No. 10: Cusp Energy
Watching the pot; waiting for it to boil.
I’m easily romanced by a new beginning—the sudden spark of a thought; the tender nudge of soft, green knuckles knocking on defrosting soil. It’s enough to make me declare, year after year, that I love spring despite the fact that I suffer from horrendous seasonal allergies. I stuff my pockets with tissues before our morning walks, and marvel at our neighbors’ gardens on the way to and from preschool. Our social calendar is quickly filling with after-work happy hours and outdoor playdates, and the entire city smells like lilacs. If I quicken my pace and squint my eyes and fill my lungs, I can trick myself into thinking that the change my family’s been waiting for since last fall is finally here, happening, waking with the rest of the world. But it’s not.
In actuality, we’re still in a suspended state of transition, unable to make future plans until some big things fall into place—and those big things are taking longer than expected.* My earlier excitement has faded into ennui. Feelings of frustration and stagnation have seeped into every part of me, and I don’t want to write about that because who wants to read about that? So here I am, writing about that.
For a while, it felt like my life was constantly changing—I was pregnant for most of 2020 and gave birth at the peak of the pandemic that threw every limb into chaos. Running a small business, becoming a mom, selling our first home to buy and move into our current—a series of major events happened, one after another, roaring waves knocking me off my feet. And the last set—the last year—was a doozy, let me tell ya. And then…nothing. Waiting. I mean, sure, there’s always some shitty stressor to keep me up at night, but the answers are silent until the big things we’re waiting on click into place. We’re in a position where it’s impossible to plan for the future, and the utter lack of control terrifies me to the point where if I think about it, I start to shut down. I go numb, which is danger zone territory for my brain.
I’m one of those people who’s great in a crisis, but anxious in everyday situations. Along my ongoing mental health journey, I’ve realized that this may have less to do with anxiety and more to do with the fact that my brain struggles with focus. In a crisis, the answer’s obvious—clean the mess, douse the fire, get to the hospital. But when I don’t have a clear point to fixate on, my mind starts to spin like the rainbow wheel on a Mac. My thoughts become scattered and sluggish. The smog rolls in, heavy and ugly.
The term “hurry up and wait” is frequently used in the film industry, where so many moving parts necessitate clunky choreography. The lower you are on the food chain, the more time you spend waiting—for the starlet to exit her trailer; the director of photography to make a decision; a cloud to cross in front of the sun. Sometimes, the waiting sucks. Actually, a lot of the time, the waiting sucks. And yet, my favorite feeling—back then, but maybe still—was a kind of waiting: in the wings, off stage, listening for my cue in the breathless quiet, my blood electric. Years later, I still find myself chasing that specific strain of adrenaline; the wild freefall right before something magic happens. I meet with my psychic in the hopes that she’ll tell me something that will make me feel it again: that spine-tickling thrill of anticipation, sharp as light cutting through smog.
I learned a new name for this feeling via Stephanie Danler’s recent AMA (which I won’t link to directly because I think it’s behind the paywall.) In the conversation, a reader introduces the phrase “cusp energy,” which they use to describe that same breathless, electric feeling. It’s since floated through my head a few times, circling, turning over: cusp energy. That’s it; that’s what I’m looking for. And yet, at the same time, it’s what I’m already feeling—the dispersed frustration, pent-up impatience, and slow-moving panic of knowing that something’s about to happen and wanting it to happen now; to have happened already. I cry for cusp energy while drowning in it. I beg for the future because it can’t be different from what I imagine it to be.
Growing up near the beach in Hawaii, I learned how to swim before I learned how to walk. I learned how to guess the strength of the waves rushing toward me, to turn my back and brace for impact. I’ve always preferred to buoy myself up over the crest rather than dive through; I like to be able to see where I’m going, always, always. It takes attention and planning—timing things just right—to push yourself through the frothy break, to the wide blue calm beyond.
My mom taught me a lot of what I know about the ocean. She was a competitive water skier on Guam, and when she was young, she nearly died in a horrific boating accident. She’s told me the story many times; shown me her scars, the empty space that should have been her funny bone. She’s reminded me over and over that the most important water safety skill to master is treading water, and being able to do it for a long time. Waiting can save your life.
So yes, I understand the value of patience. The problem is, this sort of waiting—this treading water—requires a lot of energy that I’m having to pull from other areas. I’m feeling especially drained of creativity these days, which is super annoying because I’m so close to finishing my current novel draft and coming up on my deadline (May 15, when my workshop starts.) Plus, my son’s at an age where he’s starting to outgrow my parenting tactics so that’s been hell a fun challenge. I’m tired.
You could read this as a frilly, puffed-up explanation of why I haven’t been writing much here. The irony is that this weird period of waiting is what prompted me to start a newsletter in the first place. I felt motivated to jumpstart a new phase, and wanted to log what happens along the way in real time. And I still want to do those things, but nothing’s happening so I have nothing to write about. So I guess, if you think about it, I’m documenting this time perfectly.
*(I apologize for being so vague. I hope I can share more concrete information soon. No, I’m not pregnant.)
Recommended reading
Two springy poems (here and here) that made my heart skip. A detailed account of what went wrong for Hollywood writers. On worry vs. the work. If you’re working on a novel, I highly recommend Matt Bell’s craft book. And two new Substacks I’m excited about, here and here.
Florals for spring
I’m obsessed with the way these paintings play with shadow and depth (and I also love these.) Woodcut prints by an American master (who uses up to 64 colors in each image!) A bulb planting hack to save for next year.
On the table
Celebratory coups, and a festive tablecloth. The most charming comfort food tattoos. Pretty plates. An easy and tasty weeknight meal (and another one here.)
Mom things
My son’s generation. This set has me looking forward to when my son is old enough for chapter books. An adorable record player for kids. Can’t wait to get my hands on this book. Lol.
I had never heard of this term but I get it. In my bones. Im so glad you wrote about this place you’re in. It’s an important in-between.