Things I’m obsessed with: This Life by Vampire Weekend (I’ve listened to it probably 150 times), 44+ (give or take) people I met at the Bush Institute last week, and Joy Harjo being the Poet Laureate the United States of America needs.

Boston Boston Boston! Brandon Melendez, Amelia Bane, and I are coming to read and tell you some things. I can’t wait! Tickets are free register here!

This is a very weird and wonderful world: 4 days ago I met this cool guy Alex (who is a fellow scholar at the Bush Institute and very quickly became a favorite super dear one who laughs at a large number of the same stupid things I laugh at) and we realized through conversation that long ago he’d worked on a project with my dear & brilliant friend Ashley, which seemed like a very enormous and odd coincidence.

At the airport on our way back from Dallas, I heard “Reza?” and turned and there was Ashley, on our same flight back to DC. Anyway, maybe none of this is at all interesting to you but I just love it so much and never ever want to forget it so I’m putting it here in this internet scrapbook I call a blog. You can scroll through my opening ramble whenever you want, okay?

Here’s your Joy Harjo poem.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Joy Harjo – 1951-

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

A few weeks ago I heard Jason Reynolds respond to the question, “Where do you go to get grounded?” He said, “My mother’s kitchen table. When I’m there, I know that I’m not as good as they say I am or as bad as they say I am either.”

I have so much affection for the table I bought when I first moved to this post-divorce apartment. I know I should get another table, because it’s kind of crappy, but this anchored so many difficult and joyous conversations. I can’t wait to write them. 

Your prompt: describe your kitchen table. And the kitchen table of your childhood. Try to lean into the specific as much as possible. List them all together, scene after scene after scene.

And here’s the song. At our house we have a little choreography emerging, which is very impressive and twirl-filled.