The pantry is empty, again, and as I'm shopping, again, I realize much of my life is spent buying family packs of pork chops. And there's just two of us. And I don't really like pork chops.
It's been years since I was surrounded by jumping, squealing, swimsuited children with bird-like bones and rounded bellies, and at the pool I remember how much I like water. But it’s never easy, the strokes, the breathing. So much thinking. I like to float, the water sloshes in my ears and hushes my thinking away.
On Getting Through
A man we know hung himself.
“It’s so sad,” says my husband.
“Yes,” I say. “You just never know what people are going through. But what could we do even if we had known?”
“Save him,” he says, plainly.
We're sitting outside and a full moon burns low.
“I don’t think it works that way,” I answer. “Sometimes you can’t change the pull of sadness.”
We've said so much we are afraid to say anything more so we sit together with the heaviness of truth.
No one wants to hear your dreams. Don’t share them and never, ever, in detail. That said, I’m having vivid dreams. It leaves me exhausted, as if I’ve spent the night working through a whole day. And my god, don't I do enough of this in my waking hours?
I’m writing long letters to God. My calls went unanswered, desperation settled in, and I grabbed a pen. Maybe he thinks me cheeky, wordy, whiny. Letters are best, because even if he did call I couldn't tell which voice is his or mine, and which is the one I want to hear.
None of it is stellar. But that’s not the point. The point is to express, and in that act to feel less sad and alone, to find and hold the small points of light.
Maybe we’re all writing letters to God. When we garden or hike or bike or sail. When we sing or paint or write. We want to be held, heard, healed. Everything then, every wax and ramble, every accounting and regret, is a sort of holding on.
Dear God. Dear Life. Dear Friend. I am here. How are you?