it’s been almost a year since i wrote to you.
or rather, i’ve started plenty of letters, (like, so many) but i haven’t finished a single one. in what appears to be an ongoing barrage of both high + low key traumas, it turns out that some seasons are simply too personal, too tender, too fraught for words.
sometimes when you are busy surviving, creativity just slips quietly out the back door without a proper goodbye.
i miss the writerly part of me who could instinctively process and contribute to the world in that specific way, who was able to take all the big feelings + experiences and metabolize them down here onto the page, if for no other benefit than my own.
it felt good and right.
but these are not the days of writing words, at least not for consumption.
there’s something about suffering that makes you desperately want to be seen while also needing to remain invisible. so instead, these are the days of bearing witness to my own self.
of scribbling furiously in my journal and pressing ink into paper and letting that be enough.
these are the days of grief + anxiety + fear.
of emergencies + every kind of doctor appointment + so many more questions than answers.
these are the days of panic attacks + quiet sobs + if you must know, some pretty angry prayers. i’ve been denying you your anger for far too long, body, and for that i am truly sorry. there is a lion inside of these bones and it feels good to know that now.
these are the days of taking our delight + finding our pleasure- in nature, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, anywhere we can find it. because that is a part of us that we refuse to let die. you get yours, don’t you body? it is our tiny act of rebellion in the face of so much pain.
these are the days of honoring your visceral, animal existence; the good, the bad, the ugly. all of it.
of nurturing you like i would a newborn. feed you every few hours, listen closely to what your tears might be saying, stay close, stay soft, stay present. just keep staying, baby.
these are the days of dancing your ass off to at least one song a day.
of breathing + walking + staying connected.
of reading junk fiction + rewatching fleabag for the 5th time (who’s counting, barb? this is a love story) + sitting on the porch even when it’s freezing + watching the animals roam the farm.
these are the days of making the most epic playlists and then letting those playlists become the soundtrack to our actual life. writing used to be the way in, for me. the way in to my thoughts and feelings (of which there are multitudes). but when words fail, you have become my way in, body.
we were in an explosion, and ever since then it’s just been white noise.
it’s been 3 years since liftoff. 2 years since the big sick. 1 year since the bad day, when death entered the room.
we’ve come so far from that dark place, body, but the truth is, we are still fighting our way back to life most days. we are still grasping at each other, trying to survey the damage. doing our best to lovingly tend the wounds, and i don’t just mean mine. every person under this roof has been in some form of crisis this winter, health and otherwise.
in the middle of all that chaos, you have become my way in, body. my way in to naming and understanding and processing.
i see you.
i’m listening.
p.s, i made you a playlist ;)👇🏼
Leave a Reply