let's catch up

notes from a long winter

when I need to calm my nerves

when I need to calm my nerves I start the kettle. when the water goes cold after my distraction, I start it again. and again. I boil the water as many times as it takes to get the tea I need and I forgive myself for the repeated forgetting. I forgive immediately and out loud. when the tea is finally made, I make a show of sitting down while I drink it. I breathe in the stream, I exhale the weight of what’s worrying me. I do it for myself. I do it for them. I hope this ritual is burned into their minds — not for the sake of tea, but in the name of grace and small mercies. a tiny, literal, metaphorical reminder to take care of yourself. to accept the way the small tasks of daily life will distract you. to trust in the transformation possible in the alchemy of a warm hand meeting a hot mug. to try again.

believe in the sun

I don’t know, exactly, how to tell my girls to navigate this life when I myself can go from sailing to sinking and back again in a matter of minutes. but I know, approximately, that they should ride sleds down the sidewalk when the chance arises, wear dry socks whenever possible, hunker down during a blizzard, believe in the sun.

who wouldn’t want to be a tree.

who wouldn’t want to be a tree. even in winter.

rooted and crooked. full of sap and insects and rings that count your age but stay hidden inside.

a deciduous tree, gray arms surrendered, face turned to where the sun should be, begging for mercy but waiting with hope.

an evergreen, bowed but defiant, holding their color, bearing the snow, accepting the season for what it is.

I became softer

last week, when a woman full of anger called me 'soft', it started me on a spiral for a day or so. when she called me soft, I only became softer.

my heart turned to butter, melted by the heat of her anger. my resolve dissolved like sugar in her ire. I deliquesced into her sadness, into my sadness, I felt barely able to stay standing. how is that for soft.

I wish I could have invited her to join me in this softness, I’d have said:

we don’t have to hold on this tight, we can open our palms completely. we can relax into empathy and ease if we want to. come with me, be softer, sister. instead of flexing our jaws and working so hard to seem harsh, let’s have the physicality of a beanie baby. let’s admit that crocs are comfortable and slip some on. shall we forget our heads and follow our hearts for once? across the world or onto the couch or into the warm arms of someone who wants to understand you.

I wish I she’d have been open to my invitation, I’d have said:

I know this feels hard just to feel this way, I promise you can be soft and survive it.

valentine’s day

how's this for romance? every pixel, every ripple, every light just where you need it when you need it. always on time but never scheduled.

and you know what, I get it. there are balloons watching us and earthquakes shaking us and every single night someone looks at us and says 'what should we have for dinner' and it's enough to make a person scream.

but look. look again. pretend you're here with me hearing this picture. soft water. sand bubbles. winter gulls.

the sounds aren't even loud but they drown out your thoughts, which is what you wanted, isn't it. how's this for romance?

and I know, truly. it's another conversation about gun control shouted over the sounds of parents weeping. it's another invented holiday making you wonder if you're good enough. it's another day that feels a lot like yesterday and maybe you want to quit.

but look. one more time. at the colors. someone called it a gradient, which is probably what it is but then again isn't everything? one thing blending into the next. everything happening all at once, slowly until it's sudden.

everything is a transition, nothing can stop it. why even try. how's this for romance?

unschooling is for adults

at some point, when I finally realized how I was constantly striving and often for things I had no desire for, I had an incredible urge to stop.

to set down my backpack. to light my report cards on fire. to laugh in the face of perfect attendance, I didn’t want to come today anyway.

I held this striving in every muscle of my body. every fiber of my being. it has taken years to feel any relief.

it started with my fingertips - slowly relaxing the grip on my No.2 pencil, lowering my eagerly raised arm.

I felt my shoulders lower as the expectations of others slipped off. I sensed my pace slowing as I understood its urgency was never really mine.

what surprised me most, though, was when I unclenched my jaw. when it finally let go I expected to smile, but all I did was breathe. in. and out. in. and out.

because smiling, I realized — just like striving — can be for the comfort of others.

breathing, though, requires almost no effort. breathing is just for me.