to get all that is flooding my inner landscape onto the page. how about you? do you identify as an introvert or extrovert (understanding it is continuum.)

there is more, but if i don’t wrap this post up, it will meander into next week, so thank you for hanging in with these unsettled, scattered words.

as we enter fully into autumn in the northern hemisphere, i am appreciating the shoulder season in my local farmers’ market (where i now volunteer) where fruits and veggies are plentiful and fresh, the assortment mimicking a crazy quilt of color. the rains returning to the pacific nw with predictions of early and plentiful snow in the Cascade Mountain range (and hoping for a much needed deep snow pack as a tincture for seasonal droughts.) Sun is laying lower in the sky as winter approaches, pulling Clouds over like a duvet. when Sun does radiate through, Maples and Oaks, not yet bare of leaves, filters the light like prayer, knowing november will bring storms, their leaves whisked away into the threshold. yes, it is threshold season.

in gratitude,

anne

autumn color at sunrise as i was leaving the community center. ah, the shifting light. photo by anne richardson