Ten.One Hundred & Two

1. Dark skies this morning.  

2. I feel like all of the patience I collected while at Squam has slipped through my fingers. 

3. Tuesdays are the best days.  

4. I am overwhelmed by the love. So overwhelmed. I almost can’t hold it.  

5. We talk while I drive. I wish I was there with her. We’d drink wine on the weekend and she’d say really enligthening things to me that I sometimes wouldn’t understand. And I’d love it. 

6. Pinot Noir Salt. What?! She made me cry into the box. 

7. I also cry in the car writing about crying into the box. 

8. The fires continue. My heart is still in tiny pieces. 

9. The rain is coming down and I make focaccia in the dark.  The smell of the yeast is strong. The dough is soft and elastic. 

10. I’m not really sure how to say thank you. 

Ten.One Hundred & One

1. No alarm today because there is no school. The sun is just beginning to rise. Muddy shades of orange and pink.

2. Granola for breakfast. I hope they eat it.

3. I make the ask because I know that if I don't, I'm not going to get what I need. And I need this.

4. Sometimes you ask and you are overwhelmed by the ways in which others show up for you. Because they believe in you. I wonder if I believe in myself as much as everyone else believes in me.

5. I watch my Instagram stories and see that Napa and Sonoma are burning. My heart is breaking as I watch the violent way in which the earth is being engulfed in flames. I think of my friends and the people and the places I've come to love. My future home. 

6. Why am I making something for dinner that needs to be started at 3 pm?

7. He keeps talking about the fires. The coworkers who have lost homes. It stresses me out. It scares me. I think of everyone who has nothing. And not just the ones in the fires, but the ones in Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands and Houston. And the ones who lost and are losing not because of the natural disasters but because of the cultural and economic disasters.

8. We are so not in control.

9. I'll get to that resume tomorrow.

10. How to have both a full and a broken heart.

Ten.One Hundred

1. Early. Coffee. She won’t stop asking me questions. I keep yelling at everyone to stop touching the balloons. I look at the clock and know that there won’t be time to make the tissue paper flowers. 

2. The little oe and I head back to the old neighborhood to see some friends. I still know the order of the streets. The trees feel so large compared the saplings that are just beginning to mature in my yard. 

3. I miss old houses.  

4. We talk about life on the front porch as the sun settles in overhead. I miss my friends. I miss my old streets. I remind myself that it’s okay to miss these things. 

5. The prep.  

6. 5 very giggle girls.  

7. I sneak a handful of gummy bears while no one is looking. And 2 Rice Krispie treats.  

8. The colors of the setting sun. Not the sun but the way the color of the sun washes over everything else. Everything looks more holy.  

9. Definitely don’t regret the chalkboard wall. 

10. My brain wants to stay up late to do all the things it knows it needs to do in order to prepare for this week. But the body is saying no.  

Ten.Ninety-Nine

1. Today is the day for so many things but I'm just going to start with coffee and light. 

2. The unceasing questioning takes the fun out of it. 

3. The three of them pile into the backseat, legs looking long and lean. I have to do that mom thing where I snap my head around to look at them and set the expectations for this morning. I am pointing my finger at them. I am every mother in this moment. 

4. It's really funny how you grow up thinking about all the ways in which you're *not* going to be like your parents, only to see little bits and pieces of them spontaneously erupt out of you. 

5. Party City is one of the levels of hell, I'm sure.

6. We decide on a gold and turquoise color scheme, an ice cream cake, a movie, and a small craft.

7. My brother calls me as I'm touching up the chalkboard wall. He's so much better than me at making calls. We talk about his new house and colors and ideas for wall art. We talk about our parents and how we're so different from the rest of the family that we grew up around. He tells me how he told her, "You miss 100 percent of the shots you don't take," and I remind him that the other 30 year-olds are just doing what 30 year-olds do. We are the old heads at 32, married for 10 years and with children. 

8. Perspective.

9. I want to go to sleep but there is still more walls to touch with the magic eraser.

10. I still haven't made the pom-poms.

Ten.Ninety-Eight

1. These last few days with no alarm have been nice. But I miss being the first one awake.  

2. I make a meal plan full of things we’ve never had before and this excites me. Newness is good.  

3. Blue heron, white heron, mallard duck. I wish I knew more names of things. To be able to give a thing its proper name is to respect it. 

4. I’m trying to think of all the things I need for this birthday party of hers. It’s not so much a party as it is a gathering of friends. I should just relax. They’re only 8 years old. Anything I do will be just fine.  

5. I pick Gia Mia for lunch.  

6. Mushroom toast, beet salad, calabrese pizza, tiramisu. They always bring two spoons; I am the only one who eats dessert.  

7. I get the potatoes started for the gnocchi.  

8. I miss walking the kids to and from school. I miss the trees and the conversations and the fresh air.  

9. This tomato broth. The kids eat double and triple helpings.  

10. In two weeks I’ll be in Tucson. I have no expectations. I just want to put myself in the way of beauty.  

Ten.Ninety-Seven

1. When my eyes finally open there is so much light. I know it must be late.  

2. 7 AM. It’s okay. I am the source of time. I repeat this to myself while I brush my teeth and wash my face. I tell everyone that they need to get dressed; frozen waffles or granola for breakfast. I apologize for waking up late. Why am I always so quick to apologize?

3. He is talking to me about the paint on the ceiling and unevenness along the trim. He suggests that if it’s too hard for me to do it right then perhaps I shouldn’t do it at all. Noted.  

4. I accidentally press “cancel” instead of disregard. Decide to surrender to the moment and take a break to write my morning pages and eat lunch. Surrender might be the word of the month.  

5. I dig up a resume. It’s 3 years old. I wonder what I was trying to apply for back then. Today I just want an easy part-time gig at the local wine shop. I also spot a social media job for a local high-end grocery store. Food and wine. Food and wine.  

6. Trying to stay open. And keep faith.

7.  Chicken pot pie. I’m making it all wrong. But I think it’s gonna be okay. Fresh sage and rosemary, butter, can’t be that bad. 

8. 2015 Valle Escondido Gouguenheim Pinot Noir. 

9. Belly rubs. I say that I want this to be over but the reality is that I don’t. One day they will no longer need me. But right now they still need me to tuck them in. I love this. I love them. 

10. I want an ice cream cone. Haagen Däz. Something like a praline. Yes. Candy coated pecans and some kind of of caramel.  

Ten.Ninety-Six

1. Up before the alarm.  

2. The sky is low and gray. The rain is coming. I light makes the lunches and the bacon and light the candles.   

3: He’s gone and they’re playing quietly upstairs. I step out onto the back stoop again to feel the breeze.  

4. No self-portrait today. There are times when I get bored with myself.

5. Coffee from the Bialetti.  

6. I decide to skip writing for the day and enjoy the quiet by painting the wall that runs beneath the stairs. The funny thing is that I’m so bad at painting but I’m trying not care. I know he’s gonna say something about the paint on the ceiling. 

7. But it’s still black and moody and I love it.  

8. Bewildered. 

9. Boundaries. 

10. Leftover chicken noole soup and fresh focaccia with smoked salt and rosemary. It’s been so long since I’ve had my palms on dough. 

Ten.Ninety-Five

1. I stand outside as the light begins to peek through the clouds. The breeze is soothing. I know there are lunches to be made but I just want to stand there and watch the colors change.  

2. This book came to me at the right time.  

3. I no longer need google maps to tell me how to get there.  

4. This circle of women feels like Home. I want to always be at Home, where ever I am. 

5. Scallops. Lobster bisque. Linguine with clams. 2012 Gilles Noblet Pouilly-Fuise. A quiet lunch at The Turf Room.  

6. It’s time to get back to my wine and spirits studies. I tell him that I’m going to start with Italy first. I think I am ready to begin again. I’ll retake the exam in March. I know I will pass next time. 

7. It never feels like it but there is actually time for this. For all of this. What needs to get done always gets done.  

8. The tops of the trees are beginning to turn. Shades of deep red and burnt-orange and banana yellow. This is my favorite season. 

9. I’ll figure it out.  

10. I decide to clean. The bathrooms needed it. I needed it. This is how I fix myself sometimes—through cleaning. No one bothers me, I can observe my thoughts, I sweat a little. It’s like a meditation. 

Ten.Ninety-Four

1. Up before the alarm because the weight of his head has made my arm fall asleep.

2. Pastel skies and the rumble and creak of a garage door.  

3. Two blue jays by the back stoop. In and out of the trees they go, chasing a much smaller and much darker bird. I feel like they might be good medicine.  

4. Ladybug in the car fluttering around.  

5. The weather today. Warmer but somehow not. The breeeze, maybe. 

6. Vigilance.  

7. The things that didn't get done: the writing, the laundry, the errand-running. 

8. I have a running list of book titles and not very many ideas for books. I mean, I do. I do have ideas. They are little seedlings of ideas and I'm waiting patiently for them to sprout and flower into something that feels a little more alive. But for now, I'll just keep collecting titles. 

9. I pinch off some oregano, clip some rosemary and sage. The extension of this heat means that I've harvested another 3 pounds of tomatoes and twelves jalapeños are wanting to break through. But I am ready for the grayness of rest. 

10. I say to him that I am still sad. That I'm still not sure that moving here was the right choice. That it really doesn't matter now anyway because here we are and I'm sure everything will be just fine. And then I think back to yesterday and how everyone asked the same question, "how do you like it out there?"  and how I could feel myself trying not to sink. Maybe I just need more time. It took me 5 good years to find my footing there, to feel like I belonged. I've only been here 6 months. I think I just need more time. 

Ten.Ninety-Three

1. I sleep in until the daylight breaks. Pancakes and bacon and coffee.  

2. Dark matter.  

3. These streets. These streets. I've been trying to mentally prepare myself to do this.  

4. There are so many more leaves on the ground here. Red and brown and crunchy.  

5. The leaf looks like it's floating in front of me. 

6. Half here and half not.

7. Ginger beef noodle soup in bed, in the blue bowl because a little beauty goes a long way. 

8. Going through the photos from our trip to California and remembering the morning fog, boots on pea gravel, brass clips, drinking a milkshake at the beach.  

9. Loss.  

10. The realization that nothing lasts forever.  

Ten.Ninety-Two

1. Inky skies.

2. I don't want to make breakfast today so I hop in the car for a donut run. I can see the golden light of sunrise in my rear view mirror.

3. There's an old farm house on Wolf's Crossing, just outside the neighborhood, where they have cows and a big white barn, and this morning I watched as the fog rose up off the little pond.

4. Apple Spice donut with a big cup of coffee.

5. Love yourself.

6. If I sit in the sun I'm not as cold. While I'm on the front stoop I fill up three pages. I write out all the stories that came up for me, decide what is true, what is false, what is the new story I want to tell. 

7. Aromatics. Ginger, onion, garlic, star anise. 

8. Today has been so slow and so quiet. 

9. We pile into the bed and watch the 1967 version of Dr. Doolittle. I'm surprised by how much the kids like it. I keep falling asleep. The warmth of their bodies and their laughter and just all of this. 

10. Love yourself.

Ten.Ninety-One

1. I left some of the windows open last night and wake up to the thin and cool air. I like this kind of air best. 

2. It's Friday and my spirit feels renewed. I wish I could bottle it up.  

3. I sit on the front stoop and write my morning pages. There is the faint sound of a saw, the low rumble of trucks, and I think I hear a few golf ball pings.  

4. Meal plan. This has become my least favorite task and I'm working hard to infuse it with excitement again. New and old things that will bring me joy: broccoli gratin, ginger beef and noodle soup, chicken pot pie.  

5. We head out for a lunch date and return home disappointed. I'm spoiled.  

6. Love Yourself.  

7. Love Yourself.  

8. I think of all the times I doubt my own abilities.  

9. I was chosen. I am happy. Full. He apologizes for being a buzzkill. For not letting me enjoy the bliss of that moment. I know I'll figure out how to get there. I can figure things out. This is the new story I'm choosing to tell.  

10. The late evening sky is cloudless. The colors are rich: indigo on top of orange-gold on top of red-orange. It

Ten.Ninety

1. I wake up on time today.

2. The sky this morning—I'm running out of words to describe it. 

3. I realize that I am sore from last night's dancing. I miss this kind of soreness. It makes me think back to the evening she and I walked back home from the Target and she commented on how nice of a walk it was and I said that I hadn't walked since we moved. That it had been hard for me to find the beauty. That I missed the gigantic oaks and the stately homes and the crooked brick. But my mind and my body could use those walks again.

4. I am grateful for the soreness. 

5. I drink tea and read and watch a bad horror movie today. It feels like a whole day wasted. A luxury. A luxury and also my preferred method of procrastinating. 

6. A half-moon chalked into the clear blue sky. 

7. So much paper work that I keep forgetting to do.

8. The goldeness of this late afternoon light and how it mesmerizes me each and every time. I hope this kind of simple wonderment never goes away.

9.  This headache will not go away.

10. Windows open. Noise from the cars on 34 and Wolf's Crossing. Wolf's Crossing. Bluegrass Parkway. Fox Bend. I exist here, pieced together with the land and its animals, the waters and the sky.

Ten.Eighty-Nine

1. I wake up again thinking that I've woken up on time but it's 6:14 and this is not on time. 

2. But maybe this is my body telling me that 5:30 is too early and 6:15 is okay and doable and good for me. 

3. I wear the "go against the grain" tee today. Because sometimes we need wearable reminders of who we are and what we need and if I'm gonna survive this life then I gotta stand in my own power. 

4. I was supposed to have a coffee date today but it got cancelled and so I stay home and sip slowly on a pot while I try to brainstorm a project for the day. I decide on sprucing up the alcove.

5. $2.50 pumpkins at Aldi. I'm trying not to fall into the giant cardboard box as I lean over to find the ones with the longest stems and roundest bodies, wedge booties hovering over the ground.

6. Love Yourself.

7. Love Yourself.

8. I search for the Paramore song I heard earlier in the day. I sometimes forget that music is a pathway back to myself. I play it over and over and over again and jump around the kitchen, breezes blowing through the open windows, heart racing.

9. Dinner is a little late but that's what happens when you dance a little too much and sing a little too loud. 

10. I dance and sing alone in the kitchen while they watch tv upstairs. I think back to that night at Squam when Camille kept beat on the drum and Giavanni taught us the West African dance and how at the end we freestyled and how in their body everyone was. And how I felt myself loosening up and letting myself really feel the way I could move. And here I am in my kitchen, full of gratitude for the way my hips can spin and my feet can move and my shoulders can roll and I am almost in tears apologizing to myself for all the ways I forget to honor it. 

10.1 Reminder to self: don't underestimate the power of an off-the-shoulder tee to make you feel sexy and aware.

Ten.Eighty-Eight

1. I wake up thinking I've woken before my alarm only to see that all of the children are awake and it is 6:18 and not 5:45 like I think it is. I should have known by the light.  

2. Warm lemon water.  

3. I can't stop thinking about her response to my message. How it saddens and baffles and angers me. Disappoints me more than anything. 

4. I post the post and my stomach churns. But there are times when you need to draw your lines in the sand. And there is no space right now for the ones unwilling to examine their beliefs. 

5. Tuesdays I make the drive. Today I begin the On Being episode with Albert Eisen and see myself in his description of "mystic," and know that I need to read Abraham Joshua Herschel's work.  

6. Before I step outside the door all of these words fall out of my mouth, without breath. They feel short and hot and I can hear myself talking and I want to stop but I can't.  

7. But sometimes you need to just let it go.  

8. I buy eucalyptus and gladiolus and a bottle of kombucha.  

9. This feeling. I order pizza and clean the house and vow to make this home my home and a safe home.  

10. I should be sleeping. 

Ten.Eighty-Seven

1. Still a little foggy.  

2. He's up early and makes the coffee. I always underestimate how loved I feel when someone else makes the coffee.

3. The tomatoes are continuing to ripen and grow. I will need to harvest the herbs before the temperatures dip.  

4. The house feels like a blank slate. Too blank. And all the whiteness feels overwhelming.  

5. I choose a little bistro table that overlooks the river, write my morning pages, and drink pressed juice, and this surprisingly tasty bacon jam on while grain toast.

6. We talk about feminist business structures, married life, new visions for gathering and growing.  

7. I forget how much inspiration I get from these kinds of connections.

8. I write the words on failure and have him read them and hope that she likes them too.   

9. Symposio. A red blend from Sicily.  

10. I get a peek at the moon before I close the blinds, a thick white crescent in the blue-black sky. 

Ten.Eighty-Six

1. They keep coming into my room to ask me what's for breakfast. I sigh and say that I don't know. I've slept too late to make an apple crisp and so he offers to get bagels. 

2. I stay in my pajamas a for a few more hours because it is Sunday and because, maybe, I'm still feeling thick-headed from that night time mucinex.

3. I can breathe through both nostrils.  

4. I take my coffee and my journal out to the front stoop and sit in the chair that is still mostly in the shade. I hear the sounds of garage doors going up and down, the steady hum of cars on Wolf's Crossing. There are no clouds in the sky.  

5. Out back I watch a tiny yellow butterfly dance from one end of the yard to the other and then back again.  

6.  "Your job isn’t to know the how, it’s to know the what and to be open to discovering, and receiving, the how."

7. I do a little writing about fear and then cook the bacon for BLTs.  

8. I think about all the things I've wanted to do but have been too scared to do. I think about how I can take tiny punches at fear. I think about how much of his practicality and dogged determination I actually do need in order to keep closing the gap between reality and dream.  

9. Gougenheim Pinot Noir and roasted chicken.  

10. The way the sun is setting behind the clouds today is unreal. You can see the rays beaming out from behind them. There is purple and orange and pink and yellow. It's as if there's a ring of white fire behind the big cloud hanging above the treeline. When we set out to look for a home, not once did I ever think of my sky view. But these sunrises and these sunsets? Forever grateful. 

Ten.Eighty-Five

1. Birthday breakfast in Geneva at Buttermilk. Farmhouse potatoes, bacon, scrambled eggs, english muffin, black coffee.  

2. I can overhear him talking about his divorce. He's bitter. I can tell because he says he's asked to work less so that he doesn't have to pay his ex so much money. "If she can do it, I can too." This is one of the messy and complicated divorces that involves hearings and many meetings. I am saddened for the little girl. I try to just think about my coffee. 

3. But we are happy and I am grateful. 

4. I've had to take her to the restroom 2 times and I realize that I am the only black person in the entire building. This is not a new feeling. But today I am very aware of it. White peoples are very rarely the only white peoples in a building. I wonder what it might feel like to not be aware.

5. The weight of otherness.  

6. It's hot. 

7. So much laundry. 

8. We settle on the 2006 Lynch-Bages to accompany his birthday dinner of steak with a blue cheese sauce. There is still quite a bit of dark fruit and leather on the nose, pencil lead and smooth tannins on the palate. 

9. I write a newsletter. Tell them 10 things.  

10. Water plus tea plus mucinex night time. 

Ten.Eighty-Four

1.  He's up before me to catch a flight. The baby is beside me. I notice the lengthening of his limbs and how much more surface area his body now requires. 

2. I see her bedroom light on at 4:45 AM. No.  

3. I start making the blueberry muffins in the dark, grabbing eggs and milk and flour and sugar and butter and blueberries.  

4. The big one eats 4 muffins.  

5. The radio in my car has been out for months now but I've come to like the silence. 

6. I haven't gotten to my writing yet but I also feel the cold coming on. Even though what I want to do is write and make and check things off, I know that all I'll manage is the groceries, making the enchiladas for dinner, and laying down to read. 

7. I remember how I said to her last night that every time I set my mind to step into new territories my body revolts. That I always worry that it's a sign that I am headed in the wrong direction. She says, "Or maybe you just need to know that this path you're on is not going to be easy."

8. The arms of the old oaks stretch across overhead like a canopy and as we drive, I watch the leaves float down, down, down. This is my favorite season. 

9. It's hot. 

10. I am going to the desert after all.  

Ten.Eighty-Three

1. "It's really dark," he says.  

2. The earth is tilting on its axis and so now the sun rises over the rooftops in southeast corner of the home. I stand on the front stoop with my hands on my waist and watch the colors come. Grays and hot pinks and unnatural shades of orange. I always feel like once I've settled on a point, my world shifts and then everything looks like it's burning.

3. This first week home has been about ease. Everything they've eaten in the mornings has come from a box. I don't feel bad about this. 

4. I run to target and buy a package paper—750 sheets—and a white three-ring binder.  

5. We meet at my local coffee shop. Iced decaf and a Rice Krispie treat for me, hot cappuccino and apple crumb pie for her. We walk down to the river's edge and sit on the bench underneath the shade.  

6. We spill our struggles, spread our encouragement to one another, talk about making a gathering space for women like us who are trying to do work like us. Webtalk about changing the words we use to change our truth.

7. I have to keep refilling the printer with paper. 474 pages. 

8. I figure out a way to make her and the desert happen. It's just that the blessing doesn't feel like it's been fully given.

9. We talk for two hours. Usually we can go on for 4, but it's late and I feel a cold coming on. We talk about safe spaces. Where are they, exactly?

10. There is no blessing. There is no her. There is no desert.