Beautifully written, Kara. “We had been raised to believe we were first class, and we were only traveling steerage.” One of so many brilliant lines. And damn, I love how you play with time here.
It was my great good fortune today to be introduced to this piece out in Notes by Rona Maynard. You write with fluidity and precision. Like painting with words. Beautiful messages here. I’m not sure those dreams were ever within reach for most of us, but who could fault us for thinking they were?
LOVE THIS!!!! “We believed in miracles. We had been raised to believe were first class, and we were only traveling steerage. I didn’t know then that I would always be a usurper jumping the fence, not of class, but of the capital that made that kind of freedom possible.”
“One rarely has any space at all to imagine when faced with the endless drama of just enough.”
The passage of Kate’s that you quoted, and this one here, are the first two passages that pulled me (yanked, really), pierced, stung, stung again, followed by a few minutes of time-traveling elation. And then a longing for the old me, the former me, of that raw intense free-floating realness when daily I sat at my old wooden kitchen table beside the generous kitchen windows, and I felt so right, such belonging, so Home in my little haven walkup in the ghetto. Where almost daily I would put trusty fountain pen to paper, and I would flow and swirl and hurl through the watery black of the deepest blue and green, and then suddenly I would look up, come to the surface and back to the kitchen table where friends and neighbors gathered, and so much happened, and I would put the pen down. Years ago when I asked a supposedly “wise expert” if I might be using my writing as an escape or crutch rather than as a tool to explore-grow-communicate, that person recommended that I stop writing for at least a few or several months. Bad advice, as I learned later after I followed it.
Thank you for being pulled in! That was such a hard time, but out of those realizations I was able to see my patterns and change just enough.
Nowadays I see that nothing is as important to me as finishing my book as a gift for my husband, and getting these great stories down. Leona and I decided to record our Dakota stories in a podcast because we won’t have time to write them all before we die! You can find the first episode at the end of the post. I can’t believe someone suggested you should stop writing! Unless maybe it became obsessive and you needed a break to get perspective. It seems we’re all a bit obsessed on here though.
Beautifully written, Kara. “We had been raised to believe we were first class, and we were only traveling steerage.” One of so many brilliant lines. And damn, I love how you play with time here.
Thank you for reading! I should give my mother credit for that line.
It was my great good fortune today to be introduced to this piece out in Notes by Rona Maynard. You write with fluidity and precision. Like painting with words. Beautiful messages here. I’m not sure those dreams were ever within reach for most of us, but who could fault us for thinking they were?
Elizabeth, thank you for reading and sharing. It means so much!
I am so amazed at your support. It is awesome to hear that you like the writing.
Kara, you win Substack. Again.
I can’t see life the same after reading you.
Thank you for reading!
This is utterly beautiful. And the way you easily stretch between different times and spaces, in so many ways. All mesmerizing. Love it!
Oh, I appreciate you so much!
You write good stuff!!
Thank you so much!
No matter the class, we all suffer, grieve, die, etc. Thank you for this poignant essay.
Also!!! Is the crawling Cinderella photo you!?!?
YES!
FRAME IT! BOOK COVER.
LOVE THIS!!!! “We believed in miracles. We had been raised to believe were first class, and we were only traveling steerage. I didn’t know then that I would always be a usurper jumping the fence, not of class, but of the capital that made that kind of freedom possible.”
“One rarely has any space at all to imagine when faced with the endless drama of just enough.”
The passage of Kate’s that you quoted, and this one here, are the first two passages that pulled me (yanked, really), pierced, stung, stung again, followed by a few minutes of time-traveling elation. And then a longing for the old me, the former me, of that raw intense free-floating realness when daily I sat at my old wooden kitchen table beside the generous kitchen windows, and I felt so right, such belonging, so Home in my little haven walkup in the ghetto. Where almost daily I would put trusty fountain pen to paper, and I would flow and swirl and hurl through the watery black of the deepest blue and green, and then suddenly I would look up, come to the surface and back to the kitchen table where friends and neighbors gathered, and so much happened, and I would put the pen down. Years ago when I asked a supposedly “wise expert” if I might be using my writing as an escape or crutch rather than as a tool to explore-grow-communicate, that person recommended that I stop writing for at least a few or several months. Bad advice, as I learned later after I followed it.
Thank you for being pulled in! That was such a hard time, but out of those realizations I was able to see my patterns and change just enough.
Nowadays I see that nothing is as important to me as finishing my book as a gift for my husband, and getting these great stories down. Leona and I decided to record our Dakota stories in a podcast because we won’t have time to write them all before we die! You can find the first episode at the end of the post. I can’t believe someone suggested you should stop writing! Unless maybe it became obsessive and you needed a break to get perspective. It seems we’re all a bit obsessed on here though.
Will respond after work🙂
Beautiful. Poignant. Thank-you for sharing Kara.
Oh, thank you for rerading!
Did you stand and get a picture? Thank you for your kind words and support!