A swirl of moments—captured through free writes and Feldenkrais. This piece began with a reflection on the year: three events and some sensory explorations. I followed, unsure where it would lead.
Forty minutes later, I found a path—one that offered comfort and clarity in a time of deep chaos and pain.
The events: parasailing, Couples Alive II, and a crisis at home—threaded together by a political landscape spanning three countries. Two I call home. One I visit often.
It begins here:
I didn’t know if I’d be alone or with others. Just two Spanish-speaking men on a boat, a parasail, and me. No conversation—just gestures. A few motions to get me buckled and set. Sunscreen. Sunglasses. A nod. And then—release.
The rope pulled taut. The wind lifted me slowly, then all at once. Up. Up. Away. The boat shrank. The shore disappeared. The air held me like nothing else ever had.
I could sing up there. I could scream.
I did sing. I did scream.
Arms wide open. The wind caught me—tossed me, popped me forward and back.
In a plane, that would’ve terrified me.
But here, dangling from a sail—I felt free.
More than free. I felt possible.
There was a moment—I touched the clip. Thought about unhooking. Not out of fear, but out of desire.
A strange call to fly solo.
And also… a pull to stay.
Not for safety. But for the two men below.
I didn’t want to cause them trouble. That mattered.
That same push and pull—between rising and staying—echoes now.
Just weeks ago. Days before the election.
Up north with Couples.
The Haven. Safe. Then the call—ZuZu was hurt.
Far from home. But wrapped in something solid.
A circle of friends.
Steady eyes. Open arms.
My heart raced. My jaw clenched.
I tasted metal—but I wasn’t alone.
I felt helpless. But also held.
I watched CrisMarie pace the floor, phone to her ear.
The possibility of ZuZu gone.
Or our dogs separated.
The surgeon’s certainty: if she survives, they can’t be together.
Others spoke. Stories of dogs. Of grief. Of connection.
Pain, yes. But it was shared.
Held.
Helpless. And held.
While back home, ZuZu recovered.
Friends gathered. Held the fort.
Until we could return.
Now, I’m back in the U.S.
ZuZu curls in my lap. Rosie snug at my feet.
Everything back to normal.
Close. Safe. Cozy.
And yet—helplessness stirs again.
Not about the dogs this time.
It’s my country.
The headlines. The rage. The noise.
That same bitter taste in my mouth.
That same rising panic.
But no circle of friends here.
The Haven still exists—but distant now.
What surrounds me is the cluttered, chaotic hum of a nation at war with itself.
Still—I remember the parasail.
Mexico. The beach.
I remember the moment of lift.
Rising above the mess. Not to escape—but to see.
There is a way to be with terror without becoming it.
A way to hold chaos and not unclip.
I can scream. I can sing.
I can let go without falling.
I can remember the air. The sky.
The clarity that comes when I stop gripping so tight.
I don’t have to drown in the headlines.
Or disappear into helplessness.
There’s a space between it all.
A pause between breaths.
A widening above the noise.
I can carry that space with me.
Back down.
Because this is still home.
The weight of ZuZu. Rosie curled at my feet.
The dogs are here. My heart is here.
And maybe—if I remember the wind—
I don’t have to leave to feel free.
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