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Shine

This time of year always feels wonderfully introspective to me. There’s something about the darkness (and the blessed, cozy rain of Portland) that urges me indoors and into myself. There’s a small glow inside my heart, and it yearns to be tended. It’s a time for goal setting, list making, talismans for those I love. I want to make things, sit quietly, and soak in what and who I love.

In my pseudo-scientific analysis of the universe, it’s a little hibernation, the dormant season of plants, or the gestation of bulbs below the surface. There are religious contexts to this, too: the contemplative time of Advent, the peaceful awaiting of the Winter Solstice.

I’ve had a few crazy weeks of work-related extroversion, and my soul feels scraped. I’ve been too tender of heart for anyone’s comfort, really, and I feel a wildness in my eyes. I’ve tried my best to hold parts of myself back in reserve, but no matter what I do, I cannot seem to stop shining at people; it leaves me totally depleted.

And so, this morning, here I am gladly gazing at my navel on this largely forgotten corner of the internet. I’ve lit a candle, and I’m watching it glow quietly on my kitchen counter. I’m plotting projects, sinking deeply into my imagination, and tending my heart.

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The Dating Profile I Wish I Could Post

About 15 years ago, I was filling out my first ever dating profile. I was at work, and my coworkers and friends were weighing in on what to say: adventurous eater, dorky sense of humor, weird hobbies like infusing liquor with various fruits, heart that shines like a light so bright it can feel uncomfortable to have it pointed at you. One friend suddenly interjected:

“You know what you’re like? You’re like some piece of furniture that I find in the corner of a booth at the flea market. The piece is kind of weird, and my first thought is to wonder what it was intended for. My second thought is to notice that it’s made of some kind of extraordinary wood – something like American Chestnut, that you can’t find new anymore – and the craftsmanship is spectacular. While it’s well made and unique, it isn’t exactly my taste, and I’m not sure if I love it… or deeply don’t. So I keep walking.

“Every few minutes, I keep thinking about it, so at the end of the flea market, I go back to the booth. I look at it again, and tell the shop keeper that there’s no way I’d spend that much money on it, so she shrugs and offers it to me at a 50% discount. And as I hand over the money, I tell myself that I’ll probably just put it on Craigslist next week anyway, but what the hell? I load it in my car.

When I arrive home, I put it in the middle of the living room, right in the center. It is weirdly perfect. And every time I walk by it, I like it more and more. It remains one of my favorite objects for the rest of my life, and every single day I say to myself, ‘that was a great buy.’ That’s what you’re like.”

So. That’s what I’m like.

I’m also the pal you gave up finding, the friend who sees straight through you, the person who will always call just when you were thinking of me. I will always be the one laughing longest and loudest, the one who awkwardly says the too-earnest thing, the worst bowler (or insert alternate sporty-ish activity), and I will miss almost every pop culture reference to a degree that becomes embarrassing.

And look, you’re going to meet me and think I’m awesome, and you’re going to suggest that maybe we should just be friends. Because while I’m well made and unique, I’m not exactly your taste, and you’re not sure if you love everything about me… or deeply don’t.

And we’ll be friends, and then you’ll change your mind. Because every time you walk by me, you’ll like me more and more.

So maybe let’s just skip to that part, ok?

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The Broken Place

“It’s like you fell down a flight of stairs, somehow landed on your feet, and you don’t even have a bruise.”

That’s the most pointed way anyone’s said it, but plenty of people have said something similar to me about the end of my marriage. I’m undamaged; I’m untouched. I know exactly why they say this: I’ve built a new life for myself, and once I walked into it, I rarely even cried. There were dark alleys, but I kept moving through them with the faith that there was light just around the corner. While I wouldn’t say I’m untouched, I’m certainly resilient. The damage has healed, and I have the scars to prove it.

It’s been over two years since everything collapsed. But I’ve just now found a broken place, a crack in my armor that guards a vulnerable spot. Finding it took me aback; it wasn’t that it was entirely unexpected, just that the width and length of the crack was so much larger than I’d realized. It seemed implausible that I hadn’t felt it yet. And it is impossible to ignore.

Where do you go to repair a crack like this? To whom do you turn when something so important is exposed to yourself, and to the world? I don’t have answers. Instead, I’m sitting with the crack, running my fingers across its edges. It’s not a smooth crack; I keep nicking my fingers as I explore it. I hope it will smooth out with time, even if it never fills back in. I wish it would fill back in.

The philosophical Me tells myself that the broken places, when healed, become our most interesting parts. They’re where the stories live, where the badass scars stay with us forever, proving that we’ve been somewhere. But right now, the broken place shocks me, takes my breath away, screams at me, and leaves me quaking in a corner of my smallest Self. It belittles everything else, and I wonder how to defeat it. Or how to befriend it, and help it heal. And after, will I find another one?

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On writing again

I’d forgotten how much I loved to write. In person, I’m not half bad. I’m funny and kind, I think. I’m generally pleasant and friendly and enjoyable. But in writing, I think there’s something special that happens, something that lets ME shine through. I wish I could harness that in person, embody it as I walk out in the world.

Such is the reality of an introvert, at least one who has to masquerade as an extrovert on a daily basis.

After a week of writing — really writing, to convey something True beyond just the Facts — the buzz of words is thrumming in my veins again. I’ve missed this.

Through work, I spend a lot of time with seniors. I dig seniors. They cut through the bullshit better than my contemporaries, and don’t seem to feel the crippling self-doubt of “are you my friend, or aren’t you” that permeates a lot of this era in which I make new friends and build a new life for myself. They just invite you and, if you can’t make it that time, invite you again. I love it. (They also have the best stories. If you ever want to have your mind blown, ask someone over the age of 70 what they used to spend their time doing. In my experience, it is, without exception, something about which someone should write a novel. Full stop.)

One of said seniors is a poet and teacher of poetry. She talks a lot about lyrical prose, which I’ve come to realize is my preferred medium. I love delicious words. I love the way they fill my mouth even when written. (It may be that I’m just food-driven. But not-coincidentally, it seems that I weigh the least when I’m writing regularly, and the most when I haven’t written for pleasure in a long time.)

I’ll never be a novelist or a professional writer. I love what I do, which is decidedly not this. But I pay good money for this little corner of the internet, where I can gaze at my navel and write what I please. And so, here we are.

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Small miracles

  • The way the light hits the leaves around 8:30pm in June.
  • Elderflowers.
  • Friends who, after long silences, reach out to make plans at exactly the moment when I have free evenings to fill.
  • The smell of chocolate drifting out the windows of the pastry kitchen across the street.
  • The unabashed, carefree, complete love of a dog.
  • Perfect, tiny strawberries from someone’s yard.
  • Feeling my heart, not like a wound, a scar, or the raw, tender skin of healing; feeling my heart like a light.
  • Coffee on my patio, sitting under an overgrown natural arbor of roses.
  • Oh, and to that point, smelling other people’s roses.
  • Each and every one of the spectacular women who help make my life possible.
  • Spring’s appearance each year, like a beloved person gently rubbing my back and telling me it’s time to wake up.
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