packing a life into boxes

 

I’ve done it so many times I don’t have a count anymore, but every time I pack my life into boxes, I’m flooded. Both with the amount of stuff I own, and, as I touch every item in my home, the emotional terrain each item comes with.

I’m not a pack-rat or a minimalist. I live for the feeling of clear cupboards and manageable drawers, but I’m hesitant to toss stuff that I’ve spent my money on, because will I kick myself in a month when I need to purchase a new fillintheblank? A cousin once told me that if he’s considering discarding something he can replace for under $15, he lets it goo. But I also grew up watching my mom be meticulous about our possessions — sometimes to the point she was discarding items we very much need in our daily life.

I don’t have answers. Our relationship with our stuff is so complicated. It’s fraught with our own layers of emotional complexity, but also with socio-economics and the politics of wealth inequality.

Our objects tie us to the multitudes of who we’ve been. I have a bookmark with a giraffe a mother cross-stitched for me when I was nine after I lent her daughter a piece of clothing at a summer camp, because I like being reminded of the first time I remember consciously choose to set aside my own anxieties for someone else’s inclusion. Last summer, I filled trashed bags of clothing, because I didn’t want my closet to remain a reminder of of all the ways I compromised my worth. My boyfriend and I are moving two full sets of Harry Potter books across the country (plus the beginnings of a third, illustrated set), because this story shaped our childhoods and adolescences in separate, but powerful ways. Do we need three copies of the Sorcerer’s Stone in one house (especially when you consider I’ve read it so many times I can repeat the first page from memory)?

At the beginning of the year, I had a vision of white space. I wanted to clear room. Why, I wasn’t sure, and for what, I didn’t know. If I’m learning to have faith in anything, it’s that we are receiving preparation for what comes next. I was creating space between the narratives that frame my life, and the desires those narratives found conflict with. I needed clarity to make the decision we made three months ago.

We’re weeks away from the materialization of that “white space” I wanted. A cross-country move, and a place to live where we know no one except the HR departments who hired us. I said to a friend that this move feels less like an outright opportunity, and more like the opportunity for opportunities.

Six months ago, I cleared my home of anything that was unnecessary or reminded me of pain. Now that I’m packing what’s left, the question has shifted “do you need this enough to haul it cross-country,” and the answers aren’t as clear. There’s math I need to consider, how much does the trailer hold, what can we afford to replace, what must we just part with, but then the equations get messy. How do you fit what you need in a trailer, but first, how do you know what you need when you leave home for the first time? How much of you collection do you keep out of comfort? And how warm is that comfort, really? How do you carry all your history with you, and still keep space for new places to become a kind of home?

The question I’m really asking is how to I love the home I’m leaving and still leave room for something new to grow?

what i’m reading lately

on my bookshelf.jpgRight now, this country is all jagged outrage and impotent heartbreak. I wrote about my bookshelf before yesterday’s Supreme Court decision (although, obviously, after the waves and waves of coverage on detained asylum seekers, babies in cages, and outrageous government-sponsored human rights violations). Books can be escape in desperate times. I hope, instead, they’re lightposts, wisdom to combat all this injustice and pain.

There was a time when books were my safety. I read constantly, voraciously. Friends would joke: I can see from Goodreads that you’ve read four books in the time its taken me to read one. Do you do anything else? I brought books to parties, because knowing I had one near was enough to stem the anxiety that crowds created for me. I referred my bookshelves, in unguarded and un-ironic moments, as my oldest friends.

In college, I made my roommate wait while I ran back into our apartment. When she saw me tucking a novel into my bag, and she laughed. We’re running errands. What do you need a book for? What if something happens, I tried to explain, and I have time to kill?

So you’re saying that we get into a car accident. I’m so badly hurt I can’t carry a conversation, and you’re going to whip out a book while you wait for an ambulance?

Last year, my reading life shifted, and it’s taken me the year to acclimate. When I stopped needing books to smother my pain, I stopped reading. I wasn’t the walking wounded anymore; I didn’t need the band-aids.

It’s been a joyful process to rediscover one of my earliest loves. It’s led to a deeper relationship and, antithetically, less attached relationship with the texts. It’s not an anesthesia, so I’m present for language and wisdom and plot development in ways I wasn’t. I’ve been rereading books to savor them in new and cleaner ways. I’m purging my shelves of what I don’t like, expanding my diet to explore what I do, getting more life of everything I read.

In other words, I’ve found my groove again.

Under the Tuscan SunBella Tuscany, Frances Mayes: I didn’t read these books when they were released a decade ago, didn’t see the movie, wasn’t old enough to get tired of the Tuscany-as-lifestyle frenzy they created. My mother passed them to me in a stack she was discarding, and I grabbed the first before a work trip I wanted some “light” reading for. Mayes is a fantastic writer. A poet, she operates at the level of the sentence, and I get why these books (the first, in particular) sent the world into paroxysms of Tuscan-fever. Everything is beautiful underneath her pen.

But beneath the language, and all the talk of wines and linens and the cucinia povera and the Etruscan walls (as an aside: I found this all fascinating, even if it was extraneous and vaguely pretension), I found in these memoirs a meditation on home, and who we are when we locate ourselves elsewhere. I’m moving this summer, and Mayes did for me what I ask literature to do: Her memoirs provided shape and language for the hopes I have for our move, for the dreams, the anxieties, the questions, the reasons.

The Good Mother, Sue Miller: Like the Mayes memoirs, The Good Mother is decades old, scavenged during one of my $0.50 per title book bin benders. This novel about a woman who became awake: After a dispassionate marriage, Anna Dunlap begins to lay a new foundation upon which to build a life for herself and her daughter, only to have this new life thrown into chaos by a decision made by her lover. The central crisis of this novel isn’t as nuanced as Miller likely meant it to be (although I’m speaking from a vantage point of thirty years), but the intensity of character’s experience is. Miller writes  a traditionally “female” story without any of the traditional sentimentality. Motherhood brings deep, radical love, but also compromise and limits. Romance is obsessive and consuming, but there’s no prince charming who will save a woman’s life. Familial ties are complicated. Love, in all its forms, is complicated. It’s a story that embraces, but doesn’t try to smooth, the rough corners of our experiences.

Vida, Patricia Engel: This is best book I’ve read this year. Engel is a sharp, beautiful writer who knows how to make language detonate. I read this very short collection of interconnected stories (140-ish pages) during an April snowstorm that left me snowed in. There’s nothing Engel won’t touch, and nothing she can’t make both beautiful and broken: prostitution, domestic abuse, death, immigration, heartbreak, girls who feel out of place, boyfriends who let you down. I read this book months ago, and still haven’t gotten over it.

This spring, I also reread Felicia Sullivan’s superb Follow Me into the Dark, Cheryl Strayed’s gorgeous memoir, Wild, and slogged through a few so-so titles that immediately wound up in the give away pile.

Currently, I’m reading Star of the Sea, Joseph O’Connor + The Empathy Exams, Leslie Jamison. The first, a novel I’ve had on my shelf for years, is one of my pre-move “read now or toss” books. I will haul the books I love across oceans without regret, but I really don’t want to get out to DC with boxes of books I’m going to disappointed in when I finally read them. So far (as in 50 pages in), Star of the Sea, historical fiction about a passenger ship crossing from Ireland to New York, is better than I expected.

The second, I’m reading slowly. Do you ever “save” the books you’re most excited for? I’ve wanted to read The Empathy Exams since it was released, but even though it’s been on my shelf for a year, I was hesitant to start it. When I buy a book, I put it on my shelf and wait for months, maybe years, for the “right time” to read it. I’m not sure if this is a sweet piece of my character (the anticipation builds my love) or another way I reinforce the beliefs that I don’t deserve to have I want. Either way, I’m finally reading Jamison’s essays, and they’re as gorgeous as I expected. I’m savoring each essay, one at a time.

Other books on my “to be read: special moving edition” pile: Joyland, Stephen KingIn the Country We Loved, Diana Guerrero, The Wonder Spot, Melissa Bank, A Box of Matches, Nicholson Baker.

What are you reading? What should I be reading?

new york city, dublin, london: tell me everything

We are traveling this summer! We’re going to New York City! We’re going to Dublin! We’re going to London! Then we’re going back to Dublin!

My boyfriend and I booked tickets a few months ago, but it’s taken the snow melting from the sidewalks (this week) for me to get we’re-going-to-be-in-Europe excited. I love guidebooks, and already have ones for all three cities (evidence above), but I want to hear from people who have been there. Where do we go? What do we do? What restaurants do we need to try? What museums do I need to visit? What bookshops do I need to see? What bookshops do I NEED to see?

Each of these cities have been jewels on my tongue for years. I visited New York when I was a teenager, but the other two will be all new. I’m all the things you are when you travel: excited and anxious and ready to be wowed and hopeful that it will bring with it clarity/creativity/wonder/an awakening. Mostly, though, I’m kind of in awe that I booked these tickets, and kind of in awe that in just a few months I’ll be standing on foreign soil, walking on streets whose names I’ve memorized from maps and books. In the weeks after booking the tickets, I kept turning to my boyfriend and shouting “We’re going to Dublin!”

It’s still a few months out. For now, though, I need you to tell me everything good. Heavy emphasis on books, food/drink, weird crime stuff, and anything not included in my guidebook.

everything you’ve been feeling? yeah, that’s depression

Late last week, after an episode of television left me unreasonably shattered, I remembered: This is what depression feels like. (How did I forget?)

I’ve experienced three major depressive episodes in my life. Darknesses so unnavigable I thought I’d never be a whole person again. But depression doesn’t usually come for me like this. It’s more likely to come in mild, stubborn waves. Instead of night that won’t end, it’s like clouds that refuse to part.

When I’m back under the clouds, I can’t understand how I ever forget that this is what depression feels like, but I always do. Maybe it’s a stubborn leftover from childhood, that hope that, once they come, sunny days will never leave.

But as steady as the sun comes, so do the clouds, and all my hallmarks signs of depression are back — and have been for several weeks. Brain fog, poor concentration, fast tears, a blue undertone, worries that seem unsolvable, a general sense that it’s all too much to bear.

It’s taken me three days to write these measly 800 or so words, because my brain feels both empty and waterlogged. This too reminds me I’m depressed. Accessinglanguageis usually themostnaturalthingI do. Maybe that’s why depression (even more so than anxiety) feels frightening — it cuts me off from the very act that heals me.

I like growing up, though, because I’m getting better at my life. Right now, I’m getting better at accepting that I can’t “fix” my way out of depression. Exercise or yoga or meditation or reading a good book — all these things help soothe me, but they’re not “cures” for depression, despite what the internet tells you. All I can do when I’m here is hang on. To myself and to the resources I have, and I wait for the days to get better. (And they always, always have).

This is a mild and functional depression, and some days are easier than others. Some days are even easy. Tuesday was an easy day — cheerful, productive, bright. I fell asleep at ease. Wednesday was not, though. My brain was a wide blank desert, and every time I tried to dial in to my work, my blankness intimidated me and left me in tears. I wanted to crawl back to bed, and hide from the light.

I’ve been on hiatus from my blog, because work and life crowded out the time I usually set aside to write, and I didn’t do a good job of creating time elsewhere. I once listened to an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert where she said that when she wakes up in a bad mood, she asks herself: “Who are you going to blame your life no today? I was quiet here for several months last year, and returned in the fall to kickstart my creativity and retrain my writing muscle. Another month and a half of radio silence is good proof that I derail my own goals better than anyone else can.

Although, I hate the language of goals. Especially when I’m in my depression, I’m reminded that our resources are limited, and sometimes, you just can’t do everything you want to. Self discipline and commitment and “crushing it” all have their place in forward motion, but “no excuses” and “hustle harder” is just so antithetical how life actually rolls. I want to finish a draft of my novel by April 30. I told myself I’d write six days a week to do that. Last week, I opened my notes every day, and didn’t write a single word.

All that being said, I want to get back into a regular habit of writing here once a week. I like the space it gives me to think, and I like the small platform it gives me to connect with the people who share in my struggles and triumphs and questions and curiosities. That, more than anything else, heals me.

Reading Lately: The Woman in Cabin 10 + What Alice Forgot. After eschewing the novel in favor of essays for a year or so, I’m back to my roots. These last two novels I read are both highly marketed, highly marketable “commercial novels,” and while I dislike the snobbery of “literary fiction,” I see the difference when I read novels like these. These two novels are page turners/page burners. I’m not keeping either now that I’ve finished (I keep only books I really love and plan to return to), but losing myself in their stories reminded me of why I love books.

Watching Lately: Big Little Lies + Criminal Minds. I’ve been rewatching Big Little Lies (but only while I workout, because #motivation), and this show is so nuanced and complex. My boyfriend and I are also deep into Criminal Minds. We play this fun game during the credits where I shout out all the mug shots I recognize, and he buries his head underneath the couch cushions. (I didn’t say who it was fun for…). As much as I joke about loving creepy crime stuff, there’s something particularly fascinating about the gender dynamics at play in the true crime world. Women know — and we have this knowledge reinforced daily — that we are vulnerable to crime in ways that men are not. Our bodies and our lives only remain our own insofar as we are aware of how quickly they can be taken from us. Again, with the jokes, but I think women feel a little bit better when we know all the different ways we could be killed.

Working on Lately: Being kinder to myself. I’m not talking self-care or “treat yo self,” but rather about the way I talk to myself. I shared on Instagram this week the negative comments I made to myself about my appearance. I try to approach the world with grace and care, but when I think about how I approach myself, it’s all sharp edges and hard lines. Of course you’re lazy. Of course you’re not pretty enough. Of course you don’t deserve that. It’s exhausting to live under such a barrage, and yet I choose to do it to myself! Why? I’m the one that gets to decide how I treat myself. Why do I choose to be so mean?

books i read in 2017

86db281f-40e5-4eef-a4ee-e3dd5a8323e1I read this year for wisdom. I read less this year than I’ve read in years. I struggled to focus on the page for long periods of time. I started and abandoned at least a dozen books. I grew impatient with writers faster, and found myself avoiding male writers for the better half of the year. I bought books less frequently, and I quit carrying a book in my bag with me. I joked last night that I read so little this year, because I did so much living.

While that’s only about half-true, I do know that as I made changes to my life this year, I found myself less out of a need for escape, and more out of a need for awakening. Last January dawned black and lonely. I spent five months crawling towards the sun, and when I reached it, it was brilliant, blinding, and healing. Even though I read significantly less, I think I read better books, with more intention, and gained more from their pages than I have in previous years.

I’m leaving 2017 stronger, happier, and more at peace; these books helped shape me.

  • Elizabeth Berg’s The Art of Mending: After talking about how rich my book diet was, it’s a bummer to start my (alphabetized) list with this book, because it was not good. I remember thinking that this was one of the those books prolific writers crank out because they’ve got a deadline coming soon. The characters were weak and one-dimensional, and the plot half filled out.
  • Jess Walter’s Beautiful Ruins: I brought this (along with three Ferrante novels) to Italy this August, and read it in the first week of our trip. I loved it so much — for its sweeping romanticism, for its multiple-narrator, multiple-timeline structure, for its unabashed adoration of Italy. I spent the first few months of summer eschewing novels and male writers, but Walter’s novel convinced me to return to both.
  • Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me: Is there anything I could say about Ta-Nehisi Coates’ elegy that hasn’t already been said? It is required reading. It is a social history of the systems of race that built and sustain America, and a painful meditation of the personal experience of institutionalized violence. It is angry, and mournful, and unapologetic. This book is intensely personal, and as a white reader, it felt like a window with the shades pulled back. This book is two years old now. If you haven’t read it yet, read it in 2018.
  • Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run: I began this book the day it was released in September 2017, but despite my deep, deep love for Bruce Springsteen, I couldn’t get into it. I needed this book later. It took me two weeks to read the first 200 pages, and two days to read the next four hundred in two days. Born to Runwas extraordinary in ways I didn’t expect it to be. Though he’s not old and is still actively creating, Springsteen wrote like a man at the end of his life — with grace and wisdom and posterity and understanding. He covers the range — his difficult childhood, the hunger of a young artist, the persistent hold depression, creativity, marriage and divorce, fatherhood (and sonship), politics, death, money. I read this book, because I love Bruce Springsteen, but it’s a powerful, painful, and ultimately hopeful meditation on a full life.
  • Elena Ferrante’s The Days of Abandonment: Ferrante is brilliant. Last year, I read all the Neapolitan novels, and told everyone that would listen that they should read them too. I’d give the same command about Days of Abandonment except this book is dark and disturbing in ways that even the Neapolitan novels weren’t. It’s a story of a woman’s unraveling, in the hot summer after her husband leaves her and her children. Ferrante writes women with an unparalleled and horrific mastery. This is a novel of undoing, claustrophobic and disorienting and compelling. I read it on the beaches of Sardinia, and on a plane, over the Atlantic Ocean.
  • Phyllis A. Whitney’s The Fire and the Gold: A good friend lent me this book in May — her favorite book and one that she returns to repeatedly for comfort. Published in 1956 and set in 1906, this is a novel about a young woman, set on ending an engagement, but caught up in the chaos of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. It’s a short novel, but it’s sweeping and grand and romantic. Although I didn’t read much for escape this past year, this book was a perfect escape from a particularly high-stress week. (As a parenthetical, I love when people share with me the books they love. Maybe it’s because I love books so much, but it’s such an act of trust and intimacy.)
  • Felicia Sullivan’s Follow Me into the Dark: This was easily one of the best books I read this year. Sullivan is a brilliant writer (I came to her writing via her now inactive blog), whose fiction is dark, but powerful. Follow Me into the Dark is about mothers and daughters, and women in varying stages of undoing. When explaining this novel (to everyone who would listen, because, people, this book must be read), I struggled to explain the plot without giving too much away, but I landed on some version of: It’s a novel about inter-generational abuse, unchecked grief, and the trauma experienced by unloved children, told through the story of three siblings and the history of their family. Sullivan is a gorgeous writer whose words I would ink on my skin, but she’s also a unflinchingly brave storyteller who is willing to bring readers, with little promise of escape, into the dark.

ed0b9a10-19f4-4b66-b4e2-6e0bf31693bf

  • Amy Schumer’s The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo: I listened to this memoir on audiobook during a work trip that kept me in the car for about ten hours. I expected very little from it — as a public figure, Schumerisproblematic and I’ve never connected with her brand of humor — but my library offers little by way of audiobook, so I gave it a shot. I was surprised by how thoughtful this book ended up being. Most compelling were Schumer’s reflections on the trauma she experienced in an abusive relationship, her father’s multiple-sclerosis, and her experiences of body and love.
  • Gilian Flynn’s Gone Girl: I realize I read this book about five years too late, but I was underwhelmed. Yes, I’d already seen the movie, and knew the twist, but usually, if a book is good enough, it doesn’t matter to me if I know the plot or not. I thought Flynn’s writing drew too much attention to itself, and the character development not as sophisticated as it was billed to be. I liked the movie better.
  • David Grann’s Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI: I was wary of this book when it first came out, because do we really need more white men telling other people’s stories, but this book ended up impressing me. Grann tells the rigorously researched story of the widespread murder of Osage people during the early twentieth century for their wealth and oil rights. This book lagged in the middle, but Grann managed to tell this story with grace, pain, and respect.
  • Kevin Fenton’s Leaving Rollingstone: I first read Fenton after attending a panel he was on in 2011. His novel, Merit Badges, is a melancholy ode to youth, friendship, and what we lose as we grow up. Maybe this is the central question of Fenton’s writing life, because Leaving Rollingstone was written from a similar vantage. He begins his life on the family farm in Southern Minnesota, and spends the rest of his adolescence and adulthood trying to find a way to return. Fenton writers like a man in process, not a man with results, and I found his memoir thoughtful, mournful, but ultimately hopeful.
  • Chris Bohjalian’s The Light in the Ruins: One of the last books I read this year, and one of the most meh. Bohjalian is a prolific writer, but I’ve never read any of his novels. This one fell flat. The plot was compelling enough (dual timelines, set ten years apart: A serial killer is targeting a wealthy Italian family; Nazis are occupying the same family’s villa during the late years of the war), but it was about nothing more than what was on the page. Especially this year, I was reading for so much more than entertainment, and this barely was that.
  • Tana French’s The Likeness: This book. I was wary about it, because I read French’s first detective novel, In the Woods, last year, and it’s plot was a disappointment. The Likeness begins with a less compelling mystery than In the Woods — a young woman, who shares a striking resemblance with a murder detective, is found dead in an Irish farmhouse; the detective goes undercover as the dead girl to try to find out who killed her — but read as a much better novel. Although French wraps up this mystery well, I think I would have still loved this novel, even if it has as disappointing ending as In the Woods. More so than this book is about murder or detectives or solutions, it’s a reflection on friendship, and connection, and the deeply human need to belong. Of all the things I gained and lost in this past year, I’ve struggled most with the sense that I’ve lost friends. My social circle has shrunk down to a very few, and I’ve felt intermittently hurt and lonely because of this. Maybe I loved this novel, because it asked what it means to belong at a very point in the year when I was asking myself the same question.
  • Glennon Doyle Melton’s Love Warrior: For a long time, I avoided anything that too closely resembled “self-help,” because I didn’t believe that a real person (me) could live a life so unlocked.Love Warrior is much more memoir than self-help, but because Melton rose to fame through her self-help-realm blog and first book, it still has elements of direction. I listened to Melton’s memoir on audiobook early in the year, and I feel like I was able to only half-hear it. Possibly one of the most woo-woo things I believe is that books come to us at the right points in time (if we want them to), and this book came to me a bit too early. I’ve since listened to Melton talk about some of the same themes she discusses in her book — rock bottom, vulnerability, trust and power, loneliness, and I want to read Love Warrior again. I wasn’t ready, at the time, to unlock.
  • Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower: If I’m being honest, I remember loving this book than I remember actually reading this book. It’s my now-boyfriend’s favorite book, and he recommended it to me in the first few weeks we’d been seeing each other. This book is slim, but I devoured it. (Handsome man borrows you his favorite book on the fourth date, that’s what you do). What I do remember about reading it was that this book seemed to hold every emotion a human being can feeling, and that, if there ever was one, is the perfect description of adolescence.
  • Carrie Fisher’s The Princess Diarist: I think we expect more wisdom of people after they pass. I remember feeling this way about Fisher’s last memoir. This book was charming, and enjoyable, but in the weeks following her death, it was billed as some kind of deep dive into the heart and mind of a young woman on the brink of her life. It’s not that — it’s a teenager’s diary, paired with enjoyable, gossipy essays about that period of her life. I did enjoy this book, but I think I expected revelation, when really, it’s a lot of reflection.
  • Ariel Levy’s The Rules Do Not Apply: Another audiobook for another brutally long solo-drive. I found that Levy’s memoir commanded my attention, but very little else. Levy writes well about being a female journalist, about her experience as the wife of a woman with severe addiction issues, and about the late-term loss of her baby, but it failed to do, for me, what good memoirs do: Make the personal seem universal.
  • Louis Erdrich’s Shadow Tag: Oh my god, this book was thunder. Erdrich is prolific and masterful, and this is not one of her more popular novels, but it is easily my favorite. Remember what I said about books finding us when we need them? This one came to when I needed it. It tore open the curtains, and shook my bones, and demanded I be awake. It tells the story of a woman gathering her own strength in the middle of her dysfunctional and abusive marriage, and the unraveling of a family along the seam of the parents’ wrecked marriage. It’s a violent, angry novel, and it demanded I pay attention. I finished it on a Sunday, and immediately began re-reading it.
  • Kate Bolick’s Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own: I read this book slowly during my mid-summer literary dry spell, but each time I opened it, I felt like I was being spoon fed wit and wisdom. Spinster is equal parts memoir, literary criticism, and social commentary. Bolick writes about her five “awakeners” — female writers who composed and comprised Bolick’s development as a woman and artist. Although much was made about the marriage issue — both the title and Bolick’s meditation on her decision to never marry — I found marriage was a minor part of this book. Instead, Bolick writes holistically about what it means for a woman to build a life of her own choosing. I picked up this book now, a few years after its publication, because this is a question I’ve asked myself repeatedly this year. Bolick doesn’t provide answers, but she does provide solace — that these questions are hard to ask, and that answers are hard to come by, and that every woman has, if not the opportunity, at least the right to build for herself a good life.
  • Amber Dermont’s The Starboard Sea: I bought this book years ago, and I’m pretty sure I picked it off the clearance table, because I liked the contrast of a white cover, blue-scale cover art, and raised red lettering. When I finally pulled it from my shelf this spring, I barely knew what it was about. It’s one of those novels where a description of the plot makes the book sound tinny and shallow — prep school sailor is mourning the loss of his best friend and sailing partner while building new relationships, confronting fresh tragedy, and finding grace and answers for himself in the process — but Dermont’s novel is rich and graceful and generous. Her portrait of the interior life of Jason, her narrator, is complex and nuanced, while her language is beautiful and playful. I loved-loved this novel, and found so much mournful, hopeful beautiful within its pages.
  • Rupi Kaur’s The Sun and Her Flowers: I’ve never read much poetry, and while I think that the kind of Instagram poetry that Kaur writes is making poetry much more accessible for a wider audience, I’ve never sought it out. I enjoyed reading The Sun and Her Flowers, and burned through it in just a few days, but it didn’t heal me or change me or make me new. There was something too tidy about her poems. Maybe it was the way they were packaged, each section charting the life cycle of a plant, or the way she wrote with such seriousness, but there was a texture or a roughness that I wanted. Life is rarely this tidy, and healing never is. (I also wasn’t aware until after finishing this book that the authenticity of her poetry has been called into question a few times, as has her exploitation of the trauma experience).
  • Nafisa Haji’s The Sweetness of Tears: A forgettable book from the very beginning of the year. I believe I remember thinking that the plot spanned too much time, tried to cover too much ground, and relied too heavily on coincidence. I also remember the language being exhausting. I can’t find the book on my shelf, so I must have gotten rid of it immediately upon finishing.
  • Julia Glass’s Three Junes: The first book I read in 2017, and maybe my favorite. I read it immediately following my grandfather’s death, and like good novels do, this book helped me heal. It was full, and beautiful, and gorgeously written. Read more here.
  • Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar: Again, with the “books finding you.” I read this in 2016 as well, and last year, I was underwhelmed and sometimes annoyed with Strayed’s particular brand of big-hearted truth-telling. This year, when I read it, I was riveted. I said that I read this year looking for wisdom, and I sat underneath the Sugarfountain looking to be cleansed. One thing I know I learned this year: My cynicism is boring, my life is gift, and what’s wrong with fighting hard to make it all beautiful.

  • Meghan Daum’s The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion: Another one of my book-drought books. I started reading this book in June, and finished it two days ago. This was the first of Daum’s collections that I’ve read, and while I found the collection, as a whole, a little patchy, I appreciated the overall work. I loved the essays “The Best Possible Experience,” “Not What It Used to Be,” and “The Joni Mitchell Problem.” Daum is funny, thoughtful, and “real.” I want to read more of her in 2018.
  • Mary Oliver’s Upstream: Selected Essays: I read this book in two rainy days, and it burrowed straight under my skin. Oliver is a beautiful essayist, and this collection is stunning. She writes with the authority of age, but this book is neither confessional or even terribly personal. Instead, it’s a meditation on wisdom, and the natural world, and beauty, and aging. This book is another gift Oliver has given us, and like her poetry, each word on the pages seems deliberate, smooth and beautiful — pebbles plucked from Blackbird pond.
  • Joyce Carol Oates’ We Were the Mulvaneys: I struggled to get through this behemoth of a book, but when I finally got to the end, it stripped me bare. This was the first Joyce Carol Oates’ I’ve read, and while I’m currently hesitant to pick up more of her books, this book stayed with me. More here.
  • Amy Poehler’sYes Please: One of the few re-reads. I picked up Yes Please again, because Amy Poehler is so funny, and so generous, and so smart, and she gives so many opportunities in her book to learn. I now own a copy of this book, and it sits on my shelf more like a reference text than a memoir. Creativity? Failure? Love? Friendship? Ambition? She could tell you something about all of it.

As always, friends, I need to know: What did I miss? What else do I need to read? Tell me your titles!

snapshots of a happy summer + why i’ve been quiet

B904A75D-AC3F-4C9B-BC47-20666307524D

I’ve left this space deliberately blank for several months, but I think I’m ready to return to it.

I spent the last three seasons living my life. For years, since I was a teenager (maybe earlier), I had the sense that there was some fullness of experience that I wasn’t getting my hands on. I paired with a crippling fear of what may come should I try to get to wherever that fullness was, and I lived inside of small boxes. It’s hard to explain to people who have been less afraid to me how deeply joyful and fundamentally expansive and overwhelmingly delightful it is to say yes instead of no. It’s wild and full, and it’s oxygen to empty lungs.

I spent the better part of the year hacking away at all these vines that had grown up around my life. Light after darkness? When you can claw your way to it, it’s glorious. It shows up on your skin and in your bones.

One of my uncles said to me: You look happy in your eyes. And my mom said: You don’t look scared anymore. And countless people said: You just look different, in a really good way. I told them this is what good looks like on me.

This summer, I saw things that I’d once clung to slip off my skin like water.

Between May and November, I read very little. It wasn’t an active aversion – books weren’t a struggle, but no longer were they a salve. One of the first warm afternoons in May, I took a blanket and a stack of books into the yard. I spent three hours moving my blanket to follow the sun, and not once did I open my books. Over and over, I found myself more content to sit quietly with my own thoughts, than I was to fill my mind with someone else’s. What little I did read, though, was brilliant, and radical, and healing.

Television, too, has lost some of it’s appeal. I’ve written before about how much I love well made TV, and while that’s still true enough, I don’t have the same stomach for it anymore. I still haven’t seen the new season of Game of Thrones or Stranger Things, and I haven’t even cared to give Mindhunter a chance. This is nothing intellectual or enlightening, I can still fritter away hours like a champion, I just don’t have the need I used to to anesthetize. Why would I, when all of a sudden, mine was so bright, and so beautiful, so equal parts terrifying and exhilarating?

I also wrote very little. Circumstance often left me without a laptop or without the paper manuscripts I work off. A notebook and pen were easy to carry with me, so I wrote extensively for myself and about extensively. But the littleworldsI’vespentyearscreating? I left them empty and untended to for months. I am coming back to these, but I’m finding it harder to slip into someone else’s skin now that mine has grown so easy.

Of all the changes I experienced this summer, losing my anxiety was most exciting. At some point this spring, it began to steam off my body the way fog burns away underneath a rising sun.

Do you know what it’s like to feel at ease in the world? For a long, long time I didn’t. I’ve writtena lotabout howmy anxiety is (was) a constant negotiation. I carried Xanex and apples with me, chamomile tea and a book in my bag. I was always bracing for what next thing would cause that awful, nauseous fear. And then I woke up one day, and it was gone. New people? Crowded rooms? Spending time with someone new? With several new people? With a whole room of new people? May, June, and most of July were one long rope of anxiety triggers, and not once was I triggered. When a friend asked me how I was handling all these social situations I was describing, I laughed. Afraid of being rejected? People have done worse to me than not like me.

At the beginning of November, I felt the first tremors of dread that I’d felt in six months. It took me a minute to recognize that particular internal shaking, but when I did, I breathed through it. It’s going to be okay. Not because it’s meant to be, or because it has to be, but because it always has been.”

I cried, one Monday morning, when I realized that I’d spent an entire weekend meeting new people. Not once, in three days of introductions, did I want to peel back my own skin and hide. (Big, big thanks also to the man I was with).

I am now at ease.

It may be gone for just this season, but I really hope it’s not. Of all the things that have rolled away from me this year, my anxiety is the one thing I most hope will never, never return.

I spent much of June hot and in my underwear. I was living with people who were rarely at home when I was, and because of it, I spent most of my evenings alone, and on this beautiful porch. I’d set myself up with a book and maybe a glass of wine. The sun would set all pinks and oranges over the neighborhood. One night, I heard a little boy yell at this dad “no, you need to go to bed!” Another night, the pre-teens next door played basketball and worked on memorizing the lyrics to 1-800-273-8255. I listened The Weeknd (surprise soundtrack to my month of peace) on loop, and rarely opened my book. I was so much more content to lie on that sofa, and reflect on who I was. Who I might be. Life was (is, will always be) as astoundingly, fundamentally hard as it was ever, but the difference was (is) that it’s hard in ways I want to be awake for. I think that’s the reason why I’ve been foregoing so many of my old habits. I no longer want to be distracted. Comfort isn’t the endgame anymore.

When I was a freshman in college, I was far too deep in the throes of an anxious depression to experience that particular thrill of being on the precipice of that which you cannot fully grasp. June was me on that ledge. I called it an ecstatic explosion. I didn’t have any other words to explain the compounding joy of learning and relearning to live a life of my own choosing.

I know that I’ve rambling, and I know that a lot of this is vague, but this is my way of coming back. For two years, I found something hopeful and inspiring about writing here for an audience so small it could barely be counted. At some point, writing became another coping mechanism in my deep chest of survival tools. I’m ready to come back to blogging (I’m even giving this space a new name, y’all!), because I’m hoping it gives me a path back in to the fiction writing I’ve loved for so long.

Onward, right? Always, always onward.

comfort isn’t an endgame

I went for a walk in the rain today, trying to train myself, as Mary Oliver instructs: Attention is the beginning of devotion.

The air was cold, and the tips of my fingers, ungloved, stung as they adjusted to the wet. I repeated to myself, again and again, that I don’t need to be comfortable, that comfort does not need to be my aim.

The park was deserted, except for a three other people, and I dropped down into small valley that water, once, carved out. Underneath the birds, and the rains, and the rushing water, music played in my head. I repeated lines to myself, and tried to pay attention. I was out, because I needed it. On a primal level. These last few months, I’ve made jokes about wanting to lie down in the dirt, but underneath the laughter, I think there is something profound and true in my desire to touch the ground. I was an outdoors girl. I hiked (in flip flops, as my mom will tell you), and I camped, and I tried to build for myself small words of my own that didn’t need shelter from walls or the root. I’ve been out of touch with that part of myself, and I’ve suffered for it.

Today, I stayed in the rain even though it made me uncomfortable, because I knew that I needed it. I sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, rushing water on either side of, and watched the current move dark over stones and branches and other unseen things. I stayed there, and watched one large log, hung up on brambles and rocks, be pushed in and out of visibility. Deep fears of what lies underneath the water stirred in me (I pictured dead bodies, then I pictured my own, if I were to slip from my perch). I let the discomfort build, but I was safe, and because why do I always try to turn away from fear?

I walked slow enough to see wildflowers, bright and beaded with rain. I knelt at a dark pond, and watched bubbles puncture the flat surface. Small green things lay just underneath the water – early spring grasses, a maple leaf, wild green with black veins. I put my hands into the water, and then I pushed them into the dirt. I wanted the tactility of mud on my skin, the feel of small vines – life finding its way – giving way underneath my fingers. I scratched into the earth, and pulled up fistfuls of black mud, muscular with roots. It smelled rich and rotten, and was cold even on my numbed fingers. I smeared my hands with the dirt until they were dark and streaked and gritty. I turned my palms up; the rain made clean circles of my skin. Later, I knelt at the creek, and let the current, warm compared to the mud, wash away the rest of the dirt.

As I knelt, the trees above me flapped, and a great blue heron landed in the water in front of me, its body a thing of lethal grace. I froze, so as not to alert him, and watched him move through the water. He stepped slowly, his body rising and falling with the shifting depths of the creek bed. As I watched him, I tried to remember which dead relative (of mine – or was it someone else’s?) had loved great blue herons.

He walked against the current, spindle legs adapted for the water in a way that mine, if they were where his were, were not. Once he moved past where I could see him, he stopped long enough to let me move, come closer than I had been before. I sat, this time, on the wet rocks, and continued to watch him. I’m sure he knew it too. He plucked his way, delicate, through the water, catching minnows in his beak, until he heard something I did not in the woods, and lifted his wings into flight. I stood with him, and watched him circle above me, and above the creek, and then above trees. I continued to watch until I couldn’t see his movement any longer, the woods returned to their raining stillness.

It didn’t matter if someone I loved once loved blue herons. This moment was mine, not theirs, firmly of this earth, and of my silent attention.

I walked back to my car after that, my fingers too numb to bend, and my legs and hair drenched in rain, and thought about Mary Oliver, and why we need homes not of beam and nail, but of existence itself.

How wonderful that the universe is beautiful in so many places and in so many ways. But also the universe is brisk and business like, and no doubt does not give its delicate landscapes or its thunderous displays of power, and perhaps perception too, for our sakes or our improvement. Nevertheless, its intonations are our best tonics, if we would take them.” Mary Oliver’s, Upstream