Shadows of flower bouquets cast on a white door.

On Inhabiting Uncertainty.

As 2020 wound to a close, I had hoped to write an end-of-the-year sendoff that would propel myself and you into the future on an upswelling of hope. But I didn’t because I was exhausted by the unrest and calamity from the year. It was impossible to assemble words together with any relative meaning when the future seemed more uncertain than it had ever before. So, I waited for the new year to guide me.

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On Trying My Hand at Hope

A few weeks ago—back when we were complaining that Black History Month was cancelled and we should move it to June; back when our anxieties were high but not astronomical—I was scrolling Twitter and saw a tweet that asked writers to share the most hopeful poems, essays, and stories they had written. I didn’t post anything. And I didn’t bother reading the responses. Off the top of my head, I didn’t believe I had written anything that could be classified as “hopeful”—at least not how I saw it as the author. It’s always different for readers.

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