In June, my show wrapped with a very fun and exciting run. The kids just finished school last Thursday, with all the big feelings and end-of-year gatherings, and I’ve been delighting in so many moments of real summering: beaches, cookouts, birthday parties, trail hikes… it almost feels like pre-pandemic times, with everyone joyful in gathering together and celebrating milestones with love and connection.
And it’s not lost on me how precious it all is. So. Precious.
Orienting to the devastation of lives and land, near and far, can lock me into a numbing orbit. It becomes hard to unhook from the narrative: “the world is burning, people are horrible, the apocalypse has begun.” Then what? Is there permission to drink in…
Let’s consider how potent personal narratives are — our core narratives, how they literally shape our bodies, muscles, impulses, and ideas. What happens when we shape ourselves around a story like this? And how can we bear witness to horrific stories while still staying open to the emergent story of our own lives? How do we extend care, resist destruction and violence, and remain present to the daily gifts around us?
Here’s my hunch: impulse does not care about our stories. Impulse is aliveness itself. And when given conditions to move freely, our movement becomes an expression of that aliveness. Impulse is revolutionary in the ways it resists reinforcing destruction and violence, instead moving toward what nurtures life. Plants turn themselves toward sunlight, dogs love those who feed them, people keep making art despite everything.
I resist these narratives. I refuse to normalize violence and neglect.