A few Saturdays ago, I woke up surrounded by dogs. The warmth of their bodies and the sheer coziness of not being alone on an October morning made it so I did not totally loathe having them in my bed. There is something precious about the cold of an autumn morning. I used to be so afraid of these dark months, and I still mostly am, but the mornings. I do love the mornings.
I also love being 24. I felt very dissociated from my age for the first six months of this birth year, but then I started listening to Meryl Strep read Tom Lake, and the magic of being 24 took my breath away. I can’t put my finger on what it is exactly, but there’s just something gorgeous about being this young.
There’s this Mary Oliver quote I love to abuse - sorry(!): “He was exactly the poem I wanted to write”. She’s writing about a goose or dog or something, but I can’t help but apply it to everything I’ve ever loved - or everything that’s ever felt completely right. Life seems to be a steady and sure reckoning with true peace. And by reckoning I do mean a brilliant, bloody collision with the goodness I was created to walk with. It’s where I find the poems I wanted to write but on second thought I’m just grateful to hold.
Anyway, 24 is all the sudden like coming to the surface of some deep water at sunrise: glittery, lit-up and absurdly precious. Lungs burning and legs sore, but wonderfully alive! It’s so easy to be romantic and poetical about it (a wink for the Green Gables girls). It’d be a damn shame to forget all the stinging and bitter sorrows, though. I pray for the courage and the language to remember them with the humility they’re due. Ain’t the whole story but the story wouldn’t be whole without them, or something like that.
Ok, all done! Back to my book - just started the Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz (whose author pic on the back flap intimidates me, if you were wondering).
Praying for bread and milk and honey and the bravery to enjoy it!
Xoxo
