Calculus

By Deb Fenwick

I show up at dawn, stepping into the murky slipstream of a new day, considering whether a patch of sunrise or a bruise of blasphemy will win. Every day there’s some calculus to work out. Read the breaking news or not. Watch the video or not. Tie myself in knots. Or not. 

It’s twenty-three degrees in this Midwestern city of big shoulders, and there aren’t really any streams near me. But if there were, they’d be frozen deep in the center, like winter amber. We, the huddled—bundled masses, insulated in layers of synthetic fleece, put on our Costco gloves, one finger at a time. We like to believe we’re sturdy stock. But we’re all just small creatures trying to stay warm, crawling our way to the next thing and the next thing. Make it home. Safely. Alive.  

February midday is breath made visible. The sky, brilliant blue for miles, is unmarred by streaks of clouds. Yet, I’m squinting West, far beyond my gaze, double-checking the horizon, checking the weather app on my phone. You can’t be too careful. 

At half past four, I’ll try to work out the math. Can I add more? Can I divide myself into two? What’s the formula for holding fast to hope? It’s so easy to forget.     

Here’s a word problem: If I call on seven generations of ancestors to save me—save us all, add a psalm, two hymns sung on the way to the supermarket, and promise to pray five times, is it enough to subtract any trace of doubt that each of us is particle, wave, and light just trying to make it home?

Tonight, as the moon shines its bonebright light through the sheer fabric of another day, I’ll revisit the whispering, white-on-white, ghost-ink ledger that haunts me. What did I say? What have I done? What’s been left undone? Was it too little? Too much? Despite it all, I’ll make a vow to rise tomorrow, remembering what it’s like to be a clear blue sky, wide open, unmarred, even when, deep in the center, I feel frozen like winter amber. 

Deb Fenwick is a Best American Essays Notable and Pushcart-nominated creative nonfiction writer who coaches women and individuals from traditionally underserved communities using the healing power of art, imagination, and dreamwork.

Her essays have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, In Short: A Journal of Flash Nonfiction, Cutleaf Journal, Cleaver, and elsewhere.

You can read her work and reach out to her here.