Note to world #3210

I honestly had no idea that one day I would be ABSOLUTELY THRILLED by the notion that my child would be using my recipe to bake her favorite pie for friends.

The mommy who didn’t do mommy things. Who burned toast. Who didn’t speak in a squeaky cutesy voice to her babies.

Who, after a divorce, planned out meals 3 months in advance to avoid some of the mental drudgery of cooking. Who made up 354 variations on pancake recipes because she managed never to have all the necessary ingredients on Sunday mornings. And who still feels blessed by the grace of prepared foods.

Yeah. Me. I’m really deeply pleased by this entire turn of events. Go figure.

Note to world #2206

She wanted pizza for dinner.

She also didn’t want to leave home or wait for a cold delivery….or spend any more money today, for that matter. She liked the notion of being frugal and resourceful this evening.

She rummaged around in the cupboard and made oatmeal instead. With walnuts and honey :

pizza-like for dinner.

Letter to Vivian

Dear Viv,

I saw your obituary today. And even though you died two years ago, I felt like you had just been speaking to me.

I haven’t forgotten what you told me. It’s just taking me a lot longer than I expected, Vivi.

I remember that, from behind a haze of cigarette smoke and bright red lips, you told me I was unhappy. That I didn’t laugh. That I looked tired. Even before I knew it in real words that could form around the sadness.

You told me – jabbing through the smoky air with matching blood red fingertips – that I had to leave. That I had to be happy.

So I left, even though I was terrified. Even though it meant leaving you behind.

And I have felt so alone, Viv. When I bounced from one rented room to the next, crying over the smell of melancholy in the bus station. When I got married but felt completely alienated from my husband. When I landed a nice job that paid well but left me feeling hollow.

I sometimes wished for a place in the woods, a quiet place where I could be alone and dip my toes in moonlight. Because here there are just people, concrete and grit. And now it’s my life. Where I’ve spent more time than I haven’t. And then there’s you in my mind, telling me to keep going.

And I did.

And I have.

I’m not sure I’ve found happiness yet.

But I can still hear you telling me not to stop until I figure it out.

Note to world #5540

THREE meditation apps on her phone.

And she didn’t feel one iota calmer.

She didn’t want to believe it but she might need to breathe it out instead with a class of other desperate souls somewhere dark and slightly smelly.

Note to world #2031

The local eccentric – a bright man, a former highly regarded psychologist who in the end couldn’t cure his own clinical depression – was at the grocery store last night, checking out.

He rushed away from the register at one point to use the store phone… he was trying to find a ride home.

Moments later, his grocery bags were in the back of my car and he was in the front seat chattering on about his latest projects : a rock garden in his dining room. a book about Shakespeare. his spring gardening plans (maybe also inside his house?)

His heart and mind seemed full. And for a couple of minutes, he helped me fill my own as well.

Things lost

My hat rested outside all night long on the driveway.

A lonely left glove stuck up through crusty snow.

House keys dangled from the front door.

All of these things have been waiting for me to see them – and suddenly I could relate to them in a way I hadn’t before.

Now we are together again and I am ready to accept their help and comfort.