be transparent.

The best thing in this world is to be known. People can only know you if you let them. It isn't easy, but it is worth it.

yesterday.

Things are going well in my part of the world. There’s lots of happiness and goodness and inspiration in my life. Sometimes life can be dreary and bleak, for everyone, so when it feels otherwise, I think it’s worth saying out loud.

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned it before, but my favorite blog in the entire world is this one. It isn’t a fancy graphics, lots of pictures and cool design blog. It’s just writing about life and food and I adore it. I take it she’s been in the trenches with other writing projects, because there haven’t been any posts almost since Christmas. But a new post went up today and here’s what I remembered: I am a writer.

Her words give me a sense of connection and joie de vivre that immediately inspires me to live bigger, to cook, to do things I love, and to write. I read the posts like I’m starved and devouring a meal. I literally feel brain/emotion-hungry for writing like that. And of course, the real test: every time I read one of her posts, I immediately wish that I had written it myself. That's how you really know what you're meant to do.

Yesterday, Jacob and I celebrated the fact that two years ago, we went on a date for coffee at the Chocolate Sparrow and it stuck. (We sat at that table right at the bottom of the screen!) We celebrated by eating nachos in a loud bar, half watching the State of the Union and musing over why Joe Biden always looks like he’s thinking hell, yeah! in his head. We talked about where we would be sitting two years from now and how we never expected to be here.

details.

There are many things I love about living in a city - shopping is not one of them. There is no such thing as a quiet store in a city. Apparently everyone is always shopping, because stores are always packed full. For this reason, a trip to Target is a real endeavor for me. I try to get there as early as possible, literally as the doors open. I make out my list in order of where things are so that I can get in and out (yes, he would say that). I know some people love shopping and dawdling and wandering through the store - me, I hate it.

When I'm in a Sunday afternoon-packed Target, trying to wield a cart filled with toilet paper and laundry detergent, I become blind with rage. I lose my ordinarily magnanimous love of humanity, my understanding that everyone is just trying to get by. Before my eyes, everyone becomes evil and everyone is trying to trap me behind their carts and wild children and NO ONE WILL GET OUT OF MY WAY. I also often make the mistake of being a little hungry or a little dehydrated when I’m shopping. This very quickly turns into dehydrated hanger - the worst kind. Literally the only time I ever buy beef jerky is at Target. I don’t know. I’m hungry and confused with rage and there’s always beef jerky at the checkout. Why?

I’m happy to report that I braved Target this weekend, and hopefully this trip’s supplies will last for several months. If you’re ever at my apartment and wonder why two people should have approximately 100 rolls of toilet paper stored in their bathroom, it’s because I don’t want to go back to Target.

I sat down to tell you something lovely and inspirational about my weekend. I organized our bookshelf and did the thing where I sit surrounded by stacks of books, feeling very nerdy and happy. I saw some fun little plays (one of which Jake directed!). I went for a run (oh glory, my knee is on the mend). I hung a bulletin board over my desk and I framed some prints of Wellfleet. I baked a loaf of bread and roasted a spaghetti squash. I discovered this blog and read every post. But somehow...

feel things.

There is so much freedom in letting yourself feel. My emotions can be overwhelming at times, so my instinct is often to suppress them. When my eyes are prickling with tears, I swallow the lump again and again. When I'm filled to the tip-top with excitement and passion, I speak softly - I even whisper. I am dismissive of deep happiness and deep sadness because they shake me and make me feel vulnerable.

Somewhere in the last few years, something made me realize that the beauty of true experience, of awareness and presence, is worth it. I commit myself to bearing witness to the details of life.

Last year, I was lucky enough to work with the founder of YouthBuild, Dorothy Stoneman. She is a force to be reckoned with, a tornado of passion and belief in the future of young people. Someone asked her last year how she dealt with all the negative experiences and emotions she must encounter. You can't be a revolutionary without facing the suffering and wrong in the world. Her answer, her tool for coping, was this: I try to cry at least an hour a week, and sometimes, when things get rough it has to be an hour a day.

I will never forget that piece of wisdom. The way through the challenge of life is not to numb yourself, but to let yourself truly feel the grief and sorrow, right along with the happiness and joy. That's not an easy lesson to learn.

Yesterday I felt sad, so I sat on my couch and cried. I couldn't work up an appetite, so I ate cereal for dinner. I wrote wild and dark in my notebook, and doodled for a whole page instead of putting down words.

Today, I feel hope, so I'm blasting this mix over the sounds of my washer and dryer (my god they're loud) and letting the cacophony swim in my head. I am letting myself feel gratitude and letting myself dance around my kitchen while holding my bowl of pasta coated in this artichoke tapenade.

enough time.

I meant to write yesterday so that I could claim one more post for January, but time and distraction got the best of me. Instead, I ate two bowls of Fruity Pebbles (truth), watched some TV, and then curled up with my notebook and Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones.

I love some books fiercely, and Writing Down the Bones is one of them. I know I’ve gone on and on about it, so I won’t do it again. I have read this book so many times, but it never wears out on me. There is some magic in it. I always know when it’s time to read it again. And somehow I always find exactly what I need to hear. For example:

"...don't tell us about anger (or any of those big words like honesty, truth, hate, love, sorrow, life, justice, etc.); show us what made you angry. We will read it and feel angry. Don't tell readers what to feel. Show them the situation, and that feeling will awaken in them."

When I was 17, I picked up a book at a used bookstore: A New Lifetime Reading Plan. Maybe you’ve read it? I don’t have it anymore; I must have lost track of it on one of my moves. There wasn’t anything too magical about it anyway, but I still remember the moment when I sat down on my bed holding that book and felt this rush: there was so much to read, so much wonder and creativity in the world, and there wasn’t any time to waste. I had always loved reading, but that’s the first time I remember feeling all-consuming awe. I suddenly felt a responsibility to honor this incredible tradition: the written word. That’s the first time I felt that my life couldn’t possibly be long enough to read everything I wanted to.

Even still, though there will never be enough time, I will never give up the pleasure of re-reading certain books. It is the comfort of warmth on a cold night, the joy of food when you’re hungry, the safety in unconditional love. It fills a very deep need.