Crys L teaches English and Communication Studies courses. She loves physical movement (things like biking, hiking, rucking, and yoga) and hanging out with her cat, Mariah. She enjoys thinking, thoughtful conversations, writing and being in community with others. She wrote this essay over the course of a year, hoping it might have an evident “ending.” Grief doesn’t work that way. She asks that if you are able, please donate to her friend’s Moe’s Gofundme page for his family in Gaza, or to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund.
On our way to the Hagerman National Refuge in Texas to go herping (looking for and admiring toads, frogs and snakes), we had a surplus of time and with it, re-routed to the Chickasaw National refuge, which the map indicated was nearby. There, we found hiking trails and blue-green bodies of water we could see all the way to the bottom of. I’d changed into my bathing suit in the backseat of the car, and together we navigated to a swimming spot unpopulated by others. In the creek, I’d found a spot of sun to sit under; its warmth felt like being held. I was so moved by the sound of the insects, gorgeous butterflies flitting about, the cool clearness of the water, the unexpectedness of encountering such a beautiful spot, how connected and contented I’d felt, how beautiful it was to gaze down the corridor of trees.
*
My sister died a year ago. She was forty-one, a mother to four children, and was addicted to drugs and alcohol. She was found in a snowbank during a winter month in Massachusetts, having overdosed and suffered multiple heart attacks. Since her death, I cry more readily and easily, often at unexpected times, often when I am experiencing something particularly delightful, usually during small and innocuous moments. My joy is connected to my sorrow. I think, too, when I am experiencing these moments, I am wondering if Megan ever experienced anything similar, and feel with this question an immediate guilt: that I get to still live in the home of my body while she does not. At Chickasaw National Refuge, I was sunbathing in crystal clear water, held by the light, content and crying all at the same time.
Behind me, my friend M forced adjustments into the water, eventually fully submerging into it— but not before letting out a series of shouts— bringing himself under the fast-moving waterfalls. Oh, so relaxing! So calming! So relaxing! yet continuing to force himself under the water; this goofy, singular, decidedly him moment causing my crying to cease, replaced by a gut-bursting laugh, during which I felt so much gratitude for this weird and wonderful human being, unlike anyone I’d ever met before, so singular and so himself. I had a crylaugh: moving through both emotions with depth and quickness. Later, we dried ourselves by the bank, laying under the sun; but, I couldn’t sleep. I kept propping myself on my elbows so I could watch him resting by the water.
*
This is how the whole of life feels lately: deep, from the gut joy and despondency flaring up all at once. In the mornings, I drink my coffee with daily news intake and learn that Netanyahu aims to take control of Gaza city, but not to keep it, to rid it of Hamas and return it to the people; his assertion an insult to any clear-minded person’s intelligence. I watched a whistle blower report that civilians are being shot at food distribution sites and every day there are no shortage of images of starving children.
I often feel that I am living through a fog, that I am parceling my own humanity into separate spheres, because it is impossible to hold the scope of human suffering within my mind. I/we are in a constant state of despair, despondency, because everything feels feeble and useless and without purpose when held against these larger systems of violence and corruption maintained through actors that fund and are made more powerful via their participation; whose eyes hold a certain notable darkness of lifelessness, indicators of evil in human form.
*
The whole of the universe is at the coffee shop on Peoria, where the reoccurring customer notes that his helmet still has that new car smell; where the barista and white-haired man exchange opinions about Johnny Cash and the older gentlemen covets the barista’s shirt and says I'll tell you what, I'll change shirts with ya; where the small group of older women gather around a low table and place their coffees together, chatting softly for an hour; where the aforementioned helmet-wearer is surprise gifted a book by the same barista and turns it over in his hands again, cover to cover, says thank you so much, thank you so much I'll get right on this; later says hello to another customer and then says I'll see you tomorrow before driving off on his scooter. I’m thinking about that I’ll see you tomorrow a lot—the delight of repetition and routine, which I am both drawn to and terrified by. I’m thinking about how another older man saw me smooth-talking his barking dogs from his front yard and said oh it's a beautiful night for a walk, and then clapped, said god bless you, be safe.
The whole of the universe is in the basement of the downtown library on Tuesday nights, where the room fills slowly of mostly aging persons wearing eyeglasses with straps, middle-aged couples, maybe a younger child that makes comments throughout the class, the woman with the burgundy cupping marks on her shoulder, the wife who reached for her husband and scratched his back during a longer pose, the teacher leading the session who asked what are the quality of your thoughts, what is the texture of your breath and later, if you want to play, you can do it this way. My gaze is on the floor, the whole time trying to stifle a scream or a cry or both thinking my god, my god, how can we be asked to live in this reality, this version of the world, closing my eyes and seeing bodies.
Metaphysical Mulch 