the e-dict

…from the imagination of Erika Anne Randall

love letter–with blood

Dear Erika,

I’m writing to you from a  time when the only blood of yours you regularly see comes from the small nicks you get on your hands from rounding corners too tightly or from the impatient opening of the foil around the top of your chardonnay. Here, in this time of contusions and small profitless paper cuts, you miss the blood. Your underpants stamped with resilience and moxie. The reminder of your ripeness and youth. Oh you were a woman who knew how to bleed. Remember that time you bled all over the floor the first day you started teaching at U of I? Nic Petry, then an unknown grad student, came over to welcome you and there you sat, in your own red ocean. “I’ll just stay a moment and stretch,” you said when he offered to walk you out. And then you peeled off your long blue warm-ups (thank god you still wore unitards back then) and wiped the floor with them– laughing as you did it.

I know you get tired of wringing out your clothes.

I know you get tired of that electric dizzy spin that threatens to tip you out of consciousness.

I know you get worn out imagining another day of soaked cotton and a body that feels like a flotation device.

This is a love note to those monthly reminders of your capacity. Not your biological capacity, but your emotional one. Your ability to do the hard stuff. The stuff that is both seen and invisibilized. Remember how that rad drummer chick, Madame Ghandi, ran the London marathon with blood streaming down her legs? Remember the shock waves she sent? All because she made visual her inner reality–a reality that so many of us humans hide while doing other extraordinary things. And what a way to raise visibility for menstrual support around the planet. I know, you are no front line activist (not yet). You have more subtle ways. You, my 45 year old love, would never write a blog post about (wo)menstruation.

But I’m tired today as I write you, and I might be writing as much for myself as for you, my lovely. It’s hard drying up. I can’t even imagine how Mother Earth feels. Here at 63, I am not quite old enough to know this new desert of my body as home. I have not yet moved fully into the secret tributaries that run beneath the hot earth of my skin, found complete sweetness in the shade of wisdom and memory. Today, I only feel the ocean receding from my shores and am keenly aware of the lack of lube in all areas of my topography. I’m writing to you, my dear crampy one, to say to you, sister, be grateful! Rise up! Get off your whiny ass and use that flow to move you through your day with fierceness and joy. Do it for me–because it’s the actions of what you do today that give me the sacred wells of memory to drink from tomorrow…which together with more time give us the wisdom we need to become the slow crone of our future…the one who knows how to find nectar from a cactus and get drunk on it.

Get up, Trinity.

Love you, kitten.


63 year old Erika




Love letter from 67 year-old Erika

Dear Erika,

Do you remember when you didn’t know how to grill? Or thought you didn’t? And how you didn’t think you could fill the air in the tires of your car? Now, you still look like you’re on a Japanese game show when you try but do it you can! Oh, and remember taxes? How impossible they seemed? And budgeting? And opening envelopes that looked like bills? And making chili? (damn, you make good chili). And what about long division and how to teach it to your kid? And getting your plates renewed? And your car in for an oil change? And being chair without Sharon? And signing the boy up for Y camp? And making a good single cup of coffee? And going to bed without crying? Remember when you didn’t know how to do that?

Oh I see you, and though that right big toe bunion is so huge you’ve named her Paul (short for Paulette), you haven’t slowed down much on all the learning–though your relevés have gone to shit. There was the learning from the time you lost a longtime friend in your late 40s–your personal truth won out over trying to make someone else happy and that cost you. Don’t worry, you get them back. And there was that learning from “failing your boy,” I mean, mothering. Don’t worry, you get him back, too. And there was the learning about disappointment–but that came with the learning about self-forgiveness, so yay! And the learning about “inappropriate servitude,” giving away too much of yourself  for fear that you might not be good enough at your true purpose and look foolish.  To whom? you finally asked and Fuck it! you finally said, thus sealing your karmic work on that bullshit once and for all (this may or may not have been just last week…).

My dear, dear one. From where I sit  at this table by the sea, you are infinitely connected to your time on this earth because of all you have learned and your openness to learning more–from love, from losing love, from grief, from longing, from joy–and maybe, most of all, from forgiveness. Forgiveness. So much gift/give in that word. For the ness of giving. For give’s “ness.” We live for this ness and for giving this ness to ourselves. It is our birth rite, though it often takes until our death to receive it. You’re not at that door, my love, you still have more turns to go, and you’ve almost got it down. Almost.

There’s something you have been saying to yourself as a whisper that you will start to say aloud. First to yourself and then to others. We have it printed on our personalized stationery now (yes, paper–a delicacy) and it’s our favorite motto so far. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Oh, lady. Get a little still and quiet and listen. You hear it? Not yet? I’m not worried…I have the stationery to prove that you can.

Love you, beauty.

67 year-old Erika


a very important memo from the basement

Hi Dear Friends and those in charge,

There is snow on the ground this May 21st and I am wondering about my capacity to hold any more cold. I need someone who is listening (someone on the top floor) to know that, today in particular, I just can’t take another winter. Give me the hopeful press of green, the tightly wound purple that has already warriored her way through the frozen earth. I don’t need one more fucking frost. Today, give me the possibility of spring.

My friends and I down here in the trenches have seen, through our small subterranean window that only props up halfway, enough Decembers. We are ready for birdsong and hyacinth, rebirth and possibility. Enough of this deep freeze. We have worn our mittens through.


your humble servant from cubicle number 92173,





Letter to myself about bedtime prayers and starting over

Hi My Dear,

That NY Times article about Anne Lamott and her “late life” wedding (Let me tell you, 65 is kid stuff from here) really made an impression on you. Most profoundly, that tiny end note about her perfect prayers “Whatever,”(for mornings)  and “Oh Well” (for bedtime). You’re so funny–I love how you didn’t even read/need the prayers, just their titles, in order to start practicing their medicine in your body. The nighttime prayer has really worked its magic on you these last 50 years. 50 years of Oh Well can do a lot for a girl! You are so much more forgiving of yourself and your fellow humans. This sweet mantra has not been an “Oh Well, I should just give up,” but an “Oh Well, I should just give in.” And I don’t mean give in as in admit defeat, I mean follow those actual instructions–Give in to yourself. To your needy, wanty, grocery store-checkout aisle temper tantrum heart–the heart that is hungry and thirsty beyond what food and drink can quiet. Give in to yourself the good stuff. The high calorie lovin’. The full fat forgiveness. Feed the well of your Oh Well with your so much enoughness that your soul/spirit/inner bear totem stops rumbling for you to do better. You did what you could. Maybe you can do better tomorrow. Maybe not. It’s sure worth staying curious about. So don’t go to bed angry, sending that part of you who said that thing by the copier or in that text or in your head to the couch. Oh Well-come her under the covers. Tuck her in extra tight. Maybe even sing her that Suzanne Vega song you used to sing your boy…”And do not ever look for me, cause with me you will stay, and you will hear yourself in song, floating by one day.” Then wake her ass up tomorrow, pack her a good lunch, and “Whatever” her way through the day.

You really like being a human, even when you can’t dance as much as you used to. Don’t worry–you have mastered the low impact soft shuffle and found lightness and indirection in a way that makes your moves rise like vapor. Folks still ask, even from this chair, if I used to dance. “I am dancing,” I say and smile.

Go get ’em, kitten.

Love always,

95 and a half year old Erika

love note to myself

Dear Erika,

I feel your new moon melancholy today and I wanted to let you know that, just like phases of our old heavenly orb, this too shall pass. Maybe it’s the too much. Or maybe it’s the not enough. Maybe it’s the distance from your root chakra to your heart. Or maybe it’s the sound of busy buzzing in your brain.

Whatever it is, I’m dashing off this quick note to remind you of that dancer you beheld in class on Tuesday–the one who knew how to shed her human body and become light so she could connect with her dark. Also, since you might have forgotten on this particular friday that it was only last week that you took class from that wild beast of a unicorn from Batsheva, that her use of that tiny word “the” changed your mind forever about time. “Connect to the plenty of time,” she said. Not –“you have plenty of time” or “there’s plenty of time,” but THE plenty. Oh–your cells screamed–Time has her own enough-ness! She has plenty! And she wants to share it! And she wants to share it with ME! Thank you, Time, Thank you, for opening your ice box and showing me the plenty of it. Nothing to worry about–no one will go hungry here!

And, I know you get lonely in that job of yours, as much as you are filled by it. I know you are surrounded by love and that you are surrounded by expectation and that you are surrounded by generosity and that you are surrounded by things that sometimes feel like the opposite of love. But this job, this seat in this chair, is a teacher for you and it is helping you get clean–about what is yours and what, frankly, is someone else’s. And that most important lesson is teaching you that it is not your responsibility to manage someone else’s response–nor can you, nor should you, try to take it from them. If you are coming from positive intent (a meditation that serves you well–even all these years later when you can’t remember the stories you tell and if the stories are dreams or memories), then the rest is not under your control. So let it go.

I hope you’ll see that the spots on your hands are reminders of your days in the sun–not markers of frailty. You never do get that tattoo that says, “be brave”  on your inner left wrist, because you don’t need it in ink to know that you are.

Please take this moment and look around–no not at that misstep, or that one. Stop my dear friend, and look at what you have and feel the plenty of it. The moon is new but she is on her way to full. And so are you.

Love always,

83 year old Erika



word of the day: rush

Hi Friends,

Mornings are my time to see the world and write it right. And with early meetings and teaching, I have had no mornings to speak of. This morning, with our beautiful guest, Uri Shaffir in my class, I planned to drop off, go home, sit down, and dig in. And then I/we/he left the lunch. The lunch I made and put no note in (oh my gosh, mom, so embarrassing), the lunch I handed him and he put down as he velcroed his shoes (stop rushing me, geez), the lunch that has to be brought to school by 11 because he refuses to eat the hot lunch (They put broccoli on soggy pizza, so gross), the lunch that stopped the world.

And all of a sudden, post drop-off, I’m crying. Not because of the lunch but because of lost time. And not time this morning, but all the time. All the rushing. past and through and around. All the moments that got left on the counter. That got packed up without a note.

word of the day: rush

rushing water. the rush of blood. the gold rush. that terrible first two weeks of school where all the girls wear the same short  dresses and impossibly high heels. the surge to an unnatural speed. the act made with haste, eagerness, or without preparation. mountain dew plus lucky charms.

So many ways to see the wor(l)d.

But when I’m rushing, I miss so much.

Yesterday in technique class, Uri had us walk through the space. He instructed us to move as if rushing, as if we were trying to claim the space around us. The energy of the room tightened and the interstitial spaces were wrought with a kind of ego-centric magnetism that one finds when navigating the stairs leaving the subway at Columbus Circle. He then asked us to keep the speed but to treat the space as if we were giving way to others. We hurried around, but this time, to give back, to make way. We moved quickly but with generosity. We had to look. We had to offer. And still, we moved fast.

In these days that come in like a lion, I might not be able to slow down. I might keep rushing from my office to the copier to the classroom…but what if I did it with a wake of generosity and giving way? How does that change me? Might it actually ease my path while making more room for others? The go(l)d we are all rushing towards is connection. It is easy to miss when we are in a blur.

And then I dig in, mining the real metal of my sadness…What if I had never felt like I was in someone’s way? What if they had softened their path and made room for mine? How different would I/we/they be? What if the “lunch” that I left was brought to me unexpectedly and what if in it, they had placed a note…what a rush that would have been.

This is the love note I tucked in your brown paper sack. The one I wasn’t too busy to write. Because I love you. rush.

Love to all,

not-so-silent e





ghost piano

I have found that doing to-do tasks, like writing my post-tenure review, to the “Peaceful Piano” station on spotify makes the moment feel like a day at the beach in Jane Campion’s The Piano. And suddenly, I’m both spirited awake and lulled into peaceful calm by the melodies of my inner ghost piano and the ease of my black silk balloon body floating just above it…

“Down there everything is so still and silent that it lulls me to sleep. It is a weird lullaby and so it is; it is mine.”


word(s) of the day: epistemic hospitality

Hi Friends,

The world is frozen outside but inside I am feeling a bit of a thaw. I feel this thing in my days called, I think the word I’m looking for is, happiness. It’s a simple notion of the word–no bursting forth, just a quiet ease of being. It shows up in places where I would least expect it–like work–and for that, I am so very grateful.

Yesterday, our ballet pianist, Irena, whom I love and adore but also fear (her honesty is real), let me know (out of the blue, as class was about to start), that being happy at work isn’t everything, that it “isn’t life.” My resistance to this statement rose fast and hot. I don’t believe that work is more important than parenting or friendships or my health, but it is where I spend most of my time so shouldn’t it be good that I am happy there? Isn’t it, if not all of my life, still life? It’s where I find community and where I am able to make a small difference in this big mess of a world. Work is where I feel useful and connected–to myself, to my students, and to brilliant humans whom I would never have come to know if not for my job.

word(s) of the day: epistemic hospitality

After ballet, I got to sit around a table with folks from all over campus–brilliant, opinion-filled beings who radiate phrases like “epistemic hospitality ” as ways to describe the attributes of humans whose generosity of knowing seeks to include vs. exclude. My beautiful colleague, Nabil, gave us this phrase, off the cuff, off the tongue, off the heart, and it buoyed the group to imagine a welcome mat of the minds. So often when someone knows something, they weaponize that knowing so as to cut down other’s beliefs and opinions. I can even remember my early (insert: insecure)  years teaching when I used my knowing to show and prove, not to show and share. and question further. and wonder more. and expand. Knowing was an end point, not an entrance. Oh–all that I “knew” in my early 20s (Sorry parents, and aunts and uncles, and other people of authority who I was so eager to batter with my fake self-episteme).

Now I think of my most knowledgeable people and see how they use what they know to invite what they have not yet learned. Take, for instance, my beloved Katy. She has a degree in Vocal Performance from the Boston Conservatory, a law degree from Capital, and is working on her phd in environmental mediation. She knows A LOT, but when she is in the lab of learning (called Planet Earth), she is always the human who knows the driver’s name, asks more questions than she answers, and uses her smarts to disarm and warm rather than put off/show off (unless she’s dealing with a real asshole and then BOOM, lightening brain. Or against anyone in Scrabble. There’s no welcome mat in Scrabble). Hospitality is her middle name, and she is ever gracious in her welcome to rally around complex ideas, even when she may already have all the answers–even especially when she does.

I would like be this kind of epistemic hostess–to set my mind like I set my table. And I want this table to be round with so many leaves that it turns into the biggest oval you’ve ever seen. And I want there to be room for plates and bowls and elbows, and spilled wine, sopped up with laughter, and salad forks, for those who want them, and plenty of napkins for those of us who want to use our hands. epistemic hospitality.

Love to all,

not-so-silent e

word of the day: passage

Hi Friends,

My son is terrified of “The Wall.” Not Pink Floyd’s, though I remember being forced to watch that at Geoff Remy’s house in 7th grade and it scared the crap out of me. No, The Wall I’m talking about is the calamity that the ass hat we have for a leader thinks will save our great nation and unite us by first further dividing us. My seven year-old cried himself to sleep about it last night, (we don’t even watch the news) worrying that because he goes to a bi-lingual school he will be separated from his friends. I can see him in his mind, building walls everywhere, around everything–between himself and his friends, and his family, and the world. And so I sang to him until he slept, “If You Want to Sing Out,” by Cat Stevens, and whispered, “you, my little love, are a Peace Warrior. Be a warrior for peace and practice kindness and it will help tear down any walls that get built.”

After I finally got him quieted down, I cried my own human self to sleep and dreamed about walking along a great bridge that spanned that massive chasm of Here and There. My boy and his band of besties were with me, painstakingly traversing this narrow and treacherous crossing. ez looked at me, climbed out onto the edge, and said, “Let’s dive in and swim it! It will be faster and I am not afraid of sharks!” And he did a front dive right off the edge into the abyss and came up laughing. I dove in after him and we swam and swam and swam.

Word of the day: passage

This is the second dream this week where I found myself teetering on the edge of a dangerous passage–in the last dream, my dead dad showed up, top-siders in hand, to help me across and through.

Passage–what a word! What a slippery, magical, ever-transforming noun and verb. It can mean everything from a road, path or channel, to a continuous movement–like the passage of time, to an enactment of something into law, to a short section of music, to death. There are at least 10 different definitions for this bad girl.

If Death itself is a form of Passage, than not even Death can stop it–this time, this crossing, this music, this change. Certainly a wall cannot stop Passage! (ass hat, she mumbles, under her hot breath).

And when I look up the word wall, I find this little gem:an extreme or desperate position or a state of defeat, failure, or ruin;the surrounded troops had their backs against the wall.

Trump’s wall is a desperate position of ego, and he will find his back against it. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t give a shit about Humpty Trumpty when he has his great fall.

Yesterday, my 7 year-old also asked me what the word Optimism means. I used to believe in optimism completely–as a possible passage towards a utopic futurity. It’s hard to be optimistic these days. It’s hard not to feel oneself teetering on the edge of  a wall, or slammed behind one, or buried under one. But I don’t want him to give up already–he and all his privilege, all his smarts, all his kind, kind heart. And I don’t want to give up. I want to believe it’s easy (ahhhhh ah!) once you no longer think it’s hard. I want to believe that we, the peace warriors, will put together the pieces of this world and find new passage together. passage.

Love to all,

not-so-silent e



thank you note

Dear Erika,

I have been thinking of you a lot lately, 2018 you, the you who just survived, and I wanted to write you a thank you note. I know that thank you notes are better written in ink, but our handwriting has gone to shit over the last few years and I wanted to make sure you can really hear everything I have to say.

Thank you for starting a practice of receiving joy, no matter how fleeting. I remember that first morning when you saw the light through the dappled lace of your room and you said, “ahhhh, I know this” (it was joy, small but true) and even though the rest of the day did not rise to meet that morning (you had a hard meeting, a son who tested your patience, and a tooth ache), at bedtime, you recounted that first moment as a triumph. And it was. It takes practice, this joy-locating. There’s no special astrolabe that spins its pivoted pointer and maps out the path toward true pleasure. But I want you to hear it from me–that practice pays off. Oh, we know joy now. mmm. Rich, honey-filled, sun-on-your-eyelids, tiny-hand-in-your-hand joy. But this easy joy started back when you began hunting for it in the rubble. Thank you for spending time in all that soul-sifting. Thank you for turning over the grey landscape, every rock, every memory, looking for the faint-tipped pushes of green. And then watering that would-be joy with your tears and sweat and the rest of the ice from your cup. We’re lying in the soft, non-itchy field of that joy stuff now and let me tell you, the wind and the sun and the sound of it all are just right. And you’re not even dead yet!

Love to you and infinite gratitude,

93 year-old e

p.s. your eyelids are still not as droopy as you think!