Sarah Elovich

I’m at the place now where all I have to do is meditate on the feeling of my eyes,
My wrung dry eyes,
Stinging, starving… no, thirsting,
Small and dense and red in their sockets,
Zinging me from the retina back into the optic nerve,
Crunchy dry, dry like a sponge scraping along the edge of a knife,

All I have to do is meditate on the feeling of my eyes,
Not even the story of how they got like this,
Not even the old story of how many years I’ve cried because of you,
Not even the old sad story of how much it hurt, hurts still,
I don’t even have to replay a single word of any of that,
Because all I have to do is just tune in to that feeling in my eyes,
Which just won’t stop leaking today
Because I can’t stop feeling that red raw feeling in my eyes today,

And I’m sorry, by the way, I’m sorry about all that,
But I don’t want to talk to you about it,
Because I don’t want to talk about it,
Because I don’t want to talk to you,
Because I don’t want to listen to you,
Because you never listen to me anyway,
But I’m still sorry about all of that,

And I’m still crying,
But not about that,
Not about anything,
I’m crying the cry of after having gone over all of it in my mind,
And still not being able to find my way out of this maze,
I’m crying the cry you cry AFTER you’re cried out,
That cry of, my God it just hurts here,
It just hurts still,

And I do want to feel my eyes, because they’re my eyes, guys,
But I don’t want to feel them at all at the same time,
And I push them away like I pushed you away,
Over and over and over again,
But what happens when I push my eyes away is they’re just still here,
And they just still hurt,
And I’m still in this maze, with this sponge and this knife,
And I’ll just sit here and meditate on my eyes,
And let this cry wet them again, from the inside out,
And maybe this cry will be the one that will finally let me see.

She's back

5/20/2017

She's back.

I would cry if I could stop laughing. She's back. I got my mother back.

I heard her on the phone today. I could hear the sparkle in her eyes. Yes, the last 15 years of caring for dying loved ones wore her out. Yes, anyone would be tired and depressed under those circumstances. But her BRAIN has been STARVING for OXYGEN this whole time. Four days of medicated oxygen, and lots of help from pulmonary specialists, and she can carry on a conversation without stopping to cough. I heard my mother laugh today for the first time in... I'm really thinking hard now, how long has it been? Maybe five years? I heard her laugh without convulsing and gasping for breath. And SHE was the one who made herself crack up.

She's back. I am crying and laughing. There is nothing I have ever done, not since I was eight and did the math that cigarettes were going to kill my parents, there is nothing I have ever been able to do or say to make her quit. Nothing. I cannot make someone change. I cannot make her quit. All I can do is enjoy these conversations, enjoy her laughter, and love her every minute that I can, now that she's back.

My Dream

5/18/2017

My dream is that one day you'll look back and say, "Why yes, I did have a friend once who was like that, she had a whirling dervish quality about her, always turning, turning into something else. She was a big laugher, but she was also deeply mournful, and she was so sensitive to the tides and the comings and goings of hummingbirds. She noticed things, like rainbows caught in the highest icy clouds. She told me a story once, I can't quite remember what it was about, but it reminded me that I am connected to something important, something outside myself. We used to meditate together, and afterwards we would talk about how every breath felt like love."

The open-hearted ramblings of a sane woman

4/13/2017

My heart is exploding with joy and love and lightness. I shouldn’t be surprised, I’ve been working on this for a while now.

I know I won’t be experiencing this ‘forever’ (whatever that means) so in this mountaintop en*heart*enment moment, I’ll just capture the essence of this which is:

All of the friends I have had, from kindergarten all the way through now, you’ve grown my heart and filled it with playfulness like the way puppies play and roughhouse on green lawns, with forgiveness because no one is wrong, with lessons of loyalty and trust and just a general sense that it’s good to just be--

All of the teachers I have had, who went the extra mile to SHOW me what the hell you were doing instead of TELLING me what the hell you were doing, you’ve put so much faith in me, filling my heart with the ability to trust and believe in someone other than myself and somehow showing me that I had everything I needed inside myself all along--

All of the lovers I have had, and some of you I never even kissed, we had that moment, those moments, those years, I know it, my heart knows it, and all those delicious memories in my heart, even the pain of the lover stuff ending, all of it swirling and sweaty and confused and confident and connected and misfiring and promised and betrayed--

All of my blood family folks, you’ve given me so much so selflessly, you set up my heart to know how to feel all of these feelings that are worth living for, how am I ever supposed to do for you what you’ve done for me and this thumping thrumming heart which you crafted and molded and held so tenderly in your own heart--

All of the writers and painters and musicians and artists who filled my senses with richness channeled from places I needed to experience through your magic, who gave their lives to their craft, sacrificed themselves so that I might enjoy a gorgeous cathedral, a transcendent choir piece, an arresting clash of colors, an imaginary world filled with characters I love love love--

And so many more, the ones I never talked to on the bus, the ones I never looked at in yoga class, the ones who were in the room next door, the ones who drove me home in a taxi safely, the ones who made my burrito, the ones who built the roof over my head, how do I explain it, it’s all of them, all of you--

It’s all of it and it’s all of it good and the living stuff, the heart knowing stuff is made up of how much I feel you in my heart, how much I love love love--

I’m starting to lose it already. It’s a cracked-open bigger feeling-feel, the part of me here, sitting alone, knowing I’m never alone, was never alone, will never not for one second spend any time of this life being alone, alone is a lie, it’s a trick, it’s a joke, alone doesn’t exist, not to the heart anyway, the heart is too full of all of this, all of you--

Some people take drugs to get to this place and stay here. I had to go through a flood. A flood of my own fear. A flood that carried me up and washed away everything I no longer needed. A flood that reoriented me under stars that point the way, always point the way towards my heart. My heart wide open to you. To this.

The flood that nearly killed me taught me how to love.

Neighborhood Dialogue

3/30/2017

Me, to the convenience store clerk: Do you sell chocolate covered pretzels?

Clerk, confused, coming out from behind the counter: Pencils, ma'am?

Me, tired but amused: No... uh, chocolate covered pretzels?

Clerk, concerned, very gently: Chocolate covered pencils, ma'am? I think, maybe not, ma'am?

Me, beaten: No, of course not. You're right.

Famous

3/23/2017

Let’s sit around and talk
Let’s sit down with two friends at brunch
and talk about the most famous people we know:

Well I have a friend who got in Oprah.
Ew!
No, not IN oprah. In her magazine. O.
Oh!
Oh. Well I met that comedian you love so much
Louie?
No
Maron?
No
Fairbanks?
No
Goodwin?
No! The one who wears plaid and is ironic and wears glasses? Remember? You love him!
Oh! Wow! Ok! Well, I was staying on this organic farm in Hawaii and the woman who owned the place used to be Meryl Streep’s personal chef! She made me breadfruit.
What?
Breadfruit! It’s a fruit but it’s like a potato. She boiled it in coconut milk. Delicious.
Doesn’t count.
What?
Doesn’t count. Meryl Streep might be the most famous person SHE’s met, but YOU didn’t meet anyone famous.
But -
It’s not about degrees. It’s just about fame.
Ok. Well. I used to sleep with someone who’s pretty famous now.
Who?
Who?
I’m not going to tell that story.

The Wall

2/19/2017

I already built a wall. I started building it when I was five years old. That was the first time I felt stuff I didn’t want to feel: anger, shame, rage, betrayal, confusion. It was a particular blend of aliveness that felt so big - maybe it was more than what my five year old body was built for. Maybe that’s why it hurt. It hurt and so I did what we do when we hurt. I built a wall.

My body built it. Starting right here, in my gut, at the site of the pain, and continuing along here around the side of my body, to the back, cutting off my left side. The wall cut my torso off from my left leg. And another wall that came up here, up the front of my rib cage, towards my heart.

The wall helped me not feel the pain. It also cut me off from me. From my body. Not entirely, but in parts. Maybe that’s why my low left side of my back was weak and got injured in that yoga class. Maybe that’s why my spine grew into the shape of a question mark. Maybe that’s why my right brain stopped singing and I became reliant on my left brain for language and my right writing hand and my logic making. Maybe.

My wall cut me off from me. It cordoned me off from the paining and the experimenting and the messiness. The wall put me into judging and rationalizing, which became my next survival methods, my next lines of defense.

So.

There is a fire.

A fire pit.

And a circle of women sitting around this fire. They sing and laugh and pray and talk and grieve and listen to each other. The fire comes from the center of the earth. The fire is life, or an element of life. It is a transforming element. It’s where we make gold. This fire makes magic.

The women gather around the fire not to make magic but to show others how to transform using their own magic. They are eternally patient and empathetic. There is no story they have not already heard, not already lived. They have given birth to the world’s stories around this fire. This is where the first flood story was told for the first time.

This is where music was born.

This is where murder was invented. And laughter.

These women and this fire - they watch and they listen and they transform.

I take my wall here, to the circle. I stand before them, with my five year old holding my left hand. We cry. We tell them our shame. That we felt rage, confusion, betrayal. They shame of feeling so alive and confused and mixed into these feelings. The shame of having built a wall because of these feelings. We weep. The women watch and listen and nod. They begin to hum. They begin to sway.

We show them our scars, the wounds from digging into our own bodies and piling up the dead scar tissue in mounds that made a wall, a wall that rerouted the flow in our bodies and brains. We stand before the concentric circles of women, weeping with us, for us. They show us their scars - they all have scars. All of them have scars.

We step closer to the fire. My little girl lets go of my hand and I feel the heat of the fire burn up an entire layer of grief and shame. Like tissue paper in a fireplace, the layer bursts and shrinks and transmutes into black ash and is carried up and out of the circle, floating into the forest where it will float and land on wet moss and bring nutrients to the outermost ring of women, the ancient elders.

I’m standing in front of the fire and I turn to give the flames my wall. My sliced up scar tissue wall. They heat of the exchange between the fire and my body rips something away in my brain and leaves space for something true to rush it, like a balm, a salve applied by the rings of medicine women who know where the sap runs and how to find pure water.

The truth rushes in and it’s such a simple knowing: “It’s good to feel your body. Your body was made for feelings. Thank you for your wall. You don’t need it anymore. Your wall helped you not feel the scary too-alive feelings that were too big for your five year old self. Now you have permission. Full permission to feel the aliveness and the pleasure in your body. Come visit us again soon. We are always here.”

Savoring a Moment with Grandma

1/16/2017

I’m sitting on the floor at Grandma’s knee. I’m leaving tomorrow.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, Grandma,” I say, and lean towards her.

“You’re leaving? Tomorrow?” Her soft, gentle face first opens in surprise, then opens further in recognizing her granddaughter’s face. Then, her grey eyebrows slowly push up into her brow in a question that blossoms up from inside her blue eyes.

Her blue eyes are so blue, so watery, and in this moment, so clear. They are red around the edges, where her skin is dry, and some of her eyelashes stick together with dried up eyedrop stuff. Her eyes don’t leave mine as I rise up on my knees, bringing my face closer to hers, and my hands reach for hers, warm in her lap. Metal clips hold back her wiry grey hair, almost girlishly winging out over her ears. She smiles as my face fills her frame but then her gentle frown returns, slowly recognizing that I am saying goodbye to her.

“I don’t want you to go,” she says impishly, her blue eyes still tracking mine. Maybe my brow is as knit together as hers, and she is mirroring me. Maybe I’m mirroring her. Maybe my grandmother has always been my mirror, a woman I’ve wanted to be; strong, outspoken, smart, sharp tongued, good humored, socially smooth without being a phony. Maybe I’ve always wanted to be a mirror for my grandmother and achieve what she couldn’t; put my writing before having a family, travel the world, put art and music before home and garden.

“Don’t go,” she jokes, the smile slowly seeping from her eyes, raising the little hills and valleys in her face where her cheekbones live under delicate soft skin. She chuckles to herself, to me, through our secret mirror.

“Oh, I have to, Grandma. My flight leaves tomorrow. But I’ll be back.”

“When?” She’s 97 and often takes her time, more and more of it as she has less and less of it to spend, but in asking this question she wastes no time. Now it’s my turn to chuckle.

“Maybe for Mother’s Day. But definitely for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” she says, blue watery eyes crinkling as she sinks back in satisfaction. But still she holds her eyes to mine.

“I love you, Grandma. It’s been so nice having all this time to visit with you.” The carpet of her assisted living apartment room floor is pushing into my kneecaps and my lower back is trembling from leaning in so close to my Grandmother’s beautiful face. I would stay like this forever if I could, attached to the woman who gave life to the woman who gave life to me, looking into her watery eyes and feeling like a little girl again, a little girl at her grandmother’s knee.

“I love you, Sarah,” she enunciates slowly, seriously. “I want you to be happy. Just be happy.”

I squeeze her little hand, the collection of little bones wrapped up in her soft dry skin, knuckles and joints moving to close around mine. My back is on fire as I lean closer to kiss her cheek. I linger there as she slowly turns to kiss mine.

Write Now: Writing to Get Present

1/4/2017

For 2017, I am leading a writing circle series for folks who are interested in writing, meditating, and getting present.

Meditation is an integral part of my writing process. It helps me push aside all the clutter in my mind and gives me a nice, big, clear work space for my creativity. Over time, I have found that meditation helps me stay in the 'flow' of my daily life, as well as in my writing.

Writing itself can also be a form of meditation, and that's the idea behind Write Now. Each month, we will use a different theme to get present in our meditation, and then explore that theme to deepen our presence through writing. Here's what 2017 will look like with Write Now:

January 14:      Savoring
February 11:   Letting Go
March 11: Balance
April 8 & 22: Flow
May 20: Awe
June 17: Transformation
July 8: Expansion
August 12: Acceptance
September 9:   Honesty
October 14: Wisdom
November 11: Gratitude
December 9: Integration

I'm hosting the circle at Berkeley's East Bay Healing Collective, in the cozy Coming Home Room. Write Now meets on the second Saturday of each month from 2-3pm (except for May and June when we meet on the third Saturdays!)

You can find Early Bird $10 tickets by searching for "Write Now" on Eventbrite. We're also a Meetup through the East Bay Healing Collective.

The January circle is all about Savoring.

It’s all too easy to look back in time and replay the struggles and pain. What might be possible if we chose to relive the delicious moments? “Savoring” is the practice of being mindfully engaged and aware of our feelings during positive events. Research suggests that practicing savoring increases happiness, mental and physical health, and improves relationships. Savoring an experience is also a provocative writing prompt, and will be the meditation and writing focus for this month’s circle.

Early Bird Price: $10 (+ service fee)
At the door: $15

Register here: https://write_now_savoring.eventbrite.com

Savoring 2016

12/31/2016

The warmth of the electric buzz
gentle flow moving into my eyes from behind a smiling face of a
smiling sturdy man
the man standing before me

The warm light energy flowing down my body
down my spine into my legs
energizing and waking my bones within
the surge of blood up and down my system

bringing an inhale
a delightful jump of a smile to my own lips
the yellow warm light behind him
creating a halo

Hello!

And a blush - a rush - a warmth up in my cheeks!

It’s an opening
the energy I’m feeling
I’m open
I want to rush in
I want to jump in and also I want to jump away
it’s so much.
My skin is sensitive electric around him
his welcoming so bright - the blood in my cheeks so hot

I can feel every part of me alive
in this breath
caught in between my lungs and my heart - I’m alive and I’m here now

I wasn’t here before but I got myself here and he’s here now
and he tells me to come in and I want to and I will
but for this moment I’m still
still me, still just outside, still just wanting to

Jump in jumpy and jumping and the chance

My hands open, eyes open, feet planted, smiling, okay!
Okay, I’ll come in and that means stepping towards him
closer to him, moving towards the light
towards the opening he’s created in his home for me

He only opened a door but does he know what it means for me to be let in like this?
I’m going to step inside hour house now, good sir
and it’s warm in here
I can see how I could see so much light and warmth
spilling out from within
your house is warm and light but it’s not the house
it’s you, you make it warm and light and now I’m light
I’m floating through your warm light space
it’s nice
my feet are moving me but I don’t see them
my head held high
I’m comfortable here
like swimming in warm waters
or a bath
could I have been reborn
just then when you let me in?

Workshop: Writing On Grief

10/24/2016

For Chris, by request

9/29/2016

"How do I know who or what my Higher Power is?"

Well... I don't know my Higher Power with my brain or my intellectual, rational mind. My knowing is something other than my thinking, rat-wheel mind. How I know my Higher Power has come through feelings - the wonder at looking at a sky full of stars, the joy of laughing with friends and fellows, the grief of deeply acknowledging a loss, the peace that washes over me when I meditate.

I know my Higher Power by discovering what it is not - it is not my mother or a lover or money or the fantasy of a "perfect life". My Higher Power is not my "best thinking", which often has a feeling of urgency, of needing things my way, of holding on or manipulating. My Higher Power is not separate from what is, and so getting present and sitting with what is helps me connect with my Higher Power.

My Higher Power is allowing, trusting, and loving. My Higher Power has a plan beyond what I can see or even imagine. Nowadays, I think of my Higher Power as a path in the woods. Although I cannot see where it is going or what is around the next curve, I do my part and keep putting one foot in front of the next, noticing what is around me and staying present so that I can enjoy what I can along the journey, and learn as I go how to keep going.

Thank you, Amy Schumer

9/5/2016

First of all, great interview with Charlie Rose. I love the title of your book and I look forward to reading it - or maybe I’ll listen to you read it on Audible on my way back to Reno next weekend.

I love that you’re vocal about supporting Hillary. I just got back from a day of registering voters in Nevada - did you know that Nevada has one of the lowest voter turnouts in the nation? I wasn’t just there to get the word out for Hillary and register voters, though. The Democrats need to hang on to that Senate seat and elect Catherine Cortez Masto. When they do, it’ll be another historic moment because she’ll be the first Latina Senator. Yeah, that’s right. We still haven’t elected a Latin American woman to the Senate. Almost as infuriating and depressing as Reno. Anyway, it’s 7 hours to Reno round-trip from Oakland, CA, so that’ll be a great time to listen to your first book. I say first because I have a feeling there will be more. I hope so.

Second of all, the rest of my family doesn’t see it but I think you look just like my cousin. Ever since I first saw you on Last Comic Standing, I felt familiar towards you because you don’t just say stuff my friends and I say - you look like family. When I watch you, it feels like I’m watching a relative goof around in the living room after dinner and before pie. I relate.

But, I can’t relate to what it’s like to be scrutinized by the public by drawing attention to sexism like a badass, and at the same time having a friend who said stupid shit about rape. So thank you for just staying focused on the actual issue. I wonder if rape could actually be one of the most important things to talk about.

I wonder what men are thinking now that there is so much more dialog about rape and assault. I wonder if any of them are reflecting on their own behavior. Or if most of them are in some kind of denial. Or how many of them don’t remember anything because they were blackout drunk, too.

I wonder, if everyone could talk about rape and share how they’ve been affected and traumatized without being questioned or criticized, would we handle it differently in our courts and in our culture? Would we stop pretending that it doesn’t happen? That it isn’t serious? That it isn’t a violation? That it isn’t a crime?

For the most part, straight men came up with the laws and systems that define rape and punish (or fail to punish) its perpetrators. And I think that’s a big reason why we’re not seeing rapists serve time. But I wonder if and how women are playing an active role in supporting these systems, by staying quiet, by shaming rape victims, or by opting to simply not get involved.

And I wonder, do strong, opinionated, vocal women scare straight men because they don’t appear to be easily rapable? Are women like us threatening what men perceive to be their right to have sex wherever and however they want?

I wonder if that fear could be what's underneath the hate directed at Hillary. Maybe on some unconscious level, straight men are afraid of women who dissent and disagree because they’re afraid of being told ‘no’. Maybe the idea of being sexually rejected feels life-threatening to them. Do Hillary haters just have mommy issues?

I talked about rape in two of my shows. Well, rape-adjacent. I tried to not make the material feel like a bomb going off in the middle of my stories, and neither of my lines about the actual rapes got a laugh. Then again, I’m not a comedian. But also that wasn’t the point of my stories. I needed to tell my truth, and those particular details about my truth aren’t particularly funny. But that brings me back to thanking you.

Thank you for sharing the hilarious and honest material that is your life, Amy. It is absolutely crucial that I laugh about the stuff that hurts. Otherwise it drags me down and tries to kill me. When I listen to you, I know I’m not alone. There’s someone who feels almost like a sister out there, sharing and making me laugh.

I don’t have skin thick enough to withstand the bizarrely harsh backlash that comes when a woman talks about rape in the public eye. A 99-seat theater feels plenty big enough for my rape-adjacent truth. So thank you for bring your story to a bigger audience who needs to hear it.

On "Shoulds" and Grieving (Part 2)

7/21/2016

Usually I cry when I touch down in Ireland. This time, I cried as the plane pulled me up and away from it.

France. Turkey. Brexit. America. It’s madness everywhere. So many lives to grieve. This vacation was more like a grievecation. And Ireland is the place where I grieve.

I grieve my father, dead three years. I grieve the land he meant to retire on, the land that my mother sold. At least we got twenty years out of it. “That’s a good chunk of time,” my mother would say.

Now my mother doesn’t say much. Maybe it’s still too soon. But maybe there’s hope - she told the story of the day Dad died to our oldest living friend we have left in Ireland. She told it her way, in the waning light of a farmhouse kitchen with a cup of tea in her hand and a picture of the Virgin Mary hanging behind her.

She told the story out loud - to our friend who understands death - it’s part of life, you see, and when you’re a farmer, when you live with the land, you see cows die when they’re only twelve and you go across the country for a wake mid-week at 10 o’clock at night because that’s just what you do.

She told the story out loud and I think it helped, it was a step anyway. To say it, to say the words, “He died”, to talk about the moment and to remember the feeling of helping her husband take that last boat ride out into the bay with the dolphins.

I grieve my father deeply and invisibly, with a windy day on a rocky beach where the dolphins run, and with a rainy morning filled with crow-birds. I grieve my father and understand that it takes years and years to grieve that loss. And his was a beautiful death, it wasn’t a bombing or a sniper attack or a bus-driven bloodbath - his death was sad but expected. And there is comfort in that.

There is comfort also in remembering the sweetness I experienced this year. This particular twirl on the dance floor was like nothing I’d ever had before. I’m better for it, my heart is better for it, I’m grateful for it. It couldn’t last, and I’ll be ok, of course I will - but still I grieve this ending. To not only sets me up for years of numb and anger and disconnected confusion. No, I’ll take the grief now and let my heart to all its aching, and I’ll let this one float out onto the bay as well, to play with dolphins in the sparkling sunset.

But all the rest of this loss - the worldwide mourning is so much. What can I do, what can I feel about that? All I know are the lessons from the losses that hit me in the gut - a father, a house, a love. All I know is to tell the story, out loud, and to listen to other stories of loss. All I know is to take a good look at the sky by night and the sea by day and to put my heart in a little boat and to go looking for dolphins.

On "Shoulds" and Grieving (Part 1)

7/15/2016

I’m on vacation in Ireland. So I should be happy.

But so far I’ve felt quite sour. Perhaps it’s because I’m grieving a relationship, the first one I’ve had in over three years. I suppose it makes sense that I’m sad.

Plus, it’s raining.

Perhaps I’m sour because Ireland reminds me of my dead father, and every green hedge, every pub door, every donkey and every blind curve hiding three dozen black-faced sheep in the road just isn’t as beautiful without my Dad here.

Even though we were rarely on the same page, we were always in agreement about the wet smell of wet rains on wet fields and wet horse shit on wet roads. We had very few same pages, Dad and I, but County Clare was one of those rare shared pages.

Plus, it won’t stop raining.

Perhaps I’m sour about the xenophobic hatred behind this shortsighted Brexit vote. Perhaps it’s because Northern Ireland is now more likely to join up with Scotland than to agree to a united Ireland. Perhaps it’s because I wonder if some of the mossiest, rockiest, wildest parts of the Ireland I love are being bought out and smoothed over by the EU. Perhaps I need to catch up with everyone else and grieve the Ireland of my childhood.

Perhaps I miss the house, the place my parents were going to retire in, a place surrounded by fresh fields, where the lowing of a cow will wake you up most days, rain or shine. I do miss that cow. I miss that country wake-up call.

I don’t come to Ireland to get away, you see. I come to Ireland to be home.

And where else but home is the perfect place to say,

“I miss you, Dad. You should be here. You should be alive.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, my sweet. I hope I gave your heart as much as you gave mine.”

“You’re scaring me, Mom. The cigarettes and your wheezing all day long. I can’t lose you, too.”

“You fucking imbicilic American public! Wake up and look at what the idiots of the UK did to themselves! Don’t be ruled by fear! Don’t hold yourself apart with walls and racism, that only makes you weaker and more easily controlled - don’t you see?”

What’s saving me is the rain. I can’t get away from it. Like much more eloquent Irish writers before me, I’m both challenged and sustained by this life giving incessant wetness. And the rain washes away my shoulds. Fuck the shoulds. Should be happy. Should be having a different experience. No, I should grieve the men I’ve lost and the mother losing her breath and the Ireland of my childhood.

I am here and it is raining.

Brace, Brace, Brace

7/11/2016

I look out the airplane window to my right at the green crazy quilt that is County Clare, Ireland. Counting the two hour delay we had before getting off the ground in Newark the previous night, as well as the first jump that flew me from my San Francisco starting point, I am already contained inside of an airplane for approximately a million hours. I am ready to immerse myself in the wet and the green and the butter and the peat smoke and the homeland spirit land that even after 35 years of repeated visits always manages to show me something magical and new about what it means to be alive.

I look out that airplane window and feel the feelings one has when one is used to careening impossibly through space at five hundred miles an hour, alongside other humans sitting passively, dropping casually in velocity and altitude, scientifically and majestically soaring inside sheets of aluminum alloy: feelings of weariness mixed with relief, equal parts anticipation and thirst, impatience swirled up with nostalgia.

But then my inner ear tells me that we are leveling out, hang on, nope, we are headed upwards back in the clouds.

Now the PA system comes on.

Now the pilot is telling us that he wants us to remain calm.

I look out the window for my green crazy quilt but all I see is white.

"We are not getting the readings we want to see from the landing gear. We are circling again as we talk to mechanics on the ground about our situation. We believe that most of the landing gear has properly deployed. However, we're getting a repeated mechanical error in the cockpit. We are preparing for an emergency landing.

"All of us in the cockpit and your entire crew has been thoroughly trained in emergency landings. Please listen closely to the instructions we are about to give you."

I have been sitting with a family of five for the past seven hours. The dad reaches forward between the seats to hold the mom's hand. He places his other hand on mine. The kids, all under age ten, go silent, searching their parents' faces for clues.

"Cross your arms and hold the seat in front of you. Lean forward placing your head on your arms or on the seat between your arms. This is the "brace position". When instructed, assume the brace position to prepare for the emergency landing. Remain in this position until your crew directs you to an emergency exit. Locate the exit closest to you now."

Crew members are assisting passengers with the correct positioning to brace themselves in case we crash. The mom in front of me is crying. Her son next to her is crying. The daughter in between me and her dad tries to curl into his lap. He is gently explaining to her how to hold her frail body in the brace position, so that she can be safe. I look out the window. We have descended back out of the white. The crazy quilt is the greenest green I have ever seen.

"Folks, this is your pilot again. We are making our approach. Look at the people sitting next to you. Look at them now. In an event like this, we are all going to do our best to help each other."

The green is so green. My life, this life I've lived - how have I lived it? Have I done enough? In this moment I realize that the 'things' don't matter at all; the 'getting stuff done' and the 'doing' and the 'work' and the 'jobs' and the 'money' and the 'business'. In this moment that stuff is so clearly not how I measure how well I've lived my life.

In this moment, as I'm bracing myself for something out of my control - utterly not at all in any way anything that I can foresee or change or choose or control at all - in this moment the question I'm asking myself is:

Did I love enough?

Did I love the people in my life enough - did I open my heart and make sure that the people I love deeply got my love - did I give freely of my love - did I forgive - did I do the absolute best loving that I was capable of, while I had time to do that loving?

Can I love them all right now in this moment while I have no ability to promise any of them that I'll be able to keep on loving them after this moment is gone?

And can I find a way to hold onto this new, basic understanding of this selfless way of loving, this striving for loving better, which I now hereby make my True North - can I find a way to hold onto this loving True North knowledge in case I am given the opportunity to walk off this plane in one piece?

"BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!"

---

I posted this blog post, so you know that I lived. We lived. We didn't crash. The landing gear deployed correctly; the dang indicator lighting in the cockpit didn't work. The landing was actually one of the smoothest I've ever experienced, we just coasted for several minutes instead of quickly coming to a stop. Once we did stop, everyone applauded. Many people embraced. Eyes were wiped.

And I walked off the plane with my New True North into the greenest, wettest, most alive and delicious crazy quilt.

You do the math

6/24/2016

Three and a half years ago I started unraveling the knots I was born into forty years ago, woven by five thousand year old rope. And it took three slips and twelve steps to get one shot at this moment, where I finally have what I need to heal an eight year old wound.

It's not one thing. It's never one thing. Or it's all just one thing, like a stone thrown into the deep end, sending ripples out. The concentric rings never held me; I'm always watching for where the ripples bump into walls and railings, where overlapping interference happens. That's where I've been living. In the interference.

But it's been years since I threw any stones. So many placid days in a row that I had to zoom way out to see the edges. Without the familiar chaos, an image started to appear. The whole thing is a reflection. This whole thing is one huge, gorgeous, sparkling, cosmic reflection.

An eight year old wound. The time when I chose surface mirth over overlapping. Or an eight year old wound. The time when I packed a Radio Flyer with sandwiches and a teddy bear but got no further than the stop sign at the end of the block. It's both. Reflecting back and forth into each other, signals flashing between hemispheres so fast that no one was conscious of it happening. Except, now I am.

Three slips. Twelve steps. Forty knots. Three musketeers two times over in separate dimensions and two one-eyed Jacks facing the other direction. And all of it adds up to letting go.

All The Donuts!

3/17/2016

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Home Depot Customer Review: Fun Time Shape .Com Rug

3/11/2016

Hey folks! Here's another installment of my Subversive Storytelling series, in which I use the customer review sections of online commerce sites to explore narrative, social commentary, and a humorous take on consumer culture. Please enjoy the customer review below, now live on the Home Depot website, and I hope this inspires you to experiment with your own forms of disruptive art!

I don't know about you, but I'm very sentimental about the mid-90's. I love that The Home Depot employs buyers in their furnishings department with an eye for classic components in floor coverings that reference the early days of mass-marketed home computing: primary colors, contrasting fonts, and a whimsical smattering of filename extensions.

Let's talk design. I just LOVE it when a rug design references itself with a sense of humor. See how the white border is disrupted FOUR TIMES around the edge, once on each side? It looks like a random collage of pointless computer-esque words, but no! There is comedy genius at work here! You can't help but look at this design in its entirety and laugh! Plus, look at how 'cgi' is crammed into the bottom corner like that - at first you think it's referencing computer-generated imagery and you think, "That doesn't belong! That's not a home computing term!" But the overwrought "Saved By The Bell" aesthetic of this piece reminds you that we're harkening back to 1993, which is of course when the National Center for Supercomputing Applications wrote the Common Gateway Interface for calling command line executables on the www-talk mailing list! What a knee-slapper!

Let's talk quality. I can't get enough of this nylon pile. It's got that slightly slippery feel under the shoe or the foot, a special kind of lack of traction that I've come to love and depend on from the folks at LA Rugs. As you'll see in the Detail Description for this product, The Home Depot categorizes this product's Rug Weave as "Tufted". I couldn't agree more. This rug is definitely tufted, folks!

The only thing I disagree with in terms of the information provided for this product is that I don't believe it is suitable for kids and teenagers. Only folks who grew up reading books and using turntables will get the special nauseated feeling that this rug inspires. But hey, that's why they have menus in restaurants, right?

I marked it as Good rather than Excellent for Ease of Installation because it took a couple of tries to get it to lay perfectly in the 4' 3" space in front of my Ace Of Base memorabilia case. Other than that, I can say I absolutely recommend this product!

Just a Postmodern Eponym

11/9/2015

They don’t call it an elevator pitch anymore.

You know that pithy phrase you carefully crafted and practiced to yourself over and over until it rolled off your tongue naturally and no longer sounded contrived or careful - that phrase you had ready to go for that moment when you happen to get in an elevator with some big cheese big wig who holds the keys, and you have twenty seconds to say who you are, how you’re awesome and why this big cheese should risk his neck on your next big idea?

Yeah, that. Well, the elevator pitch is now extinct.

Now they call it - and I’m not joking - I wish I was - no really, this is true, they call it:

The iPhone pitch.

It’s not not because everyone has an iPhone - it’s just a postmodern eponym; the iPhone is the Kleenex of all devices with screens we use to dilute our sense of self and cripple our connection to other human beings.

And it’s not because elevators don’t exist anymore - although it’s increasingly less common for anyone to be riding an elevator on their way to or from work. Aren’t we all basically staying in our jammies and working from home at this point?

Elevators still exist, and lots of people still ride them up and down, of course, at the mall or the airport or in a hotel during one of those expensive conventions where you pay all kinds of money to sit and listen to one person talk about their creative process instead of engaging in your own creative process . Or maybe you do actually ride an elevator at work, maybe you do “go to work”, and you work “9 to 5” in an “office building” that has an “actual elevator” - even in this case it’s not called an elevator pitch, because everyone inside of that elevator is just

Looking at their fucking phones.

No one’s talking. And you can be sure as shit that if I turned to someone I don’t know nowadays and, without any preface or introduction, I used my eyes instead of my iPhone to send them a message and then used my voice instead of a voicemail to convey the following information:

“Pardon me, I’m Sarah Elovich and I’m a writer. I’ve got stuff to say about life and humanity and it’s funny but also thoughtful and I have a unique if polarizingly satirical voice that I think you and your readers will really enjoy. I’m ready for a book deal. Let’s make this happen.”

This wouldn’t win me friends or help me influence people. It would only be the moment in which I became the crazy lady who talks to strangers in confined spaces.

I love my Bic

11/5/2015

All the things I’ve written that are of any significance have been written in pen. On paper. This, right here - before these words existed in pixels, shooting violently onto your retina via outerspacial satellites and deep underground rats on wheels - this right here was crafted first through an inky snail-trail of analog thought, dragged purposefully and brain-speed-wise across smooth lined white paper. Surrounded by wood and sticky coffee rings and incandescent lighting and uncertainty and incompleteness - this is the space in which I write.

Which is why everything that I write in this way winds up being significant. I write to discover. I write because I don’t know.

I type when I do know. I either know and I need to let others know, or I know you know and I know that if I tell you that you know, in a tone we both know, and if I use code key words like “feedback”, “input”, “consider”, and “invaluable”, I know that you know you’ll have no choice but to tell me what you know, so that I can go about my tippity tappity know-it-all ways, and we can “sort” or “file” as necessary, safe in the knowledge that what is known remains known-solid, firm, tangible: typed.

But writing. Writing is for the spaces that are realer than the blue-blinking, face-flashing demands and informational exchanges. Writing is for pushing, for questioning, for discovering. Writing is for digging hands deep into the cool sandbox sand; for stopping short and turning back for that silvery reflection in the grass; for gazing deeply into the dark and letting the eyes go blurry, then sharpening on a sparkling piece of information sent more than a million years ago, perfectly timed for this very instant, and containing information far more valuable than anything conveyed by a pixel.

Writing is for pleasure. It’s for pain. It’s for grieving and for wishing. It’s for ranting, pathologizing, obsessing, cursing, blaming, rationalizing, forgiving, confessing, revealing, and for finally letting go. It’s for communicating with the part inside, that part that doesn’t really want this season’s trendy new bootie at 60% off - what it wants is to be fully seen and heard and held and understood. What it wants is to show up and shine without apologizing or explaining or prefacing or asking for permission.

The act of writing is the permission itself. The moment the pen hit the paper, it was given.

How To Reinvent Yourself in 12 Easy Steps

11/1/2015

1) Tell everyone you’re reinventing yourself. Staying it out loud to others makes it real. This prevents you from backing out because there’s a chance someone else might hold you accountable.

2) Change your hair. I am not kidding. Dye it. Cut it. Curl it. Grow a beard or shave a beard. You’ll look different to yourself and others. People will notice that you’ve changed something. This signals that you are changing on a deeper level, and reinforces the idea to yourself that you are capable of change.

3) Clean up old business. Do the dishes and the laundry. Pay the bills. Tackle the piles that have built up. Make literal space for your change to occur.

4) Get rid of friends you don’t really like anymore. If they don’t add anything positive to your life, stop calling them. You don’t have room anymore for anyone draining or toxic.

5) Envision the new life you will have. Get specific. What is your new daily routine? What will a Tuesday morning look like? Write it down. Tell people. Make it known. Stay with these ideas for at least 21 days in a row. Make a vision board. Talk about your new life with expectancy.

6) Ask for support. Tell the people you trust that you are changing. Tell them you’re going to need their support. Ask them to listen. Guard against unsolicited feedback. Share only with those you trust.

7) Practice being present. Tune in to how you are feeling. Use all 5 senses. Staying present helps you notice what is really going on, and being present to reality helps you take the best possible care of yourself through change.

8) Practice patience. Change takes time. If a decision does not need to be made this moment, don’t decide. Study the moon calendar. Notice when it is full and when it is new. When possible, synchronize taking on new practices when the moon is growing, and initiate letting go rituals when the moon is reducing.

9) Cover the basics. Sleep. Water. Meditation. Exercise. Basic self care keeps stress at a minimum. Reinvention can be stressful and tiring; no need to make it harder on yourself.

10) Focus on internal validation. You used external validation at the beginning of your process of change, by telling others you were changing. Maybe you asked others their opinion on some of your plans. Maybe you asked others to help you tell your story of reinvention to yourself. Now, you need to encourage yourself. Remember what you are changing and why. Change isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. Growing and stretching and learning. Measure your own progress. Look at how far you have come already. You are already changing.

11) Face fear. Fear is helpful because it can keep us safe. However, there is nothing safer than following the path we were meant to walk upon. Follow it, facing the fear, knowing that you will survive no matter what.

12) Embrace change. New things, new emotions, new perspectives - it will sometimes be fast and furious, sometimes bafflingly slow. Embrace all change in your life. Your desires put into action are bringing forth change. Feel change like the wind on your face. Reinvention of this nature was started inside you on a deep level. Be present to its gifts. Tune in and be grateful for it.

It wasn't Satan exactly

10/31/2015

It wasn't Satan exactly.

Let me back up.

It was a voice that I heard - I was really high, and I got scared. I got really scared. I was super high, all alone, and I got into one of those states where it was like - knowing and hearing and fearing and being in flow, in communion with something bigger and more powerful than me. And it terrified me.

But just because I heard a voice and it terrified me doesn’t mean it was Satan.

I was raised Jewish. Jews don’t believe in Satan. Well, I mean, they don’t teach or talk about Satan. There’s no hell - there’s no heaven either - it’s just - life. That’s all. That’s all we have and all we know.

Except…

There’s a mystical side of Judaism. And most Jews nowadays don’t even believe in God. So to figure out what those ancient Hebrew mystical priests were going on about - the Tree of Life, the “divine spark”, a God who is not only indescribable but whose name is unpronounceable - is simply beyond most Jews today. Jews I talk to take all that mysticism as mere philosophy, if they know about it at all. Maybe once or twice a year they’ll file into synagogue and say the things and sing the songs and they go home, and they forget that they are part of a lineage that describes the evolution of human consciousness. They eat their bacon and they work on Saturdays and they remain unawake and unaware of the story.

The story about life.

I forgot the story about life - I still forget it all the time, I’m constantly waking up from the dream that I’m in control, I’ve got it all figured out. But every once in a while, a miracle happens, and I remember.

The voice was a miracle. And since I can’t say I know where the voice came from, it’s not logical to say with any certainty that it was Satan speaking to me.

It’s just that I don’t know that it wasn’t.

Deep Target

10/21/2015

I save visits to superstores for when I have plenty of time and don't feel particularly urgent about anything. Do I want $3 acrylic slippers? Not particularly, but let's have a look-see. Tribal print leggings? Not really my thing, but my goodness, they do come in lots of colors nowadays.

I don't wear a lot of makeup, but why not look at all the makeup? There's so much makeup! I found myself dazzled and dazed, sucked in by rows and rows of sparkly boxes promising impossible things. Serums made of honey and gold flakes. Spritzes formulated with bone marrow and cucumber seeds. Are these things that I need? Do I need single-use foot scrubbing socks? Do I want hairspray that smells like peaches and cinnamon? An entire aisle of toothpastes? Yes.

Pretty soon, I found myself lost in Deep Target. In this area of the mega-market, time does not exist. My compass couldn't get a reading. I found myself staring at a turquoise Kitchen Aid standing mixer, wondering if I'd ever have the skill or the need for such a powerful creature. The shaggy bathmats called to me. The woven, stackable organizers beckoned. Hangers in every color of the rainbow! Laundry baskets shaped like Holstein cows! Somewhere between party supplies and scented candles, I sent an SOS.

Which way was out? I fumbled through Electronics and Sportswear into the seasonal section. Everything was orange and cost a dollar. I collapsed, and took shelter in an overturned shopping cart. Anything to keep me from those horrid, fluorescent lights. I pulled out my field notebook and prepared to make my final entry.

What was that smell? My nose caught a whiff of something so familiar, something so much like home, my body reacted before the word had fully formed in my mind: Starbucks. I could smell the nostalgic burned beans from inside my plastic cage. The Starbucks was right next to the entrance - my escape route! Where there was coffee, there would also be fresh oxygen! I emerged, yeti-like, from my place of refuge and, basket of booty hanging by the crook of my arm, limped towards the coffee odor. Before me, like the rising sun, she appeared - the smiling green patron saint of caffeine, a beacon of redemption for this weary traveler. I stayed the course, not daring to look back at the carnage I'd left behind in Deep Target.

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