The Hope A Dog Brings

Theodore is the first foster dog I've had that I have seriously considered keeping; only my conscience prevents me, or whatever I should call that niggling voice that says "You? Commit to a dog for 15 years?" He is so attentive, all I have to do is turn my head and look at him, and his tail will start wagging. Otherwise he naps nearby, rising when I do, eating the food I mix for him, quiet and attentive.

The New York winter is hitting me hard this year, and though it has been mild temperature-wise, the short days and regular rains make my skin long for sunshine and heat. I battle a cold that leaves me weary, I feel I can't get out of bed in the morning. This is always a tough time of year for me, full of withdrawal and often sadness. Socializing ceases to come easy, and I have to force myself out into the world. The soft cuddly presence of Theodore helps, though. And today, I rouse myself enough to clean the apartment, then change out of my pajamas. C takes me to the Queens Museum to see the NYC diorama, which has been on my bucket list for some years. A gargantuan, multi-year effort for the 1964 World's Fair, the diorama stretches across the floor of a special gallery, depicting all five boroughs with bridges and buildings, complete with little cars and an airplane that takes off and lands from LaGuardia.

Last night I read My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante, an aggressively-written narrative about a girl growing up poor in Italy. Her voice is vulnerable but also strongly emotional; I could not put it down. Yesterday was also the inauguration of a new president, and today was the Women's March. This country is changing, it is waking up. I too, want to take up my banner, to pursue change, to put my voice to the things I care about. I look down at this quiet little dog at my feet; a beautiful dog who in the shelter was ragged and unwanted, and I realize at last that one person can make small differences that matter. That hope brings me up out of my winter gloom, that hope will keep driving me forward.

A better resolution

On the last day of the year, I wake to a quiet house. My mom was up late, preparing for today's festivities, and is sleeping in. The house's central heating hums in an undertone, and overhead some international flight is coming down for landing at the San Francisco Airport. My dad sets coffee to percolate before heading to the gym.

The morning is without urgency. The minutes stretch long.

There is time now. Time to look back across the year, at the photos I took, the journal entries I scrawled, the books I read. I wrote for an hour this morning, recapping the highlights of where I'd gone this year, and I realized that I had written an entry that was not for you, but for me. So I wiped it all, and while I can't take back words I have already said, I think I might re-say the things from my last entry, too. This, then, is for you.

Resolutions are optimistic, yes, but they grow out of failures. Perhaps some resolutions ought to be the resolutions of things that should stay the same. When I look across all that I have experienced this year, I cannot shake my gratitude to people who opened their homes to me, to the people who filled the museums I visited with their creativity and built the landmarks I saw, the people who trust me daily to simply be trustworthy. I cannot shake this vision in my mind from Route 20, coming out of Bryce Canyon after Nationals and three months of nearly nonstop competitions. The light moved out of the west, casting the pine-swept slopes golden and the whole sweet valley before me, the stream a wild snake amongst mottled green grass, and low ridges lurching upward to the sky. I wondered then - will I even remember this? But I do. That and all of it - bobbing in the surf with a snorkel as orange Garibaldis darted into kelpy darkness, stepping out onto a dark dance floor while the Palm Desert sunshine glared outside the hotel venue, watching camp flames consume driftwood for warmth before curling up in my sandy tent out on the Olympic Peninsula, smearing pureed turkey baby food onto a sick puppy's nose to get him to eat, stepping out of the subway station into the canyons of Soho's historic elaborately facaded buildings.

I had coffee a couple of days ago with a woman who has run some large technology companies, and I asked her how to cope with job stress. She gave me the following advice: at 4pm every Friday that I ought to sit down and write down (1) what went well and (2) what didn't go so well. And then, that I ought to close the notebook and forget about it.
For her, this weekly ritual of appreciation and resolution got things out of her head so that she could move on. I think I could apply this tool to many things: dance competitions, cooking, scheduling, and so on. This regular calibration seems more appropriate than expecting that my life could change completely upon the generation of some grand "resolution." It seems also that I might better understand what I want, who I do and don't want to be, what experiences I want to become my past.

My oft-repeated and favorite quote from Annie Dillard is: "Because how we spend our days, after all, is how we spend our lives." And in truth, spending the days helping others, dancing, traveling, living in my apartment (as a sole lease-holder), and making the choice to not give up, not quit, to seek and never to falter: That is real personal freedom.

I was asked, "What are your New Year's Resolutions?" I said, "I'll tell you in a LiveJournal post."

This year began with hope - a new role with big responsibilities, the promise of a good dance season - and is ending with hope, but the vast center was full of sadness and disappointment, emotional exhaustion and trying to overcome myself. When I read my past new year's resolutions posts, hoping for inspiration of an answer, I instead find my past self vacillating between "recognizing the value of making resolutions as a society" and denying the use of them ("Being present in every day means wondering always how to be better...If this act doesn't lead to resolutions, perhaps nothing will.")

Winter in California brings a strange, cool sunshine to the days, frail as moonlight, illuminating as candle flame. I watch it from the windows, working my laptop keys in my parents' home as darkness turns back to darkness. While my parents venture out for work and coffee dates and fly fishing practice, I stay in. I design product. I read books. My mom and I watch Gilmore Girls. We all have dinner together. I think about what has gone by, and I rest. This year was our first Christmas without my grandfather. My brother and his wife have a new baby on the way, and at two and a half my niece Zoe is already learning to read.

Hanging on my wall here is a framed Carol Grigg poster that I picked up at a yard sale many years ago. In it, a blanketed woman sits on a misshapen horse. The horse's back foot is raised expectantly, wearily; there is the shape of a bundle on her back. The faintest edge of jet black hair peeks out from her wrapping, the horse carries a spot of black on his breast. The two are the colors of this California winter - steel, mauve, ochre, soot. Her face is not visible, but she looks forward, toward the empty left side of the canvas.

In the challenges of the past year, I have felt too wrung out to enjoy the things I came to New York to do. It has been six months since I visited a New York art museum, years since I bought myself a ticket to the opera, years since I spent hours in The Strand. I lost my ties to the conservation community, and I forgot the part of dancing that I love the most. I have also come into some of the most rich relationships of my adult life, some older and evolved, some new and full of promise. It is these people who have reminded me of how I want to grow in 2017.

In the coming year, I want to cherish everything about the beautiful, incomparable city that first lit me up during that fated spring so many years ago. I came to New York, as E.B. White wrote, seeking "the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something...the city of final destination, the city that is a goal." I forgot why I was in the city; I forgot what I came for.

This is my resolution: to fall asleep every night exhausted, not from stress or from illness or depression, but because I hungered for knowledge and experience and connections to the people I care about, because of staying up late just to talk, getting up early on weekends to find the latest art exhibit, exploring the places I haven't yet been, studying dance, helping my team do the work they love. To be satisfied that I used my days well.

Last year I swore to live in service of others; I found that humility, compassion and thoughtfulness were the only things that brought sanity and heart to those around me in times of great stress. I still have a long way to go, patience to cultivate, kindnesses to return. This year, in the space left by loss, I will build something new, and step forward once more in my quest to shape this world for the better.

A Full Cup

Bearington naps all day, quiet and cuddly. At 11pm, he takes all that stored up energy and uses it to bark at shadows in the window and at the sound of cars rattling a sewer cover on the street below. He chews on anything he can get into his mouth (except his puppy toys), from the autobiography of Gandhi to the corner of a cardboard filing box. He goes to the bathroom and jabs every bathing supply he can reach with his nose, just to hear them clatter into the bathtub.

At eight months, he is both puppy and adult, teething and ‘tweening and generally enjoying his own mischief. On our walks, he is childlike, picking up fallen leaves or branches that catch his eye and carrying them until he finds a rock or piece of paper that he likes more. He wants to say hello to everyone he sees, whether they are passing us or on the other side of the street, and barks in frustration, his little body straining against the leash, when he cannot.

The ACC hopes to put him up for adoption in the next two weeks.

The past month has been textured by failures and loss. Some days I wake up with my head stuffed with cotton and the precious time drifts by with cruel rapidity. Other days the colors of the neighborhood vibrate in the light, the edges of buildings razor-sharp against the variegated sky; still as a painting.

Dance has become a solace. The studio provides comforting stability. I can always go there, I will know the shape of the music, and the smiles of the people. I can fall into routine, and know what I am working toward. As ever, dance and dancers surround me with love, warmth, and the pulse of life. Dance is of the heart, and this is real wealth: people who enrich one another, who surround each other with mutual respect and support, who share rituals together.

On Thanksgiving, my dad put me on Facetime and carried me from person to person, perched me on the dining room table, described to me all the scenes of the holiday with my family. Their love overwhelms me; I feel unworthy, I try to fling that understanding and caring back out into the world. To push away the darkness and the sadness with that halo of light, for “If one lights a fire for others, it will also brighten one’s own way.”

I was watching a video of Joe Biden pen a letter to his 12-year-old self. Now in his 70s, he lost his wife and infant daughter to a drunk driver, and his son to brain cancer. And yet he said, “out of everything terrible that happens, something good will come if you look hard enough… You’ll realize that countless people have suffered equally or more, but with much less support, and much less reason to want to get back up.” He then goes on to describe the pureness of purpose and resolve that his parents instilled in him, and how this is something that continues to drive him, despite - or perhaps because of - what he has felt. I, too, have this to pick me up again. My dad, who always told me, “Life’s not fair,” who strove always to make my life better. My mom, who taught me to take what I have, and to give back.

My wise friend said, speaking of loss, that “you carry the grief with you for the rest of your life.” She said, the grief will change you. You will never again be that person you were, nor would you want to be.

It is easy, isn’t it, to feel thankful for the good things in life - people I have loved or who have loved me, jobs well done, accomplishments. It is much more difficult to be grateful for the moments that have brought me low - chronic pain or injuries, illnesses, the loss of loved ones, projects or jobs that don’t go the way I wanted them to, situation in which I was not the person I wanted to be. It is easier to dwell on those things, to regret rather than embrace.

Every morning is a fresh adventure for Bearington. He greets me with a waving tail, a slobbery tongue, a brightness in his eyes that says, “Oh thank goodness you’re finally up; I’ve been waiting for you!” And even Cindy, the little pup with so much trauma that she will carry with her for her whole life, still greets every morning with the same gratitude: Thank goodness you’re here, let me cuddle you, let’s start this beautiful day together.

And so, on this Thanksgiving weekend, my cup is full. It overflows with my family and loved ones and all the good things (they are too numerous to elucidate), and also with all the bitter times and the loss. I hold it close, this precious cup that is my life, for it has changed me, and I am grateful.
Central Park

The Story of Four Years

Four years ago, dragging two suitcases and buoyed by hope and fearlessness, I arrived to a detritus-strewn New York City. It was the week after Hurricane Sandy tore through the city. I stayed in a sublet so inaccessible that I sometimes rushed off the subway only to spend 30-40 minutes in what felt like freezing weather for the bus. I'd been living with my boyfriend-at-the-time in his Durham NC apartment, working as a remote freelancer and falling into depression. There, despite being surrounded by trees and the world-class university, I'd alternated between incomprehensible rage and a bottomless sorrow, from which I thought only New York and dancing could save me. I told myself and others that I would go and pursue my dream of being the best dancer I could, that I would dedicate myself to it at the utmost, that I would "give it four years to see how far I could get." I packed my bags, I moved.

And now I am here.

How could I have thought things would be so simple? People sometimes say how much you have to want something, to have it. In the beginning, I found a good partner in Boston but could not give up New York to dance with him. I was asked to turn Pro, but could not give up my dream of getting into the top 10 of all the amateur dancers in the country. When Yuliya Klinchik found me for C, I breathed in relief: finally, I might make it!

Instead, I broke my foot. Rather than rise back from it, I took it as a sign - that I was not cut out for that life, that I needed another lifestyle "as backup". C stuck by my side through it, suffering through gyrotonics and swimming and pilates classes and icing and the "ugly shoe." I went home and my parents spoiled me. And I began to realize that although I would always be a dancer, I needed other things in just as significant proportion - conservation, people, technology, travel, relationships.

It was at this time that I also had a personal financial crisis. I was simply not able to pull in enough income as a freelancer to truly support the dancing I wanted to do, particularly given my heavy medical bills. When I had to borrow money from my parents to pay my taxes, I realized that I had another choice - to keep pursuing this dream and dancing "full time", or to join the ranks of the stably employed and pull myself out of the hole.

These days, I wake up earlier than I'd like to, face the glazed-eye commute, and go to my full-time job. On its surface, my life now is not so different from when I was at Google: I work, have dinner, dance, come home, pass out, and repeat. But I refuse to accept that it is regressive. In the past year, the team I helped to build has become part of me. They remind me to be humble, and to serve. They remind me of all I've learned as a leader and manager in the past six years, refuse to let me become complacent.

While I've been passing those four years, my family has experienced loss, and we have become wealthy beyond belief in the life of my little niece Zoe. I learned about love when I became an aunt, watched Robert and Julia grow as parents, and saw my own parents revel in grandparenting.

A little caramel-colored shaggy puppy has been cavorting around my apartment the past two days.My first foster, Cindy, taught me that sometimes the most wonderful things come in the most challenging packages. My foster pup Bearington, reminds me that in this life, as unplanned as it was, I am finally stable and knowledgeable enough to start giving back.

In the rest of life, C and I have settled into the kind of comfort that comes only from knowing one another for years. We found our coaching match in Thomas and Frantsiska; our dancing is finally shooting forward. And so, despite dancing "recreationally" once again, dance still feels real and serious.

Four years.

In the span of a life it is not significant. At the same time, November 1 marks the longest I've stayed in one city since I left Los Altos for college. This is the life I never could have imagined for myself. I am building it one day at a time, staying here but never stuck. I am in love with all this, and hungry for the world.
Wall Girl

Many moons have passed...

A wave of cool weather comes to New York, and my brother, Julia and Zoe arrive at its forefront. What joy to share this city with them! I pick them up in New Jersey, and we spend a day with Julia's aunt, uncle, cousin and grandparents. Her cousin Esther shows us around Morristown, a lovely little town full of colonial architecture and tall leafy trees. Later, we drive to NYC in a drizzling rain. We have arepas for dinner. The next morning, we head to Ess-a-bagel for NY bagels, they go to see the Oculus and the High Line. When I meet them after work, Zoe is playing in the park in Stuyvesant Village. She sees me and shouts "Jen!" Her smile is a mile wide, so direct and full of joy. For the first time, I understand how it feels for my heart to melt. We eat pizza and then too quickly they are away and winging into the air for Chris' wedding in Italy and a longer vacation throughout Europe.

The day after seeing family is always the worst for me - I feel lonely, as if my own life has interrupted a precious dream. I have a slight cold on top of it, and stay home from work. I make ginger-honey-lemon tea, like my mom did when I had a sore throat at home, and let Cindy cuddle me in bed.

Last Saturday I finally cleaned after my summer roommate left. Rearranged my bedroom. Reclaiming my space. I have it all to myself until September 1, when a more permanent roommate moves in.

I often feel, these days, that my life is not mine to command. Perhaps it is simply that the true nature of life is finally reflected in my awareness. I have been at Detectica for over a year now, and I feel a deep sense of loyalty and responsibility for the work lives of my coworkers. Each day challenges me, and the product and our work has become intensely complex. It is difficult to hold all the pieces in my head at once, but I use my MBA training and my life training every day to try to make the most thoughtful decisions I can in the time that I am given. Sometimes I realize, months later, I ought to have done something else. And so I learn and work harder, and learn.

Despite this, life is simple. I wake, get dressed, walk Cindy, go to work. Sometimes I dance after work, sometimes I come home for dinner. I read books about strategy and products and I fall back asleep. There is a rhythm and a routine to the days that I have not had since I left Google. I am still trying to get used to it.

I have not written in so long that much has passed. We lost my grandfather in the spring, after his long and happy life. I went home for ten days, overwhelmed with sadness and love. In the end we didn't know if he recognized any of us, and yet he was always beaming. The longer we live, the more full of loss our memories become. It seems to me that one reason for happiness is that we must balance such sorrows out with equal amounts of joy.

I dread the days growing shorter and the cold that will come. I fear my own lack of writing in the past months, and how hard it is to draw them out even now, how hard it is to use these words to express the sensations in my heart. I was thinking the other day about how photographs, despite their beauty, provide only one view on how the photographer sees the world. It is an external show, a representation of place and thing seen and experienced. For me, they are easy. It's only words that reveal the heart of a person, their thoughts across some span of time. It takes all my energy to put my feelings into these words. And then, even then, I fall short. There is a change coming on these late summer winds; I fear it, I wonder where it will take me next.

The present to myself

Every morning now begins with two big eyes peering at me from the pillow next to my bed, and a skinny brown tail whipping back and forth with hope. I crawl from under my covers and slide down to sit on the floor, where my foster dog wriggles her way into my lap and cranes her neck to lick my chin.

This winter has flown by, and it seems that every time I pull my head up from the tidal pull of days, I am nearer to the relief of springtime. I cannot help but think of this time last year, when I was still trying to pull my foot through every practice, every week leading up to the competition was full of stress from not knowing how we'd be able to perform. This year, C and I have danced 3 competitions on consecutive weekends, with 2 more weekends to go. Competition day, recovery day, work days, competition day, recovery day, work days - on and on it rolls, but I am somehow still finding my moments of quiet: sitting with coffee and an excel spreadsheet on an early morning in the office, facing C on the competition floor in the electrified calm just before the music starts, flicking the gas on underneath a pot of water for macaroni and cheese. I think to myself, "this is how a life passes."

I think, too, that this is the best of times, when I am breathing the air without judging it. When I read on the subway, I read hard and fast, often so immersed in the story that I miss my stop. I am immersed in my own story now, too. Long ago, my professor of writing, Robert Gundlach, told me that what most appeals to writers about New York City is the ability to both be an observer and a participant without judgment. He said that in New York City, one can always step into the flow or "people-watch," depending on how one needs space or energy. I am in it, then, breathing and living and pass up all the chances to observe.

A Year to Remember

The first day without the family I love is always the hardest. The third day back, I find myself free for the evening, and so I go home with my foster dog, Cindy to clean, to work more, to putter.

Winter seems not to come this year. It is warmer in New York than California on Christmas Eve. I get sick at home for over a week, spend New Year's Eve on the couch by myself (though my family did Skype me from the party at midnight!) and then gift my dad with my cold the day before I leave.

I feel my whole life has changed irrevocably in the past six months. In some ways I feel I have found my "old self" in this work. There was this time when I looked back on my graduate school life and thought, "that was me at my best self." I felt I'd peaked in my personal growth, back there in the rich academic atmosphere of Duke, amongst my internships and sense of hope. This job has awoken everything in me that I always loved about being a graduate student - the sense that I am learning something new every day, that I have great responsibility for others, that I must be humble and remake myself daily in order to succeed. My mom tells me she thinks I found something that I'd lost, that this time she feels I am well again, in a way that I hadn't been in years.

At the same time, my dance partnership has taken off. Everyone always told me that it takes at least two years for a partnership to really gel and I feel this is finally true. Our coach asked C and myself a month ago, "what do you think you found in the last week that you didn't have before?" And although we cannot seem to verbalize it, there is a shared stability and an ability to predict one another's actions that is becoming utterly dependable. And of course, there was the competition at the beginning of December - my first since my foot has totally healed. I hopped, skipped and swung through it, with no pain. A true triumph after over a year of recovery.

The new Star Wars comes out and the flame of my old obsessions reawaken. When I am home for the holidays I use my days off to sit in a big armchair and I read and read and read like I used to when I was in grade school. My mom and I make pork buns together. And yet none of this feels like a regression, it feels like a natural return to myself, as if I'd finally come back to my own skin.

Of course there are the changes too: my niece grows more precocious by the day, even as my grandparents are slowing down. Life is perhaps never more bittersweet when I see my grandmother struggling to care for my grandfather as he weakens, even as my niece is just beginning to explore the capacity of her mind.

Last year I made resolutions for the year - to read more, to focus on self care, to open myself up to others, to develop a new life plan and pursue it. This year will be the year of others. In my life and dance and work, I hope to strive for excellence in service of the needs of others. This will be a year to remember.
Without Me

For the Sake of Existence

A hurricane has been coming our way, Hurricane Joaquin, and the "water cooler" conversations at work are debates over the pronunciation -- Wah-keen? Hoa-kin? Ja-queen? -- and I am reminded of debating with my mother over the pronunciation of the name Sean, myself insistent that there was no way something spelled Sean could possibly NOT be pronounced Seen.

Friday morning I walk from the subway in rain so light, so pervasive, it is barely more than a mist. Inexplicably, I forgot a jacket that morning. The wind blows down my back. The city birds defy this sudden weather, intently pursuing crumbs across the broken sidewalk and for a moment I am awed by their smallness, the tinyness of their hearts pumping blood, the improbability of their lives and mine in this city of things -- buildings, roads, front stoops, planter boxes -- that people have constructed for the sake of creating, for the sake of existence.

The MRI on my foot came back clean; only evidence of the healed fracture remains. It has been one year since the initial injury. My doctor has me changed my shoes, suspecting that the previous ones were bruising the top of my foot and thus causing the lasting pain. He was correct. Our coaches come back from vacation, we put a competition on the calendar to train toward, and we pursue our work in earnest. Between California and here, C and I have discovered a new way to produce movement, to navigate our choreography. Finally, I allow a tendril of hope to wrap around me.

I am finding comfort in my new job. I am only three months in but I feel a strange sense of community - that THIS is my product, and THESE are my people. I am no longer carried by the momentum of the work, but rather helping to guide it. I am making planter boxes, front stoops, sidewalks... I am persistently thankful.

In another week I will be headed to Los Altos once again. This time to be at the WCN conference, to work from California, to celebrate my mom's and my brother's birthdays, to spend time with my niece and grandparents and the friends I rarely see. I'm not quite ready to travel again, but I miss my family as I always do, and I am eager to see their faces, to smile and laugh with them.

By Friday evening the temperature has dropped another ten degrees, and the rain hardened into a permanent and eager drizzle. We eye each other's umbrellas, adjusting the height of our own so as not to collide. A slim girl passes with one large enough to cover three of her, an almost obscene indulgence on the crowded sidewalk. The flow of people descends toward the subway, those without rain gear rushing past those who do. And then I, too, have descended out of the cold and move with the crowd toward home.

A Passenger on the Move

I slept and awoke with a sensation of doom hanging over me, and no matter the clear beauty of the day nor the small town charm of the place I have landed can brush the feeling away. And so I sit and pray that no disaster will fall upon the people I love. I wait for time to bring me back to stillness.

Always I do my best thinking while on the move. Today, it is a bus that carries me past wooded green lawns and tall shingled rectangles that scatter the rolling hills west of the Hudson. I love to watch the land passing; buses have always taken me toward adventures. The movement helps me to write, as does a solid nudge from a friend (thank you, Brandon).

These days, I think often of a moment described in Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" - the book that still continues to shape my mind in ways I am still learning to comprehend. She speaks of standing near the creek and watching the water flow to her and away from her, like time that she cannot hold. How it is in that very second, is also how it will never be again.

The change that I foretold as spring's first tendrils were barely budding has come to pass. I am fully-employed now, and in a role that I never would have imagined for myself, and yet is already defining me. As the director of product at Detectica, I work to keep the team in communication with our client, make sure everyone is productive, happy, and that we are moving toward the company's long-term goals. It is perfect for my skills; I love my team, I feel we are building something real and important together.

It has given me back a piece of myself, though in changing jobs, I also lost something I cannot reconcile - and I cannot now find the strand I was following when I went back to graduate school. Although I continue to volunteer for APW, I feel I may never collect the pieces from the heartbreak of leaving. Working with Laly changed me; my time with her and APW gave me a core of inner strength that I will carry with me to my end. But with my ongoing injury and the pressures of NYC living, I needed something full-time. I had to say goodbye also to BuzzWord and to David Hudson, who were both amazing employers that encouraged me and taught me to be a better person. The past two years taught me to go it alone, to work truly independently; I am endlessly grateful for the chances that they took on me, and for all their energy and love.

What was most painful was leaving after we had invested so much in each other. When I worked for a big company (Google), I accepted that people would always be coming and going. My interactions with coworkers were transitory, passing like seasons. But in a small company, I felt integral. Work on a project was my work only, in a way that became entwined with my identity, and with my relationship to other people on the team.

Since I last wrote, myself and C have started taking lessons with new coaches - a husband and wife team. We feel the freshness of their approach, they understand what we need, and our dancing is the best it has ever been. We have settled into our patterns now, our fights seem based purely on lack of sleep/grouchiness rather than any disagreements. I feel we understand each other better and better every week. This is why so many people say that it takes two years for a dance partnership to become truly productive. I see no limit to our improvement, and so I keep on.

As for the foot. Well. It has continued to bother me - more when I dance, less when I take days off. On Friday, I found myself breathing to the accompaniment of a pounding MRI. They put headphones on me. The operator played KC and JoJo to calm me. They gave me a little rubber ball like what is on the end of the blood pressure cuffs: just squeeze it if you need to get out, they said. But I couldn't really hear the music over the machine. For forty minutes I fought panic, thinking constantly to myself "just relax and hold still" while staring at the ceiling tiles, the lights. The doctor said that if my fracture truly never healed, I will be sitting out for two more months. If it is tendonitis, I can keep dancing. But I think I already know what the verdict will be, and feel I am already preparing myself for the sadness that always comes when I am away from dance.

Midday sunshine brightens the landscape. The ridges are higher here, sloped like the backs of giant lizards, bristling with forest. I see a flock of four geese, squonking their way south. Is fall already beginning her move? My mom texts me to tell me my grandfather is weakening, and I make plans to go home to visit. A new roommate moves in to the apartment. My niece Zoe has learned to stand on her own. I do not take stock of where I am, I am not the driver. The bus rumbles along.