How to Process

Let's talk about time and big projects.

Feb 20, 2025

Header illustration by Heather.

It took me a minute to finish this issue—I’m sorry it’s a little late in going out. The fires in Los Angeles and other events in January made it hard to focus. I also kept feeling the pressure of finding something meaningful to say.

So I did what many writers are great at doing: I procrastinated! And, thus, the newsletter is a little later in the month. But, I urge you to give yourself some grace when you need it, too.

After rooting around in my brain, I couldn’t figure out a way to write about the last month and a half in a totally lucid or eloquent way. I am not eloquent about the present moment! Maybe, that’s because things feel far from neat.

Maybe, it’s because things don’t work that way, these days.

Maybe, you can relate.

Here’s what I will say: The beginning of 2025 made it clear that so many things I love and care about were (and are) under threat: like support for the arts, and basic human rights for communities. My city, itself, was under threat: both physically, because of the fires, and mentally/energetically.

My partner and I both know people who were affected by the fires, to varying degrees; and our friends know more people who were affected; and those people know more people. The first few days of the fire felt especially somber and awful; and people are still dealing with the effects today.

Here’s the kicker: there were still things to do, bills to pay, tasks to take care of. It felt like grieving, in a sense, when you can’t quite grasp how everyone and everything around you keeps moving. It feels like everyone else is standing on that moving walkway in airports, while you’re sitting on the steps of a staircase, trying to find the energy to get back up.

Fittingly, there’s a Jason Schneiderman poem in “You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World,” edited by Ada Limón, called “Staircase,” that I read just a couple of weeks ago.

This part really resonated with me:

“Tell me what I’m supposed to say about the end of the world. Tell me how not to be hysterical every time I see what’s coming. Every time I see what’s here. Tell me how to accept that it didn’t have to be this way but that it is. Tell me how to accept this fire, this sky, this day. Don’t leave me here in the ashes. Tell me to go inside. Tell me not to stare at the sun. Tell me it’s OK to be alone. Tell me it’s OK to be scared. Tell me it’s OK to be grief stricken. Tell me not to give up…”

I take public transportation a lot and once in a while I’m struck by the interactions that happen on the train or the bus. One recent morning, I went up to a woman on the Metro. She was wearing a mask and I had forgotten mine at home. The train was full, and I wanted to be safe. So I figured I’d ask if she had an extra one to spare.

She seemed alarmed to see me coming up to her, but then softened after I asked her, “Do you have an extra mask?”

“No, sorry,” she replied.

I went back to my seat, a few rows away from her, but in area where she could still see me. She was sitting on the seats that faced the direction the train was going; I sat in the opposite direction.

When she got up to leave, she waved at me, before sliding through the doors. I smiled and hoped that my facial expression reached her before she left, because at first I was confused. I didn’t realize she was waving at me. She had taken a moment to say goodbye.

Is this a sappy moment? Yes. Was that a tough week that required a moment like this? Also yes.

I hope you’re taking care of yourself, whatever that might look like. I appreciate you reading and supporting and making your art.