Everything, is all
The past few weeks. A call from a friend, “Mom’s lump is breast cancer. Can life throw us anything more?” Julia Child videos on repeat. New apartments and warm puppy snuggles. Sunflowers on the balcony. Conquering one’s fear of heights. Funny kitty photos from afar.
The smell of burgers on the grill. Buttercream licked from the whisk.
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A kitty with a pile of bell-filled balls weaves in and amongst the plants. Eventually, they’re all buried beneath the furniture. A search and rescue mission is launched. The game begins anew.
I’ve searched my mind for the words to describe this season. It’s not calm, given the aforementioned toys, or the move, certainly the aforementioned kitty. It’s not noiseless, is probably more what I mean.
Perhaps still is what I’m after. Background noises of the city. Puppies lapping water. Enough beautiful summer days to soften our edges.
My entrance into 2019 began with much self-reassessment.
The year prior had brought its own share of challenges, new beginnings, love, and loss. I’d sensed the seams stretching, and soon after, burst. My confidence was at an all-time low. I stayed mostly to myself. Stopped speaking up at work, saying “hello” to strangers on the street. Stopped writing because I worried about finding the right words.
Finally, I reached out for help.
One thing that spilled forth was self-compassion. Another, more specifically: the gift of no longer seeing myself through the lens of guilt and shame.
The result? A new kind of existence. One that feels small and flawed, empathetic and honest. My husband and I reconciled. Both stories for another time
Another result? I hope to find my way back to this space again. I’ve missed cooking and I’ve deeply missed writing, When I look back on old posts, they make me smile, and I know there are many wonderful stories still to be told.
After nearly a year of egg sandwiches and eating oatmeal a million different ways, I feel like I’ve finally turned a culinary corner. Just this week alone, I’ve pulled the following from my oven: a bubbly tater tot casserole, along with the loveliest lemon blueberry crumble, lightly browned with a picture-perfect rise.
Truth be told, it feels pretty good.
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.” George Eliot wrote this, two centuries ago.
All else: fig jam and peonies from the farmers market, two puppies + two kitties + two humans napping on a Sunday afternoon, stoneware mugs
“Welcome home” cupcakes outside your front door