<![CDATA[fara tucker

<![CDATA[fara tucker - blog]]>Thu, 19 Mar 2026 16:12:12 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[find me on Substack]]>Mon, 09 Mar 2026 00:41:46 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/find-me-on-substackThat's it. That's the whole post.

https://faratucker.substack.com/

]]><![CDATA[Two Things Are True]]>Sun, 01 Dec 2024 22:35:25 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/two-things-are-true

I have had the honor of being part of an brave and extraordinary creative project from the mind and heart of filmmaker Sarah Hannsen.

From the press release: "As part of a multiphase creative project documenting her healing journey and culminating in a feature documentary film Two Things Are True, Sarah has invited over 30 artists to rework her father’s paintings and redefine their place in her family’s future."

**Please note the content/trigger warning: sexual abuse, incest, pedophilia before reading the press release or watching the film's trailer.**

The final product (still in process) will be a feature-length documentary called Two Things Are True. But first - Distortion Society is hosting a group exhibit of some of the artist's reworked pieces (including mine!).

The exhibit opens 12/14 with a reception from 7 to 9:30 pm and runs through the end of January.

My contribution to the project was a series of blackout or erasure poems made from letters exchanged between Sarah and her father.

]]><![CDATA[Poetry for Palestine]]>Sun, 24 Nov 2024 19:51:24 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/poetry-for-palestine

rally in New Plymouth, New Zealand

This past year plus I found it difficult to think or write about anything, but Palestine.

I felt silly and sometimes even ashamed writing little poems about a genocide that was being live-streamed from my phone and funded by my government. Around this time last year, some of them started making their way around social media. A couple took off in a surprising way and I started seeing them pop up in very unexpected and far away places.

I never pretended my poems were helping anyone (except maybe myself). Certainly nobody in Gaza. But in spite of that, there was something overwhelming about seeing my words appear all over the world. I felt gross finding any of it meaningful. Because the thought of having any good feelings about anything even remotely connected to genocide is repugnant.

But after sorting through that guilt and discomfort, I realized it was ok to find meaning in this. Because it wasn’t about me. It was about the experience of connection and solidarity with people from across the globe–people who were similarly moved, outraged, and heartbroken about what we were witnessing.

When something I wrote in my grief-filled bedroom in Portland, Oregon was being shared at a candlelight vigil for Palestine in Ireland, hand-written on a protest sign in New Zealand or read at a Shabbat for Palestine event in Capetown, South Africa. it felt good, not because people liked "my" poems, not because I was getting recognition, but because people resonated with the message. Suddenly the world felt smaller and more hopeful. I felt threads of love and solidarity connecting us across many oceans. In an incredibly dark time, it felt like a light.

seen on a wall in Barcelona, Spain

Over a year has passed. Israel is as brutal and relentless as ever. The United States is as complicit as ever. The amount of lives stolen and destruction caused is shattering. And there is still no end in sight. It feels so bleak. But it helps to remember all the people flooding the streets from all corners of the world. People who believe in liberation and are willing to stand up for what's right.

]]><![CDATA[When Our Life's Work Includes Everyone Except Us]]>Fri, 16 Sep 2022 18:48:52 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/when-our-lifes-work-includes-everyone-except-us

A massage therapist who neglects his body.
A counselor who struggles to receive care from others.
An art teacher who won’t make time for her own creativity.

What do these have in common?

Throughout my time as a therapist and a non-therapist regular human, I’ve encountered something again and again: people who have chosen careers where they generously give others what they won’t or can’t allow themselves to receive.

Sometimes we’re conscious of the disconnect, the very injustice of it all. Other times we’re seemingly unaware of the ways our life’s work includes everyone but us.

Consider this story about a fictional therapy client. (No confidentiality is being violated as he is only very loosely based on real people.)

[CW: Brief mentions of religious trauma and homophobia]

Alex was a social worker and activist. For two decades, he devoted himself to a career providing direct service to and advocating for LGBTQIA folks.

He would often speak about the injustice this community has faced throughout history. He would cry tears of joy with every victory—from history-making legislation to the small moments of watching one of his gay teen clients experience his first love.

He often spoke about the importance of being a good ally—of using his cishet privilege to make a safer and more equitable world for LGBTQIA folks. He felt moved to create a world where everyone was free to safely and proudly live life as their true selves.

The thing is, Alex wasn't an ally. He was bisexual. But this truth was buried under hearty layers of a deeply homophobic religious upbringing. The conditioning he received as a child was so strong that it effectively hid his sexual orientation from him for most of his life.

It was only recently that these protective layers started to crumble. He found himself suddenly confronting the fact that he was a part of the community he had been fiercely loving and advocating for for his entire career. It was a lot to take in.

One day in session, he had a realization that stopped him in his tracks: The work he was passionate about, the acceptance and permission and affirmation he freely gave others was something he could not give himself.

When we explored this tension, feelings of shame and unworthiness would quickly come to the surface. Alex was perplexed. When he thought about others having access to this same thing, there was no judgment. So, why was it only “bad” when it came to him? Why was it only shame-worthy when he was included in the circle of people who deserved this?

I offer a story that contains one possible answer to this question.

Imagine a part of Alex hadn’t been completely extinguished by the trauma of his homophobic upbringing. This part rejected the messaging he was raised with and became an advocate for LBGTQIA folks.

But when he tried to include himself in that group, another part of him popped up to protest. This part still under the spell of his past told him being bisexual was bad, wrong, and shameful. This part wanted desperately to protect him from being rejected or abandoned. From being punished for his "sins."

A freer part (some might call this his “true self”) continued to plug along getting further down the path toward liberation. But that other part still kept him from feeling welcome to what he adamantly believed others were entitled to. And something prevented him from seeing the cognitive dissonance.

This might seem like a tragic tale. But it’s also possible to see the path he chose for his career as a necessary phase of his healing process–whether or not he was fully conscious of it.

Years ago, it had been too threatening to pursue his queerness directly. He would have had to untangle from years of religious trauma that came with homophobia and shame around sexual desire.

But a part of him that had not been completely snuffed out escaped the prison of this trauma and found its way onto a parallel path. One where he could be close to this liberatory truth about his identity, but far enough away to stay safe. A path that allowed him to pursue something that felt deeply important—perhaps even vital to his survival—without having those protective strategies and structures come crashing down inside him before he was ready.

Then, years later when he had done more healing, it finally became possible for him to consider the seemingly obvious question that had been too scary to ask before: why would these beliefs apply to everyone in the world except me?

Sometimes the work we go into is actually motivated by a desire to give other people what we so desperately long for and never had.

This may not be conscious.

But hidden inside the work we choose there may be a clue: something we deeply desire and deserve, but are not yet ready to receive.

If you're wondering whether this might apply to you, here are some questions you can reflect upon:

First, consider: What lights me up? What do I champion, celebrate, fiercely advocate for others to have? What threads have been running through my work life? What have I dedicated my life to?

And then: Do I feel entitled to this in my own life? Do I allow myself to receive it or to take up space?

If the answer is no, we may wonder: OK, so now what????

There's no right or wrong next step. You may choose to recommit to your line of work even more enthusiastically fueled by this newfound awareness that you too are worthy of what you offer others.

But it’s also possible that you'll realize this career was merely a phase of your healing process and that it's time to start a new chapter. You may decide it’s time to refocus and redirect your energy towards learning how to find and receive these gifts you have been giving others.

This change might lead to a career change. It’s ok if it does. Even if it causes an identity or existential crisis. You can survive that. In some cases, healing and thriving are waiting for you on the other side.

There may be enormous grief with this realization. And I believe we need to let ourselves grieve it fully. But it's possible to also acknowledge that your life might have unfolded in the way it needed to.

I don’t mean that in a toxically positive, spiritually bypassing way. What I do mean is that healing only happens at the pace we can tolerate it. So we might have needed this period of time of giving others what we most long for before we could safely turn it around in our direction.

Alex's story is just one example of many. It's not always about sexual orientation of course. Sometimes we make careers out of offering people attunement, care, affirmation, and safety because we didn't have these things as children. Or wanting people to know they matter because nobody ever told us that we did. Or encouraging people to pursue their passions because we were talked out of ours because they weren't "practical."

It's sad to think about the years we spent depriving ourselves of what we truly want and deserve. But I can't help but also feel delighted by the idea that a part of us still found a way to tell the world (and ourselves) THIS MATTERS.

This gets to matter.

Sometimes we can't yet give it to ourselves so we readily, generously, enthusiastically offer it to others. Making sure no one else feels the lack or the pain that we felt / feel. Hoping other people won't end up with the same regrets about paths not taken and years not fully lived.

Maybe giving it to others is as close as you can get right now. It's ok. Be patient.

Your turn is coming.

]]><![CDATA["Long-Distance Love": The Little Poem That Could]]>Mon, 18 Oct 2021 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/long-distance-love-the-little-poem-that-could

I'm so excited to share that the paper-cut book made by Laurie Moorhead featuring my poem "Long-Distance Love" has been purchased by the Cynthia Sears Artist's Book Collection which is housed at the Bainbridge Island Museum of Art.
⁣
The slideshow above has a few photos of Laurie's book. The full poem can be found at the end of this post.

Keep reading if you'd like to hear about how the poem and collaboration came to be.

In March of 2020, I was reeling as I tried to make sense of the sudden crisis that we found ourselves in.

When there's a threat and we're not able to take action, that's often what leads to trauma getting stored in unresolved ways. So there was something about having to just stay home that was really activating. There was a sense of "I'm trapped and powerless."

But then I thought about how staying home was not just the only thing I could do, but it was actually a concrete way I could help at that moment. It felt important to me connect to that idea intentionally--to tell myself: this isn't trapped, powerless inaction; this is action.

So I wrote this poem and put it out on social media and it it really seemed to resonate with people more than usual. It was getting shared really widely. At a time where we were basically being asked to stay away from each other, being able to connect to people through this poem and through writing in general was really a lifeline for me. And I think people reading the poem felt connected to these words and to this shared mission.

The poem was an invitation of sorts to imagine that while we weren't physically together, we were connected through this web of caring for each other. It spoke to the idea of everybody at home as an act of love.

When I was contacted by Laurie (someone I didn't know by the way) and she asked if she could make this into a paper cut book, I was moved by the idea of something beautiful being created from my words, and also the idea of a remote digital collaboration. It was good medicine at a time when things felt so bleak and isolating.

Laurie began putting her book out there in the world in different ways. It had the opportunity to be in several exhibitions, thereby reaching a wider audience. Being purchased by the Cynthia Spears Artist's Book collection is such an honor and an amazing turn of events! I will always be grateful to Laurie for reaching out to me 18 months ago.

It's bittersweet to revisit the poem now and compare where we thought we would be by now with where we are. While some of the specifics have changed, we are still faced with an ongoing question about how we take care of and consider each other through our individual actions.

Long-Distance Love

I take comfort ⁣
in imagining far away⁣⁣
humans hunkering down ⁣⁣
with resignation, as if to say:⁣⁣
⁣⁣
this is how I can help;⁣⁣
⁣⁣
as if to say:
maybe someone I don't know ⁣⁣
will make it out alive ⁣⁣
because we canceled that party.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
(We didn't really care for parties ⁣⁣
anyway, remember?)⁣⁣
⁣⁣
May our disappointment ⁣⁣
tend to someone far away;⁣⁣
may our inconvenience ⁣⁣
offer life support to a stranger.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
It's hard to feel like these actions ⁣⁣
matter--because if we succeed ⁣⁣
our efforts will be invisible-- ⁣⁣
⁣⁣
millions of anonymous ⁣⁣
benefactors and beneficiaries, ⁣⁣
forever unknown to each other;⁣⁣
⁣⁣
the ripple effect of self-quarantine ⁣⁣
granting others a stay of execution.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
They say if it works, ⁣⁣
it will seem like we overreacted; ⁣⁣
so let me be the fool ⁣⁣
shouting in the square--⁣⁣
face flushed,⁣⁣
cheeks on fire.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
May my care be contagious.⁣⁣
May my resolve be transmitted ⁣⁣
to those who need it.
⁣⁣
May my home be transformed:
not a prison, but a temple--⁣⁣
an intensive care unit⁣⁣
for someone I'll never meet.⁣
⁣
~fbt⁣

Written in March 2020, when we were first asked to shelter in place.

papercut book opened to first two pages of poem. each page is shaped like the outline of a house. text is written in cursive from cut paper and says

pic by Laurie Moorhead

]]><![CDATA[Things You Can't Google: a collaborative poetry experiment]]>Wed, 06 Oct 2021 23:31:43 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/things-you-cant-google-a-collaborative-poetry-experiment

On Instagram, I asked people to send me examples of “things you can’t google” to be used in a poem by the same name. ⁣I took all the answers, added a few of my own, and spent time arranging them into one poem. ⁣

Except for a few tiny tweaks that I made to help things flow a bit better, I kept submissions exactly as they came in. Each new person's answer comes after a forward slash (/) or line break. There were twenty contributors in total, including me.

I'm so pleased with the final product. I hope you like it!
~fara

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picture is a view of someone's hands on a laptop which is open to the Google search page. there is an iphone and a pen to their right and flowers in a pot to their left.

Photo by Nathana Rebouças on Unsplash

Things You Can’t Google
  (a collaborative poetry experiment)

how to fall in love / what does love feel like
how loud the cicadas were when we kissed
the word for that feeling

you get when you stand in a room
for the last time / was that the last time
I’ll see my friend / when is my last day
          will this turn out ok

the salary range for this job / the toy I had as a child
the most authentic expression of who
you are / the song that was playing
the night you realized that like it or not,
         he had your whole heart

the sweet smell of a wildflower garden / the smell
of my dog’s paws/ the smell of my motherland

why I answered the door Friday night
why I couldn’t trust what I felt
why I always found a reason
to hold his arm / the way I ache
for memories I never made

where the hell my favorite shirt went / where I lost
my engagement ring on my 30th birthday
the way his arm felt around me / where do I find
the things I shouldn’t have let go

my grandmother’s recipe for latkes / their anniversary,
long after they’ve passed and all memory has faded

does it get better does it get worse / when
you’ll finally understand and believe that
           you’re not crazy, but injured

how to get the courage to say how you feel
how to make her understand / how to know
when it’s time to leave / how to breathe
through it when
      the grief is a ton of bricks sitting on my chest

who you will fall in love with / do they really love me
will she come back / how long it will hurt / what it feels like

                                 to stand at the edge of the ocean
                                 as the sun falls from the sky.

View the original poem on instagram and see all the people who contributed words to the project.

]]><![CDATA[On Redeeming a Gift Certificate for a Necklace When I Hadn't Worn a Bra or Real Pants in 7 Months]]>Sat, 10 Apr 2021 21:30:38 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/on-redeeming-a-gift-certificate-for-a-necklace-when-i-hadnt-worn-a-bra-or-real-pants-in-7-months[I actually wrote this about six months ago (October 2020) and then forgot to finish and post it. It still feels resonant, but there is a very different emotional and energetic quality reading it in April now that vaccinations have been underway for a while and the timeline for stepping out in the world a bit more feels imminent.]

In the summer of 2020, I had the honor of officiating at one of my dearest friend’s (virtual) weddings. When they asked me over zoom, I cried instantly. She said I could think it over, but even though I was nervous, I didn’t need time. I said yes without hesitation.

I was honored to play such a significant and sacred role in the lives of dear friends. And--while this was secondary--I also appreciated that it gave me something creative and hopeful to focus on in the midst of the shit show that was 2020, and the scary liminal space I was stepping into as I prepared to close my therapy practice.

As a thank you, they gave me a gift certificate to a local jewelry designer who makes stunning pieces from vintage china. Necklaces are my thing and there were so many beautiful pieces to choose from. My indecisiveness got in the way so I kept putting it off. Eventually, it fell off my radar altogether; but it occurred to me later that there might have been something else at play causing me to “forget” to follow through.

Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash

I have been primarily in my house since March 13th. I was seeing therapy clients virtually until the end of July before I closed my practice. Pretty quickly into the stay-at-home time, I took advantage of only being seen from the waist up. I leaned in to my sensitive self whose body always wants to be comfortable and can never quite get there all the way. I didn’t put a whole lot of effort on my top half either because it felt like, why bother? Caring about my appearance? In a pandemic? In this economy?

I was presentable enough, but didn’t spend much time putting myself together. To be fair though, that was true pre-pandemic as well. I don’t wear makeup, don’t do much with my hair. But in those early days of working from home, I wasn’t even always wearing a necklace, which was a new low for my usual low-maintenance self. I started wearing one for my sessions with clients just to feel like I was making a little tiny effort.

My therapy practice has been closed for many months now. I now have absolutely no reason to ever be presentable. I stopped wearing a bra in late March, and most days I wear pajamas all day. I haven’t been to a clothing store in forever, so I’m left with whatever I had pre-pandemic, much of which is now ripped, stained, or ill-fitting (most often some combination of the three).

I haven’t been out of my house much, and the few places I do go don’t require prettying up. Everything feels so pointless these days and making myself look good is at the very bottom of my list. We’re wearing masks and staying far apart so what’s even the point???

My necklaces are on display in my bedroom. They hang in a loosely color-coded order--functional art. A few months ago, I reorganized and purged my collection bit and they are looking more beautiful than ever in their little nook.

But they don’t leave their hooks anymore. They just hang there, collecting dust and desperate for a night out like their owner. Longing to be witnessed, appreciated, and to have a purpose: to be the thing to pull an outfit together, or the element so beautiful, so special, it dazzles and delights even when accompanied by the drabbest of wardrobes.

The thought of redeeming this gift certificate was forcing me to confront the pain of not having anywhere to wear a special necklace anymore. Even imagining this purchase, brought my grief closer to me.

Once clearer about the root of my avoidance, I decided to choose a necklace. Rather than considering what outfits I might wear it with, I chose the one that most made my heart sing. I thought of it as buying a piece of art that would hang on my wall, that I could enjoy anytime I looked up from my writing desk--a piece of beauty to enjoy for beauty’s sake. I reminded myself I could wear it anytime, even if the only place I was going was to the kitchen--that I could allow myself to adorn myself with delights for no other audience, but myself.

But more than anything, redeeming that gift certificate felt like I was reaching deep inside my despair-saturated heart for a tiny thread of hope--that one day in the future I would get dressed to head out in the world to be seen, to gather. Bringing home a new necklace was a way of saying I believed that the old world wasn’t completely gone forever--that it was waiting for me on some unknown date down the road.

And when that time finally comes; when it is safe enough to touch our friends again; to stuff ourselves into booths for brunch; to share in the collective joy of a crowd gathering for a performance; that long-awaited day will be so special that I may even want to dress up for the occasion.

And I know just the necklace I’ll wear.

Necklace by Heather Kraft with Material + Movement.

]]><![CDATA[Lessons From a Self-Imposed Evacuation Watch]]>Tue, 08 Dec 2020 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/lessons-from-a-self-imposed-evacuation-watch

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Recently, when much of Oregon (and the rest of the West Coast), was being ravaged by wildfires, I found myself on a self-imposed evacuation watch.

I say self-imposed only because my exact address was never officially given the official go-ahead to start preparing. But saying it that way makes me seem more paranoid or neurotic than I am. I mean, I am those things, but in this case, I feel like my actions would be justifiable even to people with a less notable tendency toward anxiety.

The facts: I live in Multnomah County (Portland, Oregon). Our house is about 2 miles from the Clackamas County border, give or take a half mile depending on how you’re calculating it. All of Clackamas county was at least in the green zone--phase 1: “Get Ready.” Large parts of the country were in the yellow zone--phase 2: “Be Set.” And an uncomfortable percentage of the county was in the red zone--phase 3: “Go now.” It was not unheard of during this week for some areas to go from Phase 1 directly to Phase 3 without pausing at Phase 2. When you add up all of these factors, I felt like I might as well act as if I was already in Phase 1.

Also, my thinking was that if I’m fairly anxious now, how much more anxious will I be if we ever do officially enter the green zone? And knowing that anxiety will inevitably make it harder, not easier, to prepare, I thought I should start now, slowly and (relatively) calmly, rather than sit around with my rapidly building nervous energy just waiting for the “GO NOW!” order. Prepping was something I could do that might feel useful and potentially settling to my nervous system.

And besides, I thought, it’s probably good for me to figure out what preparing for disaster would look like anyway since I literally never had done that before.

And while we’re on that note, somewhere in the midst of my frenzied pre-evacuation watch prep, I had the thought:

What’s the use of being an anxious person if I’m not going to be prepared in an emergency?

If you tend to be an anxious person, your thoughts often reside somewhere in the future--consciously or subconsciously worrying about something that is not currently happening. Even though my anxiety often shows up as sensations in my body without a clear cognitive trigger, it's still fair to say that in general I’m a bit of a worrier and a planner. Some of this planning is useful; some of it is gratuitous; and some of it is annoying (sometimes to others and occasionally to me). Much of it is unnecessary even if benign.

But here, in a situation where anxious planning would have finally come in handy, where there is actually some logic and wisdom to prepping for a situation you’re not currently in, I was woefully ill-prepared. As in, I was 100% not prepared to evacuate.

I tried not to waste time wondering why and how an anxious, planner-type person like myself could possibly be so unprepared for an emergency. First of all, I did not have time to waste on this because did I mention I was preparing for an emergency?!??! Second, I already knew why.

When it comes to really scary things that probably won’t, but definitely might happen (like an earthquake) or really scary things that definitely will happen, but we don’t know when (like death), I seem to switch from planner to avoider.

Situations for which my planning would come in super handy (e.g., preparing earthquake prep kits and advanced directives), that’s when I avoid it like some, but not all of us avoid getting the coronavirus. My hypothesis is that certain realities are so overwhelming or scary, that when I think about preparing for them, something in me shuts that shit down.

I was ready to go into prep action about a day or two sooner than my husband, which is not a surprise given our tendencies. The only surprising thing was that the gap between our responses was as small as it was. In fact, seeing my non-planner, non-worrier husband agree that preparing for a possible evacuation was a good idea was simultaneously validating and terrifying. I liked it better when I was probably-overreacting-but-it’s-not-a-bad-idea-to-prepare-just-in-case-and-besides-who-was-it-hurting-anyway.

In the midst of preparing, there were other challenges layered on top (e.g., going to fill up my car with gas in case we needed to evacuate only to find out that someone had drilled into my gas tank to steal the gas; so now instead of running evacuation prep errands, I was calling a tow truck to get my car to my mechanic because apparently starting and driving a car with a leaking gas tank is a fire risk; only to later discover that it wasn’t a person at all, but rather rodents who had crawled under my car to hang out for a while and had chewed a hole causing the leakage).

So there I was, suddenly preparing for something scary and overwhelming, that I literally never dreamed I would be dealing with.

Jewish girls from Brooklyn don’t tend to have wildfire evacuation prep in their vision of the future.

And even living in Portland for twenty years, this was the first time it was even a remote possibility. (Thanks, climate change.) Everything felt hectic and stressful and exhausting, but I just kept doing what I could when I could. Even as I was prepping, I didn’t think it was likely we’d have to leave. I just wanted to be totally ready just in case.

Since we weren’t even in the green zone yet, I focused first on necessities: food, first aid kits, flashlights, batteries, hand crank radio, clothing, toiletries, cat supplies, important documents.

Each evacuation list varied a bit, but they all said to make sure to grab family heirlooms, photographs, cherished art, or anything else that is “irreplaceable” and holds sentimental value.

This is where I was stumped. I avoided it for a couple of days.

I started to look around my house and consider what I would take and what I would leave behind. What pictures would I bring? All of them? None of them? So much is digital, but what about the hundreds of photos I have from before digital cameras existed? And art? Cards? Yearbooks? Journals? When faced with what would I bring, the simplest and only answer I could come up with at first was nothing. It was too hard to decide. I couldn’t even imagine where to begin.

I started thinking about how strange and sad (but also liberating?) it was to consider I might not bring any of it with me. That the house and everything in it might burn down and I would be left only with my diminishing memory (and many thousands of pictures safely residing in the cloud).

What does it mean if I’m willing to leave all of this behind? How will I feel about these items that I was ready to throw in the fire (or at least not rescue from it) if we get to stay? Will they not matter anymore? Will they feel betrayed? Will I feel guilty?

As more time went by and the essentials were properly packed and lined up in the garage in case we ever found ourselves needing to GO NOW, I allowed myself to revisit the possibility of bringing non-essential, sentimental items. I let my eyes wander through bookshelves and gently shuffle through drawers, not in a particularly thorough or methodical way, but enough to give things a chance to jump out at me (or not).

This time around, certain items began to inch their way toward me. A book or two or three slid themselves out from the shelf into my hands. Soon they were joined by a stack of hand-written letters; a few journals; a handful of photos from my first apartment with my husband twenty-two years ago when we were babies playing house in Mighican; a playbill from a show that took me six years to work up the courage to participate in and was a highlight of my life; my wedding album.

The books I grabbed are all replaceable, except maybe one that might be out of print. It seemed silly to take any of them along. But this thought came to me that changed my approach:

What if you’re not only thinking about what you want to save, but what you would be so grateful to have if you lost everything? If all of your belongings and your home were taken by fire, and you and your husband and your cats had safely evacuated; if you were feeling simultaneously devastated by all you’d lost and so thankful to be alive and with your family; what would you thank your past self for grabbing at the last minute?

In this moment, my avoider self handed the reins over to my planner self. For just a few moments, I let myself imagine the unthinkable.

I’m in my car having just learned that my neighborhood was hit by the fire, and my house and everything in it was gone. Tears stream down my face staining the puppy photos of the dog who’s been gone for seven years, but was with us for fourteen; arms tightly wrap around our wedding album; shaky fingers glide over the pages of the journal I kept when I was twenty-five and heartbroken; eyes desperately drink in the medicinal words of Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart, or the sweet nostalgia of childhood favorite Suzuki Beane.

Once I was willing to put myself in the very place I spent so long avoiding. I was able to think about that future self with tenderness, and offer her some gifts.
I imagined her thinking about how loving of a gesture it was for me to pack these particular items away for her, how she would feel seen and loved, and cared for. How she would treasure having just a few cherished items to hold on to as she faced rebuilding her life. I saw her in a new home finding special places for these salvaged treasures, and how she would feel the way they connected her to her past.

Once the evacuation risk seemed to be behind us, I started to slowly unpack; to think about what I learned and how I’ll be so much more prepared next time; to feel gratitude for this home I’m so sick of being mostly stuck in seven months into this pandemic.

I had set aside a handful of books for my go bag, but they never made it in. I was just beginning to gather the sentimental items when the fire risk decreased, and so I never actually got as far as packing them away. Rather than returning them to the bookshelf, I took the pile of books I had set aside and left them on my writing desk where they had been waiting to be packed. I decided to leave them for a while.

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Maybe they’ll remind me to peruse them more often. They were special enough to be selected for this potential VIP evacuation journey, but when was the last time I opened them?

Or maybe they’re simply there to remind me how precious and tenuous it all is; how close we came to tragedy and how close we always are, really, whether we know it or not.

Maybe they will invite me to open their pages--not to cling to them, but to savor them a little more while they’re here, and while I’m here.

]]><![CDATA[This is a Story About a Woman Who Dressed Like a Surgeon for Halloween in 2019]]>Mon, 12 Oct 2020 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.faratucker.com/blog/this-is-a-story-about-a-woman-who-dressed-like-a-surgeon-for-halloween-in-2019This woman is me. I had waited until the last minute (as usual) and was struggling to come up with a costume. Time was running out so I looked through my costume box to see what I might be able to pull together that would be good enough for the party I was going to that night. Miraculously, I found some-blood stained scrubs from many Halloweens ago that still fit. I was delighted when I realized the entire costume could be pulled together with just a short trip to Walgreens.

I left the store with:

one box of gloves
one box of face masks
one tube of fake blood

And with that, I was Halloween-ready.

It felt wasteful buying an entire box of face masks when I only needed the one for the costume. I could easily imagine other uses for the gloves and since they’re not perishable, it didn’t feel like a problem.

“But, face masks?" I thought,"How would I ever get through an entire box of these???”

A friend and I stopped in Trader Joe’s on the way to the party to pick up some apps and mixers. I got a kick out of the novelty of being at a grocery store in a face mask and bloody scrubs. No one batted an eye. Maybe because it was close enough to Halloween or maybe because it’s Portland.

I thought about what my character’s backstory might be. My face, scrubs, face mask, and gloves were covered in blood. What happened that day to cause me to end up looking like I walked off the set of a horror movie? Was I a sadistic surgeon? Was I impersonating one only to go on a murder spree in a hospital? Was I just really clumsy or bad at my job? Did I not have time to wash up before heading out?

Five months later, it’s March 2020 and my garage has been transformed into a make-shift PPE factory. My husband is 3D printing face shields and shipping them off to anyone who will take them.

He spends his days working from home, sitting through Zoom meeting after Zoom meeting. At night, he shifts gears and prints PPE. Some of them go to local hospitals. Some get shipped to a friend of a friend in another state. A Buddhist nun in Maryland who needed one to safely give last rites to COVID patients who were dying alone in hospitals. A former student going through chemo who wanted one for her partner to minimize the risk of him coming home from his grocery delivery job and exposing her compromised immune system to the virus. A box is shipped to a doctor friend of a friend in a hospital in New York who was already experiencing a PPE shortage; as soon as he gets them says he’ll take more if and when they are available.

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My husband, a project team manager in Portland, OR who happened to have a 3D printer in our garage because the last couple of years he had been printing prosthetic limbs in his free time, is now frantically printing face shields to help protect healthcare workers from a deadly pandemic that they're being expected to work in without proper PPE.

Huh??? And yet, it’s amazing how quickly something can seem normal.

I don’t know anything about 3D printing, but sometimes I help assemble them at the desk in my art space that I haven’t used since December when I did my first ever makers market. That was a bucket list item for me--to sell something I made. I never saw myself as an artist or maker. I was trying to lean in.

The day of the market I wasn’t feeling well; but I had been anticipating and working towards this day for months and the thought of having to back out was devastating. I wondered if I was being irresponsible. What if I was contagious??? I talked to a friend who convinced me I was overthinking and decided to push ahead. I couldn’t bear the thought of missing my first art show. This is something I had dreamed about for years and never thought I would ever get to do. I would be heartbroken.

I’ll just be mindful, I thought. I’ll bring hand sanitizer.

Did I mention, this was December 2019? Just checking. The timeline seems relevant.

I made it through the event feeling awful, but happy. It was nerve-wracking and fun and a bit surreal. I sold a few things. My friends came out to support me. It was a good night. When I got home, I dumped all the bags in the garage to be dealt with a little later. I ended up being really sick for the better part of a month so a little later became much later, and then eventually the bags blended into the background.

In March 2020 the desk in my art space has been usurped to support the make-shift PPE factory. It’s cleared off and covered in plastic and has stacks of face shield parts waiting to be assembled. The ghosts of the makers market are still present, but covered in cobwebs and boxes of face shields. My art space has been canceled along with movies, concerts, soccer matches, restaurants, parties, and hugs. It’s just one more thing that was gone overnight, but also it’s somehow the final straw. The sight of that happy moment frozen in time and totally inaccessible is gutting. But how can I advocate for my art space at a time like this? Why would that matter?

I sit at the desk where not that long ago I was making art and feeling like an impostor as I nervously prepared to sell it in public for the first time. I couldn’t have imagined how distant and irrelevant this memory would feel in just three months; how it would feel like it existed in an alternate dimension.

Getting ready to help my husband assemble the PPE, I grab a pair of blue gloves from that Walgreen’s box that’s been under the bathroom sink since Halloween. I feel a bit woozy remembering that moment in the store when I paused before buying the boxes of face masks and gloves wondering when I would ever need those again.

Gloves are out of stock almost everywhere these days. So is hand-sanitizer. Disinfectant wipes. Cleaning products. Toilet paper.

Face masks.

We sanitize the PPE parts down before assembling them and placing them into plastic bags. I’m just going through the motions, but every so often I think about what I’m doing. I look at my blue gloved hands and remember why I have them. I think about what a bizarre turn of events it is and how I wish I could find some meaning in it all, how I might turn it into something more than just an unsettling coincidence.

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I think back to that Halloween party. There were a lot scarier costumes that night.

As I wipe down plastic parts of face shields and get them ready for shipping, I think about being a healthcare professional who signed up for saving other people’s lives, not risking their own. I think about a nurse in Long Island who is grateful that some random guy in Portland who happened to have a 3D printer and a drive to help people is responsible for this piece of equipment that might keep her from spreading a potentially fatal virus to her family that night. That if not for the willingness for him and others like him to pitch in, she might get sick or die or not be able to touch her child for months. That she might have to be the sole person to bear witness to someone’s final breath because their family isn’t permitted in the room. I think about how she is “essential” but also somehow disposable, like the PPE she’s forced to reuse against previous hospital protocol; about how she has been failed by her hospital administrator, her local government, and her president.

I can’t sleep that night. I wonder what could be more terrifying.

Halloween 2020 will be here before we know it. If time continues to speed up the way it has in the past six months, it will be here before I finish typing this sentence.
Fans of the holiday might still feel inspired to celebrate, even though our ability to “do” Halloween will be significantly compromised this year.* No parties. No giving candy to strangers.

*Except for people who are intent upon continuing to deny the reality of the pandemic and will do whatever they damn please because #freedom #merica.

[Carrie Bradshaw voice]: I couldn’t help, but wonder: Will anti-maskers wear masks on Halloween?

I’m curious what Halloween will look like this year. Maybe people will feel inspired to go all out decorating so that even if we can’t connect with people in person, we can offer something to scare and delight passersby.

I’ve always loved Halloween. I love the freedom I feel being in costume--the permission and opportunity it gives me to step outside myself a bit. I love the creativity on display, the ritual, the leftover candy. I love adorable toddlers waddling up to my front door, saying “twick or tweat” as nervous, smiling parents encourage them from the sidewalk. I love the invitation for people to get freaky and express hidden sides of themselves. I love darkness on display. And sometimes, I even like the fun of scaring myself on purpose.

This year though, I don’t know. I already feel scared all the time. Darkness is already on display. Death and decay and terror are a daily presence living in the U.S in 2020. Reality is a nonstop horror show.

But maybe there’s still something compelling about choosing fear that we know is only a fantasy, something we created and can therefore control--something that’s just pretend. Maybe some of us will need Halloween even more this year--scary situations that we consented to for a change, that offer the strong promise of a safe and happy ending.

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