return and shift (at the same time)

The horizon line was right in front of me today, stretched long from no end to no end, but my eyes were trained the shore. The waves smacking against the kids’ legs and them throwing oyster and mussel shells out to sea, only to have the same ones come back over and over again.

I don’t quite know what to write anymore. I feel rusty and weighted. I am slacking, losing tone. I am unable to access the tender parts that made it a little easier to pour words into a cup for you to drink.

It’s all taking so very long.

Push, push, hurry, get there, don’t get there, never arrive, and then go to sleep, if you’re lucky, and do it all again in the morning. Email, think, think hard, forget for a moment, practice your city driving on the Belt. See a MAGA hat on Court street, wave at Louie, cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he locks up the restaurant upstairs from which he was born. Say their names, type anything you want and hope it feels useful.

Distracted, waiting for the book I ordered, looking at others half-started, some twice read, wondering if they’ll ever get finished.

I’m sorry I don’t have more for you tonight.
I want to give you more.
I need a somatic approach to everything
But I did just accidentally discover a keyboard shortcut —
that allows me to format in single space.
A real game changer!

Because, if you did not know,
when you press enter here, it usually
double spaces, automatically.

I don’t want it to be
hard I want it to be
this keyboard shortcut
which is return and shift
at the same time.

Or, I could tell you more. I could say that five years ago, to the day, I was sitting in circle with a gathering of ten women. Inside a small tent and within the span of more than three hours, we worked backwards to clear the grief of five generations of our matrilineal lines. Afterwards, we all lay on the ground beside one another and drank root tea others prepared for us. I can’t tell you how sick I became afterwards; it was absolutely relentless. The grief of five prior generations wracking my body with pain for days —and afterwards, leaving me smiling and still.

Transformation is always possible.
It’s Saturday night.
And I learned something new.

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Lauren Sharpe

brooklyn, ny — theater maker/feels taker/educator/learner she/her/hers