friday morning.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about routines. The ones that come of necessity and how they shape us; those that are born out of friendships and become habit; the ones we create - either consciously or subconsciously - that we fall into, that always seem to become mechanical in some way. 

I say this because as I type, I’m in the middle of my Friday morning routine; and I try never to be ignorant of its luxury, I try to remember it’s quite likely to never be mine again, to steep in it and use it well.

Molly has already been my alarm clock, already informed me it’s an hour later than when we’re normally outside, already chased squirrels up oak trees and allowed me to come home and make the Friday coffee: three cups instead of two, poured into the big mug, the blue one that holds four cups if it’s finals week or we’re just really, really sleepy. She’s already curled up on the futon beside me, stretched out her paws and then shoved them against my side, a heavy-handed indication that I am not close enough to her, nor am I petting her enough. Sometimes I wonder if puppies understand kisses; though I’m positive physical contact is their love language. Molly snuggles like a boss, unapologetically, and her favorite move is to climb on the futon, turn her back to me, then throw her body weight against my side, immobilizing the arm typing on my laptop. Then she’ll press her head against my chest, pause, and turn to look at me, her face upside-down and ears turned inside-out. All I can do is giggle and place noisy kisses between her eyes and wonder if kisses mean anything to dogs, if they’d just rather we never stop scratching their furry bellies.

I’ve read my Friday morning blogs: Meg’s and Celeste’s and Shauna’s; women I’ve never met and yet admire and feel that fascinating para-social kinship for. I’ve made a point lately to only routinely read things that leave me feeling fed as a writer, as a creator, and these women do that for me on a visceral, intangible level, and I’m so grateful for their honesty. 

I’ll tell myself it’s time to do homework, but really I’ll pick up “Bittersweet” or “Bird by Bird” and read a few chapters, be amazed that there are women who do what I want to do and do it well, that they’re like me in so many ways, that maybe I’m not as strange as I thought, that maybe, just maybe, one day I can be like them. 

I’ll eventually convince myself that the work I’ve ignored this week does, in fact, need to be done and I’ll finally close TweetDeck and pick up a study guide or a pen and try to make something cohesive out of my CNF pieces, something worth handing in and not used as, say, an ashtray or compost. Molly will want to go outside to make sure the earth is still there, that it hasn’t floated away in the few hours she wasn’t there to experience it. The rest of the day will cycle through like this; walks and reading and writing, studying and reading and checking email. Sometimes I feel like I don’t do enough with my Fridays, that there’s a more efficient way to extract productivity; but for now, I like the shape it’s taken, the routine that belongs to this particular season, however fleeting or staying it might be. 

twelve tenses and two voice shifts. or: how not to write.

Suffice it to say, I’m not finding myself the happiest with the version of me being presented to the universe at present. But there is the hope, there is the will that I’ll come back. That I will reclaim the parts of old me that are worthy and leave everything else in its rightful place, behind.

I know that being charged extra for the big girl bridesmaid dress should have sent me to the toilet with an eating disorder, that the sight of my stomach in the mirror should be enough for me to go on a cleanse for the next six months. I also know that I should be singing the goodness of the universe when my life is overflowing with people madly in love; and that I am fortunate enough to take part in their joy. Somewhere, hiding in a basement, is that version of me.

I don’t know when she left.

I don’t know why she left.

But I hope everyday for her to come back. I pray for her return like the prodigal son.

I realize that this means tremendous conscious efforts on my part. Reminding myself that beauty exists whether I choose to look at it or not. That inspiration is never more than a change of scenery or a second cup of coffee away.

But it’s hard. 

Every day, I convince myself that today is closer than yesterday. I coax myself out of the basement with a trail of crumbs, promising sunshine at the top of the stair.

So I put vegetables on my plate, even if I want a cheeseburger. We used to be in love, these veggies and me. I remind myself this. From time to time I remember why. But I forgive myself the days I eat three Dove chocolates and a bagel instead. Because we know that plunging straight in is effective, but that this time, we’re not stable enough for that shock to the system. This time, we step slowly into the shallow end. One day, we will dive again. For now, we forgive the slow, sometimes backwards-moving pace.

And breathe.

We walk slowly, yes, much more slowly than before. Metaphorically and physically. The pace is crawling, but it’s the one that keeps us moving. Forgive that we don’t run four times a week like we used to. Know that one day we will, and forgive for today not being that day.

Borrow Tom’s phrase and “lean into the day.” Allow mornings to be gentle, life-giving, healing. Sit with your bible and your coffee. Forgive the days you want to skim the prophets because you have a hard time believing they weren’t all just stoned out of their minds. Forgive not watching Good Morning America before work, forgive feeling guilty for carrying the title of “journalist” and going to school without a full working knowledge of the day’s current events. Know that one day you’ll have this part sorted out, know that your title will matter less to you in comparison to the things you do.

Cut your hair as often as you need to. Make it blonde again, if this makes you more yourself. Wear your boat shoes and a bow in your hair and that fancy, spicy French perfume you got for Christmas. Be a lady.

Tell yourself as often as you need: the only way out is through. Some days this will mean putting your head down and charging through. Other times it will mean tilting your chin to the sky and twirling. Remember that neither of these is better than the other. Both mean you’re moving. Both mean you’re breathing. Both are beautiful.

When you’re trapped in a moment of ugliness, sit with it. Look it full in the face. Describe it. Pick it up, set it down. Give it not a moment more than it deserves, then walk away. There is no truth there.

For the love of God, write. Do excellent work. Stop hiding behind shitty words.

When nothing else is working, stand outside in the dark. Look at the stars. Find peace in knowing they don’t change. Let that ground you. They are always the same. 

a prayer, a plea.

let this season be about celebrating. please, let there be no room for anything but joy. please, let me celebrate without a single thought of self. let love come from a fount; let it be unburdened. let there be no room for anything but joy. 

5-year-old me.

Things have been quiet here for a few weeks, I know. I’m thinking about making some changes. Maybe not. 

Today, though, I realized something. I’ve been indulging 5-year-old me a lot. Sometimes that means buying bright pink blush because I wasn’t allowed it when I was little. Sometimes that means wearing sassy red lipstick, because I’m grown, and I can. Sometimes it’s building a fort in the living room out of kitchen chairs and pillows. And today, on this Valentine’s Day, it means I will take a moonlit midnight stroll (really, more like 9 p.m.) with my fluffy Valentine and I will have chocolate chip pancakes for dinner and a giant cup of tea. Little Me probably wanted more candy and more pink. But older me gets to sip champagne and wear high heels and decide for herself that breakfast and dinner are perfectly interchangeable and it’s not candy if you put it inside a pancake. 5-year-old me had a lot of great ideas. And I’m glad that now I’m old enough to do them.

What things do YOU do for 5-year-old you?