Rebecca Weger

An Anniversary: 5 Years of SSDI

In the ME/CFS community some people recognize and are impacted by the anniversary of when they became ill. Many had a sudden onset, and that day is etched in their minds. They might experience deep grief as that day comes around, or be proud of themselves for continuing to survive, or both. There is a large advocacy organization that often solicits these dates and encourages folks to use them in awareness campaigns.

I can’t do that. I don’t have an onset date (which excludes me from those campaigns). I can’t even tell anyone how long I’ve been sick, except to say, more than 20 years, or most of my adult life. I don’t know when I got sick, except to tell you that it was between 1990-2003. There were potential trigger events throughout that time period, and I started experiencing symptoms. 1990 was when I acquired mononucleosis from the Epstein Barr Virus (EBV), which has been reactivated in my body for many years. But it was 2003 when I started doggedly pursuing answers from medical professionals.

But today’s a date that means something to me: my five year anniversary of being approved for SSDI.

I never hear people talk about that kind of date. But it’s the day my world changed.

[Context note: I am an educated middle-aged white lady with a master’s degree who previously held a management position at an ivy league university. I have more privilege that most disabled folks who are on federal disability benefits in the US, and make more money. I have more cognitive capacity than many people with my severity of illness. My experience is only my experience, and not the experience of many.]

5 years ago today I found out I wouldn’t become unhoused. That I was no longer at risk of having to surrender my pets. That I could buy groceries and pay for my supplements. It’s the day I could finally start mapping out the financial realities, possibilities and limitations of my new life. It was the day I could start using my back pay to replace sheets, to purchase assistive devices. And the day when I had to implement a very careful savings plan, since I have almost no potential to come into money again in my life without advances in research.

January 20, 2019 is the day I stood in the kitchen on the phone with my dear friend E, sobbing, shaking, pacing, in total disbelief and confusion that the government believed me. That my inability to do so many things that brought me joy or purpose was affirmed. I was seen. It wasn’t in my head. It was true.

And I had succeeded on my initial application with no appeals. (Gratitude always for the miracle who was known online as Lily Silver, and her genius and generosity in creating howtogeton.wordpress.com. What is remembered lives.)

And it was a major mile marker on the road to seeing myself as disabled. As identifying as disabled. And a door opening into the extraordinary disability community.

I don’t mean extraordinary in an inspiration porn sort of way. No. I mean the absolute glory of generosity, encouragement, information exchange, creativity, problem solving, truth-telling, challenging, radicals who are now my teachers and friends.

Did I need approval of a government entity to find my place there? Absolutely not. And neither does anyone else. In fact, it’s a pretty terrible measure of whether someone is disabled. When the Social Security Administration is denying 70% of submitted applications, and tons of folks I know don’t mean the specific financial criteria to apply, folks on SSI or SSDI are a small fraction of the disabled population. It’s also true that many disabled folks can and do work and have successful careers, with and without accommodations.

But in my case, that pronouncement was a catalyst.

It took me a while to integrate this new coronation. It can rearrange a brain and a heart and an identity. And then I had to feel my way around my new financial reality.

I’m not well off; I make less than my area’s calculated living wage. But it was information, stability, something to work with that wasn’t just terror of falling into an abyss with no net.

Because I’m mostly alone. I do have a bit of long-distance family support in the form of someone who partially subsidizes my pet care expenses, groceries and TV habit. But I don’t have a spouse, kids, siblings. My parents don’t provide much support in my life, which is not a condemnation or critique of them, just a reality. I don’t have someone to take me in or pay my bills. And I had gotten to daily panic attacks over my last $5,000. I had increased my antianxiety medication. My friends were trying to figure out how to help. One generously paid my rent that month. But no one had solutions.

The terror before my approval was all-consuming.

That is terror that millions of people are living with now.

And a terror that many still live with even if they receive benefits, because most people do not receive enough income to live on through SSDI or SSI.

SSI maxes out at $943 a month in 2024 ($11,316/year). This is funded by taxpayers and administered by the SSA.

The national average 2024 SSDI payout is $1,537 ($18.444/year before Medicare insurance premiums of $175/month or more), and my state average in New York is $1,540 ($18,480/year). SSDI is based on FICA taxes you paid while working, which are based on how much you earned. So the more money you made when working, the higher your benefit. The maximum allowed benefit is $3,822 ($45,864/year before health insurance). I don’t think I know anyone who gets that.

The living wage for 2024 where I am, Tomkins County, New York is $18.45/hour = $38,373/year. That’s for a single adult without dietary restrictions ($282/month on food), who has a very good deal on rent ($1,276/month), and limited out of pocket medical expenses ($203/month). Some of those expenses can be quite different for folks with chronic illness or disability.

I love a percentage calculation, so here it is: the average SSDI payout in New York State amounts to 48% of the living wage in my New York county. My income is between the two, which makes me fortunate in the context of my peers. But not so much as a human navigating the process of existing.

We must do better.

But for me, as an individual, it is a day to celebrate a certain kind of freedom and stability. A day I felt seen and acknowledged. A day I could exhale. A day I found myself grappling with a new identity. A day that gave me a shot at staying alive.

It’s Tuesday Morning

Photo of a long haired tortico cat wearing a pale green fleece coat. She is curled up sleeping on a hot water bottle, on top of a bed, on top of her human’s bed.

I was about to write a Facebook post, Facebook being the place I most often share the challenges of navigating benefits systems as someone who is disabled with severe chronic illness. And it occurred to me that perhaps I should be sharing these things more broadly. Many of my friends outside the systems have learned a lot from my sharing and seem to find it valuable. So here’s a bit about my morning:

I’ve been having sleep problems for a couple of months. But last night I took my Ativan, rearranged my bedding, listened to a bit of an audio book, and fell asleep at a reasonable time. I think I slept for about 8 1/2 hours, which was amazing. And I am so glad I had a night of almost reasonable sleep under my belt when I woke up. (Aside from the screaming cat on my chest, which is a whole other issue.)

What’s the current state of Social Security?

I scan the New York Times, and see an article on the current sad state of the Social Security Administration. 1 million disability applications backlogged. 36 minute hold times on phone calls. Budget chaos. I share the article in some key places on social media. I’m on SSDI, and don’t usually have problems. But I’m also coming up on my third Continuing Disability Review (CDR) and wondering when it will actually happen. The status of CDRs was not discussed in the article.

Will my medication be ready at the pharmacy when my shopper goes this afternoon?

The thing I needed to do was call my pharmacy. There’s a national shortage of one of my medications, and my refill is overdue. I have spent the last week and a half trying to track it and my refills down. Here’s the back story:

My pharmacy did not contact me to tell me there was a problem with my RX. I found out I had a problem when one of my helpers commented back on 11/24 that I was getting low. I logged into my prescription portal to discover that my refill was supposed to have happened on the 11th but was delayed.

I called the pharmacy and was told they could not get it, and I should call around to other pharmacies and move my prescription to whoever could get it. So I started calling pharmacies and asking if they had it, if they could get it, and who their supplier was. I found that my neighborhood pharmacy had 12 days of it in stock, but could not get more. So i called the on-call service for my doctor’s office and asked the doctor on call to put in a prescription for that 12 days. He did.

I begin rationing my medication, dropping one dose a day out of four.

But a few days later I got a text from my regular pharmacy telling my my prescription would be ready on the 4th. I was skeptical. So I called the pharmacy to confirm. I was told yes, it was fine, and it would be ready.

I met with my doctor that week and gave her a heads up that there was a problem. There is no other medication that does what that medication does, so if we can’t get it we’d have to pursue something entirely different, which has its own access problems, as it has to be compounded or gotten from another country.

On 12/1 I called the pharmacy again. I said hey, I’m aware there’s this shortage. I was told you couldn’t get it, now you say I’ll have it next week. I just want to confirm again that I really will be able to pick it up next week. Yes, I was told. No problems. It will be ready on 12/4.

12/4 was yesterday. There was no text from the pharmacy. The prescription portal says that it is in the process of being filled and will be available soon.

So now it is this morning. And today is Tuesday. And Tuesday is the day that my friend does my grocery shopping and picks up my prescriptions. I send her my list and instructions in the early afternoon, so I call the pharmacy to find out what’s going on.

The medication is not available. It is back ordered. There is no expected date when it will be available. The shortage is very real.

In my discussion with my pharmacist I shared my saga of phone calls. Which is when I find out that those calls last week were answered by a corporate office, and not the store. And apparently those folks can’t see the same information. He offers some compassion for the situation and tries getting creative about problem solving.

He says that the brand name version of the medication shows in his system as available to order. My insurance company might not like it. But there’s a chance we could resolve it with a new prescription from my doctor for the name brand. The insurance is likely to deny it, and he can try and override or two. If that doesn’t work, he would then send paperwork to my doctor for a prior authorization. But then I might have to spend some time calling the insurance company in order to get them to expedite the review process. He encourages me to get this moving as soon as possible, and a new RX to him later this morning would be best.

I have 19 days worth of medication left.

I call the doctor’s office. They put it in the queue to be managed, but won’t commit to doing it today.

And then, realizing the folks there who would be handling this are not my actual doctor, but staff I don’t know, I send an additional clarifying message through the portal. Now I wait, and start follow up calls tomorrow. But at least I know what to put on the grocery list.

My friend is here to help with the morning routine, and brings me coffee.

Thank goodness for my friends. I drink it hotter than usual, in search of fortification. My heart rate is too high from making phone calls. I rant. We chat.

A friend sends me a text offering to bring me dinner. a godsend.

I turn off my DND and turn on my ringer.

Do I still have Medicaid?

Throughout this saga, I check my email. I have a message from the woman at my local independence center who handles the financial side of my home care. She sends me a pdf of a letter from my Long Term Care insurance company that I need to renew my Medicaid immediately if I want continued services.

I have not received any recertification paperwork from my Department of Social Services which handles my recertification process.

I look through my notes to find my case manager’s number. I call DSS and get a recording that her mailbox no longer accepts voicemail, and I am immediately disconnected.

I Google my DSS and get the phone number for the Medicaid department. I leave a voicemail.

I get a call back that my Medicaid is fine until the end of February. My insurance company is sending panic notices for no reason. Also, my case worker has been out for a long time and they aren’t sure if she’s coming back.

There’s another vet bill.

Also in my email was an invoice for another $100 from a test we did last week for my elderly cat. I just paid the last bill for $350 on Friday. I promptly call and put it on my credit card. I still haven’t reached my GoFundMe goal from July, and care for my senior pets continues to require testing and medication. I am so grateful for the incredible veterinary care I have. But the money is real.

I’ve shared in some circles that my beloved dog died in late October. That’s a huge change and big grief that I haven’t spoken about publicly yet. But I still have a cat with kidney disease and high blood pressure who’s anemic and losing a lot of weight and constantly freezing cold. And I still don’t have a roommate to help me balance my budget.

My actual plans?

Right. That’s what I hoped to work on today. Advertising again in the hopes of finding a COVID cautious roommate. And advertising again for a second paid personal assistant. Both are processes I’ve been in for 15 months with no success.

But I’m exhausted now. I should eat food. Take my meds. Finish the grocery list. Take a nap. And those other things will wait until tomorrow.

I’m grateful dinner will come with no work on my part.

Meanwhile another disabled friend messages me. “How’s it going with you and Sadie?” “Today is a total shit show so far.” “Tell me about it, but only if you want to.”

Transgender Day of Remembrance

A graphic design of a lit candle in the blue, white and pink colors of the transgender pride flag is on the left. The words Transgender Day of Remembrance follow on the right.

I don’t often post for Transgender Day of Remembrance, although it’s certainly something that I think about. So here’s a story.

It turns out that three people from my circle in college have come out as trans now. But that had yet to happen in 1999. And 1999 was when one of the first out transgender folks who I knew, Tacy Ranta, was murdered. We weren’t close, or even friends. But we were involved in the same organization, and certainly knew each other by sight and said hello.

I’m not sure it was ever clear if it was specifically a hate crime or not. But it had that weight and reverberation. It was just a year after Matthew Shepard’s murder in 1998, and that was just a year after Ellen DeGeneres came out on national TV in 1997 (for those who are too young to know, this was a big deal). The queer communities that I was a part of were holding a difficult tension of fear and hope all the time.

My girlfriend and I were spit on walking down the street. My family did not embrace my coming out, and thought I was going to hell. Lots of people with less privilege than me were in much scarier situations.

And yet there was joy and norming of queer experience happening all the time in so many spaces. And I was leaving a job at the ACLU of Maryland, which had just successfully gotten the state sodomy law overturned. And on my way to work for one of the oldest and largest LGBTQ+ organizations in the country. We were demonstrating in DC at the Lincoln Memorial for same sex marriage. There was change and hope afoot.

I don’t think about Tacy often. But the weight of that shock, and the grief in my community stayed with me. And while I see all the ways that my privileged world changes for the better in my liberal bubble, I still hold fear that something could happen to someone I love just because of others hated and bigotry. Whether it’s my dearest college friend, or my former spouse, or former colleagues, or dear friends and helpers or the trans kids of my friends.

You, they, we, all matter. We should all get to be safe in this world living the full expression of whoever we are with as much sunlight as we choose.

Books by Mail

Screenshot of a WhatsApp message. The text of the message reads: Hey, (redacted) just dropped your next refrigerator magnet off. Apparently there was a library bag in your mail world and she added it to that so it would be contained. Below that text is a photo of a dark blue Tompkins County Public Library Books by Mail bag. A magnet with the image of a sloth is tucked into the pouch on the bag that holds the address card.

There is More Right With You Than Wrong

“As long as you are breathing there is more right with you than wrong with you, no matter what is wrong.” – Jon Kabat-Zinn

“Heart and Breath” by Rebecca Weger
2017
24″x24″ acrylic painting on wood cradle board. The image is a generalized depiction of a human heart and lungs. The image has streaks, circles, drips, and other marks. The colors are bold with black, turquoise, pink, red and white most dominant.

It was almost six years ago that I finally made my way through reading Full Catastrophe Living by Jon Kabat-Zinn. And this quote in the first part of the book shook me.

It shook me of course, because it was true. And I had taken to seeing my body as incredibly broken.

There are all sorts of ways that my body doesn’t work “correctly.” Some of which cause extreme impact on my life. It can be hard, frustrating, physically uncomfortable. And I spend a lot of time and energy managing the bits I have any control over in order to have the best quality of life I am able to access as a person who spends almost all their time in bed.

People ask me why I’m not depressed (luck of biology), or more angry, how I managed to have a well-adjusted attitude. I don’t know the full answer. But it’s surely in part encountering statements like this and letting them fully in that creates a path forward with more ease.

Bittersweet

My parents moved out of my childhood home this past week. Well, sort of. They definitely moved out. That home was complicated for me, having been partially rebuilt 30 years ago after our house fire.

As my parents sifted through their lives there were the inevitable questions of what I might want. Yet as I reflected, many of the things I had fond memories of were from the pre-fire era. The first 18 years of my life.

I made choices. And took all the remaining items that had been mine, which I’m slowly sifting through as I have energy and help. Correspondence, photos, t-shirts, stuffed animals, baby teeth.

This morning my Thanksgiving cactus is blooming. It was my mom’s and she sent it with me many years ago at the end of a visit.

Photo of a Thanksgiving cactus with red blooms nestled among an aloe plant, a monstera, and a conch shell.

My gut is a mess right now, but I’m trying real food for breakfast, and I pulled out one of my parents’ dishes. I love them, and they are a relic of pre-fire times.

Photo of friends eggs and roasted potatoes on a dark brown and green Madeira dinner plate with a stylized floral pattern from Franciscan from circa 1972.

And I asked my mother to bring me a rock last month when they brought up a final round of boxes to me. Mica schist from the land. It’s currently on my dresser with a sweet bit of rose quartz.

A piece of mica schist rock with sparkly silver flecks. It’s sitting atop a crocheted blanket in bite, orange, red and cream variegated yarn.

It’s often hard when we make big transitions. I’m sad that I wasn’t able to go to say goodbye to the house or the land. I can’t travel anymore. But I’m hopeful that my parents will have more freedom and fewer responsibilities in this next chapter. And for that I’m grateful.

Bittersweet.

Coming Out and Disability

Keith Haring National Coming Out Day poster — An image of the original 1998 National Coming Out day poster by Keith Haring. A yellow abstracted figure dances through an orange doorway into a pink and green room.

According to my Facebook memories I’ve never made a National Coming Out day post. Which surprises me.

I came out to my friends in 1992, and to my family in 1998. I’m queer.

It’s something I rarely have to think about anymore, and something I no longer really think about disclosing to people. Because I’m fortunate enough to live in a bubble in the world where no one assumes anything anymore. Being queer or gender non-conforming or having a non-traditional relationship style is pretty common in my friend circles, and something I often just don’t think to mention.

This is because of National Coming Out Day. The premise was right: That it’s important for folks to know the names and faces of those around them because it’s harder to hate and discriminate when you realize it’s someone you love. And for those of us for whom it has been safe enough to do so, I think it has changed hearts and minds. And I think it has created the world I live in today.

Having been part of that history, and knowing some of those who courageously went before me, and the ways the world has unfolded since, it has been full of change I couldn’t imagine. I like to ask friends questions like, “What’s the first big newsworthy event that you remember?” I like understanding their context in the world. And it’s made me think more about events that shape the world and our personal lens.

I came out twenty four years after Troy Perry founded the Metropolitan Community Churches in 1968. (I later worked for them)
Twenty three years after the Stonewall Riots in 1969. (I later lived in NYC and made my pilgrimage)
Four years after the first National Coming Out Day in 1988.
Before Ellen DeGeneres came out on TV and practically broke the broadcast world in 1997. (advertisers went berserk and there were boycotts)
Before Matthew Shephard was murdered in 1998. (I sobbed)
Before the Maryland sodomy law was voided in 1999. (I worked for the ACLU of Maryland at this time and they made it happen)
Before Massachusetts legalized same sex marriage in 2004. (I had hope)
Before the Supreme Court changed the law of the land in 2015. (I sobbed)

And of course there are so many, many more dates and names and courageous people. Those are just some that are touchstones for me.

I have friends here who came out long before me.

And perhaps someone reading this who has yet to come out, or may never choose to do so to others.

The identities you each carry matter to me, because it matters to me to know my friends and their hearts and what makes them joyful and connected. Because I want to know your pronouns so that I can know you and honor how you want to be known. So I can reflect you back to you. So that I can address your holiday cards to the right family. I’m glad when you tell me. But you never owe me, or anyone else.

I’ve reflected a lot over the last few years on how the coming out philosophy impacted me personally. And I’ve realized that it’s why I talk about disability. Because I think that knowing someone changes hearts and minds. And that knowledge is power. And I believe that every one of you who chooses to listen to the stories of people like me learns something, or relates to something, or learns a bit of compassion for someone else you know.

Because I think when you know that it affects someone you care about, you know that voting in favor of funding for home and community based services matters. That a living wage for home care workers matters. That increasing SSI to a living wage matters. That marriage shouldn’t put someone’s benefits at risk. That healthcare shouldn’t bankrupt anyone. That accessibility should be non-negotiable. That community care is essential. And this is how change comes about.

I don’t tell you every story of my illness or my struggles being a disabled human in this world. But the stories I tell you are true and representative. And I’ve heard from so many of you over the years that you hear me and that it matters.

We can build coalitions for justice and freedom and care. We can honor the bodies and hearts we each have. We can keep making the world safer for all of us. And it helps when we get to see who each other are.

30 Years

Interior house photo after a fire — A black and white photo I took with a manual SLR camera and developed in my high school darkroom. The shot is from my parents’ front hallway, looking up at a fire ravaged cathedral ceiling. Black circles dot the walls at regular intervals. A light and a wall-mounted intercom are somewhat melted down the walls.

People seem curious why I’m not more angry about the illnesses that ravage my body, erode my sense of trust and safety in myself, limit what I can do in the world. I don’t know the full answer. But I can tell you where a piece of that answer is: April 20, 1992.

Or maybe it was really April 22, walking slowly in confusion and wonder up the staircase of my childhood home, quietly, tentatively, several steps behind my parents. Looking in the dim light at the grungy, dark and torn walls and ceiling of our home. There were no lights, no electricity. Everything was muscle memory and flashlights and disorientation in this stairwell, normally so bright and spacious with its white walls and cathedral ceiling.

We were standing there, but it was gone. Our home.

Dark dots in rows across the walls, where hot nail heads burned through the spackle and paint. Light fixtures and a thermostat melted down the walls. A three foot hole eaten through my bedroom door. Water drenching my bed and floor. The smell of campfire and chemicals and damp.

For those of us with the privilege to be housed, it’s easy to take for granted. Especially when you’re a child and your needs for food and shelter are consistently met. When there were toys and modeling clay and music and books and clothes.

April 20, 1992. A month before my 18th birthday, my childhood abruptly ended. We were out of town, alerted by neighbors on a hotel voice message in Phoenix, Arizona. A dizzying surreal confusion of flight changes and waiting and cancelling plans, and trying to conjure into our minds any image that made sense of the state of our home. The sleeplessness. The travel. The holding of breath. The long pause before we were standing in that stairwell in silence.

The safety was gone. Gone too were parents who knew how to do everything and could protect me from the big threats in the world. Because they were now facing something inconceivable, too. At the same time.

We weren’t strangers to grief and death. Three of my four grandparents were buried by then, as were many other relatives, friends and pets. But regardless of how sad or untimely those deaths may have felt, they were expected in the unfolding of life.

This was different. It was sudden. Unexpected. Overwhelming. Ungrounding. No one we knew shared our experience. We were in uncharted territory, alone.

I had no more control over that fire that happened when we were 2,000 miles away on vacation than I did the onset and development of my illnesses. They aren’t things you can prepare for. They aren’t things you can solve or undo. They are things you find a way to navigate and survive.

We certainly didn’t fall prey to any toxic positivity 30 years ago, anymore than I do now with my body and health. But then, like now, there were so clearly things to be genuinely grateful for: We each had a week’s worth of clothes and toiletries. The dog was in the kennel. We had insurance. We had my brand new laptop. Those things were significant

We didn’t know what to do, but we had some starting places, and some people to help us. And the surprise of folks we expected to show up to support us who didn’t, and the gift of those who did. The aunt who helped us sift through the charred rubble of family heirlooms and office supplies piled in the yard, and brought us work clothes. The aunt who brought the picnic supplies, the paper towels, and the laundry detergent.

We had to reexamine every item in our lives as we completed an inventory. Consider what was lost and what could be saved. What was worth replacing and what we should just let go. To this day, my mother and I could still have conversations musing about whether some particular object “survived the fire.” We can’t always remember. It was so much all at once. And so long ago now. We have rebuilt ourselves many times over.

We moved around from hotel to residence inn to furnished apartment, looking for places to land for the in-between time. A time that had no known end.

We had our dog, Ada. She adapted. She loved us just the same, a steady distracting presence.

We had rites of passage to navigate, including my 18th birthday, senior prom, high school graduation, and tonsillectomy.

Eventually I was launched from the in-between, leaving for college from an apartment building where I had no memories and had never met the neighbors. My parents worked with contractors to rebuild the structure of their house. I was hundreds of miles away, learning how to use a Vax email system, a meal card, and draw “the best shoe you can.”

I returned “home” to visit, to a house rebuilt where nothing was the same. And neither was I. By that fall I had experienced my first major Epstein Barr reactivation, which doctors didn’t even know was a thing back then. The health center said it wasn’t possible to have mono again, it was just a “mono-like illness.” And I had taken an incomplete for my first semester. I spent two months in a push-crash cycle trying to finish my 8 credit Freshman Foundations course, some of it from my parent’s basement.

That place never exactly felt like home again to me. It has familiarities and holds memories. But also so many things that have no connection to me. My parents rebuilt their lives there, redecorated. The brown Naugahyde couch replaced with cabbage roses. The pale sage carpet much harder to clean than the old forest green. Skylights installed. The kitchen entirely re-envisioned. Dining room furniture that was a really neat idea and a mistake none of us will ever make again.

But I didn’t. I found ways to move on, ungrounded, always looking for a place to land. The almost six years I’ve lived in my current apartment is my record for longest occupancy since then. 23 homes in 30 years.

In this place, I picked the color of the walls and chose the furniture. (And bought the renter’s insurance.) I’ve redesigned and rearranged as my health and support needs change. I have a bunch of my childhood things that were in storage during the fire. And a bunch of hazy memories of things that may or may not still exist. I have a few weeks worth of clothes in a new, larger size after I gained weight from a health crisis. Toiletries that I’m pretty sure don’t make me sick. I have my laptop. My Sadie cat and my Marigold dog. Folks who didn’t show up, and an abundance of folks who did.

A few years ago I was struggling with accepting the rapidly escalating severity of my limitations. I was reading Buddhist wisdom and advice from therapists. And it occurred to me that home has to be in me. In this body. This consciousness. That finding that sense of home in myself was what would help me find the stillness in the eye of the storm. That the search for the anchor wasn’t going to resolve out there, but in here. And every night before sleep, I sit, eyes closed, soundscape by a softly snoring dog. Tonight I will tick off my 1,563rd consecutive day of meditation, of finding a different sense of home, 30 years later.

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