Through their design, objects subtly communicate instructions on how they should be used. Certain handles just feel like they should be pushed, and others pulled. Bad design sends us signals that are confusing.
After four years of wonderful work within a large healthcare agency, I feel called to take a smaller, quieter path. I'm not exactly clear where this new path is going and I'm giving it time to unfold. It's a bit awkward when someone asks what I'll be doing next and I have to struggle to find an answer; I'm ok with that.
I easily forget that my son is getting older, mostly because he's physically small but also because he needs help with things that kids his age have figured out how to do long ago. But that doesn't mean he's a child in every way.
The snowdrops came up this weekend. Their reappearance every year brings a shock of hope so unexpected and intense it’s almost violent. It only took a few hours of sunlight on a warm brick wall and there they were.
If you listen to or read pop culture reviews, you’ve probably stumbled upon a conversation about tropes, which are basically plot devices, themes or recurring character types. When disability gets represented in life and culture, plenty of tired tropes surface.
I opened a book last week and a bookmark slipped out onto the floor. It was a freebie from a favorite bookstore from my old life, back when I lived on the other side of the ocean. I loved that bookstore, with its coffee counter and author events and the way it always had exactly the book I needed even when it didn't have the book I wanted.
I thought even more about the fact that he said hello at all, and how that made me feel. Saying hello can seem like a token transaction, but really it's a way to let others know that we see them. My shoulders loosened. I was reminded of the importance of kindness.
Every moment offers a new beginning, but there is something special about the collective transition from one calendar year to the next.
It is and always has been a struggle for me not to get too caught up in new beginnings like this, to not be spellbound in the illusion that simply resolving to change will bring change, or that most of the mundane changes I desire, will bring lasting happiness.
There’s another aspect of cultural identity I’ve been thinking about lately: its purpose of providing contours to my otherwise diffuse psyche, like personality eyeliner. A lifetime of fourth of July sparklers, yellow school busses and two-for-Tuesday rock blocks has resulted in a very particular person who is me. If I let this container go, will I still be me? Of course I will, but will I really?
In a recent stress dream, I sat in an airport coffee shop knowing I was supposed to board a plane, but with no recollection of when the it was going to take off or from which gate. Despite being surrounded by information counters and departure displays, I just sat and sat, paralyzed and ashamed, with no sense that there was anything I could do.