
Holding so many tendrils right now as the year begins to pick up speed. I laughed and groaned as I read this poem, Hurry, by Marie Howe.
Not only do I spend much of my time nudging, cajoling, and yelling to hurry myself and others, I also find myself in the company of many others barreling through everything with our insistence for speed.
Last week, while in Seattle in a pouring rainstorm with a baby in a stroller, more than once someone walked into us while looking at their phones. Once it was while crossing a street. No one was hurt, but we stood there dripping wet, eyes meeting surprised that I wasn’t a screen, slightly dangerous in the immediacy.
I thought about this for some reason this morning with this poem and my daughter asking if she could be late for school so she can announce herself at the office. I thought about the delight when things don’t quite make sense.
Hurry
By Marie Howe
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store  Â
and the gas station and the green market and  Â
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,  Â
as she runs along two or three steps behind me  Â
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.Â
 Â
Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?  Â
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?  Â
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,  Â
Honey I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry—  Â
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.
  Â
And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking  Â
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,  Â
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.
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Being and Breathing happens February 9th , 5-6 pm Pacific Time.
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Ooof this got me! ✨😢🥰