진 Jin / Shinji Moon

Sometimes I forget that writing/recording is how I move best back into my body. I am tired so often, trying my best to remember to breathe. Hello dear plants of the springtime. Hello dear yarrow leaves, long slides of plantain. Sticky first cleavers of the year. To the new greens and the violets coming into the garden, the bleeding heart that survived, to those who have made it through another year of an endless pandemic, and to those we lost — who time should stop for — and yet, does not. 

I get too busy sometimes, and then forget to feel. My heart closes and I keep going because that’s what I remember how to do. It is a coping mechanism to shut my body down, to deliver to the wants and desires of the people around me, and to say yes yes yes to everything to try to keep myself safe. I am learning though. Still and always learning this same lesson, again and again, in different iterations. Thank you for being patient with me. 

I am thinking of those who benefit from me silencing myself, my spirit, my heart. Thinking that capitalism wins, those who harmed me win. Why should I bow down to those who burned my books, said my body belonged to them, said my story was too ugly for them, all of that? Who wins when I keep my head bowed down to the violent ebb of the systems around me? I ask myself this as the maple blossoms come into being, as I pick dandelions for my fritters. Who wins when I disappear myself? I miss myself when I go. 

I gather the acorns from the memories of my childhood homes, and plant them in a circle around myself. I draw the birds back home. I draw those who we lost back home. Draw a space enough for myself and all of my iterations to breathe in safety. Love you all, survivor to survivor, griever to griever, fool to fool. May the worlds we build be strong enough to carry the depth of the joy we deserve.