There are so many things to consider when selecting a new journal. The look of the cover. The number of pages. The feel of the paper. The distance between the lines. And whether or not they call to you to write in them.
But most importantly, the weight of each individual page. Are they substantial enough to hold all the words that will inevitably come, looking for a place to stay?
That’s what I’m scared of. What happens next.
After infatuation and butterflies and obsession and absolute perfection. After intimacy and closeness and comfort and trust. After white dresses and first dances and honeymoon suites. After nesting and settling down and routines and consistency.
I’m scared of what happens next after that.
When all the things you once loved slowly start to wear you down. And you barely speak at all. Where you’re suddenly in a place of knowing one another completely and not knowing each other at all.
And the walls begin to build around you, between you, on top of you. Until you feel so trapped, it’s almost impossible to breathe.
Because you know, what happens after that. What’s coming next. We don’t even know where else to go anymore. The end is the only destination we have for this journey. And so our butterflies turn to moths, and float onward toward the end’s sullen glow.
Then we’ll shed the tears and sign the papers and be cordial and alone.
Maybe if I never do the ring or the dress or the veil or the dance, maybe then we’ll never get to what’s next. And we can stay as we are forever.
That would be just fine with me.
(Image source: High on Skinny on Tumblr)
Sometimes I’m told I am gifted with words. But I see them coming together in sentences and structures and jargon and poems and prose and think – No, no no. It’s the words that are gifted.
They are the music. I cannot help but sing along.
My mom has a gypsy spirit. And an infatuation with the Virgin Mary. She can talk to angels. And she is my favorite writer. No one even comes close.
Growing up, she drew hearts in my peanut butter sandwiches. And let me follow her around when I was scared by thunderstorms. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, she gave me a glass of warm milk with vanilla, then sat with me until my eyelids began to grow heavy again.
She is an artist. A dreamer. A friend.
She believed in me. Loved me. Made me.
I am forever grateful and proud to be hers.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
(This painting is one of the many my mother did of her angels.)
The worst part is never when something terrible happens. It’s the first time you wake up afterwards.
After my heart broke, I cried until my body ran out of tears, literally dried up my emotional well. And then I sat in my bed, knees clutched to my chest, eyes open wide – staring at nothing – and rocked. Back and forth. For hours.
I suppose at some point my conscious numbness conceded to my body and I fell asleep.
It’s waking up that’s the worst. The moment you think maybe that was just a dream, then slowly process that it wasn’t. And the realization is stabbing. And choking. As if someone is taking your insides and wringing them out like a washcloth.
But on that morning, when I woke up in my college apartment, the walls were covered with words. Words of hope. Quotes I loved. My sweet roommate snuck into my room before I woke up and filled that place of sadness with kindness and friendship and concern.
I don’t remember all of them, but I remember the largest, written in bright green across the middle of my mirror.
This too shall pass.
And despite my bloodshot eyes and knotted stomach and heavy heart, I could not help but smile.
(Image source: Modern Hepburn on Tumblr)
Write your wrongs.
Every little thing is gonna be all write.
Stand up for what’s write.
Fight for your write.
Looking for Mr. Write.
Come write back to me.
Write back where I belong.
Write place at the write time.
Just write.
When I was a little girl with polka dot bows and Velcro shoes, I always knew when the hydrangea bushes, lining the side of our little blue house, would bloom. Every year, it was late May or early June. My dad told me they were blooming just for me – to wish me happy birthday.
Now every time I see those big round clusters of violet and blue flowers, I can’t help but think of him. And how he taught me to appreciate the world around me and wonder at its beauty.
(Image source: Better Homes and Gardens.)
That’s what you fall in love with. Not the whole of a person. Not their general appearance. Not their entire spirit or personality or being.
It’s the details. All the infinitesimal details. The slightness of your half-smile. The face you always make when looking in the mirror.
It’s refusing to wear pants inside. And how you hold me while we try to fall asleep. Taking every opportunity to dance naked. Buying holiday candy only after the holiday is over. And never wanting to walk to the mailbox alone.
The way you say “I’m sorry.” And how you always laugh hardest at your own jokes. Your grumpiness on Sunday mornings. And your strange obsession with oscillating fans.
That’s how I always know I’m starting to care beyond the superficial. When someone asks me what I like about you. And I have no answer.
Because there isn’t a single legitimate thing I like about you. There are only one thousand details.
“No matter how careful you are, there’s going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn’t experience it all. There’s that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should’ve been paying attention.”
-Chuck Palahniuk
I ran a half marathon in October (“run” being a strong word, really). The 13.1 miles wove in and out of an amusement park at night.
For the most part, we trucked along stretches of nothingness: trees and paved road and darkness and nothing more.
And then there were these short bursts of life. With lights and rides and attractions and animals. Blasts of color, excitement, animation.
As soon as you’d get to those brief moments of glitter, you’d immediately pick up the pace. Taking longer strides. Running faster. The sheer thrill of it all propelling you through. Without even thinking.
During that race I remember wondering, why don’t we slow down when we get to the good part? Why don’t we ease our pace and pause and breathe it all in?
It’s the same race we run each day. Sprinting through the best parts when we should’ve slowed down. When we should’ve been paying attention.
I’d be lying if I told you I drink sweet tea out of Mason jars. Or feel comfortable driving a pick up truck. My backyard never did have a tire swing. And I can honestly say I don’t own a single a pair of cowboy boots and certainly wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a teasing comb. Most folks don’t even detect that faint Georgia accent in my voice except on select words like sugar, maybe, and Marietta.
But the South has crept into me in others ways. In twilights spent chasing fireflies. In the sound of fresh-picked blueberries falling in yellow plastic buckets and the smell of boiled peanuts from a roadside stand. In rainy tin roof lullabies. In over-yonder and reckon-so and I-do-declare.
And the South taught me a thing or two. Like how to catch a tadpole. Or how to flirt with boys. What side of the plate the fork goes on. And which vegetables are best for frying. It taught me important contractions like fixin’to and all-y’all. And when it’s okay to wear white shoes.
But it was while buried in the South’s endless summers and darting beneath her falling leaves and scalding every last taste bud with hot cocoa and waiting for the jonquils to bloom… it was in the South that I found my voice.
And realized all that I could be.
(Image source: CarolinaBlues on Tumblr)
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