Let’s Never Stop Tending the Creative Fires
“Wasn’t it death that taught me to stop measuring my lifespan by length, but by width?” — Andrea Gibson, 1975-2025
Dear Ones,
I traveled across the border a couple of days ago to play all weekend at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival. I’ve been going to this festival most years since the mid-1990s. This year I met up with my friend Jess, who took the ferry over from her home in Victoria on Vancouver Island. Spending time in Canada feels like such a balm to my spirit. Everyone is so kind, gracious, and welcoming (of course, they’re Canadian!). I am also remembering that I was here one year ago when the news broke that President Biden had stepped down and anointed Kamala Harris to run for President. There was so much excitement and hope in the air. And here we are, a year later, in an entirely different political and emotional landscape. Such a difference.
Yet the music goes on. The poetry and art-making and celebrating goes on. Let’s never stop stoking those creative fires. The fires of joy fuel our activism.
I give thanks for all the artists, writers, and musicians who sooth, inspire, and energize us. This year at the festival, I was thrilled to see Ruthie Foster again. I first discovered her at this festival around 2005, when I followed her around from stage to stage all weekend. This year, I’ve astounded by Julian Taylor, Krystle Dos Santos and Nico Paulo. My heart is full.
Andrea Gibson: May Earth Receive Their Soul
When I read the news last Monday that queer poet Andrea Gibson, Poet Laureate of Colorado, had died, I wept and wept. I could not stop crying as I read on Instagram that they “died in their home surrounded by their wife, Meg, four ex-girlfriends, their mother and father, dozens of friends, and their three beloved dogs.” Their poem “Love Letter from the Afterlife” has been quoted dozens (hundreds?) of times in the last week on all the socials, and every damn time I see it, I cry.
I’m crying because, even though I know them only through the pages of their books and the videos of their spoken-word performances, they cracked my heart open with their words. They taught me so much about meeting Death with courage and with grace.
The imagery in their poem, “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down,” reminds me of the Gaian Five of Earth.
Jenny says when people ask if she’s out of the woods,
she tells them she’ll never be out of the woods,
says there is something lovely about the woods.
I know how to build a survival shelter
from fallen tree branches, packed mud,
and pulled moss. I could survive forever
on death alone. Wasn’t it death that taught me
to stop measuring my lifespan by length,
but by width?
.
.