nothing is a halfway mark
1//
My writing is different. The way I show up to the page. We feel we can only learn from those who have gone before. We want to be inspired, so we put the onus on the writer to sort themselves neatly before digesting their words. A series of final drafts, rushing the ending. I once wrote from a place of resolution, even while in the very thing. We are meant to evolve. I broke free of straight drawn lines. Writing, now, feels like living.
2 //
Learning more about my energy-type, not as an endpoint but as a tool for understanding. I am a generator, and have abundant energy to work, but will burn out/wither when I am doing work not meant for me. They say I am a conduit, waiting for the idea to come. I think about the times I have been able to give myself over fully to the work, with seemingly endless energy — the idea came, showed up, gut-belly yes. I was waiting, asking questions, but could not force a goddamn thing. I cannot force a goddamn thing.
3 //
Part-time sobriety is interesting, and I know social media is full of well, everything about everything. I don’t care if something is trending, do you? I sip on seltzer with lemon as I make dinner. I’m 41 in July and on the precipice if not dipping my toes into perimenopause and I still love wine but I love clarity more, love my dewy skin as long as it will hold out (age comes for all of us, booze or not).
How I can see the bright everything of being alive.
A month without, my lover and I said, though we said yes to a fantastic wine list on a rare date and then slipped right back into tea and water and kombucha.
Because this, too, is being alive.
A new friend gave me a lymphatic massage when I was in California a few weeks ago, and something shifted in me, so much pouring out of my body, or so it seemed. She put me on supplements to cleanse my liver, and then I flew home to Portland and promptly ate a cheeseburger because I love them and my body swelled up in protest. So I went to my lover, who put me on a cleanse. There’s still some skeptical part of me, being raised religious does a number on a body. I struggle to believe in any one thing, even wellness. Doing it anyway, trusting something enough to try. It’s not even about longevity. I don’t know if I care how long I live. It’s how I feel now, right now. Clarity of mind, of gut — see how it all relates? I do, I do.
4 //
How our minds crave certainty. We want to know. I will be okay. What is okay? I look at my chart, my lover’s, and we are not meant for certainty in this life. Ground ever-quaking. Sometimes, I love this. I crave the unknown, where there are unending possibilities. I get to have hope, even in the swirl of confusion and questioning and worry and desperation. It has been one year, almost, since E told me they were done. What followed — a cascade, tumult — I grasped at control, raged and wept. Nothing about me, stable. You lose things when your life upends and you break down in ways people don’t want to witness — support, friends, income.
While driving home yesterday with my daughter, I turned onto Burnside. Six blocks in, I noticed what street I was on. I don’t have to think about it now, at least on this side of the Willamette. They say it takes three years to find your way in a new city, and I’m at the halfway mark. Now, I can drive home without punching in the address. I can be lost in the swirl, and find my way.
