Vignettes

The first bachelor button bloomed yesterday.

Some days my brain feels like it contains an empty marble rolling back and forth with each tilt of my head. Other days, it contains beautiful clusters of wildflowers, unique with their stories of origin. On those days, I want to tell all the stories, but I have to force myself to slow down or everything comes out as a jumble.

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My journal entry yesterday:

My front steps

Concrete, warmed from the sun and painted desert coral.

An old and rusty metal railing half-painted white.

Six flower pots, containing basil, tomato, unidentified kindergarten seedlings, an unsprouted bulb and something whose name I forgot.

An old running hat, with paint dribbles, a dog bite in the rim, and the memory of a Baton Rouge hot air balloon festival with my first real boyfriend.

Two empty cat food bowls, one nearly empty water bowl.

One dirty running sock, flung off in horror when I discovered it housed a tick.

My tuxedo cat, also with white white paint splotches on her back, tiny and fierce, and becoming frail, even though I don't want to acknowledge that fact.

Me, sitting, unshowered and hands a little chilly, thinking about seeking joy, my son's strep throat, my daughter's patriotic school concert and what to make for dinner. Feeling quiet, muted, like a mushroom in the forest. Is it not yet time for my happiness, I wonder. Do I just need to accept that? It's not active unhappiness, just that dullness that seals my lips into silence.

I hope it storms tonight.

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And today. Sunshine, cool, early summer air. The fourth and hopefully final day of C staying home sick. Reading together under the softest blanket: chapter books, manga books, picture books. Thinking about being 40, almost 41. This year I learned to drink my coffee black (sometimes); got COVID; saw the official end of the pandemic; closed the business I worked so hard to create. This year I rediscovered writing for myself. I witnessed the realization of my life-long dream to propagate lupines in my yard.

"You only lose what you cling to." Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, by Grace Lin.

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Two days ago:

Preparing for my second-round interview. Pulling out 20-year-old binders from Teach for America. Looking at my sample "Pre-Writing Ourselves" exercise, an echo of the same things I that give clarity and meaning to my life today: Rilke, running, lighthouses, family, travel, writing, dandelions, late afternoon sunlight, eating disorder, depression, drawing, the ocean, grad school, mountains and hiking. Title of my example: "To Live Outloud." I could look at this two ways: Either I need new material or I have always been wired this way.

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Last night:

My exuberant daughter, performing a patriotic concert in the elementary school gym for our community's veterans. A solo-not solo with seven other students. She is unabashed in her confidence and enthusiasm. Every time I see her I am astonished.

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This morning:

"C, you are the love of my life." "[Mama], you are the love of mine."