Written by the Collective – Woven, Performed and Produced by Samara Gaev
Listen to the audio version
In October, our collective gathered in a cabin in the woods of Vermont, to vision, to reflect, and to create together as the glowing crimson, hazel and amber leaves spun from the trees with a passion, grace, and abandon one can only yearn to embody. Some of us drove from New York City, some of us flew from The Bay. All of us held between our ribs the butterfly wings of hope and despair, faith and defeat–anticipation. Two weeks to the day before this country’s election, as genocide continued to laugh at our helplessness, we boiled water for tea and took breaks to stretch our legs and gaze with our rage and grief and love and yearning at the breathtaking reminder that nature will do what she does, no matter what. That we, in fact, are small.
And yet, our stories matter. Among us, we are grieving the loss of our parents. We are nursing our daughters. We are raising mixed race children. We have no children. We are caring for our mothers who are sick. We are estranged from our fathers. We are healing from a double mastectomy. We just had an abortion. We are Black. We are Jewish. We are queer. We are sober. We are survivors. And writing is an anchor. Below, is a weaving together of our voices, gathered from each of our individual freewrites, inspired by Mary Oliver’s From the Book of Time. As we continue to stretch into this new configuration and move towards a more circular form, experimenting with what happens when we allow ourselves to truly collectivize, is an enticing challenge. Stretch your legs, boil some water, and behold the tapestry of our recollections.
~Samara Gaev
Even now
I remember something
the way a flower
in a jar of water
remembers its life
in the perfect garden
the way a flower
in a jar of water
remembers its life
as a closed seed
the way a flower
in a jar of water
steadies itself
remembering itself…
the unbreakable circle.
– Mary Oliver –
Even now, I remember something.
The way shadows play on water,
Showing me how darkness can dance.
I remember belonging
To vastness
To constellation
To kinship
The iron coursing through my veins pulsing with the memory
Of black holes and galaxies far away
The way my father would cry so easily and then try to hide it,
As I have found my way towards confidence
Being seen with those salty tears,
Filling my eyes and overflowing
Like flash floods and mudslides after the hurricane.
The rock at the end of the driveway, like a sleeping fawn.
Where my mom says she wants to be buried.
I’ve died already
Since his embrace felt big enough to wrap around me
Let me let go a little
Lay my head against his chest
Look up and see protection
Safety
Love.
She remembers her brother, who died almost 60 years ago.
When the lightning struck him after the storm had passed.
Even now I remember being afraid
Being young and safe, sometimes, but afraid.
I remember something about family.
About brothers.
About shared snacks and shared glances
To see if we might get away with it this time.
I remember something about a long driveway in the middle of the woods
And learning to ride a bike,
My brother cheering me along
The way a flower in a jar of water
Remembers its life
In the perfect garden.
I remember Oakland, just barely,
I remember Oakland and being picked up by Mom
After a swing shift in the early morning hours.
I remember sliding down concrete steps on a piece of cardboard.
Our house on the hill
And skateboarding down on our butts.
I remember the redwood stumps that became fortresses and castles
I remember our house on the hill that was our forever home
Until it wasn’t.
I’ve died already
Since that home was home.
Shed skin
And blood
And milk
And salt
And buried her with every moon
As tides swelled
And forgiveness haunted and tempted me.
I’ve laid down flowers
And built altars,
That she’s washed away
With no hesitation
As I would cling
And pray
And try so hard to hold
Or remember
Or commemorate
A version of myself
That slipped away…
She’s gone.
Even now I remember something
I remember that I am mostly water…salty water
Like the oceans that separate me from the bombs.
From the place where terrorized people are being denied access to water
To drink or clean an open wound
Can you cry tears when so dehydrated?
I remember the places I love through different eyes.
My eyes, but different.
Salt of the stars.
My heart beating with the memory of former galaxies,
I steady myself
Remember this is not our true nature.
We want to belong to these places,
Not take it all and leave ruin behind.
Where will the oceans go when our sun caves in on itself?
Remembering itself.
They were holding hands
And the lightning went straight through his head
Then through his arm, killing him instantly and paralyzing her from the waist down.
Do I remember that even now?
Is it in me, part of me, the lightning and the storm?
Their lives and his death?
Even now
As we gather ourselves,
Even now
It is hard to imagine how we got here.
I steady myself
Remembering that version of myself
From long ago
The plunging roots
The unbreakable circle
Towards and away
From forgiveness.
The salt dust of the stars on my skin
In my bones, my blood
Even now I remember something
Long before language
An ancient cosmic story
Stars exploding, differentiating
But adhering to a central thread
The unbreakable circle.
The blue dream.
I remember the blue apartment
And the seams that held our family together, straining
Seemingly to the point of fraying entirely.
I remember stomach aches as we heard the fraying
So loud in the next room
And turning up the TV to drown it out.
I remember my green bike that was stolen
And how my dad got it back
I remember walking with my brother to school
Matching logging boots
Because our Dad refused to spend money on shoes
That would just fall apart in a week
I remember playing basketball in logging boots.
I remember the weight of playing basketball in logging boots.
I’ve born two daughters.
One in the woods,
And one in the city.
One on my own,
And one with my love.
After days and days of labor
I would cling
And pray
And try so hard to hold
Or remember
Or commemorate
That version of myself
That slipped away
The way a flower in a jar of water
Remembers its life
In the perfect garden
Even now
I remember something
The unbreakable circle
Of sorting into tribe
Before post-partum pains
Of power
Progress
Potentiality
Trees releasing leaves
A simple breeze
Awe
The right to exist, as we are
The salt tears of the stars
That we become compost
Scaffolding for the next generations.
That my ancestors live on through me.
Even now I remember
Something hidden in code
An unbreakable circle
Belonging
The times when I wanted to walk away.
What has kept me here
The experience of being seen and held
The gift of seeing and beholding.
The familiar embrace of these hearts
Belonging
We are here now.
Even now,
Even though the world is shuddering –
Quaking and falling like the leaves
We are still here,
Breathing, listening, loving each other
Into being.
The unbreakable circle.
**************************************************************
