I still can’t shake the strangeness I’ve been feeling all week—nor do I think I should—and I can’t entirely separate myself from it at any point. But for the sake of breathing and being a positive, cheerful presence, I’m trying to parse through it in the back of my mind while I go about my days: taking a run, cleaning the kitchen floor, rolling out quiche crust, changing diapers, slicing avocado for sandwiches, talking to my sister, and so on. In lieu of trying to put into words here what you’re all already feeling (because really, do I need to join the chorus?), I’ll just say that this week’s email from On Being was quite good and helped to articulate some of my jumble of thoughts.
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I’m sitting here in the front room listening to quiet music—I’ve spent an exhausting few days rearranging all the furniture downstairs: dismantling an entire wall of glass-and-metal bookshelves laden with what felt like 100 books. I moved my small white tulip table from the breakfast room into the airy nook by the front door, making a bright spot to sit and write that overlooks the street and the water just beyond.
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The undeniable fact of our existence is such that even on joyful, soul-uplifting weeks (YASSS 2020 way to step up a little!), we still have to deal with the messy, daily business of being alive. Perhaps nothing is going awry and your to-do list is clear and you can sail through these next few days feeling buoyant and allowing your energy to float brightly in the air, untethered from your body and the sticky ins-and-outs of being a human who is alive and breathing.
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For the first time in so long, I feel a lightness and a brightness. I think it’s the physical manifestation of hope—there’s an almost electric undercurrent in the air, as if everyone was standing in a silent room and suddenly there’s faint (really good, very catchy) music playing.
If I narrow in to the smallest possible sphere of my life for the past 6 months—to just this house and this street and the daily experience of sleeping and waking and cooking and existing and so on—I’d actually say that life has felt joyful and good. If I stay in the exact present moment (which a small baby pretty much demands most of the time), then I’m generally anchored by pleasant sensations, as if the day is quilt stitched together out of discreet bits of thread—a cup of tea, one length of thread; a walk down over to the little harbor, one length of thread; a chapter of “A Burning” by Megha Majumdar, one length of thread; a run down Moores Lane then over past the Island’s End golf course; another length of thread.
Read moreBROWNED BUTTER CHOCOLATE CHUNK COOKIE BARS
When I was little, I had my own specific list of likes and dislikes. A hard pass on raw tomatoes, creamed onions, sweet winter squash, and anything licorice-flavored. A definite green light on fresh peaches, sticky orange sweet rolls, homemade strawberry ice cream, barely-blanched sugar snap peas, cucumber sandwiches, Grape-Nuts cereal with cream, buttery-tasting Club crackers with thin slices of bright orange Cracker Barrel cheddar, buttered bowtie pasta, pats of butter melting on warm-from-the-oven potato bread, and really just butter in general now that I think of it.
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