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I am well aware that climate change and global warming are mostly caused by much larger institutions than an individual, a household, or even a neighborhood. But I also know that it feels good to make small changes in my daily life and feel more connected to the nature around me by inspecting and changes my manner of consumption. If you're looking to add some small products into your life that have less chemicals and a real sense of grounding, these are some of my personal suggestions.
PRODUCTS TO USE ON THE GO!
PRODUCTS FOR LIFE
WAYS TO DEAL WITH WASTE
WAYS TO CONSERVE/CONSUME RESPONSIBLY
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Here are some poems I wrote for the joy of playing with words and the good of growth: - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - A ceiling fan is never enjoyed even with eye contact and happy sighs. Not ever in the same way as after the hours the power was out, the days you didn’t have one at all, and the week it groaned and clicked relentlessly. It’s not as if there is one last joyous moment before the amputation. No, what is needed is gratitude like an oracle, thankfulness with the foresight of the blind, and the imagining of things as they are not, in order to be best well with things as they are. Hold one black paper up to the sky for the smartest rainbows. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - When Water Does Not Work What to do with the paintbrushes covered in oils? And the accidentally-purchased dry clean clothes? And if the baptism doesn’t take? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It is fitting to trace my life as she cradles her beloved’s. It is finishing to cherish my moments with the same persistence of need and fox-tail of longing to, to somehow complete the beauty by looking, caging, sharing, noticing, capturing, pointing. She caught at it. The paths she walked have prints of her heels catching. My paths show smooth steps: the orange dirt bears signs of pacing. Moments are immortalized in gratitude. Life is made full in praise. And the lace of the waves is such that you couldn’t and wouldn’t set needle to it, each swirl of cloud or cream resists record. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - My most beloved cognitive error: a mouth full of strawberries, life was always sweet. Ecclesiastical knowledge windows upon windows: something to it. Have grace when you turn your back on the breeze to hold hands with the wind. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I don’t read much poetry because I don’t understand it. I only write some to try my hand at the Hemmingway truth. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - If god isn’t real and prayers land on the ceiling (1) If god isn’t real and prayers land on the ceiling, well what can we say is worthwhile and weighty? If pastors are just pasters of posters of propaganda on all those old poles patched with scraps of corners and rusty stapled marks of other flyers, what will stand solid staying top-side-still in the sifter? If god isn’t real and prayers land on the ceiling (2) If god isn’t real and prayers land on the ceiling, my quiet heart yet offers worthy pebbles: stone that does not break and gem that does not ignore. The worn-old quilt of henna hands, blue white beads, and doorway scrolls is soft and keeps life. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - We climbed the nooked stairs up to the terraced top. There in the corner were two boys with smiles and guitars. Coming out of their chests were long pieces of red yarn. As they played a neighborhood tune, the large party to their left picked up a piece and held it loosely as they sang along for good times. The rest of the strings remained on the floor. I picked one up and plugged it to my heart. Oh the connection was good: tin cans formed and the vibrations began to flow like a looping hand, back and forth. My red strand was a quiet, small, brave thing to do. but what (joy)! Why were the other lines left on the unfeeling ground? I picked up more and fixed them in. The smiles increased, the warmth glowed, the music took off with the night. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - mothers sigh for sitting on counters and kitchen floors wives, for long drives and the freedom to be careless with their selves and the others sigh for sighs of wanting a body reclaimed they wait to wish for time alone eager for the struggles of a future un-had yet enjoying the always-ripening-and-spoiling avocadoes that sit undisturbed on their cool, clean counters - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Running, mostly walking in the sudden thick wetness. Swollen hair in tubes, snake tails in mud, fibers expanded, held around the wine bottle that is life and sweat running through and also forming up all sky, all ground, connected in permanent rain structures. The form molded in white plastic and flip-upside-down-able, puddles to clouds: modern columns, mist to surface: lined points to spin around This world sensibly keeps the clouds’ lighting to ease the hollow plastic into Comfort and Depth. But really, it’s a large red rain jacket on warm skin and bare feet slipping by the front door. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - From where they swim in the depths below to points where wings segment the wind, all these creatures high and low know we each, together, have sinned. Yet let us not forget to tell of trails light and bolstered, even unpinned. And may we remember just as well How goodness can be twinned: Eyes must open to receive sight Touch the earth to know heaven - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I left home to taste what was good, and to test for good what was home. I changed zipcode and standards, clothing and cultures. I swallowed ice cream for breakfast, forbidden bottles for lunch. Even so – even the distance and difference being full – I hadn’t left. Home is where the mind is; mine still bound by such only ways. Eventually, I suppose I did leave. Because now I know I have no interest in my spot at the lunch table. But what if the odds are bizarrely in my favor and home is where the heart actually is? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - the rubbish parade marches the town every day useless news-crumbles roll down rusted cement alleys empty gray-sand wet-spotted streets the rubbish parade is all flash and bright uniforms: great glowingly eggy sunset-cream with blood stripes boots: all crisp, deep knockware (as if that were necessary) the rubbish parade marches right, and right, and right, and right a caravan of gleaming trash in wagons, saturated recycles on trays the alone-one audience of a girl doesn’t even like them she says she doesn’t care to watch as her cheers bounce askew off the tinways there she is see her as they pass by? there she is. every time. well, most times one time she was muted by glory-brightness on a different street, of course she has seen other streets you know better streets streets with pink slender ones filing by and others with wide-eyed brown boys dancing through but there she is, right there, do you see her? she’s there and they’re there the rubbish parade dins on and her wooing is the flat eye-shine; the reflected stale march - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The meals she liked best had to be forced, though the poison was gulped in seconds (and thirds.) One portion of posture practice with mind-numbing nothingness, but that Blessed Woman ate no food when the mouse was around! What a waste of non-empty that would be. She sharpened herself by measuring back to back with the giant. It’s not all rot and spoil. God help the pleasure-seeking vortex of a girl. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  Fredrick Backman, Colum McCann, Amor Towles, and Kristin Hannah were my favorite authors this year. 2021 was the year of stories that shook me and moved me. In retrospect, it seems I've been specifically opening myself up to stories of suffering (while then specifically reaching for lighter, more heart-warming tales for balance.) Curious to see what 2022 holds for my literature selections! If you've read any of the books below and want to chat about your experience, please reach out. Blessings on your own books and the resulting explorations and musings they bring.
1. Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman -reading from the perspective of someone you could label as autistic -realizing how long lasting trauma from childhood is (verbal abuse/false beliefs) -be grateful for your health in your friends and family 2. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens -being close to nature and learning to take note of specifics -we are both animal and soul 3. The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett -living with large secrets sounds exhausting and awful -racism is part of this country's narrative and needs to be examined 4. Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann -the depth and complexity of each human life, each of our stories, how we interact 5. The Mothers by Brit Bennett - some interesting new pictures of motherhood and unpregnancy 6. Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrik Backman - people. The ever-amazing importance of people, connections, friendships. 7. The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi (sexually graphic*) - the terrible burden of secrets, the need to accept people fully as they are whether in small things like idiosyncrasies or large things like gender and sexual identity (also that I miss Africa) 8. If I Had Your Face by Frances Cha - how much I hate social systems based on class (but aren't they all in one form or another?) and why are people shaving their bones to look different? How has plastic surgery become so refined and accessible that it's hard to tell what public personalities have had done - beauty standards being unrealistic? 9. American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins - would highly recommend to anyone, but with a warning for how intense this narrative is and how these images, these people, these thoughts will stay with you. A rush and sweeping of deep gratitude for my life, a new understanding about the specific facts of suffering and immigration. 10. The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa -how important people are; shared memories are for relationships. The beauty of math. 11. my grandmother asked me to tell you she's sorry by Fredrik Backman -the power of a good story. Honestly, makes me want to raise kids on a uber complex system of fairy tales based on faith but without all the church bits 12-13. Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen by Zen Cho - the power of women, and trusting your intuition and making brave, difficult choices 14. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones -the intensity of our feelings and perspectives and how they keep our vision small 15-16. Parable of the Seed and Parable of the Talents by Octavia E. Butler -how insanely good we have it now and the kinds/levels of suffering that could realistically head our way if we don't start problem-solving as a race. Not sure what to think of the Earthseed bits on God as Change. 17. Conversations with Friends by Sally Rooney -DO NOT RECOMMEND...best takeaway would just be that we all our so entrenched in our views of the world that it's a continual surprise to see a shared situation from another person's perspective 18. Calypso by David Sedaris 19. A Promised Land by Barack Obama 20. Memorial by Bryan Washington (explicit - don't recommend) 21. The Biggest Bluff by Maria Konnikova 22. Anxious People by Frederik Backman 23. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith 24. Sacre Bleu by Christopher Moore 25. Night Boat to Tangier by Kevin Barry 26.Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert 27. A Gentleman in Moscow Amor Towles 28. The Four Winds by Kristin Hannah 29-31. Scythe Trilogy by Neal Shusterman 32. Rules of Civility by Amor Towles 33. The Pull of The Stars by Donoghue 34. The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah 35. The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah 36. Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami 37. The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris 38. The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles |
Jessica LaneBeing a lifelong learner means intentionally seeking out experiences that enforce growth and personal development. Archives
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