I have to work on joy. Cloud bursting, sky exploding, ephemeral joy. I tend to have tiny joy in my heart for minuscule things. Like the smell of coffee brewing in the morning when I am in bed. Or that feeling I get when my brain bursts open and one sentence leads to something worthy and then another and another. Or when I remember to put a notepad in front of my desk clock so it won’t keep me awake. Little things that are huge things. Awakenings. Observances. That moment when I feel the afternoon move into evening. My husband’s face when he’s telling me a story.
Let me stay in this moment—or for as long as it lasts. Let me know that each second compounds upon the other and my life moves along in that way that rivers flow sweetly. Let me remember when I forget, that the glorious small things are the things that I am drawn to, those gorgeous things are the things that keep me thriving and alive. And that’s good enough for me.
Yours In the Essence of Happy,
Dear Big Kahuna,
Listen I know you’re busier than Beyonce’s costume changer but if you could pencil me onto your calendar for a little Divine High Five in acknowledgement of the fact that I’ve — maybe 12 times out of 89 trillion — been able to see my way clear through the murky thoughts that make a worrisome stew out of my brain I’d greatly appreciate it.
It’s not that I need you to tell me that I have improved vision because, for the most part I’m all good on that front, but I would like to speak for all of humanity and say it’d be grand to get some encouragement from the heavens when we are able to find our way through the blurry nervousness that comes along with being alive and make our way out into the open onto the landscape of some gorgeous and life-affirming destination and say, confidently to ourselves, “Yep I think I got this. I’ll figure the rest of the journey from here.” And, at least for the moment, we get the firework feeling of being able to stand, happy, on our own two feet.
If It Isn’t Worth Searching For It Isn’t Worth Finding,
When my depression swoops in over me I feel like a wayward island. No anchor to the ocean floor, no density to keep me from drifting—just a sense of wide open, dangerous space that I have no idea how to fill up.
I’m made up of chemicals and remnants of stars, I know that, but in the midst of the enveloping ocean of grey that overcomes me I simply can’t see straight.
I try to conjure up energy. I try to rally up my forces but, in the midst of all the too blue water I feel paralyzed. And so I sit with it. I sit with my indecision and inability to conquer and move and create.
But there are those moments, in the midst of all I feel that is unmoving and stagnant, when I get a two second glimpse of all that surrounds me which my brain interprets as all that is possible and I hunker down one more time with my game plan and I tell myself that all will be well if I just keep my eyes open and my heart moving forward.
Yours In So Much Yada-Yada,
Thunderstorms have always thrilled me. You wouldn’t think it because I tend to be a ninny when it comes to all things dangerous but for some reason I love the bright flash of lightning followed by the loud, booming sound of thunder.
This afternoon I sat on my porch and watched the clouds roll in as if they had a date with the coastline. Grey and brooding and gloomy, they crawled across the sky and, to announce their arrival they carried with them blinding bright flashes of electricity coupled with the type of thunder that makes you want to take cover.
Maybe it’s just me but I find thunder and lightening consoling. The way they work in tandem, overtaking the sky. My chest reverberates when I hear that deep crack of warning, reminding me that I’m not the only thing that is attempting to reside with restlessness and obstacle course of feeling.
Yours In Running Indoors,
Tammy Take Cover
It’s all relative, I suppose, the way we clink and clank and rattle toward that thing that will bring us solace, that will envelope us in calm beauty.
Like that time I was nursing my father down the path of Alzheimer’s and I heard Christopher Reeve’s son CROON about the fact that his father had been able to move his little finger on his own.
Pain is relative, I thought. Pain is that thing that gathers us up and places us into a hollowed out crevice where we realize that all the agony is the same.
Like the mother, on the news, who can’t find her child. Like my best friend who wishes every day that her son’s leukemia won’t return. Like the man who lives, crumpled, outside of the library who always asks for money.
It’s all relative, I suppose. It’s all that rumbles in our minds and our hearts—that keeps us looking into each other’s eyes and hearing each other’s words, reminding us there’s an inch between our one and only struggles and theirs.
Yours In Restless Wonder,
Thelma the Thinker