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softplacepod · 5 years ago

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Episode 1: Sugar, Butter, Flour

Show notes & transcript below the cut.

SHOW NOTES:

“A Soft Place to Land,” from Waitress, sung by Jessie Mueller, Keala Seattle, and Kimiko Glenn.

Schitt's Creek

Stardew Valley

"Dead Stars,” by Ada Limón, from The Carrying (2018)

TRANSCRIPT:

Hello, bees. It's me, Sara, sending you light and love, and also a bunch of things I've been super into lately that I think might be your jam. Welcome to A Soft Place to Land.

[music]

Item the first: "A Soft Place to Land,” from Waitress, sung by Jessie Mueller, Keala Seattle, and Kimiko Glenn.

Or, a title track to parenthood.

[clip: opening]

This whole musical has, more often than not, been on my mind since I've had a kid. It's not only about kids, of course, but so much of it reflects on the ways we grow up, and how our raising stays with us and shapes us, for good or ill, forever. And this song specifically just breaks my heart every time I hear it.

I want, more than anything in the world, for my kid to grow up happy - not all the time, not Stepford-style, but fundamentally happy. Secure in the knowledge that she is so loved, no matter what, that nothing she could ever do or say or not do or not say could change that. Fearless to be herself in the knowledge that behind her are people who stand ready and waiting to catch her, to carry her, to clap as she soars.

Growing up any other way leaves scars, and they never really heal, and I am walking around trying to bear them and maintain them and maybe forget about a few while trying very, very hard not to give any of them to my kid. She's going to have some stuff, and she's going to go through pain, and she's going to cry and be sad and get her feelings hurt, and I want very much for none of it to wound her so deeply she turns inward.

[clip: a dream needs believing / to taste like the real thing]

So, how do I do that? How do I singlehandedly prevent my trauma from messing up my kid?

First I forget the concept of doing anything singlehandedly, ever. The rest is...a process. I rein in my own ish as much as I can, I am honest when I can be about the struggles I'm having, I talk about parenting in a complicated world with one of my very good friends (we have a podcast, I'll link it below). I talk to people. I listen to my kid when she talks, and when she sings, and when she's quiet. I ask her how she feels, if she's proud of herself, if she needs a hug, if she'd rather have some quiet time. I give her space and I ask for it when I need it, and more than anything in the world I try, against my own nature, to tell her and show her how much she is loved.

I do what I can with who I am to give her a soft place to land, and I hope to the universe that it's enough, and I take a deep breath and I do it again.

[music]

Item the Second: the final season of Schitt's Creek

Or, a reminder that where things start doesn't dictate where they go.

[clip: little bit alexis]

Look, okay, if you're an Internet person you likely don't need me to yell about how much Schitt's Creek means to me. It starts, I will freely admit, as a sort of skimmed version of Arrested Development, but quickly shows you that it's actually doing something much more interesting and difficult. It is instead a show about family, yes, but a family that is forced by circumstance to reassess who they are and who they are to each other, and finds the beating heart at the center of their relationships. Stripped of all the obstacles they'd joyfully embraced to keep themselves apart, they find joy.

It's about love - romantic and platonic, mixed-up and weird and shifting - and about acceptance of yourself and of other people. It's a show that, like eternal favorite Leverage, began with characters who completely changed when compared to the people they are now, but are still those people underneath. David is still the vain, needy, insecure, damaged person he was in the premiere, but he's also beloved and loving, generous and funny, kind (especially when no one is looking) and clever. Alexis, who I love more than air, is still brittle in some ways, and too comfortable being overlooked while still angry about it, and prone to take on anything anyone will hand her out of fear no one would ask. But, too, she's found her strength, and her passion, and some of the truths at the center of herself, and she's built a life that works for her, and she's chosen that life again and again. They all have.

[clip: what's your secret stevie]

For me, there's no story I'd rather see than that one. The building a life where you are and making it work for you, the "change is inevitable and needed but I am still who I am" narrative: that's my jam, eternally. I choose this life, every day, and I will keep choosing it.

Also, and this is sincere, Schitt's Creek gave me some of the best ways to talk to my straight friends about the dreams I have re: my own queerness, avenues of conversation I'd never thought of before. Plus, the fanfic is almost uniformly sweet and great, so.

[music]

Item the third: Stardew Valley

Or, a life that means something.

[clip: stardew valley overture]

This is the best video game. It's three years old, and it's on basically every platform, and it has brought me more peace than any one media item has in years.

The basic gist is that it's a farming simulator, mostly. You inherit a derelict farm in a tiny town when your grandfather passes away, and you take it as a chance to escape your soul-crushing cubicle job for a megacorp. And you get there, and everything is difficult. You can barely swing your pickaxe to break up the rocks to make room for a first pitiful planting of parsnips, and you don't have any friends, and there's junk and weeds all over this land that, you suddenly see, you are solely responsible for. And there's a town with people in it, some of whom are nice enough and some of whom seem desperate to ignore you, and you have a little exclamation point urging you to talk to all of them at least once.

Then you look up and it's been a year or two or three. Your crops do just fine, and the chickens in the big coop cluck happily. You have friends, maybe a partner, and the rhythm of the community has embraced you. You have a place here, standing. You have a life that you've built one swing of your axe at a time.

And that's the thing about it. It's not a game you win, exactly, though of course (like the Sims) you can try to min-max your crop yields, or romance every character, or finish every offered quest line. You can try to make enough money to never have to work again. You can choose to side with the megacorp - they're here, too, because capitalism is inescapable - and kill off the remaining kindness of the town.

But it's a life that matters. Your choices may not affect Abigail's daily routine, but you can play video games and music with her, and encourage her to use the bravery and curiosity that's so obvious about her to go exploring, like she wants. You can't make Shane's alcoholism or depression disappear, but you can encourage him to get the help he needs, and cheer with him as he finds joy again. You can't make George a happy person, exactly, but you can become his friend.

[clip: distant banjo]

It's a life where you can't starve to death or fall ill or be evicted, where your friends are always excited to see you, where your work goes out into your community and you see results from it, where you can have a house and a family and a pet if you want them. A life that's small and quiet, yes - you can't become the mayor, or end the war that's referenced - but far from inconsequential. And there are changes you can make to better your community, small and large alike, and there are people you can help, and there are things you can create. It's a dream of a life that's not defined by anything but what you think of it.

It's silly, maybe, to talk about a video game like that, but there it is: a game that at its heart thinks capitalism is a bad idea, that creativity is the best thing about being a person, that relationships matter more than basically everything else, that nobody likes getting holly as a gift. A place where everyone in town comes out to the fair or the wedding or the jellyfish migration, and you have a place to stand, too. A life you build yourself, a home you make.

[music]

Item the final: "Dead Stars" by Ada Limón, from The Carrying (2018)

Or, being a nest of trying.

Ada Limón is, and has been for a few years now, my favorite poet. Oh, Richard Siken and Mary Oliver and Eve Ewing, of course, too, and a million more - I love poetry, more on that in a moment - but all of Limón's work lately has just been a knife to the neck for me, and I mean that in the best possible way.

This poem in particular has been rattling around as the winter holidays swarm, as domestic life gets yelled about from every TV, as I have yet another crisis of confidence, sure as I always am that while I know full well my worth as a person is in no way tied to how my house looks, I also am a bad person and the proof of that lies in the pile of laundry at the foot of my bed.

But, too, what I like about this poem, or maybe what I responded to so strongly, is its very suburban setting: taking out the trash, looking at the stars. And that's when it turns, and that's when it shakes me back awake.

I burst into tears the first time I read this poem, and then I made my weekly calls to my representatives, and then I wrote some more lore for the Dungeons & Dragons game I run, and then it was time to go pick up my kid from school.

Our little lives in their little boxes, our worn-in grooves on the world, they have value. Many of us have fought and scratched and sacrificed to get them, to settle into them, to stake our claim. And now we have a safe place, safer than some, and we look around and, for some of us, for me, feel guilty about it. I have all of this, and others have so little.

So maybe we wallow, and maybe we whine, or maybe we go the other direction and get haughty and hard-nosed. Or, which I think would be better, we widen our orbit. We survive more, we love harder, we speak out and up from the place where we are safe. We cast our shadow where we can, and we bring the light where we can reach. We've built something safe in our home or our heart or our neighborhood gas station, and the next thing to do is expand it. If my house is a safe place, what about my yard? What about my sidewalk, and my street? The voting location blocks away and the library on the other side of town, the school my kid attends and the ones she doesn't?

What happens if we take the stable footing we're on and start scooting towards the edges of it, bringing its stability with us? What happens if we shout across the lines we draw around ourselves, choose to choose a life eternally pushing our boundaries outward towards each other? We start from here, from the carved-out nook we rest in, and we take a step towards the edge, and we keep doing that. What happens next?

[poem:

[Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing. Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us. Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute it’s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn some new constellations.

And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus, Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things. We’ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No. No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth, if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

[music]

Theme music for A Soft Place to Land is “Repose,” by Chase Miller, off his album Burnout. Chase’s music can be found at chasemiller.bandcamp.com. Show notes and episode transcripts are at softplacepod.tumblr.com. You can find me on Twitter @cyranoh_ and you can listen to me jabber on as the foil to my very good friend Anna on our parenting podcast, The Parent Rap, at parentrap.net.

I love you very much. Take care of yourselves. See you soon.

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