Posts in Keep Moving
St. Christopher’s Failure
St. Christopher’s Failure

My daughter’s fortieth birthday is soon, and I’m looking for something special for her. It’s a tradition in our family. At particular milestones, the mother gifts the celebrant with a special piece of jewelry, other “heirloom” from her own life. I’m looking for a piece of my history—something of me to stay with her as she moves toward all she’s becoming. When I turned forty, my mother surprised me by crocheting a lovely blue throw that I still can snuggle under on cold nights. I don’t have time to create something, so I sort through my jewelry box, looking for just the right thing.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschgrief, loss, relationshipsComment
Driving Lessons
Driving Lessons

I’m seated in the passenger seat of my old gray Prius teaching Zahra how to drive. She is in the driver’s seat intently watching the traffic light, waiting for the moment it turns green. I sit quietly so I don’t disturb her concentration. She’s wearing a black blouse with long sleeves and black pants on this hot summer day; her headscarf is absent. I’ve known her long enough to know that she wears a headscarf only when she wants to. “It’s not for religion,” she’s told me before, stopping short of telling me why she sometimes wears it. I’m wearing a short skirt and a tank top in light colors. Despite our different appearances, I feel a strong emotional kinship with her.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschgrief, loss, relationshipsComment
Born To Run
Born To Run

It is a beautiful, crystalline Saturday morning, early, 8:00 a.m. I pull on my lilac-colored capri pants, the ones with the pocket for my phone so I can listen to my music. I put on my spongy, perfect black socks and the running shoes I love so much, cushioned from every sidewalk crack by a substance like clouds.

And then I’m out the door.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschself care, explore, reflectionComment
Perpetual Motion
Perpetual Motion

I build up speed as my blades dig into the ice. Cold air stings my face the faster I go, but I don’t care. My pre-teen brain disconnects from my body and dreams my big thoughts of having that cute boy in math smile at me, coming up with a snappy comeback to my sixth-grade nemesis, or being a reporter like Woodward and Bernstein. The Dutch Waltz plays over the loudspeaker and while moving forward on my right foot, I lean into a strong inside edge, and position the heel of my left blade near the right, to transfer my weight onto a left back inside edge. The Mohawk. Forward, backward—I am flying, and I can be anything.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschself care, dance, reflectionComment
Everything That Breathes
Everything That Breathes

I’ve never seen the rooster next door that crows at dawn. And during thunderstorms. And during the ubiquitous fireworks—this is Oaxaca, after all. In the afternoon, when he’s tired of scratching at the same dirt hoping to find something different, but it’s just the same fucking dirt, he crows a little louder.

“I hear you,” I whisper over the fifteen-foot wall that separates us. “I feel you.”

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Keep MovingKristina Buschtravel, divorce, love, dance, reflection Comment