I decided last week to stop feeling guilty about not updating this blog as often as I'd originally thought I would, realizing that apparently my life right now is meant to be more lived than documented. So I'm letting these bursts of entries be just what they are, little recesses from the regularly scheduled program, a time out, a brief pocket of collecting my breath and teasing out the bits and pieces of things that caught my attention. Like this:
Mascara, carefully, before a first date.
Energetic, slightly illegible graffiti.
The dark bones of an old tree.
My mother, after a week of uncertainty, braving it on the ride.
Winter vegetables ready for the oven.
Brick as canvas, leaves as art.
What instinctively reaches skyward.
The almost unbearable beauty of fall.
A permission slip from a grocery aisle.
Small art that satisfies.
The invitation of stacked bowls.
It's your story. Tell it.
Attempts at impressive cooking, followed by humility, then humor.
Lists and reminders and messages from beyond.
The apex of autumn colliding with the first snow.
Love budding out of nowhere.
Bridges and metaphors.
Transparency and strength.
And these stories, weaving in:
A car accident in the middle of almost nowhere, saved not by airbags but by unseen hands, slipping through the storm into the tiny space the collision allowed. I don't think I will ever forget the profound sense of safety and calm I felt, even as the truck's headlights came barreling forward.
The season turning and shifting, taking me with it. It feels like passing through a series of doors, opening the one ahead, closing the one behind, mindful not to let too much of a draft through.
Running through the UMass campus, alternating between sprinting and skipping and side-shuffling, the crisp air whistling through my lungs, my headphones pumping in loud music, feeling the strength and length of my body covering ground, parting the invisible air with my footsteps.
Midnight Hixsons at Amherst Coffee, fresh-squeezed grapefruit and grenadined cherries and 4 hours of conversation with a fresh face. The first chapter, the crucial chapter. Everything else tumbling out so easily. I had almost forgotten to even hope for this kind of seamlessness. I had almost forgotten to ask for its arrival, until I didn't. I said it out loud, in the car, to myself one night. "This is what I want," and continued with specifics. I knew I had to be clear with my request. Two weeks sailed by, the opening made open. Then that drink, that conversation. Then a long drive west, then burgers and beer, then a kiss like a salve, like healing, like the parting of the stage curtain into an entirely different story, unlike any that came before it.
A sense of intimacy and proximity to everything. Feet touching the ground in greeting and relief, fallen leaves revealing their veined, delicate beauty, one body meeting another and the heart hingeing open again, good as new.
And just like that, winter waves hello. And just like that, I wave back.