mornings

9/14/2024

I enjoy the date stamp I use in my journal because each time I sit down to write I can see the last time I formally visited with myself. Most of my entries start with an apology for not having stopped by lately. It’s been 10 weeks since my last entry, which was 2 days before Abby ended her life. Maybe she had already decided to move on, and maybe I knew it too. I wrote, “so many questions, some of an uncertain future and some of a mysterious past.” There was so much I wish I would have known on that day, but I work hard not to let hindsight take the drivers seat.

This morning I slept alone in the bed, Kira took the couch, and I woke up feeling rested for the first time in weeks. I sleepily wandered into the den and cuddled up with Kira on the couch. After she left for her early shift I laid back in bed and read Sy Safransky’s “Many Alarm Clocks,” a loving companion of a book that has been a teacher of how to juggle my thoughts. Work stress floated into my head. I let it pass me by. I fed Olive. I chugged Nettles, took vitamin D, brushed my teeth, made the bed, and opened all the blinds. It’s rainy today but I like to pretend that the sun and the plants are my good friends from different circles, and that every morning I get to introduce the two of them— “You’ll love each other!” and then they hang out all day without me because they hit it off so well.

I’d like to open this channel up again, finding my words, leaning into a way of expression, a releasing, a shaping or sculpting of my inner landscape. It’s a lot to carry on the inside. It’s also a lot to release. Maybe my mornings can be for this.

one day

Maybe one day our kids will look at these and ask about the porch we were sitting on. We’ll tell them about the duplex we rented, and turned into a home, with plants that seemed to mysteriously appear every other week (the Calendula and Monstera over our shoulders are swaying in agreement). Maybe they’ll ask, “Did you spend a lot of time sitting out there?” Honestly, less than we would have liked to, but so many nourishing meals were created on that grill that I hauled 5 blocks from your old place, pausing in the middle of Arctic to take a proud photograph. It’ll be funny to them to see us holding wine glasses, and we’ll tell them that sometimes it’s important to make-believe that you’re a grownup. Occasionally we would light an herbal cigarette that you made, in both times of celebration and struggle. We’ll have rolls and rolls of photos that we took in our home, because at some point we realized that every “ordinary” day was what became our life. About two weeks ago I heard someone say, “We’re living life as if it’s a rerun,” So I’ve decided to start counting my days linearly (today is day 16 of the rest of my life). I wonder what day it will be when our kids see these photos. Sometimes the memories were captured, and often they weren’t. I wonder if they’ll know what we mean when we explain that all of those moments are still with us, even the ones we don’t remember, and that they’re a part of them too.

inner dialogues 3

Life is so surprising yet so inevitable. Maybe I meant Death

I’ve been trying not to cover my face when I cry alone. Who am I hiding from?

The loss creates a vacuum, and at a certain moment there is a stillness, a peace. Maybe that’s their gift to me from beyond.

I used to think resilience was hardening to life but I think it’s knowing how to soften time and time again.

The second wave of grief is going back to normal life.

That’s what’s so hard about facts—facts are flat. They just are what they are, palatable to the mind but not the right consistency to move through the body.

My biggest hurdle in relationships is unconditionally loving myself.

Social media is a placebo for conversation.  It is a place of statement.

Why are horizon lines so enticing? Clean, angular perfection, it’s a rare thing to find in nature.

Pain is from the heart, suffering from the head.

Yesterday I lined the broken edges of a seashell with golden beads. I’m experimenting with drawing attention to brokenness.

Death of mystery - how much of our story will be forgotten? It feels like not much, but we forget the delicateness of the internet.

Instead of trying to pack a bunch of experiences into one, I’m trying to remember that it’s really just one experience.

Kira tells me, “Life is too damn short to hide yourself”

Gratitude is the people’s catalyst.