Is there a such thing as too many hugs.
I always get so nervous right before we begin.
She always tells me that she wishes I didn’t have to work on the weekends. The sting of mom guilt.
Why he needed to stick his head through the fence to eat the grass is beyond me. But aren’t we all curious about the things that are just out of reach?
It’s interesting how boundary-less some people are.
This is the first time but probabliy not the last time.
Is there a cheese that won’t make me break out? Because I really like cheese. I really want to eat a lot of cheese.
The way the ligt is hitting the hills. The way the vines roll across the hills. The way the birds fly overheard. Something about the light makes this view look like a vintage photo.
Why is it that when a woman expresses displeasure people look at her like she’s unstable. Maybe what she is is just tired. Maybe she actually just needs more help. Maybe it’s just gaslighting and aren’t women always getting lit?
I show her the video I put on Instagram and she comments on how fast the snail is moving. She runs inside to get some nailpolish to mark the snails. Tomorrow we’ll see who returns.
I try to help everyone figure out how to piece together a lunch. Sunflower butter sandwich for one, leftover pasta for another, and the oldest makes a bold choice of leftover grilled salmon and a tomato salad.
I decide to just wing it. I only need to make it through 3 days.
Proposals first and then I can do the 3rd thing on the to-do list.
This one had good reviews. The woman behind the counter greets me immediately. It’s a small space but packed with beauty supplies. The wishes me a blessed day. It is, by far, the friendliest non-black-owned beauty supply store I’ve ever been too. Totally worth the 20-minute drive.
I can’t see the gaps.
Just a little longer.
That feeling of being so tired that you have no thought at all. Just a blank state. A less ideal form of meditation.
There aren’t enough eggs to make the blueberry muffins. What to do, what to do.
The two youngest make pizzas from the last two pieces of garlic naan. The oldest makes himself a roast beef sandwich. Cold coffee. I have to repeat myself too much.
Big yellow roses.
I had forgotten that I needed to tell a story. I don’t know if I did it well. She’ll edit out the weird gaps and hesitations, I hope. But I also think about how important this story has been for me. Bluebeard. Bleeding keys. You can’t run away from the truth.
They don’t make the plates anymore.
Burger. Moscow Mule. Key Lime pie with fresh whipped cream and toasted coconut. Views of the hills. There’s a space with the hillside is cut out and you can see the layer of the rock. Blue, blue sky. Yes. This doesn’t even seem real sometimes.
Still so much on the to-do list. I don’t care.
Roasted chicken and creames spinach except I realize that I forgot the cream. I make a bechamel instead. How did I get to the point that I know how to make a bechamel without a recipe?
We forget how much we know.
Little bits of gray light leaking onto the bathroom floor. My feet are cold but I like the look of the bare floor.
This thick cut bacon takes too long to cook.
Why haven’t I been adding strawberries to my water?
I can’t hear her, she can’t hear me, we have so many things to talk about. What is it that won’t let us connect right now? We still manage a few key things anyway.
It feels quieter this time but I think it’s just the time of the year and maybe everyone just has a lot going on right now.
She tells me I’m not charging enough. It’s humbling to hear. It’s also validating. It’s also anxiety-inducing. This is a good opportunity for me though.
I think of all the things I’m missing and then remember that what I already have is what's gotten me here.
What is the robin doing? Back and forth, back and forth. I realize she’s grabbing the rotting leaves at the base of the pond and placing them in a tree. She’s making a nest. Here I am thinking of the ugly mess that is the rotting leaves at the base of the pond, wanting the mess to be all gone and here she is making art.
Cedar plank salmon, beurre rouge, risotto, sauteed spinach, Goldeneye Pinot Noir.
I don’t want to dream about work.
The snail is gone. I forgot to check on it last night but it’s definitely gone today.
He’s on the sofa. Something about that long body scrunched up on the loveseat. And in a long robe. 11 going on 40.
All of their faces and their voices. I miss those Tuesdays.
I realize what it is . I tell her that they were reminders that I need to be able to access those feelings in order to feed my creativity. I keep avoiding that story. In avoiding the story I avoid the feelings. And if I am not able to feel the feelings, I can’t create.
Next time I’m making my hummus just like this.
We practice restraint. Instead of fun and funky I ask him if we can focus on the examinable grapes.
Open House night. I’m having one of those feelings of being incredibly uncomfortable. Foreign. I don’t know how any of this is supposed to go. I remind myself that next year will be easier because we’ll get to start from the beginning.
Everything takes time.