Dangerous Compassions

hard work

We went to the farmers market this morning on our way to visit our friend and her baby.

We ended up buying some art from a vendor there.  He told us the stories of making the art.  I gave him an apple-tasting zine, and he hugged us solemnly.

He told me the last zine I gave him, he felt a lot of feelings reading it.  He said he would go traveling by himself, just him and his backpack, and have lots of sad times.  I was surprised because usually I hear about people being so happy when they travel.

But I remember when Ming and I went to Canada, it was hard work.  There were painful moments–getting scolded by a mean mother on a crowded bus, being expected to act super social with couchsurfing hosts, being shamed for needing rest.  Not to mention the border crossings, detained and questioned separately, car searched.

Well, I freaked out yesterday.  I was overwhelmed, preparing for our big event.  There’s too much stuff in our house, and then the event means bringing more in–lots of food, coolers, cambros, paper towels, trash bags…

People arrived to drop something off, I thought, but then one wanted to stay the night.  He was very social, and his need to talk didn’t match my need to rest and be quiet.  I was bad at setting boundaries.  He walked into our kitchen.  I listened and sympathized, but I could feel the tiny amount of energy I had slipping away.

It’s a windy night.  The windchimes are banging out there.  I cleaned off the left side of my desk and dusted.  Moved some empty jars away.

Wish us luck.  There are the problems, then a painful way of reacting to problems.  I wish I could be more calm sometimes, but I’m only human.  We’re working on it.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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