Somber. Sober. Still.

May 16, 2018

“We can be redeemed only to the extent to which we see ourselves.” -Martin Buber

“If the drama and chaos in the outside world are expressions of the minds that create them, then naming and questioning the way we live in these minds, and on this Earth, is the only way that true change can happen. And so, we begin.” -Geneen Roth


“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.” -Steven King


1 May, 2018
“the pain will be too great sometimes.
the dark will be too deep, and the threads
that keep you strong will wear and fray.
you will spend the longest days you’ve ever
known patching yourself back together.
every stitch will hurt like hell. you will be
made of misfit fragments whose origins
you don’t even know. there are days you
will feel ugly, wounded beyond repair, the work
of mad science that demands to see life
where there is none. you will be tattered,
and the memory of it all will break the beauty
you’ve tried to protect. someday you will
have nothing. but then…
but then one day you will wake up in
Somewhere Else. you just will, like you
passed through the Wardrobe as you slept.
you are in the same pace you’ve always been
but the light hits it all a little strange. you
will pull your Patchwork self out from
under your covers and stand in the morning
sun. you’ll brush your raggedy hair, feel
the creaking in your bones, and you’ll
catch sight of yourself somehow.
and you are extraordinary.
you are color and tender care. you are
stitch after faithful of hope and
self-compassion. you are a beautiful
medley of radiant fabric, knit to triumph
with every mend. it is a holy thing, to
look at yourself and to see something marvelous.
but you will.
and you’ll live again.


“We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm – yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.” -E.M. Forster

“I thought about one of my favorite Sufi poems, which says that God long ago drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you are standing right now. I was never not coming here. This was never not going to happen.” -Elizabeth Gilbert


March 31, 2018

Our neighbors are bouncing on their trampoline outside. It sounds like two girls; sisters, I presume. It’s 9:12am on a Saturday morning. I remember when we first got our trampoline. We thought it was the beauty of all beauties. There would be nothing better than this trampoline for our lives. We slept on it, snacked on it, put our dogs on it, invited anyone and everyone on it always.

The girls next door are giggling. I don’t remember the last time I laughed at 9:12 on a Saturday morning. My breath falls down to the bottom of my belly. Their joy radiates and I find myself entranced by it. It feeds me. Keeps me here.

It’s bold. To choose that sort of happiness so early on in the day. To set the standard high. My mind trails, wonders, and aims to pin-point when exactly I became so particular with the responsibility of choosing the measurements of my own joy.

A few years back, I freaking tattooed the word joy on my wrist as a quite literal reminder of how it is our duty to choose the lives we lead; how we wake up and scoop up joy like a child in the night. Intentionally. Purposefully. Because we don’t want to go about our days without nurturing the people and things that need us the most. Because we don’t want to go forth without providing for ourselves what we desire most.

Choose. Choice. Chosen.

“Today, if I choose joy.”  No, not quite. “Today, when I choose joy.”  You sound unsure. Unsettled. “Today, I choose joy.” Mm. Forced. Are you convinced? “Right this very moment, I am embodying the energy of joy.” Oh, I see. Here, here we are. Yes, I’m doing this.

It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it is a tired phrase. I was under the sinking impression this declaration dealt solely with other people, but I realize it’s best used and understood when it’s relating to our very own selves. Perhaps it works to inform the ways in which we phrase our inner-dialogues.

It’s always been about us. This battle. This morning. This tension. These options. The world outside sings and beats and begs. The sisters have gone inside. I imagine they’re eating pancakes. Or watching Spongebob. Or sprawled out on their bellies in their living room letting their remarks and inquiries and ideas bounce off of one another. Their parents are reading the newspaper or whispering about Easter tomorrow. The dogs are bustling around. Roaming from one sound, one movement to the next.

Our Saturdays used to ebb and flow similarly. When I imagine them, I remember us.

There are plants now growing in my window-sill. My comforter is stark white and the light refracts off of it when the sky opens up to its mid-day blue. I should move from here. My mind is beginning to fog and my body is restless.

Yesterday, I was trying to write down the warmest remark someone has ever told me, but nothing all that specific surfaced. Instead, I began rambling through all the words I want to have written or said or declared about my existence and now, as I sit here in the reverie of sister giggles, I begin to whisper the words to myself.

I welcome the tune of my own voice. I trust it.




“We forgive: Our parents, for being wrong about us in so many ways, for seeing some things and not others, for missing the point. Our siblings, for being smarter or more athletic or happier than we are. Our children, for diverging from our expectations, for scaring us with their developmentally appropriate but still dreadful risk taking, for growing up and leaving and forgetting to call. Ourselves, for being less than we planned when we were young and dreamed of outer space and Olympic medals. Such sprawling deficiency- ours, theirs, ever more varieties and degrees as each new day passes-to be acknowledged, to be pardoned. And yet, we do. We love and are loved anyway. Differently, though, than we might have thought.”

-Kelly Corrigan