You'll fly again

prescience from Emily of 2022

I wrote the following poem in 2022, with zero knowledge of the doozies life would hurl at me next. I made a video to accompany the poem - with odd lil editing flourishes I’ve since abandoned.

I’ve shared first the text, second the short video with voiceover.

And just below, is a photo of Emily from 2022, at the wedding of Cindy Lu and Gilbert Galon. 2022! Precious, ouch, weird, lush year! I wore a dress! With globular earrings!

Have a look at the poem, the video, the dress right here. And, as ever, I’m curious to discover what follows “And then…”

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AND THEN—

If you’re like me, here: just a few things—

You hunt for your way, you harbor a dream, some magic stays, some people leave.

You gauge the odds; you tend to that ounce of belief, but you make a mess. Your spirit shrinks. Paths peel away. The world grieves.

Slow, in a blink.

But then — ah, again — your heart billows big. Now the selfishness shrinks.

You rally in the hurting, you hoist someone’s burden. You remember that you can create, that your service can be the art you make.

So… you try in earnest.

But—

Your best work sinks.

You see your parents, you scream on the beach, you rifle through rhymes, you waste your time, you double back down, you obsess over why,

you spend too much on gas—

—you just like to drive.

You merge with a screen. You yearn for the sky.

You need a hug, someone to stop by, and you hear on a podcast: “It’s healing to breathe.”

So you close your eyes *inhale mid-cry* — and land once more on one sure bet:

That hope is adamant. You can’t not try.

Insecurities, be damned. We are still alive.

So.. You humble yourself,

keep on toward the light.

You dive back in, you make a thing. You almost quit. (Again.) You fix your car, you make amends, you have a cry, you pay the rent, you cancel plans, you call a friend, you hunker down, your courage… ends.

You swear you’re stuck.

You’ll fly again.

You stand back up.

And then...