Of jumping in, public libraries, and being liquefied,

  1. Day three of no voice. I’m out of energy to project and starting to wonder if this is more lesson than illness.
  2. The truth is I don’t know. I know I’m longing for time in the secret place, but I don’t know what to say when I get there anymore.
  3. More art, less noise. More beauty, less division.
  4. Ask. The worst they can say is no.
  5. They’re petri dishes of interesting germs, louder than they should be, and filled with rude people, but damn do I love public libraries.
  6. Here we go.
  7. There’s a tenderness I’d been missing without knowing I missed it.
  8. When it goes into the chrysalis, the caterpillar doesn’t know that its body liquefying isn’t the end of its life. It only knows its skin is too small, that the pain of staying the same is greater than the fear of change.
  9. Spring rain, chilly and fresh.
  10. Cautiously optimistic. Don’t say yes to everything. Don’t think you’re too good to do it, either.

Noticing. Eighteen

Of financial uncertainty, a potty mishap, and the exhausting joy of reconnection.

  1. The best part of waking up.
  2. There’s a tremor in my fingers as I write the numbers, a flutter just under my ribs as the penciled-in truth hits home. But he is greater.
  3. Drawing lines between burning boats and resume pieces.
  4. Annoyed that I feel the need to qualify every tease of something big/new/cool with “I’m not pregnant.” Une femme d’un certain ├óge.
  5. I simply cannot today with all this.
  6. [entry redacted to protect the innocent–suffice to say there was a lot of screaming]
  7. I have a twinge of guilt serving three different dinners. A disembodied voice says, “Back in my day, everyone ate the same thing and if you complained you went without!” Who is that?
  8. I have 40% of a voice and feel like lukewarm garbage, but I’ll be damned if I reschedule this.
  9. Thirty minutes turns into three hours. There’s a barely-perceptible veneer of awkwardness after two years’ silence, but we run the gamut just like old times. I go to bed with a full heart.
  10. Or rather, I go to bed after I eat a giant cookie and then floss. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.


Of cold medicine, piggy power, and the tension of the night before the big race.

  1. Woodsmoke and ozone.
  2. There’s a disgusting sort of pride that comes from blowing out a sinkful of snot.
  3. Obviously the worst part about taking Buckley’s is the taste, but the second worst part is that you have to hold that taste on your tongue for a full minute waiting for the rest of the dose to come out.
  4. I used to nap for an hour and a half at least twice a week just because. Now I’m lucky if I get more than 10 minutes even when I’m deathly ill.
  5. The Rosita/Gunter number always chokes me up.
  6. Does this bring me joy?
  7. Maybe it makes me a buzzkill, but I hope there’s a thunderstorm in the next 10 minutes.
  8. No, YOUR food intake was 75% cake, cookies, and donuts today.
  9. Whose needs go first when everyone needs so much?
  10. He mentioned it last night, but I didn’t feel it myself until this morning. A stirring urgency to get. things. done. These are our last moments of rest before the race begins in earnest tomorrow.


Of colds, burning the ships, damn fine cake, and how much I hate fireworks.

  1. Yesterday’s clouds burn away in the rising sunlight that trickles in through grimy windows to wake me before the alarm. Tis the season.
  2. Speak, whether they listen or not.
  3. Bless you, neti pot.
  4. Singing with loud abandon never fails to clear whatever disgusting blockages a cold puts on my voice, my mind, my soul. When worship ends, I feel healed.
  5. Burn the ships.
  6. My anger at witnessing witholding–and its see-through cover up–is sharp and desperate. Tell me the truth. Even if it hurts. Let’s handle it together.
  7. It’s our first real kid birthday party (even though it’s also his party, too), and I had no idea how much running I’d be doing. I barely spoke to anyone, took only a few pictures, wasn’t present with my child or my husband for their special day. Did I Martha this up?
  8. Damn, that’s some good cake.
  9. I hate fireworks . I love fireworks, just not in my neighborhood. Less in the adjoining yard. Less-less now that I have a small child trying to sleep.
  10. Shower.


Of poor grocery shopping decisions, Hipster Gaston, and too much baking.

  1. I force myself out of bed at 6:15 despite feeling like death warmed over. The page calls. I need to get it down before the memory of his smile slips away.
  2. Crunch the numbers. Make it work.
  3. You’d think after living here 11 years I’d remember a) Victoria Day is a thing and b) not to put off groceries until Saturday before. But you’d be wrong.
  4. Connection, joy, and truth are more important to me than creativity because they come out naturally in my work. Creativity is the vessel–a mode of communication–not a value in itself.
  5. I smile at everyone who cuts me off, blocks the entire aisle with their cart, gives me a dirty look. They’re probably not having the day they wanted to have, either.
  6. Of course the Internet thought of Hipster Gaston before me, but it makes me laugh so hard when I think of it.
  7. A chocolate sheet cake with the perfect frosting, a three-tiered lemon-blueberry cake, chicken-and-veggies dinner for three, and a partridge in a pear tree.
  8. I cringe at my reaction to the returning softness at my belly. I want to not care. But I do.
  9. He puts together the tricycle and doll stroller without me, with trepidation. I’m the handy one. But he does a great job; my pride is nigh parental.
  10. Fireworks two days early.
Hipster Gaston: I use antlers in all of my decorating by Green--Faerie via DeviantArt