Thursday, May 20
Dear friend,
In April, an essay I wrote appeared in one of my favorite online journals. It’s about moving into our new home mid-pandemic, and choosing to put down roots. In “The Garden We Won’t Leave Behind,” I wrote about preparing the ground for another vegetable garden, one we hope we’ll get to keep this time, beside a bed of established peonies in the backyard.
The day we moved, it looked to me like the peonies had been torn out. It was late summer, and we were poised at the edge of a lot of unknowns. The embers of an unprecedented season of wildfires were still smoldering all over Oregon. We were headed into fall without a vaccine, not knowing when it would be available or who would be president come January. I was at the beginning of my third trimester with two young kids at home, no childcare, and worsening chronic illness.
When I looked down at the bare earth where the peonies had been, all I saw was absence. I’d never grown peonies before, but I had a vague idea that they were tubers, like dahlias: plants I knew nothing about except that they needed careful handling. I assumed that because I couldn’t see the lush, leafy plant anymore, the peonies had all been yanked out, roots and all.
But this spring, we watched as dozens of red, asparagus-like shoots began to uncurl from the ground. Little by little, they grew into taller stalks that opened into rich green leaves, and not just the one or two plants I remembered from the late summer. By early May, the entire flower bed was crowded with green. Plant after sturdy plant, the peonies were crowned with clusters of buds in a deep blush.
Poets like metaphors, but really, humans like metaphors. They’re a form of pattern-making, a way to create symmetry, order, and meaning out of a constant flow of experiences that can otherwise feel arbitrary, random.
I had seen in the bare earth a reflection of what I thought I was experiencing all around me: something longed-for being torn away before we’d had the chance to enjoy it. Our new home and our growing family far exceeded anything I thought I’d get to have, and maybe it felt too good to be true. Maybe it scared me to embrace such beautiful gifts in the face of so much suffering. I was afraid to give birth in the middle of winter. I was afraid I’d lose my baby, my loved ones, or my own life to the virus. I couldn’t see the plant above ground, so I’d assumed the worst. I’d even gone out and bought three new plants, thinking, I guess I’ll have to do this myself.
Every time I walk past the flower bed now, I can’t help but laugh. I’m so grateful to have been wrong. And that’s the perfect joke for the perfectionist in me. Every one of those peonies feels like a gift, a reminder of how much more mysterious, more generous, and more loving God is than I can even imagine. Each one is like an invitation to risk loving this life, even though I still don’t know how it’s all going to shake out.
Monday Lyle and I will be fully vaccinated. Robin’s in preschool, and Sky’s about to start a summer-long camp. Iris is a healthy, happy almost-five-month-old, and she’s already trying to do that cute little inchworm scoot across the living room rug. I’m back volunteering at the community acupuncture clinic a few days a week, getting ready to return to school in the fall. The days are so full, sometimes I don’t have the time to stop and pinch myself. These are such good gifts.
I could say something here about not assuming the worst or learning to expect better, but I think all I want to say is this: I’m grateful to be here. I’m grateful for you. And yes, the peonies are about to bloom.
What I’ve been making
This newsletter! I just made the switch to Substack from Mailchimp. You’ll still get this friendly letter in your inbox, and you can now visit past issues in one place. Instead of seasonally, I’m aiming to write to you monthly, and I hope you’ll enjoy hearing from me a little more often. If not, feel free to hit the unsubscribe button below any time (I won’t be offended, promise.)
Poems, live on Instagram. I had the great pleasure of joining Ruminate Magazine’s Happenings back in March. If you missed it, you can watch the recording here.
Essays! Since February, I’ve been working on a longform essay that I hope is the start of a longer project. The work has taken most of my extra time, and I started to feel like I couldn’t (or shouldn’t) work on anything else until I’d finished that essay. What a great recipe for writer’s block. To shake myself out of it, I started taking pictures with my phone— something I couldn’t do until recently, when I finally and somewhat reluctantly swapped my basic phone for a smartphone. Sign up for blog updates to see my photo essay, set to go live tomorrow morning.
Dresses, bags, and jammies. Sewing for myself and others is a creative outlet that keeps my hands busy and my heart full, but sometimes I get way ahead of myself. I set a goal of September 1st to sew through the stack of sewing projects and unused fabric I’ve had for years. (I think this is called “destashing.”) In April, I made a shift dress for myself and a tiny sundress for Iris (above). This month, I sewed a bag for my nephew and curtains for the bathroom. I just started posting these sewing updates to Instagram, so feel free to follow me there for the results!
What I’m reading
Just Mercy, by Bryan Stevenson. I heard a beautiful interview with Stevenson recently and was moved by his perspective on hope as “an orientation of the spirit,” and “a willingness to position yourself sometimes in hopeless places and be a witness.” His book on founding and running the Equal Justice Initiative is a compelling example of that witness, describing the racial bias endemic in the criminal justice system, and his work on behalf of people condemned to die for crimes they did not commit. This book opened my eyes to the realities of the prison industrial system and showed me what real reform and mercy look like. I’ve been reflecting on Stevenson’s book and the EJI in the wake of Quintin Jones’s needless death this week in Texas.
Grow Wild, by Katy Bowman. I just started this new book from my favorite biomechanist. It’s about “stacking your life” so that it includes more dynamic movement for you and your kids. After a year of so much Zooming, I’m ready for some fresh ideas about incorporating healthy, fun movement into my family’s routines— without needing to find non-existent free time to do it.
Princess Princess Ever After, by Katie O’Neill. My daughter Sky discovered graphic novels earlier this year, and she’s hooked. We both really loved this story of two princesses who rescue each other, working together to create their own version of happily ever after. To me, it’s about escaping from suffocating, rigid gender roles. To Sky, it’s just a really awesome princess story. I think we’re both right. Fair warning: it includes the words butthead and kick-butt, to Sky’s utter delight.
“I breathe and try to remember my training: When I let more air out of my lungs, I sink faster. When I breathe deep, I slow down.” A gorgeous essay on scuba diving, anxiety, and the holy power of the breath by my friend Renee.
“Most of all, the murals bring me wonder and delight. I can hardly be called a bird-watcher. But because this flock has landed where I live, work, parent, pray, vote, and play, permit me to be your guide.” Emily Raboteau’s essay “Spark Bird” in Orion Magazine.
What’s bringing me hope
Our baby chicks. On May 1st, we welcomed six 3-day-old chicks into our home. And holy moly, they grow fast. After a long winter, there’s nothing like watching small, fluffy baby animals grow! Except maybe holding them! Thelma and Louise are our Naked Neck turkens; Bella and Peep are the pair of splash-laced Wyandottes; and Chopper and Bonnie are our Speckled Sussex beauties. They currently live, eat, and poop (like, a lot) in a repurposed lawn-mower box in our basement. We hope to get their coop built before they outgrow their box in four weeks. Eeek!
This GoFundMe. My friend Stephanie set it up for her friend Chris, who’s going through a difficult divorce. It inspires me to see how Stephanie holds space for her dear friend who she’s known since childhood. She writes that she wants to show Chris that “even when we feel most alone, there is still hope. That our community is looking out for us.” The funds raised have already helped Chris get current on his car payment, but Chris is still struggling with legal fees. To give, go here.
This podcast. My friend Caitlin produced a recent episode of the podcast Many Roads in Conversation, a joint project of The Immigrant Story and the Portland Radio Project. The Silence is Really Loud For Me is the first in a three-part series on the roots of anti-Asian violence. The conversation between Jennifer Fang, director of education at the Japanese American museum of Oregon, and Eliza Canty-Jones, editor of the Oregon Historical Quarterly, gave me a lot to consider about our country’s largely unacknowledged history of anti-Asian violence, and acts of resistance in the movement for liberation. Listening to conversations like this is one way I’m trying to practice Stevenson’s version of hope as a willingness to be a witness.
I’ll see you back here some time in June! Meanwhile, I’d love to hear from you! Comments keep the conversation going, and help me learn more about what you find useful or thought-provoking. Not into making public comments? Send an email to melissapoulin3@gmail.com.
Love,
Melissa
P.S. Happy birthday, Barbara! :)
P.P.S. I’d love to reach more readers! If you enjoyed this friendly letter, won’t you consider sharing it with a friend?