thank you for being here—Care Ecology is a free newsletter though i am unsure it will continue to be. as my shares become more vulnerable and therefore more sacred, i wonder what it means to obstruct access—rigify it—protecting the collective cosmic commons.
this is my first extended break since opening this portal 18 moons ago. i’ve genuinely missed you and also, feel solidly where i am in my going. i intend my return be soft in its strength, courageous in its offerings, and steady with its hands.
if there is anything i crave being tired for, it’s love—navel fixed toward the sky, squishy ribcage, brain humming a low murmur. spending a month not tending to my Substack garden meant the space to fall in love with one of most extraordinary people i have met in my lifetime—and the thing is, we are all this person when we’re open—guard down—booty up—trusting ourselves and the ever weaving web making us us.
love makes us susceptible to our invigorating greatness—the fear of it is bred to bind every moment into unnerving weighty doubt. our modeling love to each other is a loosening of the wringing of this tightness. love demands we step out of safety’s shadow—the orisha we ought to worship, Bayo says. in love and on Instagram much less, the windows to me are a bit more scenic—blues, greens and touches of natural pink—hues of our landscapes.
true love requires an insatiable embodiment where we know we’re inherently safe to give ourselves up to uncertainty—the god of gods. an uncapturable chemical tonic, their pheromones travel through my nostrils to untouched parts of my computing organ—their scent, their love, their underground railroad—an invisiblizing travel cloak composting the individual in me, making me unfindable to all of whiteness’s projects.
on a tuesday morning, we fluttered around their Toronto apartment frantically in search of my spectacles—my ability to see and work a union priority. a few soothing hushes and soft shoulder brushes later, my glasses appeared wedged between a sponge and a soft place. firmly curdling a melting to the floor, bolsters holding both my crown and the buck of my spine—like gossamer spun a record called “She Always Takes It Black” as tears burst from all apertures in the room—an everlasting rooting. if there’s anything i crave being tired for, it’s this—our bodies underground railroading us nearer our northern stars.