Things Fall Apart

During hours of mixing colors by mushing and rolling clay in my hands, I reflect on my days and process past and present traumas. There is both a disconnect and an uber-connect between the mundane daily rituals of early motherhood and my deeply felt femaleness. Tea parties and leaf collection, pancake flipping and butt wiping, purple baths and personification of everything fill my days. While worries about continued climate inaction, pervasive racism and specific racism directed at my child, the breakdown of my relationship with my mother and the breakdown of the world around me fill my mind. Things fall apart. Concrete crumbles and the sky cracks. Will the powerlines hold?