at the same time

Knitters will be familiar with the phrase “at the same time,” which indicates that while you are knitting a section according to the pattern, you also have to keep in mind an incremental increase or decrease every few rows. (In my case, this phrase almost always indicates that I’m going to lose track at some point. Holding multiple sets of instructions with staggered moments of crucial attention is not my forte, especially since I like to knit while reading or watching a program.)

In the context of this post, the phrase has a more sinister and dangerous meaning, because it refers to the multiple contradictions we are required to hold, or at least parry and dodge, or simply observe in disbelief, if we are trying to pay attention at all to our world.

Detail of the skirt panel of a tatreez dress I bought in Aswan, Egypt in 1994

I came across this video on YouTube, with the description posted below: Tatreez exhibits at the Victoria & Albert

“This video is made to coincide with the exhibition 'Thread Memory: Embroidery from Palestine' at V&A Dundee which runs until Spring 2026, and the 'Tatreez: Palestinian Embroidery' display at V&A South Kensington until May 2026, curated by Jameel Curator Rachel Dedman. The exhibition and display are free to visit.”

The curator’s video tour of the textiles does not mention the Nakba, or contextualize the garments in historical and political timelines, merely admiring and narrating their material characteristics and mentioning their origins in location (gratifyingly repeating ‘Palestine’ many times.) At first I suspected that it was a timely gesture toward uplifting the beauty of a ‘lost culture’, with objects decontextualized in a manner similar to that described by Wafa Ghnaim in her essay for the Met last year. However, the exhibit itself does not avoid or gloss over historical and factual information, as is evident from its iteration in Saudi Arabia, and also from the resources page of the current exhibit in Dundee.

It is the V&A’s first collaboration with the Palestinian Museum, and there seems to be a sincere effort at respectful education and honest highlighting of Palestinian culture and history. Notably, comments on the video are disabled, which is atypical for V&A’s YouTube channel, and The Guardian decided to print a letter to the editor calling for increased ‘plurality’ in the exhibit’s representation of Palestinian culture, complaining that Christian and Jewish Palestinians were not included (not linking to that one). That’s a small "at the same time”: the fact that highlighting of Palestine predictably elicits a complaint that Jewish voices are being ignored.

Shoulder detail from the tatreez dress I bought in Aswan.

At the same time on a larger scale, dozens of people are being arrested for showing support for Palestine Action in the UK. The organization has been proscribed as a terrorist group because some people vandalized military equipment with paint. Read that sentence again. This designation causes the UK government to feel justified in devoting resources and police effort to arresting large numbers of demonstrators of all ages, even if they only sit with a sign saying “I support Palestine Action.” I’m having a hard time holding the museum exhibition and the police action in London simultaneously in my mind as the stance of a coherent state, and it’s only the very tip of the mass of crystallized contradictions, most of which have much more dire consequences than museum exhibitions or protest arrests.

Grafitti in Bergen, Norway

Some days later: I wanted to say more, the so-called ‘news’ keeps barreling ahead, with no palpable change in trajectory, and we continue to be required to hold multiple contradictions in mind, just in order to live. The confusion of all this is helpfully addressed, to some extent, in this William Shoki article on attention as freedom, and the corrosion of cognitive ability by the digital information realm. He begins by talking about how the genocide in Gaza carries on and yet becomes less real to the global public, then analyzes this process incisively, saying:

“This is not simply a media problem. It is a crisis of subjectivity. A slow unravelling of our ability to perceive clearly, feel coherently, or act collectively in a world saturated by images, algorithms, and engineered doubt. This disorientation is not incidental to moments like this, but is their background condition. What we are seeing is not only a political struggle over Gaza and how it is understood, but a deeper transformation in how reality itself is mediated and experienced.”

It’s a long article, and I recommend reading the whole thing, with many thanks to Josiane who sent it to me. As someone who is committed to studying how the mind works, I take this analysis very seriously, and seek to protect my own and others’ independence of thought and freedom of learning. Rebecca Solnit’s latest newsletter addresses this as well, noting the human meeting ground that books provide, a humanity that cannot be replaced by technological stunts. My favorite part of this newsletter might be the images of books. They give a comfort and reassurance, as my own bookshelves do, that there is a record of deep human experience and thought which is accessible and present, wise people who can be listened to at any moment.

A small selection from the nearest shelves.

I’m also reading the poetry of Fady Joudah and Andrea Gibson, a recent and scintillating Rumi translation by Haleh Liza Gafori, and expanding my Rilke world with the Mark S. Burrows translation of the Sonnets to Orpheus. Without losing sight of what is happening, without pausing my ability to feel and continue to speak about Palestine, I find ways to tend my mind and heart that will not disable or dissipate, but strengthen the base of care.

Stitching a sketchbook from repurposed papers - a small and practical pleasure

On the ground, in the face of the deliberate starvation of those in Gaza, World Central Kitchen is doing their utmost to provide meals, and so is Gaza Soup Kitchen.

wonder and amazement

There’s been a lot of wonder and amazement in the more negative, disbelieving sense lately… as in, I wonder how people can be so insensitive to the suffering of others, to the ongoing genocide in Gaza and continued targeting of immigrants and indigenous folks everywhere. And I wonder how anyone can be so selfish and short-sighted as to prioritize tax cuts for the insanely rich, at the expense of social programs that benefit everyone…. But this train of thought could lead to madness, given the amount of fodder being generated every day. Instead, I wanted to share some wonder and amazement of the more wide-eyed, receptive and enthralled variety, in part because I believe it’s what can ground us in the sanity and compassionate care that is needed, always.

These images are from a visit to the Painted Hills of Oregon, where the various mineral deposits and volcanic action of the land have left layers of unusual color, some of which are only exposed through erosion. The lavender in the next photo is true color - purple dirt!

Against the deep cinnamon hills, the delicate greens of sagebrush and juniper gained potency. And the sky seemed to intensify its blue.

Some of the rocks were also blue, or an interesting blue-green that almost matched some of the sage, and was close enough to my sweater color that I had to pick up a sample, just for a photo.

Amidst all this far-out color and trippy landscape, I was also entranced by the basic, gentle blooming of a cherry tree on the land where we stayed.

A large part of my amazement these days is simply that spring happens, that all these plants bubble over with life in the form of buds and leaves and blossoms and so much outreaching growth it’s almost hard to handle. The giddiness of perceiving what all is going on - especially when the birds are calling, chasing around, busily gathering nest materials. It’s so energetic and happening, and yet so peaceful. The waving of bright green fir tips and flitting of warblers carries deep peace because it’s just so right, so much the way things are.

I have very few words these days, to counter the deliberate destruction going on, but to be still and look and listen continues to feel like a crucial practice.

True emptiness is clear and always present

masked by delusions for reasons we don’t know

how could what is real and what is false exist apart

flowers bloom and flowers fall when the spring wind blows

- Mountain Poems of Stonehouse, 92 - Red Pine translation

PS - I do keep adding to my poetry page, this one posted as a typewritten image on instagram last fall. Still working on the weaving blog post, and the weaving as well.

PPS - I wrote some commentary, added to yet another page. My virtual house of words, it is sprawling. Also just read this please - Arwa Mahdawi telling it like it is.

what I'm doing now

November, 2024:
Of course I think about leaving the country - I spent nearly 20 years living outside the US prior to 2015, so the possibility of doing so again is never far from my mind. I think about Jordan, which I wrote about after a very short visit, where there could be excellent cultural and relief/volunteer opportunities, as well as a chance to immerse in Arabic and really learn. I’ve been plugging away at Duolingo and some old Teach Yourself recordings, in an effort to improve and also just to hear and affirm this language with a depth and intricate wisdom that has so many iterations across the globe, and which has been relegated in the US mindset to negative associations. I won’t write the negative, misleading words, because repetition gives them weight. Instead, I listen to music and poetry from the Levant, and explore the small ways I can discover what Arabic has to teach me now, with my limited capacity.

Sunrise at Salt Creek Campground - S’Klallam and Chimacum and Coast Salish ancestral lands.

And elsewhere there are several weavers I would love to sit near and learn from for weeks or months, in Laos, in Mexico, in Japan… 

Japanese maple in my friend and neighbor’s garden.

And I understand the outrageous privilege and freedom of movement these possibilities attest to, which is another aspect of my reluctance to just go somewhere else. I found a piece I wrote in 2020 about travel, and have added it here because the reflections are still true.

Heart of the Hills Campground, Olympic National Park

Heart of the Hills Campground, Olympic National Park

The main thing is though - all the images here are things I’ve seen during the second week of November, when I took off camping alone - here with my own senses, not far from where I’m actually permitted to live, to own a house that is not currently being bombed or flooded or set aflame…. I have the grace of this natural world around me, willing at every moment to interact and teach, and so I only need to remember to listen and be available to it, and since this is my greatest benefit in life right now, it feels like a responsibility, one that I take seriously and with joy and gratitude.

(you can stop reading here if you’d like to end on that note)

Hurricane Ridge, Olympic National Park

Now: All of that was written in November, soon after the photos were taken, and it has taken me a while to catch up. In the meantime, I self-published a book of poems whose title conveys the topic: Breathing Rubble Dust. Some of these poems have been published on this blog or the poetry page already, all of them written between October 2023 and February 2024, which is already so long ago.

Book cover: Breathing Rubble Dust, Tracy Hudson

Back cover: Poems for and from occupied lands

I know the poems are heavy and hard to read. They are for me, too. Because they reflect my waking awareness that a rogue nation is slaughtering innocents on a daily basis with the full support of my own country and an utter lack of impunity, despite worldwide efforts at condemnation.

How can this not be heavy? Given that my experience as mere helpless observer pales in comparison with anyone who lives there or has family being relentlessly and unpredictably targeted and bombed, their lives set aflame….. this reality is my breath, blood and bones, it’s part of my own body and yours as well, whether you realize it or not. This human collective, this earth’s skin in which we live together - each drop of poison affects the whole.

The gap between my posts is me trying to summon the sense that it is worth it, that I have anything to say that can matter. At the same time, the message and purpose of printing these poems is that our individual and collective creative voices matter, that we mustn’t stop speaking about how we are all affected by the reverberations of what happens in the world.

At the moment, I’m distributing these chapbooks personally. Contact me or comment if you’d like to know more, acquire a copy, or help spread them around. 

Update: the books are also available through this site, as a fundraiser, and through Camas Books & Infoshop.

what I can do is try to write

Power hungry men

make rules

      make decisions

                 make war

from within their hunger

       not from deprivation,

        but from excess

More is never enough,

hungry since their power

           is not valid

          comes not from them

but is grabbed and claimed

           and vapid and fragile

Real lives in the balance

people hungry just for food

             and water

earth, fire, air -

            enough to live,

to call into relationship 

            with praise

People only want to live

in places without fear

but power hungry men

           like hungry ghosts

cannot be satisfied

           by just enough

enough to sing and sit

        and watch the clouds

        and hear the birds

        and touch the soil

these simple, sacred dreams

              are only fodder

         for the scavenging

         ideologies that serve

to drive the threshing machines

   that flatten all resistance 

          into stubble

broken stalks of

         things that might have grown

if power meant

         the way we know ourselves

         the way we show respect

         the way we humbly learn

         and carry teaching

© Tracy Hudson 2023