A Leap Day Looms
Have you considered your extra day? February 29th? It’s next Friday and I’m trying not to overbook myself. So far, there are only two official things on my Leap Day calendar: a business Zoom in the morning and a sewing class in the evening.
I spend a good deal of my work & play on screens (see: business Zoom above) so I thought I’d give my eyes a break with some physical crafting…only to realize in the middle of my first class that now I’m spending three hours a week threading needles under fluorescent lights. A nice reminder that humans have been finding ways to strain their eyes for thousands of years — I am squinting on the shoulders of giants!
The class is on Sashiko and boro mending practices - two textile sewing techniques from Japan that focus on extending the life of well-worn garments. The visible stitches become a part of the design and patches slowly bloom across the fabric. If only I’d known about this a few months ago, I might even have been able to save my last graphic-t from high school…
The word “boro” comes from the Japanese boroboro, meaning something that is tattered or repaired. I’ve always loved this kind of scrap-based-creating, which is why, when a beloved bowl shattered, I bought krazy glue and gold acrylic paint to take a stab at some DIY kinsugi. Unfortunately, the glue/paint combo means this bowl is technically “poison” and shouldn’t be used for food anymore, so now I use it to keep the office-incense I burn from filling the room with sweet dusty drifts.
This past weekend I was in Denver for my paternal grandparents’ memorial. My dad spoke beautifully about the task of remembering. An English professor for decades, he couldn’t help playing with the word remember as the the opposite of dismember — remembering our purpose in gathering, bringing together, making something broken more whole. We all took turns sharing stories and left with a fuller story of who we were mourning - a quilt stitched together with stories from children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, co-workers, and friends. Instead of a single eulogy from one person, we spread it out among anyone who wanted to share. It wasn’t a carefully maintained stained glass window, it was a constantly shifting kaleidoscope, changing and alive in front of your eyes even if the people who created the light in the first place were gone. That’s how stars work too — the fact that the light reaching you could be from a long-dead star doesn’t change the fact that it’s beautiful and you’re still alive to receive it.
This process of remembering started on Saturday and I imagine it will continue as long as we keep up the practice.1
On the way home, we passed the contrails of another plane that was either coming or going. Sometimes it’s hard to know.
The day before I had left for Denver, four large three-ring binders had arrived at my door.
I’d been looking for a particular photo2 for the memorial and my previous organizational system of “totes and folders wedged into a dusty broken suitcase” had done little to assuage the anxiety.
So I’d ordered the binders and 450 (!) clear, laminate sleeves, and today I started sifting. Letters, photos, and scraps — more remembering, bringing together. The disorder and chaos brought moments of delight and discovery — a mundane thank you note suddenly miraculously bringing back people who aren’t around any more, another letter from ten years ago giving me the advice that I was finally ready to hear. As I simultaneously tidied up the digital corner of my life, I also found this old audio recording from my maternal grandfather (who we affectionately called Papa Joe).
I did a bit of performance art to this recorded phone conversation back in 2015, so part of the artifact is the song in the background and my voice being removed completely, a vapor trail already faded. If I remember (am remembering), I’d called and asked Papa Joe if he’d ever seen improv comedy, what he imagined it was like, and if he had any advice for how I should be spending my time. As a heads up, the phone call gets cut off at the end when I lose reception which feels dramatic but, at the time, was just a lost connection. I called him back but stopped recording the call so we could just talk.
We can’t hold on to everything (or maybe…anything?) but what a joy to discover a bit of old flotsam or jetsam from another chapter as we paddle along.
[Music performed by my grandma, Nancy Brown]
10 Steps To Stop the Scroll
I’ve had a couple of real doom-scroll-y days lately, so I thought I’d leave you with a helpful 10 Step Technique that can help break the cycle.
Become awake to the fact that you’ve been scrolling on your phone or computer for longer than you’d care to admit. If you’ve watched multiple videos of a wife giving her color blind husband those special glasses that let you see color or veterans surprising their Labrador Retrievers/kids/moms or a guy posting a video of himself trying to punch a tree until it falls, this could mean it’s time to take a break.
Take a deep breath and raise both hands over your head. Wiggle your fingers and then bring both hands into two fists like you’re the conductor of an orchestra signaling silence. If you’re having fun conducting you can also ask for “a little more” from the imaginary woodwinds or give the percussion section a kind of “not-my-tempo-JK-Simmons-Whiplash” look. Have some fun with it.
Next, one by one, close all of the extra tabs in your brain. How do you close a “brain tab” you might ask? Easy. Just click on the little “x” in the top right corner.
Take the device you were using and wrap it in saran wrap. (This will keep it fresh for the next time you need it.)
Close your eyes and remember in as much detail as possible a post you scrolled by. It doesn’t matter what this is. It could be a two-headed turtle befriending a kitten or a recipe for something that is just different combinations of meat and cheese and crumbs or a guy who paints portraits of Marvel Characters using only condiments. It doesn’t matter. Just remember it. Picture it in your mind’s eye.
Open your eyes and quietly whisper, “I am the search bar.” If you’re around other people and they say “you’re the what?” just say it again until they give you some space to really focus on the technique.
Re-create the post with whatever tools you have around you. Fill a page describing it. Paint it using the old crusty acrylic set your ex got you. Sculpt it. Record a five minute podcast of you interviewing yourself about the post. For the next few minutes, it’s all about this one dumb thing. Give it the attention it so desperately craves.
Now, take a single step back from your piece of art with your right foot. Now take another step with your left.
Ok, Right foot again. Left foot again. Are you…? Criss cross! You are! Criss cross! Now clap your hands!
You’re no longer scrolling, you’re now doing the Cha Cha Slide and the curse of the endless scroll has been lifted. Cha Cha real smooth to celebrate and move on with your life.
It’s time to get funky.
~~~
As always, thank you for reading! To the merry band of paid supporters, your generosity astounds, delights, and pays the bills. Speaking of scrap-based-creativity, I currently have ten different scrappy jobs (if we tally up teaching, freelance editing, and miscellaneous film projects) and your support helps me write these posts with a big ol’ sigh of relief and a grin. I am lucky and thankful!
If you liked what you read, consider sharing this newsletter with a friend or an uncle or someone you’re sitting next to on a plane that hasn’t put their headphones in yet.
xoxo,
Will
Echoes here to Kevin Brockmeier’s The Brief History of the Dead which I remember really enjoying ten years ago and Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi which I remember really enjoying a week ago.
A favorite: New Year’s Day, 2012 - Post polar bear plunge in an icy pond - Arvada, CO
May their memories be for a blessing, Will! <3