"Life Stands Still"

She stood at the kitchen counter, slicing plums into slivers, as light streamed in through the glass. She felt as if her soul was sleeping. It was a heavy sleep. Though the trees were green again at last, and the grass, too, her soul was in a leaden, listless, winter slumber--the kind one takes when they want to stop feeling so cold. 

She padded out to the paved driveway which had consumed the light cast upon it throughout the morning and was therefore made almost unbearably hot. The soles of her feet, scorched by its firey coals, carried her to the yard where she collected a towel which had been strewn across the picnic table to dry. First laying it across the black pavement and then gingerly placing herself on top, she propped herself up on her elbows and quieted her breathing. She had brought with her the notebook she’d been gifted for her birthday. She was determined to use it. And so she turned to its first page, breathed in that beautiful scent of fresh paper, and began, ink flowing from her pen in gentle waves, as the sun poured over her back, leaving freckles like constellations where it touched her skin.

8/23/19

It is the nicest weather it’s been in a while. It is no longer humid. It was, dare I say, a bit chilly this morning, though since the sun has warmed the land by its outstretched rays. Now I lie in the driveway on a fuzzy blue towel which feels a bit damp, still, on my stomach. Before me is evidence of how my mom spends her summer days. There are shovels dressed in dried dirt and weeding gadgets and a single blue glove. Alone, but not lonely. 

I had banana pancakes this morning. I was full. I was still full an hour ago when I stumbled into the kitchen to tear myself off another piece. I feel full now, still, but not at all uncomfortably so. No, as is today’s theme, I suppose, I just feel warm. What a good word. An emotion, a feeling, a sense of being. A wonderful life to live. Warm. 

I just took a breath that filled my soul with so much of everything I thought I might just burst! Isn’t it funny how we forget to breathe? The most essential aspect of our living is something we so often take for granted. We truly, then, forget to live. We too often forget to take air into our lungs. Instead, we assume it’ll happen without thought--which of course it does--but isn’t it so much sweeter to think about it? The life we breathe in tastes much better when we actively choose to put it into our bodies. This is defying all that wants us not to live. It is defying sadness and death. It is choosing to move forward, to live. When life is tiring, and lonely, and you just want to go to bed--fall back to warm blankets and your cloud of pillows--and never open your eyes again, breathing is your act of rebellion. To live. To live and breathe and keep going. And doesn’t that taste so delicious?

This is all over the place, but the sentiment is still true--breathing, especially here, in late August, the morning hours hovering behind my shoulders, feels lovely; a bit like a defiant act, a bit like a syrupy morsel of life flowing into my being.

Goodbye for now

Here she wrote in blue ink, elegantly curved letters pouring onto the pages of her bound notebook like a river meeting the sea. Writing reminded her of dancing, and she felt music in the words in her mind. She imagined tasting her letters. 

In what she thought to be a somewhat surprising turn of events, the young woman continued to write in this new notebook. Soon enough, writing had become seamlessly ingrained into her daily life. She’d end each day by telling her journal about what she’d learned in school, or how the weather was, or any strong emotions she’d felt and, in turn, would learn something about herself. Though she much enjoyed the act of writing, itself, the fact that she could feel herself becoming better versed in the inner workings of her body, spirit, and mind was a spectacular bonus.

In her writing, she noticed that she seemed to change with the seasons. As the days grew longer, darker, her heart became one with the grey and bleak days. She ripened as they did. And she learned that she liked best to write about nature as she often felt it reflected what was most true deep in her soul.

10/3/19

It is so foggy these days. Each morning I wake in the dark, dress in the dark, eat in the dark. And when I drive to school, when the sun finally peaks above the horizon, as it turns the leaves golden, breathes life into the cold, dead, dark world, it is still foggy. It is so foggy these days, I try to wipe it away with my windshield wipers but it is still there. It will not go away. I try, in vain, to see past it. But I cannot see a thing. It is not my fault that I can’t see what is in front of me these days; it is all just so foggy. 

But there were days without fog. And on those days, she breathed in the light around her and wrote, joyously, of the beauty she’d been so blessed to have witnessed.

10/8/19

It’s funny; today and yesterday were drastically different temperatures, opposite weathers, but they both felt absolutely perfect. 

It was cold and a bit dry yesterday morning. It was perfect. When I went on my run, it was sunny, sunny, sunny and the sky was blue, blue, blue. I stopped on the section of road where Breck Hill feeds into North Thetford like a river, and I squatted on the yellow dashed lines in the middle of the pavement and took pictures from a grasshopper’s view. It was perfect. When I started for the movies around 7, I watched the sun dip through ombre leaves of honey and amber. It was perfect. And, when I drove back at 9, I was perfectly hungry and it was perfectly cold. It was cold, and quiet, and I saw the moon through my rearview window, big and warm and soft as it sagged in the night sky, almost kissing the horizon. Perfect.

This morning was damp; not dreary, just damp. It was chilly, so I stepped into the ugliest boots I could find and let my toes wiggle in their fuzzy warmth. I wrapped myself in my dad’s jacket and poured myself cereal. It was perfect. It was wet, still, by the time I’d come home from flute, as if it had rained, which it hadn’t. It felt as if everything had been soaked in liquid rainbows. The leaves were water colored tissue paper. And now it is cold and dark. It’s very autumnal, I suppose, though the insects are still summer-loud. Do they know it’s time for bed? Winter will waltz in soon, with her biting winds and show them never to stay up past their bed-time again, but for now it is still summer-fall. It’s hard to remember this, with school and all. But there is still time to watch the sun set from the porch and to drink down glass after glass of ice cold lemonade so it must still be summer.

It surprised her to discover that it was as easy to write about the most complex parts of her life as it was the most shallow. She could describe, in the same number of words, how very much she’d enjoyed a meal or how deeply distressed she’d felt when her grandmother passed. Now having continued her daily writing for the past months she’d learned that though some emotions may appear stronger than others, each can be whittled down to just a few words, and those words were really just silly symbols and characters dancing on a page. It was all nonsense, she thought. Beautiful madness. Letters, she felt, were nothing but arbitrary symbols by which to make attempts at capturing one’s most inner self. 

10/15/19

The party was fine, I guess. I was sad, though. It felt like middle school dances in a way. I’m struggling with how to phrase this--it was a lot of hormones? Emotions? Lots of noise and chaos and immaturity. Being there, the air felt heavy. You expect all your stress and loneliness to go away for the night. But when he’s kissing her and you’re dizzy and they’re all running in the rain for some reason, it’s all just amplified. You’re lonely--the loneliest you’ve ever been--in a room with twenty five people. 

10/22/19

Static. 

Car-radio static, as it rains, pours, outside. 

Your car is far too hot and the static hovers just above the sound of the music which is far too loud. Your raincoat is sticky and it clings to your goosebumps. You’re hot--your face is burning red--and your hair is wet, dripping cold rain down your back. You’re cold, and so uncomfortably hot, and the static is just so loud. 

11/3/19

Tonight I peeled a mango for tomorrow’s lunch. It was mushy and its skin was wrinkled like creased clothes that had stayed folded for far too long and it smelled awfully far gone.

It was one of the best mangoes I’ve ever had. And boy, oh, boy have I had a lot of good mangoes! The point is, I guess, that things aren’t all that bad. At all. The point is, I guess, that I’m really happy. 

I wish it was always this easy to get along with myself. Life is actually really simple. It’s either a good mango or a bad mango. God, that’s an awful metaphor. 

11/5/19 

It is now light before I wake. I get up with the sun. Though this is just as nice as it sounds, I do have one complaint: It is dark by 4:30. Apparently a Swedish couple built a greenhouse around their home to “stay warm and grow food all year long.” A girl can dream….

Some days were better than others.

11/6/19

Though I much enjoy the company of others, I’m learning to like my own, too, which feels like growth. Mom has the market going on now, and so with her over there and dad at work, I come home to an empty house. In this I find unexpected solace. I enjoy this (possible facade of) freedom, independence. I enjoy the quiet. I suppose I’m now more confident than ever in my ability to be my own companion. I don’t know why this is, and of course it’s not always like this, but, for the past week, I’ve really and truly enjoyed my company. 

I’ve decided that I deserve to think I’m cool. I have the right to be confident without thinking I come off as overbearing or annoying or some other -ing adjective. I have the right, just as anyone else, to be okay with myself; even to like myself, to look in the mirror and see beauty and intelligence and compassion and talent and confidence. My growth is not linear--no one’s is--but I’m trying. And I’m allowed to be terribly sad. I can be angry with myself. I can feel guilty for being the way that I am. But, after feeling this way time and time again, I’ve learned, also, that I am fully capable of getting back to being better. My growth is not linear and will never be, but I’ve learned to look in the mirror and tell myself that this is okay. 

Some were worse.

11/11/19

I am okay, but I suddenly feel like I have a lot of everything and I literally (truly, literally) cannot do it all. It all feels like blasting music when you’re in the car. The radio’s far louder than it needs to be and you’re drifting off, slightly, zoning out as smudges of headlights pass you by in the dark. It’s all happening--things are loud and bright and happening around you--but you can’t hear the music. 

11/13/19

I’m better. A bit overwhelmed, still. I’m not sure what it is. It’s fine, I’m fine. Just a bit sad. My heart just hurts a bit and I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m confused more than anything. I don’t know where time is going but I feel like I’m running out of it. It’s fine, I’m fine. I feel awfully existentialist for being 16. 

Some days she thought she understood life as she never had before.

11/14/19

Today was beautiful. It is still bright and warm, now, but becoming less so by the minute. But that’s okay, too. I must remember this; that there is still life when it is cold and dark and lonely. The birds may not sing but they exist, somewhere. Somewhere, there is light. 

11/24/19

I believe I forgot to tell you that I went to the pond on Thursday. It was glorious. I was reminded of this today by the stark contrast, weather-wise. On Thursday the sun shone over the pond, casting its rays on the surface of the water, turning its ripples gold. Today was cold and sleeting a heavy grey fog suffocated the last sunshine of autumn. Alas.

And some days she felt so inexplicably blessed that she was nearly brought to tears.

12/7/19

“Life finds a way”. I’m not sure where I first heard that, but I love it. I picture a little green sprout, stretching itself up through stones on a worn sidewalk. Despite it all, it grows. It keeps going. It’s living. Against all odds, it’s finding its way. 

I am so happy I am here. Has anyone ever been as blessed as I am? It’s certainly hard to believe. I can’t imagine being more fortunate. I think I would burst. I am so happy that I feel all the awful and wonderful and terrifying and joyous things I feel. I too often resent myself for how much--how intensely--I feel. I should be grateful for this. It reminds me that I’m living. I’m so lucky. I think this is why I believe that I must live every day as best as I can: I have to repay--thank--somebody, something, for all I’ve been blessed with. Until I know what this entity is (if, it is) I think I must thank every person on this earth who has ever smiled at me, spoken words of encouragement, let me cry in their arms. I will continue, no matter what, against all odds, as a sprout in the crack of a sidewalk, to do so and to love with every fiber of my being. 

And through her writing she learned more about herself than she ever thought was possible. She learned that life goes on. She learned that the little things are perhaps just as important as the big ones. As “To the Lighthouse” reads, she learned that “life stands still here”. Indeed, it stands still in certain moments. In moments where she finds herself curled up in bed, pen pressed to paper, life, for once, lays silent. Time, for once, takes a breath. And she learned that as long as she could put ink onto a page and make life stand still for just a moment, she would be okay.