UNWIND

...and we wind ourselves up, faster and faster, forever tighter.

Wound and wound, layers of shroud, wounded.

A smashed-open golf ball: hacked, exposed. An abrupt destruction, an unseen force. I watch the ball's unwinding, continual and rapid. An ongoing hiss, a spinning: a seemingly eternal release. I see this letting go, this sudden spring, this undoing of whatever -- of all -- that  was coiled up inside.

(This golf ball meant nothing/this golf ball contained multitudes.)

It was only a rubber band. A rubber band inside a dimpled plastic shell.

I was small and scared and exhilarated.

After all these years, I talk and talk and talk to myself, talk myself into circles, talk myself to frenzy, bearings lost, tangled.

This writing is a slow unraveling, a long-term project to simply say the simplest things.

The small declarative sentences, the small declarative gestures, are the most difficult.


 

GLORIOUS AUTUMN

GROWN UP

And suddenly, childhood is over. An invisible boundary, 

Clock hands. 

Irrevocable, inevitable. The way things are. 

Freedom, responsibility, ambition. 

Cliches cementing.

Air, bananas, coats, dogs. Nouns become actual.

Invisible contexts. Mapless territories. 

Here be dragons. 

Sail.

 

MEDUSA

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved, -- a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.


When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair, 
Held up at a window, seen through a door. 
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.


This is a dead scene forever now. 
Nothing will ever stir. 
The end will never brighten it more than this, 
Nor the rain blur.


The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground. 


And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day, 
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away. 

--Louise Bogan

A NOVEL IN NOVEMBER?

I've been thinking about participating in NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month happens every November. The "rules" are straightforward: participants write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days.

I tried it once. 

I was in grad school and had no business taking on another project. Those were years I did way too many things, none of them particularly well. 

I don't know how I thought writing a novel would benefit me. 

You see, I've never so much as written a story more than, oh, five pages long. And that story was a tremendous struggle. 

I'm not a writer interested in plot-driven narratives. I haven't read many novels lately. I don't have a character whose story I need to tell. The word "narrative" gives me the heebie-jeebies. 

Why, then, would I even consider a second NaNoWriMo attempt?

Maybe because I just want to have a 200 page manuscript in a drawer. I can refer to those pages as "my novel." 

If I could be content with a paperweight made of 200 sheets of paper, I could write a novel. However, I still write like a poet. I obsess over every syllable. Writing is a slow go for me. 

I did, however, think of some ideas last night. 

Mythology. Caravaggio paintings. Ovid. A novel in three sections. 

That's all I've got. But it's a start. 

 

INSPIRATION'S SOURCE

Plodded through a work-filled and literal morning of matter-of-factness and sensibility. Things needed to get done. Things got done.

Once the fanciful part of the day arrived, I was exhausted.

Excuses, excuses. I will use "my brain was foggy" as today's rationalization for not "getting inspired." Or the old standby "There was so much I needed to get done!" Even so, I had a few hours to get out and "do" something. I wanted to discover a new perspective, a different point of view. I only found a headache.

In other words, I gave up.

I can wish all I want, but I have to face facts: I am not a person inspired by everyday things. I can't sit on my back porch and find fanciful faces in clouds or thrill to madrigals in birdsong. I need to be in the busy world to start (and keep) my creative mind going. I need variety and change.

Reminder to self: kick door, readjust eyes.

See something new, or newly.

JUST LIKE HER

I am not sure how I will feel when I see him, but there's suddenly an electronic photo of a little boy.

People will often blah, blah, blah about how children resemble their parents; in most cases, yes, this is true. We see a nose here, an eye there. It's cute, it's fun, and it's genetics.

But this little boy is a teeny, tiny version of his mama. Running, laughing, waving arms slightly blurred, one giant smile.

Enormous brown eyes:

Something mischievous, something kind. Something curious, something wise. She's all there.

Despite the fact that she is no longer here, I can only smile when I see her boy. This overwhelming joy, surely, is a miracle. The young man is his beautiful mother.

 

SATURDAY

A busy jump-out-of-bed-get-going-right-away Saturday.

Freezing temperatures, downpours, lunch guests, dirty dishes, candy wrappers.

Air conditioning off; fireplace blazing.

Hurried grocery trip. Early crowd stocking up for indoor day.

Coffee bar: hot drinks outnumber iced lattes. Blueberry muffins trump chocolate chocolate chip.

Kitchen alchemy: eight crimson peppers transformed. Delicious orange (what cream and onions do to red) soup.

Evening: lazy dogs, lazy humans. None happy with noisy wind, noisier tv movies.

Relaxation? No problem.

This? A great Saturday.

YOUR FUTURE SELF WILL THANK YOU

All I did today was clean the house and put up Halloween decorations.

I also took a shower and ate Chinese food. 

And went to the dollar store.

That's all I did. All day long!

I hate the process of holiday decorating, but I love when everything is in its festive place.The house was ready to change her outfit, and now she's all gussied up in oranges and purples. 

I especially love the morning after a cleaning binge; if the piles and grime have built up, you're in for a real treat when your half-awake self is completely shocked by how hard your usually-lazy self worked the day before. 

I wander my clean rooms, stunned: "all this...for ME?" I'll even blush.

How could my cheeks not flush when I spoil myself so? 

Looking forward to tomorrow, when I will thank myself for all the work I did today. 

Showy-offy? Yep. But it's true. 

ELEVEN QUESTIONS ABOUT MY WRITING

1. Am I a risky writer?  
2. Do I dare myself when I write? 
3. If so, do I take the dare? 
4. Do I make imaginative leaps, fling myself into rapids of invention? 
5. Am I willing to drown?
6. Am I willing to fly?
7. Was there a time when chaos was my preference, and sentences that ended on prepositions didn't thud?
8. Have I cordoned myself off so well I can't escape? 
9. Do I miss the joy my work once brought me?
10. Was there ever joy? 
11. Was this ever fun?

STEVE JOBS (1955-2011)

Like so many around the globe, affectionately thinking of Steve Jobs on the night of his passing.

Jobs gave the world truly intimate digital products. I can carry thousands of songs, photos, and love notes everywhere I go...not just figuratively in my heart...literally, in my iPhone.

Digital intimacy is no longer an oxymoron.

I believe he made the world a better place.

It's also terrifying that someone with unlimited financial resources can't beat cancer. Cancer fucking sucks. I wish he'd had more time.

My heart is with his family, friends, and all who mourn him.

RIP, Mr. Jobs, and thank you.

WHAT DID THEY SAY?

Though a few firecracker quotes burst though the haze, most of history's voices reach us as murmuring buzz -- a low, indistinguishable din. We know some of the words of a very small number of people; however, what most did or said will forever remain a mystery.

In high school, it seemed that world-changing events were oh-so-simple:

Once upon a time, a group of fed-up people suddenly Opened Their Eyes. They realized that the System was Bad. They coordinated their responses and got rid of the Horrible Thing. Eliminating the Terrible Changed the World! 

When we don't hear individual voices, everything can be neatly and simply generalized. Reduced to a mere soundbite.

This holds true for more than historical events.

The people in our lives are driven by motivations we'll never fully understand. They will hoard unshared motivations. They will make decisions we'll never  comprehend. What they will share is but a few words. How can we hope to understand if we only listen to their words?

And how many of us spend a lot of our time only half-listening?

We must learn a deeper way of attending to the people in our lives.

I have grown weary of my incessant talking and my insatiable opining.

I'm working on opening my eyes, giving my ears a chance to actually hear.

HOW TO GET MORE DONE

Monday morning. The reset button has been pushed. My week's task list is (kind of) daunting but it's my attitude that makes it seem gloomy. As with everything, my perspective affects my productivity, and vice versa.

When I was a full-time outside-the-home-worker-with-a-long-commute, I had much more to do, yet was somehow able to get it all done. Now that I don't have as many items on my task list, each to-do looms larger. 

Productivity-enhancing books, I will not turn to you in the hope of finding relief; I have read you all, and heeded your advice. 

I know how to solve my dilemma: I have to get up off my butt, start moving, and stop when the tasks have all been completed. 

And that is my Statement on Productivity. 

Happy Monday!

MISCELLANEOUS UNITS

I have fumbling days. Days I don't know what to say or do. Days I don't know where to put my hands. Or my knees. Or my elbows. Days eye contact is too intrusive; it's better to keep sunglasses on. 


Some days every decision seems doomed. 


There are seconds, and there are even smaller units: milliseconds, microseconds, nanoseconds, picoseconds, femtoseconds, attoseconds, aeptoseconds, and yoctoseconds. The attosecond is the shortest time now measurable. 

Larger units: minutes, hours, days and weeks. Then come fortnights and lunar months. Months and quarters. Years, common years, leap years, tropical years, Gregorian years, Olympiads. Lustrums, decades, indictions, generations, jubilees, centuries, millenniums. Exaseconds. Cosmological decades.

By no means is this list exhaustive. I'm not trying to wrap my brain around any of these measures; I don't possess the imaginative capacity to consider them in any meaningful way. 

What I love is that such systems of order exist; while I wander in circles, confused and exhausted because I forgot a grocery list, the world is chock full of gleaming, detailed classifications. The minute and vast are measurable. 


It all makes sense. To someone. 
 

FORTRESS

Trying to recall any fictional characters who physically cover themselves in some way in order to hide from emotional and/or physical intimacy.

A literal carapace designed to repel or repulse.

Surely there is someone in mythology, graphic novels or science fiction who does this in a more than metaphorical way.

I'm not referring to someone who unwillingly suffers this isolation as a side effect of a separate "condition"; I'm thinking of someone who very deliberately wants to keep people at a distance and finds a way of "cocooning" him- or herself from all the messy human stuff.

Can't help but think I'm overlooking someone obvious...any ideas, world?

FOCUS

The small dog loves to jump on the sofa to build a nest with the blankets and pillows. She nudges, tugs, and drags until everything is in place. She spins round and round, inspecting and getting comfortable before she plops down and dozes. A few licks and yawns are interspersed throughout the construction. Exhausting work, but she never relents until everything is just so.

Then the nap begins. She never shows her dreams.

AUTUMN LUNCH

Took myself out to lunch, and sat on a patio. I never eat outdoor meals during the summer, but today I was wearing a sweater.

Today, it was fall.

It rained leaves, and they tickled. Some landed on my poached eggs, on my potatoes, on my biscuit. Some stuck in my hair. Others snuck into my purse.

Looking skyward with something like hope, or curiosity, or perhaps shock, all I saw was blue and gold. I smelled the cold. 

I stopped holding my breath. 

I wasn't thinking. I was only breathing. 

NOT YET

Waiting not-so-patiently for an inaudible click to alert me that I've reached the finale of these blues.

End credits, I'm ready for you to roll. 

What helps: snuggly dogs, scratch-made meals, a soft flannel shirt, crisp late summer mornings.

What hinders: bangs hanging in my eyes, piled-up laundry, quiet sitting, a clenched jaw.

Waiting, mulling, moping-- not how one recovers from a slump. But if one isn't doing these things, one has to think of something active to do. Then the going. Then the doing. 

It all begins with the mustering of some oomph. 

Vicious cycle, I'm seriously considering calling your bluff.

After a nap. Or nine.

FOURTEEN THINGS I DID

1. Marveled at the Treasures of Tutankhamun at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

2. Whooped as Liberace flew across the stage at Radio City Music Hall. 

3. Caught a striped bass while fishing alongside the Statue of Liberty.

4. Discovered my first air hand dryer in the ladies room next to the Lincoln Monument. 

5. Rode a bike with a basket around and around Ocracoke Island. 

6. Climbed a lighthouse in Nebraska. 

7. Snacked on grasshoppers in Mexico. 

8. Winced and laughed as a goat sneezed on me in Colorado. 

9. Deeply inhaled and fell in love with the smell of pinon in New Mexico. 

10. Stuck my head under Niagara Falls. 

11. Buried parts of myself in New Jersey. 

12. Pushed a boy in a swing for two hours straight in Maine. 

13. Sped away from my mother, then received a ticket for it in Texas. 

14. Pondered how it all began in Louisiana.

NOVICE/EXPERT

Investigate something deeply, become an expert.

View it from an angle.

Reverse.

Acquire all the knowledge you can; become disheartened by the vastness of your undertaking.

On a Tuesday morning, tumble what you have learned, round and round.

On your roof, hold up your jumbled thoughts, backlit by the sun.

Look through them.

* * *

You have to create a problem.

A work of art is a problem you create, a problem you solve.

Before you define your question, your answer presents itself. A split second, ungraspable.

Once you articulate what needs to be solved, the answer is lost.

Someday a new solution might emerge.

* * *

I resisted a play. The play was smart; I was exhilarated. I fell in love with the drama, then hated myself. Another person's creativity never brings me pure pleasure.

I don't write plays. I doubt I ever will. But I am jealous of playwrights.

During the play, I felt a new kind of possibility, a hiccup.

* * * 

Not easy, not now, perhaps not soon, but with more work than I can imagine...maybe.

A NOTEBOOK AS SMALL AS AN IPHONE

My nearest, dearest and most consistent companion is my iPhone.

For the past two years, we've been inseparable. As long as we're together, I'm never bored. I can always read news, check email, search for answers, take photos, listen to music, play games, text, tweet, find directions, discover endlessly fascinating "stuff" and make phone calls. (I make and take phone calls slightly more often than I churn butter.)

Amazing!  

My iPhone has also stolen me from former pastimes:

Observing what's around me, watching strangers' faces, tucking paperbacks and notebooks into large purses, wondering where some bauble can be purchased, discovering how to get to a particular intersection, deciding what the most delicious option is at the new kebab place, or remembering who played the bad guy in that movie I loved when I was ten. 

My iPhone didn't actually steal me from anything; I gave myself away. 

Leafing through my old notebooks was a bit of a shock: when did I scribble all of these observations, phrases, half-ideas? 

All the time. 

My busy little brain always needs to be doing something; it used to make me write, it now demands I go "online." 

It's a question of harnessing that excess energy. 

What if I find a notebook as small as an iPhone, and carry it all the places I take and use my iPhone? Will anything change?

Perhaps an experiment worth considering...

"MANIFESTO"

Twelve years ago, I wrote a "manifesto" entitled "Why I Write Poetry."

I had to -- it was an assignment.

While I would no longer write something so presumptuously-titled, I'm pleasantly shocked at how coherent, thoughtful and honest I was. Also sad that something for which I had such passion now means so little; poetry has no significant place in my current life.

I wrote: "My poems are substitutes for letters I will never send." 

In the mad throes of unrequited love, I had no one with whom I could share my longing. Poetry was an alternate universe in which I could wallow -- history re-imagined, re-written, re-kissed.

My poems let me insist "We danced to the Bee Gees, you walked me to the corner, you looked me in the eyes and said you wanted to buy me eggs." 

I pretended to care about Pound, and Eliot, and Williams.

What I wanted? To never forget your lips. 

ERASURES

Perhaps the erased matters more than the written.

In writing, the real work is the taking away, the boiling down, the reduction.

There is the trying on of words, the twirling around, the viewing from all angles. Possibilities cast off.

The hope: what is most honest, most accurate, most satisfying, remains.

First thoughts removed, edited.

Barely grey impulses stay, and the fear:

The reader sees past your words. "But here, here, you rubbed something out..."

EPIPHANIES

Found a little something under the sofa this morning. Without dustbunnies, I might not have epiphanies, which are often associated with commonplace events. Therefore, it seems reasonable, when I'm gathering puffs of dog hair, for a voice to succinctly inform me: "it will be okay."

It was a very matter-of-fact voice.

A flood of relief, a realization: "this is faith." It's gravity, whooshing you down a playground slide. You decide if you climb back up, ride again.

Or sulk in sodden sand, lamenting what was too short, too thrilling.

The voices we hear while strangling ourselves are probably worth a listen.

WHAT IT TAKES

Important things often require letting go, not white knuckles.

Yet I cling, fight, kick, scream, rage, insist, 

try on, discard, 

dance with fancy words and complications.  

SICK DAY

Unclenching my throbbing brain on this "sick day."

After all, I'm not really "sick."

I feel mostly okay. Though I'm utterly exhausted, even after a full night's sleep. I guess I can also admit a little achey-ness and soreness. And slight dizziness.

Let's not overlook the sniffles.

So maybe my "sick day" is actually a sick day. Why so hard to admit I'm not feeling well?

Evidence I'm not quite me:

• This morning's fantasy: an indoor stroll at the mall; a hot, salty, buttery pretzel; an "awwww"-filled peek in the window of the pet store. Hell, maybe even a "massage" on one of those pleather chairs.
• I'm contemplating turning the tv on. Maybe there will be something good on one of the talk shows?
• I don't really give a hoot what's for dinner or if we even eat dinner.
• Didn't even bother to weigh myself today. What can I do about it, anyway? 
• Not considering my sloth "lazy." Certain it's "essential."

Unngh. I think you get the idea.  

PLACES I WROTE (TWO)

Another summer:

This time, a tiny house, a teensy town. Handkerchief-shaped baby skunks waddle across the road, struggling to keep up with mama. On a busy day, fourteen cars pass. I lift and twist a medicine ball every morning, pick pink flowers and arrange them in a windowsill Coke bottle. I wash and dry my dishes (I only have three), shake out my tablecloth, sweep the kitchen floor. I sit at a computer and write; there isn't much else to do. I watch The Thorn Birds deep into the night. The supermarket is thirty miles away. The post office is around the corner. I make chocolate chip pancakes. I wake up and go to sleep when I want, am never tired, and sleep next to a laundry basket filled with books. I answer to no one, yet I am nowhere near happy. 

Only now do I know how lucky I was.

PLACES I WROTE

Rochester? Have I written about Rochester? No, not Mister, though he hulks behind curtains, strides in his cape, catches me off guard. 

Rochester. The city. New York. Once called the Flour City, more recently the Flower City. 

City of another life -- city of photographs, homophones, and old, cold cemeteries. 

City of white hots, first sushi, garbage plates (fries, gravy, meats, grease). 

You can drive to Buffalo, you can drive to Niagara Falls. 

You can be younger there, because it's from way back. 

Your way back when. 

You had an attic all your own, a desk, a nook. 

You had a house: wooden, slanted, spacious, full. 

You: too many words. 

Silent mornings. 

The house: yours. People came, people went. For hours and hours, you were alone. You wrote, you dawdled. 

The house creaked. 

You flitted among tombstones. You fluttered in libraries. You hovered over medical anomalies: weird creepies, floating in blue, floating in pink, floating in yellow. Cracked photographs. Post-mortem faces. Shrouded, grey, askew.

At home, you fried pierogies, sprinkled them with paprika, peered through curtains to a church. 

You watch the answering machine. Messages are left. You talk at the callers. You put your dishes in the sink. You don't wash them.  

When he finally comes home, watch him sneak things from a mailbox, hurry things under a jacket, tuck things into a book. Start holding your breath, become careful. Become quiet. Watch. 

Wait.

Drive away, away from Rochester, away from lopsided houses.

Wait. 

Look back, fondly, with eyes you'd never imagined.    

BOOKSHELF

Long ago, I knew everything, everything F. Scott Fitzgerald scribbled in his notebooks.

Last year, I fantasized a "greener" Christmas.

In between, I sought advice to guide me through life as a woman, turned to chubby food critics when seeking the greasiest greasy spoons, questioned what questions to ask before marriage, and presumptuously struggled to "help" people out of poverty.

Who was Roberto Clemente? What made John Adams tick? The best digital camera in 2008? The secrets of effective teams?

(I know!)

And I know how to teach sixth graders about fractions.

If you're adopting a rescued dog or deciphering a polysyllabic medical term, let me know. If you need a half-filled notebook or any of Hart Crane's poems, just ask.

Marion Nestle told me what to eat; Julia Child, about France.

John Irving made me cry, and then cry again. And again.

Decorating your first apartment? It doesn't have to cost a fortune. Have a question about Fermat's Enigma? Too bad -- I haven't cracked that volume.

Give me a couple of days.

In the meantime, if you want to fall in love, find your own Lorca.

A SABBATH-READY HOME

One of the many valuable lessons I learned from a Sabbath-celebrating friend was to take time on Friday to get my home ready for the weekend.

For Leah, this meant food-shopping, cleaning, changing linens, and picking up a beautiful bunch of flowers. She viewed the Sabbath as a special guest who deserved a clean, organized, and welcoming place to unwind. Sabbath was a weekly holiday; it was always wholeheartedly and sincerely celebrated. Sabbath was something to get excited about.  

Although Sabbath is not part of my religious tradition, I love it. As a once-busy New Yorker living in a tiny space, preparing my home for the weekend was a much-welcomed gift to myself. It forced me to take care of my physical and emotional needs.

My thoughts turn to the Sabbath as I look upon this weekend with the dread I've felt for the past couple of months. Unfortunately, weekends have become a heavy, fraught time. It's horrible to admit this -- however, I want to change my perspective. 

I'm going to use today for Sabbath preparation. Even if that only means dusting and vacuuming, I feel like I need to give it a try. I need to do things differently, and this is something that once worked. 

Hope I can make it work again. 

"WHATEVER YOU ARE, BE A GOOD ONE."

This post's title is a quote from Abraham Lincoln. I have a large colorful print of the saying in my kitchen; I ponder it daily as I decide to decide what, in fact, I am.

It's hard to be a good _______ (fill in the blank) when you feel more like the blank than the fill-in.

I've long resisted defining myself, always vague about what I wanted to "be," what I wanted to "do." It was easy to want to be a "writer." The title is so vast and amorphous it's practically meaningless.

"Writer" is an easy title to hide behind.

I have a very close friend who is blindingly sure of himself. He knows exactly who he is, remains (at all times) certain of what he must accomplish, and never loses sight of how to get precisely where he wants to be. Woe to anyone standing in his way!

I can't even imagine how to be such a person.

However, I am curious.

A technique for dealing with depression is to behave as a non-depressed person would. Although you feel miserable, you go about your day behaving as though everything is just peachy. You become an actor who plays a character nothing like yourself.

I want to play the part of a person "being a good _________."

I would love to be a really good ________.

But first I need to play another role: Person Who Fills in the Blank.

TODAY WAS A BALL

Some days are easier than others. On the more difficult days, if you can find a way to play, you've almost got it made.

WAIT, I'M...RUNNING?

A few days ago, I decided to run a 5K in November.

I hate running. Always have. Until this week, I don't think I've ever run for more than sixty consecutive seconds. And if I did, it only happened once. Hey, I'll quicken my pace if someone is holding a door for me -- but not always. Hold the door, don't hold the door -- it doesn't matter much to me, as I'm usually not in a hurry.

So, this running idea came as a bit of a shock.

Where did it come from?

I've completely changed my body over the past year. I've been doing Pilates about four times a week, and riding my exercise bike about five hours a week. All in all, I've lost about thirty-six pounds.

I wanted a new kind of challenge.

One year ago, I never would have dreamed of taking up running. My back hurt, I was overweight -- and I was also, sorry to say, lazy.

This year, completing a 5K is actually in the realm of possibility. And I need a new fitness goal.

I went online, discovered the Couch to 5K Running Plan, printed it, grabbed a sheet of metallic star stickers, and bought Mizuno running shoes.

I went to the gym, and got on the treadmill. Twice over the past three days.

Yesterday was Day Two. Last night, I slept like a baby. Today my legs and feet were killing me. I was advised to soak my feet in ice water. I was more terrified of the soak than the running.

The ice water was painful -- a million little daggers -- but the post-icing felt amazing. My feet feel so, so good.

Will I be able to run my Veteran's Day 5K? Stay tuned to find out.  

SEPTEMBER 11, 2011

It's September 11, 2011, a bright and sunny Sunday morning.

I picked up the Denver Post and unexpectedly cried; I didn't think reading about something I've thought about every single day for the past ten years would move me to tears.

I've been watching Twitter this morning; some are posting their remembrances of 9/11, others are reporting their experiences at New York Fashion Week. A minority are tweeting their normal, everyday things -- they seem to be going about their business as usual.

Once upon a time, I would have judged how everyone responded to this anniversary. When it comes to mourning, I've long felt that no one does it "right."

I'm glad that tendency seems to be behind me.

I chased a fly with the Dustbuster. I caught and set him free.

I'm thinking about the peach tart I'm making later today.

I don't know how to peel a peach.

I don't know what to make for dinner.

I'm curious if there's something else I should be feeling, or doing.

I guess I'm uncomfortable with my response (or lack thereof) to this day. Part of me thinks I should be making Pronouncements, saying Important Things with Capital Letters.

But the truth is that I still feel very tiny and vulnerable and sad. I can't use words as a cover or shield.

I wish I had something to say about how my life changed ten years ago, but I don't.

I can't come up with a metaphor, or find a poetic phrase, to summarize sorrow.

So I will wish everyone well.

SIGH OF RELIEF

Fall unofficially arrived today, and I can't believe what a difference ten degrees makes.

Right now it's 65 and I'm writing in a plaid flannel button-down. Skies are grey, a light mist is falling, and I'm perfectly content. 

This is a day made for lazies, and I am a proud, proud lazy. 

Summer oppresses with the weight of so many expectations; once the sun comes out and the temperature climbs, I always feel obligated to do so much, to enjoy every moment, to go go go and get tan tan tan...

Today I feel less pressure to do; I just want to be. 

LABOR DAY

It's Labor Day and everyone's in a tizzy about "the end of summer" and wondering if they can "keep wearing white."

First of all, we officially have about three more weeks of summer; secondly, I never wear white because I'm messy and drippy and stain-y.

I look terrible in white. 

Grudgingly went food shopping after I spent the morning thinking about this week's meal plan. I simply couldn't imagine cooking anything ever again. I got dizzy and sad, and decided to suck up eating ready-made and processed foods for at least the next couple of days; this easing up was a huge relief.

When I'm feeling down, I freak out and start obsessing about all I need to do to feel better; this consists of me berating myself into changing all my habits. 

The major changes I inevitably decide I need to make are:

• Improving my sleep
• Cleaning and better organizing my home
• Cooking and consuming healthier snacks and meals
• Following a consistent schedule
• Engaging in challenging (but not too challenging) exercises
• Spending time outdoors
• Creating something artistic
• "Keeping busy"

I know these are the "right" things to do (don't they look like they belong on a clipboard?); however, I spend more time thinking about doing them (and berating myself for not doing them) than I spend, well...you know. Actually doing them.

I've just got to ease up. 

(As for the meal plans -- when I'm better, I'll create a binder where I keep all the easy, delicious and healthy recipes I love. I'll thank myself.) (You're welcome, future self.)