Ah, but there is so much living.

Four cherry tomato plants teach me the meaning of abundance. They toppled their cages in a gregarious takeover; new growth springing out in every direction, intermingling leaves so closely as to confuse where one plant starts and another ends. Bursts of vibrant red draw me in. I engulf myself in their fragrant leaves, contorting to reach the juicy orbs. One by one I fill my basket. I throw burst, over-ripe tomatoes beyond the fence. Not dead on the vine— too alive. Some slit tomatoes still slip through into the bags I use for giving away.

Giving, like how the sun gives. Unconditionally. Rain, like how the rain gives. Abundantly. Too abundant? Here, yes; elsewhere, it is stringent. I don’t grow the tomatoes. The tomatoes grow themselves. I provide the best possible environment for their cultivation. Then, luckily, miraculously, gratefully, I eat. I eat the sunlight and the rain. The cherry tomato pops like a firecracker in my mouth as a voice rings out against the speckled sky.

RESIST DISCOURAGEMENT.

I toss another burst fruit over the fence.

A benefit of consistent posting is it gets fresh eyes on my page. For a creative, this could lead to new clients, collaborators and of course followers. I’ve had 52,000 page views on Instagram in the last month. These views don’t perfectly correlate to engagement with my work (ex. buying a subscription to my substack, commissioning a painting, or hiring me as a consultant through Warner Advisory Group). Home Depot can’t draw a direct line between views on their Facebook posts to hammer purchases, but they post because it grows brand recognition and goodwill. Someone might laugh at a video of me reviewing (and hating) deviled eggs and hire me to write their estate plan. Is that ridiculous or genius?

As a writer, a social media following is just as important to cultivate. When I started querying to get my novel published it became evident that more than a compelling manuscript is necessary to sell a book. Publishers continue to slice ad budgets in favor of authors utilizing a pre-established following to push copies. Right or wrong, (would Jane Austen have danced on Tik Tok?) I’m playing the game.

The numbers don’t lie, my follower count, page, and video views have increased. But, I’m still a far cry from a publishing deal. I’m not a modern ‘influencer’ but I am active in producing real content for others to view. Recently, a friend called me a content creator and while I’d never used that title before, it did seem to sum up something I regularly do. A couple times a week I shoot, edit and post videos. They are video-diary/ POV style about gardening, my ducks, art, movement, travel, etc. Like this newsletter, it’s a small glimpse into my life.

Initially I had a Google doc of video ideas thoughtfully outlined and indented with series suggestions and channel themes. That didn’t stick; it was too rigid for me. Mostly I just live my life and if there’s something interesting going on I take videos. I try not to let the act of recording change the activity or interrupt the naturalness of it but I always ask for consent if I record others. I love capturing the beauty and joy of everyday life, or that is the aspiration.

I’m still very much learning. As is my way, I am not set on a single theme for my account, and likely never will be. I allow myself this freedom but acknowledge the necessity of telling one story per video. The Reel style attention span requires simple, efficient storytelling. (The average TikTok viewer swipes to the next video in 10.8 seconds). The practice of finding and defining micro stories to produce regularly has been an excellent challenge for me. The work of learning how to shoot, edit, and often star in these videos is creatively enriching and a great skill to add to my arsenal.

Personally, marketing myself through these apps is another matter. Recently I had my first video go viral with nearly 200,000 views on TikTok alone. I’ll share insights from that in a coming post.

For now I’m pleased to meet the year milestone. While it’s beneficial for the creative professional, consistent posting is a labor in addition to the art. My hope is that through continued practice and time the benefits will compound.

Take care,

Cooper

Quitting Time by T. M. Watson

I have trouble with work. Last week, while sobbing on the phone with my mother, I told her I was going to quit my job. I had to quit my job. “It is easier to find a job when you have a job,” she said. “And we all know you need structure.”

It’s true, I have trouble with structure. I spent my twenties, for the most part, avoiding economically-measurable work by going to graduate school, and after about five years, I had a nervous breakdown. One flexible deadline six years away isn’t good for a man with a wont to eat ice cream for breakfast and drink beer with lunch.

I know I am not alone my trouble with work. I hear it, from young and old. The youth, they do complain. My elders complain too. When I was out with my parents for dinner the other week, before I had contemplated quitting my job, my father stated that people of his generation got a job and stuck with it. Younger people seem to want to change jobs and careers every few years, he claimed. I wondered aloud if this was due to a lack of stability in the job market itself. I, myself, didn’t set out to switch careers three times before thirty-five.

After graduate school, I sought a solution for my unstructured ennui by fleeing into a job that with strict labor-discipline. I work as a bricklayer now. Work starts at 6am, but I have to be there at least five minutes early. The units are all of a standard size and weight — any variation in them has to be corrected, by me. My movements are scrutinized for their efficiency and precision. At 2:15, we drop our tools.

Our experience of time has evolved alongside industrial and post-industrial capitalism. The attitude of pre-capitalist societies towards time was frequently described as “task-oriented.” Just as in graduate school, my day was divided into mornings, which were for reading, and afternoons, which were for writing, in an agrarian or hunter-gather society the day is structured by tasks that should be completed based on a flexible schedule. There is no great distinction between “work” and “life,” no momentous clatter of tools at “quitting time,” just an unending flow of activity.

As clocks and other machinery grew more accurate and work moved outside of the home and commons into factories and workshops, work started being measured by the minute. The steam-mill started hissing and the looms began to clatter at seven: the workers had to be present and ready to work. Punishment awaited those who weren’t.

In some ways, this heightened sense of time-discipline has given me a feeling of freedom: I work eight hours. If they want more, they pay more. I don’t answer e-mails after work, expecting only an occasional text with an address where I should bring my tools tomorrow. In many other ways, it feels oppressive. I am sick of being told how to walk, speak and act. As a single person, I inevitably perform all my own household labor. No matter how hard I “give ‘er” for the company that day, the washing has to be done, meals prepared, my body tended to. Women, who before the dictatorship of clock-time, simply worked alongside men, were now left with the necessary, unpaid work of reproducing the conditions required to live.

In Capital, in his dense but beautiful sing-songy scientific way, Karl Marx outlines the tendency of the rate of profit to fall. In general terms, capitalist competition forces firms to innovate more efficient means of production. Goods become cheaper, but the new technology is expensive. Workers are forced to work for less profit, and can thus consume even fewer goods, despite their cheaper price. The situation spirals.

In our current period, the rate of profit is falling, dramatically. After the industrial revolution or the two world wars, capitalism functioned on system of forced inclusion (we are kicking you off your common land and moving you into urban housing to work in factories and buy market-produced goods). In response to the falling rate of profit, it has moved to one of exclusion (we are refusing to offer you education, evicting you from your home, and you will live on the street).

Certain exogenous factors can buck this trend: the discovery of fossil fuels, for example. War also raises profitability, though that is a cheap high.

In the brief quarter-century after WWII, Americans could float on fossil-fuel fumes into government-subsidized housing and white-collar jobs with pensions. Increasingly excluded from profitable employment, affordable housing and transportation, younger people may have lost any incentive to stick with one career. Employers, grasping for more of a shrinking slice of profits, are loath to offer benefits and living wages, and never seem to want to let you drop your tools (always another e-mail to answer). The scare freedoms offered by a life ruled by clock-time have evaporated, unspooled into a digital world of infinite availability, global labor pools, and unprofitable, unproductive AI tools that send resumes and careers swirling into an endless, thirsty purgatory.

It seems no surprise to me that different generations have different experiences of employment and thus the very structure of their everyday lives. Of course, many born in the decades following World War II also never found stability in the job market, but precarity and flux have become the norm, even amongst the so-called middle-classes. In our time, trouble with work is near-universal.

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A block away from home the cardboard contraption proved fallible and the babies spilled on to my lap and the passenger side floorboard. I screamed. B’s hands didn’t move from 10 and 2. When we pulled in the driveway he calmly scooped them out from under the seat while I watched on, frozen in terror. All five of the black Cayugas were unphased. Welcome to duck parenthood, I thought.

For the next 6 weeks the ducks lived in the garage in two heavy duty tubs filled with straw bedding. There was no decor, only the necessities: a heat lamp, water container, and food. For my part, each morning began a bit earlier, manning the hose to rinse and refill water. Each night ended similarly. I came to love the chorus of quacks that greeted me each time I opened the garage door. Goodnight, we’d say, grow big and strong.

The ducks were approximately a week old when they were plucked by the hand of god from the tub at Tractor Supply and placed in our care. Shortly thereafter, one duck, Daisy, showed signs of developmental differences. Her legs curled inwards rendering her unable to walk. She had to be removed from the tub in order to keep her from being trampled by the others. (She lives with B’s parents and is treated like a princess).

I had not for a moment anticipated a ‘lame’ duck. Nor did I consider all the ways in which our user error could harm them. We learned after a dramatic first bath time that baby ducks get cold quickly. Instead of putting them in the water in batches we dumped them all in at once. Then came the distinct moment of terror as we watched all their little bodies suddenly freeze up like ice cubes. I dashed inside for towels and then I handed ducks by the armfull to B so he could warm their shaking bodies against his chest. Minutes later, thawed and chirping once more, each duckling found a spot in the tub to preen themselves. They came out of the whole ordeal fluffy and cuter than ever.

However, ducks don’t stay cute for long. Their teenage phase of half-grown-in adult feathers is decidedly awkward. But we marveled at their development; their swift growth, the deepening colors on their heads and wings, their down coat slowly falling out while bristly pin feathers emerged. The pin feathers fascinated and scared me. The feather is encased in a clear keratin sheath giving it a skeleton-like quality. As the bird prunes the sheath, the feather unfurls.

With plenty of adult feathers and heads peeking over the top of their tub, we knew it was time for the ducks to move. Fingers crossed they’d be permanent residents at their very own private pond at the foot of B’s cabin. A month and a half later, occupying an entire tub rather than a cardboard box, the ducks took their second car ride. In a soothing tone I explained that their worried quacks were unnecessary. I described the duck coop we lovingly built for them and all the space they’d have to explore. I told the ducks things they couldn’t understand so I could quiet my own worry. It suddenly felt like such hubris to assume we could interject our coddled ducks into the well established ecosystem and promise them safety. Of course we couldn’t.

What foolish assurances we make to one another. I will never leave you. It will always be like this. The only always is death. That’s nature. For seven days we had nine ducks at the pond. Now there are eight.

Two months to the day we got them, eight ducks went into the pond. They unfolded their full grown wings and splashed across the water and I laughed with pure pleasure. That’s nature. That’s the most natural thing.

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The last day I saw my grandfather’s face was on the eve of my law school graduation. He and my grandma drove a long way to celebrate with me. They arrived late on a Friday evening, along with my parents to Milwaukee. Wayne was jovial for his demeanor. It had been over a year since I’d seen him. He hugged me, drank two beers and joked about giving a speech at graduation. It was sweet, if not a little out of character– especially because COVID restrictions meant I’d only got two tickets for the procession. After dinner, the family parted ways with plans to meet in the morning.

I’d invited my grandpa to tour the law school, a beautiful new four- story labyrinth of learning, before the ceremony. Instead of meeting I got a text from my mom he wouldn’t make it. They’d gone back to Kansas City. Started out early, my grandmother said. Someone wasn’t feeling well. They were being vague with it.

They think he was having mini strokes. It took him about a month longer to die in hospice.

I remember my grandparent’s house through my childhood eyes; the tangible moments turned to memories that I now sometimes pull out and sift through. Their basement had cement floors, swaths of deep orange carpet, and beams you could hold while you rollerskated around them.

On one wall of the basement were hats and on another were books; all carefully collected and arranged by my grandfather. He had European guidebooks, presidential biographies, Dan Brown-esqu mysteries and classics. Gone with the Wind, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and of course, 1878 Russian classic: Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy.

I picked up the thick paperback and diligently tried to read the first chapters at age 12. My grandfather didn’t discourage me but we both knew I wasn’t taking it home. Fast forward 18 years. My grandma was getting rid of some books around the holidays and I ended up with that very copy of Anna Karenina (AK).

AK weaves in and out of the intimate affairs of two families in the Russian nobility. Anna Karenina is the wife of a prominent statesman. To start the book we are dropped into Anna’s brother’s house. His name is Prince Stepan “Stiva” Arkadyevich Oblonsky’s “Stiva” for short. Stiva’s wife, Princess Darya “Dolly” just learned Stiva was cheating with the governess. That’s how we get this banger of an opening line:

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

On the pleading of her brother, Anna takes the train to visit his family’s estate in Moscow to calm a disturbed Dolly. The train was delayed briefly because a man was run over on the tracks. This is called foreshadowing!

At the start of the novel Anna is the paragon of elegance. She is beautiful and charming. She meets Cavalry Officer Count Alexei Kirillovich “Vronsky” and he is immediately taken by her. Despite her husband and son, Vronsky pursues her. They fall into a romantic entanglement equal parts passion and problem.

A parallel story unfolds alongside Anna’s which is that of Konstantin Kostya Dmitrievich Levin otherwise known as “Levin.” Levin is a childhood friend of Stiva. Throughout the start of the novel we watch him act as the suitor of Princess Ekaterina Alexandrovna Shcherbatskaya “Kitty.” Kitty is Dolly’s younger sister. [If you’re not following the names, that is ok! The point is they all know each other intimately.]

As the novel progresses the reader watches Levin and Kitty’s relationship blossom through a proposal, wedding and a baby. In contrast, we see Anna’s situation deteriorate after she reveals her relationship with Vronsky to her husband. In doing so, Anna loses her financial security and access to her son. Vronsky and Anna end up cohabitating without an official divorce making her “lifestyle” questionable at best.

Another loss is Anna’s status in society. Her reputation becomes that of a fallen woman. Vronsky can still go to the opera without a worry. It is Anna who becomes a social pariah. “Vronsky very soon noticed that though the great world was open to him personally, it was closed to Anna. As in the game of cat and mouse, the arms that were raised to allow him to get inside the circle were at once lowered to prevent Anna from entering. (525). Cast out, a woman as charismatic as Anna begins to falter alone at home. She worries over Vronsky’s every move and her love becomes shrouded in jealousy. She thinks constantly about how to solve the problem of her status, knowing that the problem cannot be solved. “Her chief preoccupation was still herself.” (639).

As the novel progresses, Anna’s obsessive thoughts read like vanity. She loses in many emotional senses but her safety and wellbeing are never in question. She doesn’t have to make her own breakfast or dress herself. She maintains the lifestyle of nobility– just fallen nobility.

****Spoiler****

Near the end of the novel, overcome with the problem of herself (and likely undiagnosed something) Anna throws herself onto the railroad tracks.

There is a reading of AK in which you leave pitying Anna. You might want to do that just based on the small explainer I’ve given here. But, Anna is a complicated figure. And the book really is not all about her. The novel is also about Levin and Kitty, Stiva, the peasantry, Russian politics and religion. Despite that, when I finished all 864 pages I immediately took to the internet to see what everyone’s opinions of Anna were.

Turns out it was mixed. A lot of people did not like her. I think that is fair. I tended in that direction myself. There are no wrong answers.

Like her or hate her, Tolstoy acknowledged that Anna lost the most. Vronsky did not lose status in pursuing her, nor did Oblonsky (remember how the novel starts) or any of the other men who participated in a dalliance. Infidelity was common amongst the nobility but the consequences were uniquely shouldered by the women. Although Anna wasn’t put out on the street, she did lose her son and sense of legal security. No matter her contributory fault to her fallen position or the vaingloriousness of her woes could change the fact that the affair made her mad. People who are doing well don’t throw themselves in front of trains. In that way it is a reminder that whether you might personally think something is legitimate or not does not affect how the other person experiences it. Anna believed that to be her best and only solution. Her life was the ultimate loss.

AK is widely considered one of the greatest novels in world history. Why? In my opinion it is because Tolstoy completely inhabits these characters’ heads. As a reader you get their most intimate internal dialogue. It is a treat to peer into someone else’s mind and to find their thoughts and feelings relatable– especially when the thoughts are trickier ones like jealousy, fear and vanity. It allows you to humanize your own experience through others and provide empathy even if indirectly.

“[Anna] loved him both for his own sake and for his love of her. To possess him entirely was a continual joy to her… [Vronsky] soon felt that the realization of his longing gave him only one grain of the mountain of bliss he had anticipated.” 462

“[Anna] was jealous, not of any one woman, but the diminution of his love. Not having as yet an object for her jealousy, she sought one…Neither [Anna or Vronsky] spoke of the cause of their irritation, but each thought the other in the wrong, and at every opportunity tried to prove that this was so.” 732

Upon seeing a suitor talking to kitty at a ball, “Levin, who but a few moments before had been in the brightest of spirits, was now looking dismally at every one, dissatisfied with everything...” [Levin thought] particularly objectionable was the smile with which Kitty responded to the suitor’s smiles.” 567

You think you are the first to crave possession over a lover? Or to lose interest as soon as the desired thing is attained? What about writhe under unfounded jealousy?

No you are not. In 1878 Tolstoy wrote a character who felt just how you felt. This means you are not alone.

I am curious to know what my grandfather thought about Anna. I would love to ask him. I can’t, but I can hold a piece of him through this story. And that means I am not alone.

A special thank you to my paid subscribers: Deb, Ben, Vince, Sally, Tracy, & Phill who make my work possible.

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There is a plant on the windowsill of our shared office, a second bedroom turned study, filled to the brim with curios, doodads, gadgets, and sketches. The plant, I cannot recall of what variety, has lived on this sill for nearly a year. A cactus of some sort, craving sun so tremendously, she has nearly grown herself right out of the pot; a few degrees above horizontal, straining for every last bit of light. I’ve thought about repotting her, setting her upright again, but other tasks always take precedence, and I’ve half-convinced myself she is so tied to that spot, tenuous still in her existence, that to move her would be tantamount to death. She grows sideways, but she grows. Who am I to move her in the name of survival? Is she not surviving? Five green buds poke out defiantly from the black dirt as their mother grows horizontal. Is she not thriving?

I am trying to learn from her, this plant on the windowsill, about the power of staying. Rooting. Establishing deeply and firmly. The urge to flee is in my very marrow. I can feel it itching under my skin. That room on the other side of the house sparkles in the afternoon light. That nondescript, foreign city ticks on a different time zone, offers other possibilities. Everything novel, everyone new, and therefore interesting. Wouldn’t you perhaps like to go somewhere else? Try on a different version of yourself? 

But, what about your roots? Rooting. Establishing deeply and firmly. Tangled red hair a million miles long knowing there are always scissors in the room over. Same job, boyfriend, zipcode. Same apartment, same meds, same last name. Not languishing, but not sprinting ahead either. Being here now. Not running because you’re bored, or uncomfortable, or scared. 

I should paint the bedroom purple, I should buy new throw pillows, I should move the bed. I should join a flag football league, I should learn tai-chi, I should buy a razor scooter, I should buy a trench coat, an ipad, a boat. I should spend a day in total silence, I should go to a bar and assume an alias, I should compliment every person I see. I should lay in the musty March grass, I should run barefoot on the sidewalk, I should skinny dip in the lake, I should shave my head. 

But, what about your roots? Establishing deeply and firmly instead of flitting on the quickest breeze of opinion. About taking your time with something, someone. Digging in and withstanding storms, coming back stronger, more resilient, beautiful.

Rooting is hard. It takes patience. Patience is hard for people.

Like when you check your weather app in March and groan at another 39-degree gray day. Yet, from a still and quiet place you know, just as your great grandmother felt the sting of sunshine on her July cheeks, you know. Spring is coming. Things will be different then; I will be different then. 

I sit in stillnes. I am the plant on the windowsill stretching towards the sun.

Another blossoming awaits.

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The night before I’d parked in front of the house. During my forty minute commute I listened to the squeak of an ill-fitting frame shoved indelicately against a cardboard box in the back seat. At the car, having deposited my items on all the available surfaces, I put myself halfway into the driver’s seat before changing my mind and exiting the vehicle. Leaning across the backseat I wiggled the frame against the cardboard box in hopes of preventing another 40 minutes of squeaking. As I shut the door I noticed a Eureka Savings Bank debit card on the concrete just beside my left foot.

I picked the card up and as I walked towards the house the front door opened slightly. I showed B the card, shrugged at the appropriate protocol, and passed it along to him. During the handoff, the cat walked right out of the house and on to the porch. He was not perturbed by our admonishments and waltzed right down the steps and into the yard. I scooped the cat up from behind, throwing his back legs up into the air while I held him like a naughty hairy baby. As I crossed over the doorway he squirmed and jumped from my arms, scratching my hand just below the thumb on his way back to safety.

Back at the car I found a crumpled tissue in my coat pocket which I used to dab the two spots of blood that pooled but did not run on my alabaster skin. Then I set off to work. Spotify played the last Stevie Nicks song I’d listened to and while my mood didn’t reflect the melody I sang along after letting the opening lines fill the silent car. As the song finished I approached the first stoplight of my commute.

To my surprise the left turn lane was occupied by a flashing police vehicle.

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There were so many takeaways from my trip which I’ll write about in posts to come. Today I’m thinking about how there are major differences between walking in Europe versus walking in the United States.

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A week ago I was walking in Paris, a city of just over 2 million people with the metropolitan area swelling to nearly 13 million. Walking in a city like Paris is terrific. You can’t help but feel amongst and a part of something. There are bikes whizzing by you, buses, taxis, and cars making their own lanes and people people people. People running into gourmet patisserie shops, taking photos next to 18th century architecture, smoking cigarettes chicly in alleyways, laughing by the Seine, and drinking espresso at sidewalk cafes.

When I walk at home it feels different. I currently reside in Peru, Illinois. It has a population of 9,900 people and shouldn’t be confused with the South American country (one that I spent a month traveling through at age 25). Peru, Illinois could be described as a “rural-adjacent.” To the surrounding rural communities (like where my parents live) the town is a hub with all the urban amenities including a major grocery store, Target, big box restaurants and a mall.

I recently became a resident of Peru and, but for a handful of runs, have not explored my surrounding neighborhood much. So, on the first warm February day I walked out of my front door, turned left and decided to walk west until I was forced to turn.

In contrast to Paris, my walk took me through residential neighborhoods with lawns and driveways. Kids dotted the sidewalks on bikes. Other walkers only occasionally appeared and were almost always across the street. American streets are wide to accommodate our large vehicles. In Paris you walk amongst people. In America you walk amongst cars.

There is no camaraderie between machine and man in America and that is most obvious when trying to cross a busy intersection. They aren’t made for pedestrians or with people in mind. This challenge– crossing an intersection– becomes too often dangerous and detracts from the myriad of positives that come with a good walk.

And a good walk it was. On that February afternoon, under the wide open blue sky the sun on my skin was a welcome reprieve. Of the 16 days I was in France, there was only one truly sunny day. Otherwise it was gray and often rainy. Despite the weather, it is easy to romanticize the ambulatory European lifestyle. I wonder how suburban America can prioritize people over vehicles to encourage more walkers.

Please, satiate my curiosity. Do you like to walk? What is it like walking where you live?

Leave a comment

<3 Cooper

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The summer of 2018, at twenty-one, freshly graduated from undergrad, I boarded a flight to Milan. Once there I had the not so simple task of hailing a taxi and making my way to a hotel. It was my first time traveling solo and only my second trip out of the country. I was to be an Au Pair for a young Italian family with a one-year-old.

The hotel in Milan was unremarkable but, in the way international travel colors your vision like a kaleidoscope, everything felt remarkable; including figuring out how to turn on the lights in my room. I called the front desk and they laughed while instructing me to put my key card in a slot by the door in order to power the lights. Never in a million years would I have thought to do that. Some things you just don’t know.

The rest of the evening I sat cross-legged on the hotel bed and wrote useful Italian and French phrases hoping to commit them to memory. My host family was summering in Côte d’Azur, also known as the French Riviera. The next day I would be picked up by the father and his butler and we’d journey across the border to meet his wife and son. Pinot, the butler, did not speak any English. The mother’s English was limited to short phrases and creative miming. I knew in advance there would be a language barrier, both mine and the family, but at 21 looking for a cheap way to be abroad, I did not think it would be insurmountable. The only person who had much command of the language was the father. He was a dentist and had studied in America for a handful of years. I don’t remember his name, nor his wife, but I’ll call them Luca and Gia. I do remember that Luca had a patch of thick dark hair sprouting from a spot on his left arm that wasn’t visible when we’d conducted the two rounds of video interviews prior. I nearly gasped the first time I saw it. Talking to Luca was a respite from the silence that surrounds you when you lose any meaningful way to communicate but I struggled to direct my sentences to him for fear of staring at the strange burst of hair.

I do remember Pinot the butler and his love of Rihanna. He confessed this to me via Google Translate during one of our Saturday trips to the supermarket. After queuing what felt like forever and bagging our wares, we’d sit in the parking lot and each enjoy a beer for our efforts. Pinot stayed in Italy during the week with Luca and then the two of them drove in an RV across the border to join Gia and baby Matteo. Leaving college I was adamantly against having children and openly hostile towards infants but I was willing to overlook these finer points for free lodging with a view of the Mediterranean.

An Au Pair is a live-in nanny but I quickly learned the duties for the role vary greatly depending upon each family. Gia had left a successful therapy practice to have a child and felt compelled to tend to Matteo’s every need despite my presence. She did not tell me this, she hardly told me anything, but she showed me in her constant hovering when I held Matteo and unwillingness to allow me to push his stroller. Matteo slept in bed with her and rarely left her side. She made his life her life. She never spoke to him other than in a sing-song voice, praising him and his beauty and brains. Yet, early one morning I woke to Gia shouting at Matteo. He’d evidently knocked over one of her perfume bottles and made a delicious smelling mess. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” She kept shouting. Her perfect bimbo (Italian for male baby) had shredded her last fragile nerve. At breakfast I offered to take Matteo to the park solo but Gia refused, her voice animated and happy again as she turned and addressed her living legacy. “I will take my beautiful prince. Mi amore della mia vita.”

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We did not go anywhere but to the park or beach because Gia wasn’t confident in her French and I was no use. Plus, neither of us drove. She’d complain when Luca came to the house on the weekends of boredom but fought off his suggestions to go to restaurants or into nearby Cannes because it would be too difficult with Matteo. Like me, Gia was lonely– she didn’t have the language, her husband, or her pre-child life. I can empathize with that now. But at the time her refusal to let me help and her false cheeriness grated me. My primary contribution was an hour of English lessons with Matteo each day. I might as well have been trying to teach him Mandarin. Primarily I just followed them around like a poor excuse for a bodyguard and tried to justify the bed I was taking up.

After the first week I brought my notebook down to the breakfast table and asked Gia what more she expected of me. She looked confused and eventually gestured lamely to the broom in the corner. Apparently I could do a bit more cleaning. In my spare time I hid behind my two best friends, my Kindle and my camera. I documented the strangers on holiday enjoying espresso shots on the beach in 90 degree weather. I watched the ritual of old men puffing their chests out before launching bocci balls across the sand.

I read at the beach, on the veranda, and at every table I dined at alone. Seeing that Gia was not going to make much of a companion, I was forced to venture on my own. The bus driver yelled at me when I stood lamely in the doorway with a handful of coins hoping to be admitted. The railway workers were striking but Cannes was a jaunt via bus and insults hurled in unknown tongues can be more easily forgotten with the right song blaring in your ear.

I walked the sidewalks of the historic town and felt both invisible and painfully visible. I was invisible with words, having about as much success communicating for myself as Matteo had speaking English. But the long red hair that cascaded down my back practically screamed American. That, coupled with my visible youth, made me a target. More than one stranger ran their hand down my braids while I sat at a sidewalk cafe. I was propositioned by the chef at a restaurant who told me, via the broken English of one of his staff, to meet him behind the kitchen at midnight. Young men on Vespas yelled “Girls Gone Wild” and others mimed flashing.

Despite the harassment, I knew if I was going to last the summer I needed to find some sort of companionship. I went on two dates while I was in Côte d’Azur. I’d preferred a girlfriend to do things with but the closest I got was awkwardly inserting myself into a soccer game on the beach one day with a woman of similar age. She was kind enough, we passed the ball back and forth a little, but no offers of friendship were extended.

My first date was with a university student from Spain flitting away the summer and practicing his French. My Spanish was passable but our conversation over pizza was limited. He was not the love of my life, but he had a car which would have been a promising upgrade from the bus. We shared an awkward kiss while sitting on the grass in a public park. I wrote about it that night. Poetry was flowing from me like water. Everything I couldn’t say came out in my notes app.

Things like this:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

And this:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Not long after I’d completed my poem the Spaniard texted me clumsily “next time we have sex?” At least he asked.

My second date was with some French aristocrat of sorts– the son of a property developer whose latest project was under construction down the street from where we dined in Cannes. He was living in one of the empty flats and boasted during aperitifs that we could climb out onto the rooftop of one of the apartments and have a perfect view of the historical Suquet district and Mont Chevalier. He told me this all in perfect English. As dinner progressed I found myself smiling, near giddy, not necessarily because of his company but because it felt good to hear my own voice. Sustained silence for which you do not choose can turn your emotions sour as quickly as fruit rots. I was grateful for listening ears and the parties and friends he promised to introduce me to. The night progressed as nights do; slipping steadily from early to late to early again.

This time, my date did not ask.

Afterwards, once I’d decided to prematurely end my trip as an Au Pair, and I’d made it back home to the states, words again flowed from me like water. Words like this:

The air is suffocating. Oppressive. It doesn’t ask for permission to invade my space, my lungs, the very boundaries I use to define myself. What is outside becomes inside. In me. His outside goes inside. My inside. The very boundaries of self are blurred. I go dead. I quiet the rage in my mind and still my heart until it is over. I breathe out. What was inside is now outside. I dress quickly amongst pleas to stay. On the sidewalk I have to let the sobs out, no longer a fixture in my throat but a tangible pain, one I can see, one that is seen. I’ve folded myself into a ball outside, becoming small, waiting for a taxi. A man on his balcony calls out to me in French. Maybe he asks if I’m okay. He and his love struck body find me outside, his arm around my shoulder, again pulling me back into his web. Permissionless. The boundary of body erected and destroyed by a boy man not for the first time. Not for the last. The police drive by but do not stop. I didn’t think you were that into it, he says to me as I cry uncontrollably. I don’t know what’s going on in your life, but I’d like to see you again, he whispers in my ear. His voice outside me, now inside me, echoing in my brain. That would be nice, I whisper, unable to confront the man who so willingly assaulted me. When I went dead inside I thought maybe he just didn’t know. And yet, here on the sidewalk, 3AM he tells me he could tell I wasn’t that into it. You fuck. You fuck. Fuck you. You knew. You just didn’t care. The taxi comes and I get in. I smile as if to placate. It is easier to be quiet than to scream. I go dead inside. Outside.

That very same night, somewhere else in France, celebrated journalist, documentarian and a personal hero of mine, Anthony Bourdain, hung himself. I remember laying in my bed that next morning, body aching, reading the news and firmly deciding that France was a place of horrors despite the radiant blue sea sparkling outside my window. Knowing nowhere else to turn I told Gia in so many words of the assault. She told me in her broken English that I should have been more careful and that women here must make themselves into lions. Later that afternoon she insisted we walk a handful of miles to a different beach we’d never tried. On our way home, distracted by pain both mental and physical my pace slowed but Gia’s did not until she and the stroller were out of sight on the winding French hills.

It was almost funny to me, the whole ordeal. Me, the girl who grew up watching the Lizzy Mcguire Movie at sleepovers and dreaming of her very own Italian popstar summer love affair. Me, the girl who assured her loving parents again and again that this would be a brilliant and most of all safe way to spend three months before leaving for law school. Me, the girl who believed so adamantly that the world was a place of possibility and was known for her fierce independence and stubborn streak. Me, the girl who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The next day I walked past the holiday sunbathers, the grumbling bocci pépés, and out onto the massive jetty that served as a breakwater between the beach and the Mediterranean. I went to the very edge where rock and water met. I would leave France prematurely, I’d decided. I’d gone as far as I could go.

When I told Gia my decision her response surprised me. “How could you leave me alone here?” She asked with anger in her voice. I did not know she considered us together. I didn’t really care. I had a move to a new city and graduate school to start soon and I did not need to prove to her or anyone else that I could endure for endurance’s sake. Two days later I flew out of Milan. In an awkward but sincere show of compassion Pinot hugged me as I parted from the RV.

Back in the states I set my eyes on future endeavors and talked little of France. It’s taken me 8 years and a second trip to the country to put words around my first one. I didn’t travel solo again for 4 years. But I did do it.

Today I’m writing this piece from my private studio in Northern France overlooking an idyllic pond and rustic country road. I’m a Writer in Residence at the international Artist Residency at Chateau Orquevaux. Here I’ve had beautiful views, conversations, and meals. With each line written I weave joy into the complex tapestry that is France for me.

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.” -Anthony Bourdain

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I’d walked circles before, in the form of a labyrinth carved into the land. The aim is to reach the center but the path purposefully leads you away from it.

When I walked the labyrinth it was a gray winter day much like the one at the rink. There were others also physically moving through the metaphor. Our entrances were staggered and I brought up the rear. We all walked at our own pace and passed near one another, never crossing, as we made our way towards the center. One by one each person found stillness in the middle of the elaborate circle as the path somehow pushed me towards the farthest edges of the labyrinth. I fought back the illogical doubt that I’d somehow taken a wrong turn. Unknowingly, the point at which I felt farthest from the goal I was just mere steps away from it. Only by walking through the uncertainty did I eventually meet my peers in the innermost sanctum.

When it was time to exit the labyrinth I was at the front of the procession. At once the uncertainty of following was replaced with the fear of leading. As I wound back through the field, following the curves of the land, my fellow walkers fanned out beside me, moving closer and farther across the expanse. We all walked the same path and reached the exit in our own time.

The ice skaters’ mother called to her from the warmth of the viewing balcony. It was time to go. The little girl did not stop in response, her path did not falter, instead she completed the loop as she’d done a hundred times before. I turned to a fresh page in my notebook. Without lifting the pen I drew two sidelong circles intersecting through the center.

Great, another metahpor, I mumbled to myself. Then I stood and placed one foot in front of the other as I turned to walk home.

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I count on my fingers all the times the ground has opened up before me, swallowing whole what I thought it meant to be alive. In the wake I emerge, tacitly understanding that some evolutions look a lot like loss. It is January and I am a wise beginner. I have been here before. I have been cowardly and courageous. I have been lost and found. It is January and the trees sleep easily in preparation. The birds hum along the skyline performing a migration as fundamental as breathing. The ground waits for warmth without worry. I am a wise beginner.

I see the constant cycle of death and rebirth all around me. Nature has no concept of waste. I waste away in doubt no longer. I promised myself presence over pressure. The pressure to know, to perform, to label. I promised myself trust over fear. There is no war inside me. I am the one who is free.

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Despite being an alien, Martha and Jon Kent raised Superman as though he was their own. Salt of the earth farmers, they raised Clark with a sense of justice, compassion, and empathy towards all things. Not only is Superman a paragon of virtue around the world, he is also a giant fucking dork. He says things like “ahh shucks” and “gosh dangit.” He even saves a squirrel from getting crushed by a car for god sakes! Clark is the first person to say “I love you” in a relationship and sacrifices his own safety to save his dog. Superman is earnest. Something that is rare to find nowadays, usually most superheroes crack a joke and try to look cool, but not good ole Clark. His aweshucks demeanor mixed with his absolute commitment to good is incredibly endearing because it’s refreshing and relatable. His jokes don’t land just like mine! Clark is also an alien –an immigrant if you will– and an incredible god-like being that can conquer the earth with the wave of his hand if he wanted to. Yet here he is, the most human, most down to earth, most giving and selfless person in the film. I don’t think there is a single time Clark does something selfish besides giving Superman some glowing write ups in the paper. Superman’s earnestness and selflessness is genuinely charming, not only is he a fantastic role model bordering on being Christ-like, but it’s his lack of ego and his down to earth nature that won me over.

Now I’m talking about this movie as if it was Citizen Kane when it’s not. The plot was serviceable but the actors were great. David Corenswet is Superman straight up, and I would kill for Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane. Lois and Clark’s relationship is a bright spot and a great through line throughout the movie, the same for Lex Luther’s obsession with wanting to destroy Superman. Nicholis Hoult brings great “if Jeff Bezos thought he was the Übermensch” energy and steals the show in every scene. But, it's still a big budget superhero movie with a boat load of CGI and cameos of other superheroes to build sequels– ya know, money printing machine stuff. It’s more the idea of Superman that got me, that's what this movie nails.

This film’s most important quality is that it is nakedly political. The main antagonist is an angry billionaire livid about alien Superman and his powers. Said billionaire wants to be the most powerful person in the world so he plots to kill who he deems an illegal alien. Meanwhile, Superman intervenes to prevent a dictatorial US ally from invading and occupying a neighboring country. The aforementioned ally is using a flimsy excuse of self defence and maintains that it's purely for security reasons that they must invade the clearly smaller and weaker country. Now I don’t think I need to connect the dots for you to tie these events in the film, the big stupid superhero blockbuster, to parallel events in real life. I respect James Gunn (writer and director) for putting these ideas in focus, where almost every other blockbuster would avoid these controversial plot points like the plague, Gunn deftly weaves these ideas in perfectly to align with Superman’s intrinsic bend towards justice and empathy.

There’s no superhero more ingrained in our culture than Superman. We use the word kryptonite in everyday conversation and superman to describe athletes and heroes. We know what that big red S on his suit stands for, and it’s recognized all over the world as universal good. But the most important thing we must take from this character is not his super strength, his laser beam eyes, or his power of flight, but his humanity. That’s the thesis of this movie, the thesis of the character itself. To be good in this cruel world is to have genuine empathy for others and to try to be as selfless as you can. It’s about approaching every situation, conversation, and interaction with a base level of human compassion and a sense of general moral good. And that’s seemingly impossible to do, a moral high water mark that no one can hope to achieve, and yet Clark Kent does it. That’s not to say you can’t mess up or make mistakes (this whole goddamn movie Superman is getting his ass kicked because of his decisions). It’s about recognizing that making the world better everyday, even in small imperceptible ways, will lead to a greater good.

I know I speak of this in a very dorky reverence, almost religious, but it’s true. In a world that feels increasingly mean and hostile and fake at every turn, try and be like Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas. The world will be a better place if we are all Superman in our own way.

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I won the lake-tri because I was the only one who did it. It was a race completely of my own fabrication, even down to the medal. This is a bit silly– I know. But the motivation it inspired, the hours I spent training, and my smile at the end were real.

Growing up I played sports and the love of movement has followed me into adulthood making working out a favored and important hobby for me both physically and mentally. I am a runner –certainly not a gifted one– but I enjoy how the rhythmic pounding of feet on concrete creates a space where my brain can turn at the speed of my body. I work out my thoughts and feelings physically– rigorous exercise allows for a clarity and calm that I find otherwise difficult to achieve.

I’ve been running consistently-ish for the past 15 months because of the aforementioned benefits and my friend groups’ interest in the aerobic activity. In 2024, due to light peer pressure, I ran four 5ks. That is the minimum mileage we as a society have deemed worthy to reward an adult with a medal for running. Spoiler alert– it still feels good to get a medal after age 12– maybe even better.

Running does suck though. It is hard on my poor knees. And, like any other type of workout, it can become repetitive and banal. In the spring, an unfortunate heartbreak led to a fortunate move to a lake estate which seriously upped my water workout potential. I spent most of May fighting with my feelings on the lake; my paddle striking the water with splashes of fury.

Then, unexpectedly, another heartache in the loss of a friendship tilted me once more off my axis. In June I was at a loss. But the lake was warm which meant I could swim. So I focused all of my energy on not drowning while making zig-zag laps from our dock. Thank god for the sunshine and summertime– my world turning 180 degrees was made bearable in no small part to my ability to set my feelings free in nature.

On one of those impossibly long June days I ran in the morning and was still thrumming with emotions by late afternoon so I packed up my kayak and hit the water. Unintentionally I had become a bi-athlete. “Why not add swimming?” I mused. Plus I didn’t have a bike. Thus the lake-triathlon was born.

That idea sustained me through July and created purpose when everything else felt uncertain. It’s a wonder what having a goal can do to inspire action. As the summer waned, I knew I had to get the race in or else suffer through an icy swim come fall. In August I started putting together the disciplines in earnest in order to simulate the race. I had been dreading doing a swim and then transitioning into a run and for good reason. During that training session, hair still wet from the lake, approximately 30 seconds into my run, addressing the first of several unavoidable hills on my route, I was struck so clearly by the fact that what I was doing was absolutely unnecessary. Nobody was making me do this. But I struggled on, huffing and puffing, sometimes snarling at the empty country lanes as I completed the task I so masochistically set out for myself.

On my runs I laughed, patted myself on the back at every half mile, cursed, and cried. I felt alone and lost and heartbroken. I waved at every fat and happy caterpillar I spotted and yelled more than once “I am alive.” Because in pain, as in joy, life lives and breathes.

On the second Monday in September my team, small but mighty, gathered as I jumped into the chilly lake. My mom left work because her daughter “had a thing,” my dad held a ‘you go girl’ sign, my sister waved a flag to signal the start, and my new wonderful boyfriend kept the official time whilst diligently providing hydration and snacks. It only occurred to me hours before the start that if I finished the lake-tri I would win it. I suppose I have been the winner all along.

It was about an hour and five minutes into the endeavor, near the designated turnaround spot at the farthest end of the cove, that my eyes swelled with tears. I stopped paddling long enough to double over in a sun-soaked sorrow. I miss what once was. I am beyond grateful for what is. In pain, as in joy, life lives and breathes.

At the finish line, once my kayak was pulled from the water, my sister placed the medal I made out of cardboard and string around my neck. I ran a triathlon of my own invention. I did it because I can.

xoxo,

Cooper

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Not too long ago, before the invention of TikTok and social media, the internet and cell phones, videos and cameras people couldn’t see things unless they saw them with their own two eyes. The other option was in paintings or reproductions in books or pamphlets. A person in 1789 likely did not know what their president looked like. She may have encountered a drawing or two in the newspaper or saw a portrait in a public building but that’s it. Similarly, depictions of things were not readily available. One could not Google what an armadillo looked like when unable to call the image to mind. If you could not see it before you or pull it from a page of a book, there were no images to consult. The average persons’ home was plain in decoration and did not have any personal iconography. Because of the labor and expense, political figures and religious icons were most popular to paint so only the wealthiest could afford to commission an artist for a portrait.

Imagine if you could only post one Instagram photo for your whole life! Think then of how less often we’d see paintings or recreations of more banal things. Now we take photos of breakfast, lunch, dinner and everything in between. Modernity has made it so we know about the particulars of people's lives in a way we did not before. We watch them get ready in their bathrooms, dress for the day in their bedrooms, and eat in their kitchens. We go on their vacations. We see them get proposed to, married, and divorced and watch their children grow.

In “Ways of Seeing”, John Berger contemplated the impact of the artists’ vision on what the viewer saw:

An image is a sight which has been recreated or reproduced. It is an appearance, or set of appearances, which has been detached from the place and time in which it first made its appearance and preserved– for a few moments or a few centuries. Every image embodies a way of seeing. Every time we look at a photograph, we are aware, however slightly, of the photographer selecting that sight from an infinity of other possible sights.

Now we see what feels like an infinity of sights– life in every sparkling iteration. Three hundred years ago people rarely laid eyes beyond those most intimately around them: in their families, towns or villages. They may have read about the lives of others (if they could read) but they rarely set their gaze upon them. Today we possess the ability to preserve and share every moment and feel obliged to do so. We consume and are consumed. We create a narrative about who we are in relation to others by the things we post and interact with online. We identify with “cores” (cottage, gorp etc.). We have “eras” to define ourselves with and against things. We use different apps to create, hone and uphold an image. We play close attention to other people’s image of themselves. We monitor it daily and sometimes hourly and receive notifications when someone posts. We know things about people we’ve never met– and not because we’ve seen them in a movie or magazine or because they are sports stars or singers. We know things about perfect strangers whom we would never otherwise interact with because an algorithm puts them before our eyes. We know their boyfriends name and how long they’ve dated or if they are recently single, we know about their jobs, what metropolitan city they live in, what trips they take and how they spend their weekends. Can we say the same about our neighbors?

Without the pervasive production and consumption of social media, these strangers who we feel we know intimately fade into the nameless and faceless masses that inhabit the world. Much like an 18th century Bostonian was not well versed in the daily lives of someone living in Charleston, we too would be unable to picture another's existence with such specificity. I wonder then if we’d be so inclined to diligently capture and construe our lives into particular narratives. I have to imagine there would be less of a sense of missing out, wasting time, or comparison. Maybe we are now too cemented in time and place– defining ourselves by and through quasi-tangible moments uploaded and double tapped to indicate approval. I wonder how it would feel to live without so much awareness of how everyone else is doing it. Perhaps like freedom?

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Links are to provide further reading for your curious minds.

Take care,

Cooper

/She’s cheer captain and I’m in the bleachers./

But she’s used that othering feeling so effectively. She’s wielded it through poetic relatability and ingenious entrepreneurship to reach the apex of pop stardom. She’s not on the bleachers now; she fills stadiums.

So, the leading man in her fairytale has to match and the expectations are high. But Kelce fits the archetype nicely. He is a Superbowl champion–she wanted a football player so she got one of the best currently playing. He’s from a recognizable and coveted family. Most background checks find him relatively unproblematic despite being a white boy from Ohio. He’s a loveable dummy who makes her laugh. From her history of broody men this appears to be an advantageous match.

Swift, after publicly dating since 2008, got to have her moment and it was breaking news. Her engagement announcement post on Instagram got 14 million likes within an hour. We, as consumers, have been deeply invested in her dating life for years. The Eras Tour –an homage to her discography of heartbreak–was the highest grossing concert tour of all. Her wedding will be watched with the enthusiasm of a royal one. The dress, themes, and decor will be the envy and copy of brides to come. Surely an untold number of ladies sent the post to their longtime/ low-committal boyfriend and pinned a look-alike ring (the OG cost $550,000) on her Pinterest board.

I reached out to my most treasured Swiftie for her comment.

I do wonder what else she would have done besides post it on her Instagram. Perhaps sent out a press release? Instagram is the modern day wedding announcement page. Fans are of course combing the post for Easter Eggs about her next album The Life of a Show Girl which drops on October 3rd. The announcement is kismet with football season starting in just 2 weeks. In 2024 the season opener between the Chiefs and Ravens averaged 28.9 million viewers, making it the most-watched NFL kickoff game ever. The union of Swift and Kelce marries two of our largest industries and understandbly has some people skepticial of their motives. I think it’s worth noting but I am not irate, people marry for all kinds of nefarious reasons; that’s showbiz baby.

In the end, I am not a Swiftie but I’m also not a hater. I have refrained from commenting on T Swift in writing because nuance does not exist on the internet anymore. But, the cultural significance of this moment is so interesting to me that I can’t help myself. Here is a brief list of things it makes me think about: Taylor’s cultural grip on (mostly) white millennial women, the crossover between NFL and Swifties, wedding culture, engagement announcements, social media impact on mental health, societies social media consumption/addiction, overspending, sexism, wealth disparity, comparison, marraige, loneliness, betting, late stage capitalism, parasocial relationships, etc. (Comment below if you want me to expand on a specific one).

There’s been all kinds of interesting takes on the internet but this one got me thinking.

With marriage and birth rates declining and people marrying later, it does seem that we are trending away from co-creating a foundational life in favor of individuals building seperately and then sharing it with another. Swift has done just that. She has accomplished nearly everything else but now she’s gained perhaps the most important social capital possible and it’s sitting on her left hand. Kelce got a ring for winning the Superbowl. Women get a ring for winning a man. I don’t say this to critiscize Swift, those who are excited for her, and those who want similar things. I do question the progress of our society when marriage is still the most coveted and celebrated trophy a woman can aspire to attain.

Do you have thoughts about our American version of a royal engagement? Lets chat! The comment section is a safe space!!

Xoxo,

Cooper

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The number one question I’ve gotten from people when they hear about me cutting my hair is why. The easiest answer is that I wanted a change. I’d done dramatic chops twice before and donated over a foot of hair each time. In March, with my hair tickling my tailbone, it was the longest it had ever been, and I became enamored with the idea of having it be the shortest I’d ever had it. Now, five months post-cut, here are some of my reflections.

First and foremost, it is soooo much easier to have short hair. There is tremendous labor in beauty. The labor is costly in both time and planning. I was lazy with my long hair, rarely styling it, but even then a hair wash day had to be scheduled in advance. Without the assistance of a blow dryer, my hair would take 8+ hours to dry. Now, after swimming, I shake off furiously like a shaggy dog and I am on my way.

My hair isn’t constantly touching me. It is sooooo great not to have my hair touching me or to constantly be in the process of keeping my hair from touching me. All my ponytails, clips, and claws are useless now. I can put on lip gloss with no care to how windy it is outside because my hair won’t get stuck in it. My hair won’t get stuck in any zippers, windows, or car doors either.

Second, I still feel feminine with such a boyish cut; however, it is a different kind of femininity. With my long hair I felt I hid behind it, coquetteish and coy, allowing the inherent effeminateness to take over. I touched it often (mostly out of annoyance) but knew the power of a well timed hair toss. Now I have nothing to flip or flaunt or curl. Instead my exposed neck, shoulders, and collarbone invite a subtle flirtatiousness. Beyond that, the short hair exudes a certain kind of confidence that cannot be garnered any other way. In any given room I tend to be the only woman sporting such a look. It has been a reminder that so much of beauty is about daring– and owning it.

Finally, and perhaps paradoxically, cutting my hair short has made me care less about how it looks. The first few days I literally jumped at the sight of myself in the mirror. I don’t mean this in a bad way, I was just surprised. It still happens from time to time. But really, it is everyone else who visually experiences my new look. My experience of my hair I.E. how it feels to live with it, has been wholly positive. I like the freedom of short hair both in time and expectation. It feels interesting simply because it is different– like how a nose ring or a tattoo silently shows the world something about yourself. My outfits and accessories feel fresh with the new look and I am enjoying seeing how it grows, even at the awkward lengths. I like that I gave myself the opportunity to experiment because it forces me to take things less seriously.

I don’t know if this will be just a season of short hair or a lifetime, but I am having fun with it for now. After all, it grows back.

Take care,

Cooper <3

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One classic meditation technique for addressing pain and stress is called a body scan. You start at the top of your head and slowly move your awareness over every part of your body and just notice how you feel. Usually, as soon as I get to my forehead, I realize I am scrunching my eyebrows. (I recently found a photo of 12 year old me with the pensive look of an 80 year old man). I relax my forehead and move down to my jaw which is normally clenched tight in concentration. I continue to move my awareness all the way down to my toes, noticing how I feel and relaxing where I need to. Since I am a worrier extraordinaire, this means just about every part of my body needs some attention: shoulders, chest, stomach, thighs, pelvic floor, and butt. My body’s default is to clench in protection from attack but my body doesn’t seem to know the difference between going to the post office and being chased by a hyena.

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The first step in untangling this tension is noticing it. Currently I am working on my shoulders which are parts of my anatomical puzzle that create neck pain and ultimately migraines. Roughly 15 times a day I notice that they are scrunched up to my ears so I consciously roll them back and relax them. I am reminded whenever I see people hunched over the steering wheel, computer, or phone how common this problem is. Our ailments are a response to our modern society.

The good news is with mindfulness you can work with your body and respond accordinly to its feedback. I’ve experienced acute and chronic health issues and have been to a multitude of doctors but noboddy knows my body better than me. It makes sense then that with attention and time I can work to lessen some of its pain. It is slow work but ultimately life-giving. Below are a few things that have helped me.

Weighted items

I have a small weighted blanket, a weighted dinosaur (lol) and a weighted eye mask. I will sing it from the rooftops how helpful these things have been for me. If I am feeling tension on my chest, I place my weighted blanket there and feel it dissipate. When I start to get a tension headache, my eye mask goes on immediately. If I’m feeling anxious, the weighted animal on my stomach does wonders to calm me down.

Body scan meditations

Declutter the Mind is a beginner friendly meditation channel that I highly recommend.

This is a longer meditation led by a practicing monk that is full of insights. I come back to this one often because it really forces you to slow down and appreciate every part of your body— even the ones you don’t think about like your kidneys and spleen.

Background noise

In times of stress or when I want to decompress I find it helpful to put on soothing sounds. Studies show that sound bowl and binural beat frequencies can reduce stress and anxiety. I also play a brown noise playlist when I am out in public and need something grounding to listen to.

This is by no means an exhuastive list. I’d love to know in the comments what tools/ strategies others utilize or questions you may have.

Take care,

Cooper <3

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