I’m writing this post primarily as a form of public accountability, but also to come clean about something. You see, Jonathan recently told me he’d committed to a personal challenge and asked if I’d like to take part…
Jonathan, Fay and I went to cut down our Christmas tree this last weekend and in looking at the sweet family picture our friend took of us, I noticed my would-barely-zip-up-in-the-first-place raincoat and my extra pudgy face were blatantly betraying me and my current affliction…
It would be an understatement to say things have been unusually busy (and stressful, and overwhelming) around here lately. Not only did we have lots and lots of family visitors, weekend after weekend, in the month of September, Fay started daycare! While we LOVE having her there and she LOVES being there, she has also (sadly) reclaimed her household status as Typhoid Fayby — meaning we’ve all been sick since the start of September. Fay also turned two! Usually nothing could overshadow that, but I admit: our distraction level has been at an all-time high because…
Last week, my sister gave birth to her baby girl — which makes me an aunt! :) With Kim and John’s permission, I’d love to introduce her to you and share a few lovely photos which were taken in the hospital…
It’s Wednesday and I haven’t spent more than one waking minute not thinking about what is happening with innocent children and their parents on the US-Mexico border…
Let’s start this week off right. Deep breath, everyone…
When Fay was a newborn, Jonathan and I started calling her, affectionately, “Chicken” — a term of endearment, I realize now, we only say directly to her and never in reference to her (which is possibly why no one ever hears us say it). In any case, at one point I found this sweet enamel pin and added it to my wishlist with the hope of one day getting it for her.
Then, a few months ago, I stumbled down an Instagram rabbit hole…
A poem on womanhood as an inherent and inevitable act of revolution.
“The Trees” by Adrienne Rich
The trees inside are moving out into the forest,
the forest that was empty all these days
where no bird could sit
no insect hide
no sun bury its feet in shadow
the forest that was empty all these nights
will be full of trees by morning.
All night the roots work
to disengage themselves from the cracks
in the veranda floor.
The leaves strain toward the glass
small twigs stiff with exertion
long-cramped boughs shuffling under the roof
like newly discharged patients
to the clinic doors.
I sit inside, doors open to the veranda
writing long letters
in which I scarcely mention the departure
of the forest from the house.
The night is fresh, the whole moon shines
in a sky still open
the smell of leaves and lichen
still reaches like a voice into the rooms.
My head is full of whispers
which tomorrow will be silent.
Listen. The glass is breaking.
The trees are stumbling forward
into the night. Winds rush to meet them.
The moon is broken like a mirror,
its pieces flash now in the crown
of the tallest oak.
Psst… Want to read more of my favorite poems? Right this way.
(Photo by Diana Davies via The New York Public Library)
Five months ago, I wrote about my decision to leave Facebook as a significant step forward in caring for my mental health during a time when my thought patterns and feelings were reaching stressful, scary, and tumultuous lows. In an act of solidarity, Jonathan and I clicked “deactivate” together, both of us keen on reorienting our priorities and focus. Since then, we’ve moved two states away and started partly-new jobs; we’ve dealt with some setbacks and unforeseen frustrations, but at the same time have been working to sink in roots which include a welcoming new group of friends and (finally) a love of our surroundings.
Things still haven’t been easy (mental health management is a constant work in progress with no quick fixes) but the positive result is that most of the outside factors negatively impacting my heart and mind have been stripped away, leaving, well, me.
Then recently, Jonathan told me something…
Upon hearing the news of Kate Spade‘s death earlier this week, I noticed the sadly familiar shift of a conversation steeped with sadness, understanding, and loss, to one which couldn’t help but emphasize that Kate has “a 13-year-old daughter” and “how could anyone be so selfish?”
Then came the news this morning about Anthony Bourdain, and my heart broke into a thousand pieces…