October. It’s over.

I’m aware that this heading is an odd one, given that we’re nearing the end of November but I am nothing, if not consistent in my lateness. I am looking forward most of the time, but sometimes it’s good to look back to appreciate growth, change and learning.

I’ve copied and tweaked something I shared on instagram about October, as well as something I wrote on Facebook earlier this week. Apologies for being repetitive if you already saw these things there, but I wanted to record (aka overshare) here too. I’m feeling creative and clear again now, but the heaviness of these recent times lingers on and reminds me how good it is to feel well.


October

I lost all my creative energy and motivation in recent weeks. The whole month of October felt like a blur of stress and anxiety. It was filled with bad sleep, intense feelings of panic and a constant sense that I was about to drown under the pressure I was under.

I find it so completely amazing how important creativity is for my mental health but how it becomes inaccessible as a tool when I’m pushed past a certain point.

I don’t know how to fix that, when one of my mechanisms for wellness becomes out of reach for me and I see the same pattern with my capacity to eat well and get off the couch but I am so glad to be on the other side of the last six weeks.


You can’t make this shit up.

You know those conversations you have sometimes that leave you feeling blindsided by the outlandishness of them? Words shared with people who are too entitled, too know-it-all, too intrusive, too presumptuous, too intent on putting us in “our place”. These korero are like fiction or theatre, they are that kind of ridiculous and so in the interests of collective laughter, unpacking, sharing and rage, some friends and I are documenting these “you can’t make this shit up” stories. Feel free to write or share your own and join me in righteous outrage.


A woman sits alone on a park bench in the sunshine. She is knitting and listening to a te reo podcast on her headphones. A man with a shaggy beard and his hood pulled over his head notices her from across the park and sits next to her.

“What are you making?” he says.

The woman sighed and removed a single head phone.

“A blanket,” she said, holding the grey stripes up like it wasn’t plainly obvious.

“How long will that take you?”

“A few months I guess”

“How long for a knitted jersey?”

“A few months I guess”

“How long for socks?”

“A few weeks I guess”

“Do you knit on contract?” His voice is different now, interrogative, like this is a police interview and he is playing the bad cop.

“No,” she said, pulling on her wool and shifting in her seat.

“Not even for money? Like a commission?” He seems incredulous that a perfect stranger isn’t interested in knitting a sweater for him.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t have time.” She puts her headphone back in and turns away.

He sits a minute longer before he gets up and walks away, staring intently at her with a mixture of disgust and anger.

She turns her work and starts a new row.

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