#105 | Unreserved enthusiasm
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,
“My alone feels so good, I'll only have you if you're sweeter than my solitude.” — Warsan Shire
“The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination." — Albert Einstein
I was at a Halloween party last night; the invitees were House of Leather salesmen, askari and Jack the Ripper victims. Over pizza, a polish man got incredibly excited about his new project that helps funders in the development space make decisions.
The idea sounded great. But what was even better was the unfiltered enthusiasm and delight in the way he told me. I was a flag-waving fan of his vision in five minutes.
And it made me think — could we all be 10% more enthusiastic about what we’re doing in the world? Could we all put the (admittedly English) reserve to bed and get psyched up “selling the sizzle” of the work of our life?
And if it’s hard to do this, perhaps it’s time to try something new.
Backwards by Warsan Shire - This poem comes from a book (called Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head) that Giulia gave me. It’s a beautiful book, and this is a beautiful poem.
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life,
That’s how we bring Dad back.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.
We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,
Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can write the poem and make it disappear.
Step-dad spits liquor back into glass,
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place, m
aybe she keeps the baby.
Maybe we’re okay, kid?
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,
you won’t be able to see beyond it.
You won’t be able to see beyond it,
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.
Maybe we’re okay, kid,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
Step-dad spits liquor back into glass.
I can write a poem and make it disappear,
give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums,
we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,
that’s how we bring Dad back.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
My week in books
A Path With Heart by Jack Cornfield. This is awesome. A quote: “As we follow a genuine path of practice, our sufferings may seem to increase because we no longer hide from them or from ourselves. When we do not follow the old habits of fantasy and escape, we are left facing the actual problems and contradictions of our life.”
Music Release 🚨
Check out Mont’s new song: it’s called Big Business and it's terrific.
Live well,
Hector