Getting lost, starting over & moving slow
an archive from Winter'24
My grandfather used to call me banchari. I don’t think it was a real word. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. All that mattered was that he said it. & that he said it to me.
Ban, forest. Chari, grazer. A deer. A thing that belonged in the woods. & I guess that’s how he saw me. I liked that. I didn’t mind being small. I didn’t mind being timid.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the way summer ends so suddenly, like it never really began. One minute the days are long and sticky and full of light, and the next they’re not. They’re shorter. They’re slipping. The sun feels tired. Everything feels tired. And I’ve been tired too. This summer was good.
I think. I don’t know. I felt full and empty and inspired and numb and then full again. There were days when I made things and it felt like magic. There were days when I sat and stared and felt like a fraud. There were days I ate chips for dinner.
The way he moved. The way he didn’t panic. The way he trusted time. He never rushed. He never needed to. He could sit in a chair for hours and be okay. Just… be.
I never understood that before. I’m starting to. A little. Maybe.
The truth is, I like soft things. Soft mornings. Soft clothes. Soft food. I like quiet. I like when nothing needs to happen. But I forget that. I get loud in my head. I scroll and scroll. I stay up too late. I stop writing. I think I’ve ruined everything. But then the sun rises anyway. And I sit with tea. And I open a notebook. And it’s okay. Not perfect, just okay.
And I think—maybe this is what he was trying to show me. That you don’t have to fix it all at once. That you don’t even have to fix it. That being here is enough. That moving slow still gets you somewhere.
I keep messing up. I keep starting over. I keep losing track of what I’m supposed to be doing.
The leaves are going to start falling soon. I can already feel it in the air. A little colder in the morning. A little darker earlier. The kind of change that makes you want to write letters and eat soup. The kind that makes you remember people you’ve lost.
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Lovely post, Mohika.
Mo, I envy you this passing of summer. Ours is ahead of us and much too long.
I think I mostly dwell in a syrupy slowness, when I'm happiest. When I'm wild and dervishing around like mad, I get pulled too many ways at once. I may write tremendous poems during this time, but there is generally a cost.
There is a lesson in your piece, but it is not heavy-handed. It is subtle.
This photo of your granny is amazing.