Impermanence on laying

Down Roots

by Marin Warshay

Illustrated by Ella Buchanan

INSTA: @nanahcube

In seventh grade, we had a long-term substitute teacher for social studies because our teacher had fallen down the stairs. Besides his need to remind us he wasn’t strict (he was “just preparing us for the real world”), I only have one memory from his time as my teacher: He made me cry. No—he made me have an existential crisis, the first I can remember having, but certainly not the last. He told the class that whatever we chose to do in the future wouldn’t matter because the world was ending anyways.

My stomach churned for the rest of the day until I was able to go home, flop on my floor, and sob. This is the first time I can remember consciously breaking down about the climate crisis. Granted, I was also having an intense pubescent mood-swing—but I felt betrayed, fearful, dizzily confused, and sad. I was sitting in my room, surrounded by pictures to commemorate my life, stuffed animals I was gifted as a baby, various books I love, and the clothes that I wore to snuggly hug my body. I was secure, sheltered, but fearful of the innate uncertainty one experiences as a human in today’s world. I was as protected as anyone could be, and yet I found myself looking around my room, playing that game: “If you were only allowed to bring one thing with you to a deserted island, what would you bring?”

Now I’m nine years past being thirteen and I can’t stop listening to “We’re All Gonna Die” by Joy Oladokun. I look back on this moment as one of the main epiphanies in my life. Clearly there was something in me aching for the fate of our Earth.

And I continue to ache. For an assignment in my class, “Narrating the Anthropocene,” I recently spoke with Jon Robertson, a survivor of the 2017 Thomas Wildfire that ate through Santa Barbara, California, and surrounding areas.

In 2017, the “island game” came to life for the Robertsons. Their life was deserted, but instead of sand, it was ash.

He told me about his daughter, about her plan to become a professional costume designer. Hours felt like too small a unit of time to correctly valorize her efforts—clippings of her fabric, design sketches, and complete costumes worn by actors with dreams just as big as hers.

Her portfolio was one of many casualties in the Robertson family household. They also lost Jon’s wife’s late mother’s paintings, three wardrobes they’d spent their lives building, and an entire home that they could barely afford but had housed them through retirement. Jon heard that the fire was moving one acre per second. He thinks this is why neighbors immediately next to him were left untouched—the fire literally skipped over certain houses. It was so swiftly moving that his house, and the home within, were gone as quickly as a gas stove can ignite.

Each generation can remember an era of loss and struggle—anticipation of nuclear warfare, a rise in terrorist attacks, an economic crash, a constant flow of mass shootings, a mental health epidemic. But the climate crisis is unique in that it was heavily predicted, it is currently experienced, and its future implications are certain. Talking to my peers, it is clear that permanence becomes a harsh water to tread when imagining our futures. Rising sea levels, food shortages, extra high temperatures, and the natural disasters we may face will certainly factor into our visions of our futures, if they haven't already. Every generation has had to cope; it’s a fact of life. But we’re the generation of pre-coping. What’s worse: knowing now that we have to make these sacrifices and forever fearing lack of stability, or having already set down roots for yourself and having to start over?

Hearing Jon’s story, my mind went straight to the worst—I wondered if there was even a point of settling down. It's only a matter of time before we are all physically and spatially affected by the climate crisis. Whether that’s in the form of our home burning down, our streets flooding, breathing through masks, adjusting to staring at screens more than ever before, or eggs tripling in price again, sacrifices are already being made and the strides we make in building up our lives no longer feel permanent. Like building castles in the sand right before high tide, the impending waves waiting are guaranteed to erase our work. Nevermind the environmental harm of overproduction, even the emotional risk of working hard only to lose it all is frightening on its own.

But when I asked Jon whether he felt hesitant to rebuild his life as abundantly as he had before, he said no. In fact, he felt the opposite. Once all of his belongings were destroyed, he decided that everything he would buy would be an updated version of what he had before. If he was going to spend money, he wanted it to count. Being as fortunate as he was to have the means to do so, it was his way of coping. It was his way of feeling human in the midst of something that he “could barely wrap his head around.”

The phrase “the new normal” jerks my body into fightor-flight. We’ve almost reached the three-year mark of being sent home from freshman year of college due to the pandemic (and how nice it feels to get further from that moment). But it seems like the new normal is something that is ever-evolving. The tippity top of a treadmill band that’s impossible to reach no matter how fast you run. It’s a concept, a mindset, that will be ingrained in young consciences. It has to be. There can simply be no more “out of sight, out of mind.” But how do you teach a child to prepare to lose what they’ve just received? How do you teach a being, new to this Earth, about a disappearing world? Object permanence—something we gain once we’re about eight months old—is also about when children begin to experience separation anxiety.

I am lucky to say I have felt a sense of placeness for the majority of my life. My family has never moved homes, and over the summer, I even had camp to act as a second one. I’ve had the same best friend since I was two. I’m close with my siblings.

And yet—

Maybe it’s growing up. Maybe the feeling that the rug can be ripped out from right under me is just the world saying, “This is 22!” Certainly, that’s part of it. But that can’t be all.

Why did it take 13 years for someone to tell me so nonchalantly what was coming? It’s time to start environmental education early and consistently. Because what we do does matter. Every being on this Earth deserves access to a place, a permanent home, and the opportunity to build a tangible life.

Like Jon said: It may have felt materialistic, but the objects that we surround ourselves with are critical to building our sense of self. It’s human to collect. It’s human to settle. It’s human to lay down roots.

But who are we when our need to be grounded by physicality is constantly being put to the test?

I love me best <3

by Ellie Jurmann

Illustrated by elliana REynolds

The last time I was supposed to write for post-, I got dumped. Just as I was about to start my piece, my world shattered, the future I imagined for myself came crumbling down, and the person I thought was the love of my life no longer wished to be in mine at all. Thoughts of writing or school work were lost amid my suffocating grief.

To those in my life who did not know about my breakup, let alone my then-boyfriend’s existence, this is probably a bit confusing. If I never mentioned him, it is because I did not wish to introduce someone who might not be in my life for the long haul. I now feel that I made the right choice, but I do wish for you to know me as a result of my recent experiences.

I do not write this with any ill will against my now ex-boyfriend, which is why I will refer to him as X instead of using his name. X, if you are reading this, hi. Thank you for everything, including breaking my heart.

Normally I am very good at coping with loss, especially because I like myself and am pretty damn good at cheering myself up. The problem with this breakup, though, was I felt like X was my perfect match. We are both nerdy, silly, obsessed with food and music and dogs, and we never failed to have the best time in each other’s presence. In six months of dating, we never even got into a single fight. When he ended things, I could not comprehend why someone so seemingly right for me was brought into my life just to be ripped away. I did not want our time together to come to an end; I never really thought it would. From my perspective, the signs were not there, and I still cannot really find them (other than him being a Saggittarius; his flighty and noncommittal nature was written in the stars—if you are a Saggittarius reading this, no, I will not consider dating another Sag in the future). Unable to rationalize the breakup, I was in shambles, hoping for everything to somehow make sense so I could find peace and move on. It did help to realize that our seemingly “great communication” was one-sided—he never really communicated any of his worries, doubts, or changing feelings.

The hardest part of it all was knowing that while my world came to a screeching halt, life kept on going and I was expected to keep up. I am grateful to all of the understanding people in my life who helped me get back on track. I am grateful for their support as I focus on myself right now and on feeling better. I have spent the last month and a half doing everything I can to heal. I journal every morning and night, and have become quite the gym rat. Doing whatever I can for me has allowed me to feel like all the pain will be worthwhile in the end. Plus, the enjoyment and fulfillment I have recently found in exercise, especially weight lifting, has allowed me to discover a new part of myself. It feels liberating to learn new things about myself, because it means I am growing past him, and past the version of me that he knew.

I feel lucky that I never dealt with thoughts of being unlovable, not being good enough, or feeling incomplete without X. I had put so much effort into fostering a loving relationship with myself before I ever met him, so I never ceased to love myself even as he ceased to love me. I am beyond proud of myself for even writing that without sobbing. Time is healing me, my friends and family are healing me, and most importantly, I am healing me. I am glad X broke me and shattered my heart, so that I could build myself back up with an even higher sense of selfworth. I realize my selfless love has been awarded too generously—to those who accepted my love but didn’t value its worth. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for the people I love, and right now I am making sure I am at the top of my own list. Nobody deserves my love more than I do.

Upon a great deal of reflection, I realized that while I was sad to lose X for all the good times we shared, I would have grown apart from him at one point or another. Being with him, I was so willing to live a life that would have been safe. I would stay in New England, settle down in my early 20s, and live happily ever after with X. But “safe” has never been never the prime descriptor of how I make my life choices. I like knowing that I can throw away my whole life’s plans on a whim, get on a one-way flight to who-knows-where, and follow whichever opportunities come my way to live, and to love. I am really glad X was one of those opportunities, but a lifetime together would have meant surrendering my maybe impulsive, but ever-alive self. A future with him surely had no room for my dreams of living in a school bus and traveling the country with only the sweet company of myself and the beautiful mutt I intend to adopt. I am destined for adventure, and I will not wait around for someone to show me the world when I can do so myself. I plan to navigate life and all the wonders it has to offer as the magnificent solo act that I am. I have so much love to give, and even more life to live. And the best part? This time, it will all be mine.

It hit me the other day that there is no reality in which I want him back. Of course, part of me wishes he never ended things. But now that we are over, there are only two possibilities:

1. he realizes he made a huge mistake and wants me back, to which I say that anyone good enough for me would have realized far sooner what they missed out on; or

2. he never realizes his mistake and how good he had it, to which I say, clearly I deserve someone who believes losing me would be the greatest tragedy he could ever possibly suffer.

I know I am probably being melodramatic. But as someone who cried every day because I was overwhelmed by my love for X while we were dating, I need someone who feels that way about me—because I love me like that. Anyone in my life better love me the way I love myself, if they are to be entrusted with my heart.

There is something so beautiful about being broken. The fact that my pain comes from loving so hard and so naively with all my guards down is quite remarkable. Even better, I get to heal myself, and bounce back stronger, more confident, and with a better sense of self than ever before. I am grateful to experience all the highs and lows that come with being human. As the lyrical genius Taylor Swift once wrote, “If you never bleed you’re never gonna grow.” The universe is keeping me on my toes, so that I never get too comfortable that I stop striving to be better and find better for myself.

Dear X, I am so glad to have met you, loved you, and lost you. Somewhere along the way, I found myself again. Thank you for showing me just how much I have to give, and for reminding me that I am the most worthy recipient of my love.

Chopin On The Beach a love letter to the piano

by Leanna Bai

Illustrated by Jasmin Lin Insta: @sasha_art_0201

The first chord of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 13 is a low, resounding C that beckons you—slow, crashing waves meet your feet as the moon gazes at your form. Hands alternate between soft bass notes that sink into your core and a high-pitched melody that yearns. This dance drives you through the scene, a steady march toward some impending doom.

This Chopin piece occupies its own little room in my heart. My piano teacher introduced it to me when I was 16, and I quickly decided to take on the challenge of doing it justice. It is dark, angsty, and swimming with emotion too vast to convey with words, perfectly fit for the turbulent teenage mind.

When I play a piece, I conjure stories that go along with the mood and tone of the piece—a habit that began in early childhood. I have pictured bunnies hopping in fields, bells clanging in a small European town, and shimmery water that bounces in a fountain. Piano has allowed me to explore emotions and perspectives that do not belong to me, to occupy a new space or temporality by uniting myself with figures of the past, hidden objects, and neglected moments.

“It is dreadful when something weighs on your mind, not to have a soul to unburden yourself to. You know what I mean. I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.”

- Frédéric Chopin

Chopin wrote dramatic compositions that bared his soul to pianists centuries later, and in the six minutes that I play his work, I latch onto a piece of it. I am the composer standing in the waves, contemplating the depths of my loneliness.

His words settle in the pit of my stomach. As I play through his composition, the melody pierces a still night sky—its arc feels like a call that dissipates into the rough edges of the shore. The nocturne tricks you into thinking you’ve reached its end, steady chromatic chords dragging the listener toward home, but your eyes scan the surrounding beach and meet the kindred gaze of the moon.

The piece continues. My fingers land on a soft yet resonant C major chord. I pause for a beat too long, feeling the sound waves in perfect harmony crash into my body. C major, commonly designated for joyful celebrations or grand openings, takes on a different tonality—a certain sorrow with a sliver of hope. This section is part funeral march, part serenade.

The moon glows on a pitch black backdrop. Eyes glued to the celestial body, you scale the jagged rocks of the shore, yet to be smoothed by the tides. The rich harmonies rush through the air as a gust of wind, encouraging your steady climb towards the precipice of the beach.

As I play through this section, I experience the exhilaration of immersion into a craft. I enter a flow state where my fingers coordinate closely with instructions from my brain, and I develop my musicality by noticing the exact turns of my wrist, the amount of weight from my back, all the way to the angle of my finger pads. Piano is algorithmic in the most mechanical sense, but there is beauty in the synergy between intangible sound and the physical human form. If you search for video recordings of professional classical musicians, their bodies sway with the contours of the melody, syncing with the piece even up to the furrow of their eyebrows.

Here, playing music is pure bliss. It is standing on the edge of the rocky precipice, closing one’s eyes and accepting the touch of moon rays and the brush of the land-ward breeze.

But of course, achieving this near-perfect coordination is only attainable through practice. In learning this nocturne, I’ve sat at the piano for hours at a day drilling the first chord: a low C octave. The two notes must be played at exactly the same time so that the sound is crisp; the overall volume must be quiet, but it must evoke the sureness required to set the tone for the rest of the piece. The thumb must be more emphatic. I begin to slouch in my seat, repeatedly striking the keys in chase of just the correct color, each attempt faintly askew. This pattern of drilling continues for the rest of the piece until I map out the exact hue of sound, from crest to trough.

Thus begins the downward spiral of any artist dedicated to their craft—agonizing over an eight bar passage for endless hours a day. My piano at home has endured countless bouts of frustration, of slamming the plastic keys on the Yamaha. The chase for the perfect expression of Chopin’s pure anguish begins to feel like an impossible task. Something is terribly wrong.

A foot staggers on the slippery rocks, and you tumble into the sea.

It is an awful, awful feeling that mutates as you sink deeper into the dread, that you might never produce a worthwhile performance to an awestruck audience, or that your fingers are restricted in speed and finesse, and that you are incapable of tugging on a soul. The feeling swirls in torrents around you, mercilessly tossing you through the deep and percolating into your mouth, seizing the throat. Large octaves descend into endless triplets played in a flurry. The theme from the beginning reprises, but it is more turbulent and desperate—you gather all of your hurt, the masses of your shortcomings, and the lingering tickle in the back of your head that you may only reach the lower edge of greatness, and pour it all into the waves around you. You gasp for air. It is exhausting.

Suddenly, the enormity of the ordeal is too much to bear.

You stop thrashing and numbly sink into the deep.

+++

When I am asked about why I decided to take a hiatus from piano in college, I cannot give a proper answer. To be honest, I’m not sure if one day I realized that I was tired, or if I could not muster any emotion other than resentment upon looking at the piano, or if I saw no future for myself in music, or if I simply got too busy. Regardless, in college, I have been forced to define myself outside of my piano ability. But who am I without my skills?

A whole person. In my quest to translate the agony of a 19th century composer, I unintentionally succumbed to the all-consuming mindset that classical music demands to be played only at an elite level, that my musical sensibility is cheap otherwise.

But my hiatus has made me calmer and less desiring of perfection. I appreciate the subtle harmonic clashes of missed notes in live performances, which I find to be a more authentic expression of human art. And while I still wince a little at old piano recordings, the distance has allowed me to view my playing more objectively. This year of rest has yielded proper reflection on my relationship with the art form—while never perfect, I used to carve melodies into the air with an intuition I never realized I had. The revelation feels like a gentle gust of wind on my cheek: the joy of simple piano, of tapping the keys playfully. My fingers itch in yearning.

+++

Against all odds, you wash up on the shore. The clashing of the waves fills your ears, and your back digs into the ground, the sand carried by the water gradually burying you. Your hair is drenched, and you’re gasping for air. There’s a rhythm—peaceful and right—that makes you close your eyes.