Pork Rind Saudade.

Pork rinds with hot sauce are an absolute delight. I take comfort in fried pig skins and memories. Memories of a van barreling south, of paper plates with hot sauce, of deciphering the tiny Reader’s Digest text by high-mast highway lights. The heat turns on bringing out the baked in scent of cigarette smoke with hints of motor oil. I don’t want to forget sitting in the passenger seat at twilight, tracing my finger down the yellow lines, state capital buildings aglow. 

I’ve been craving that feeling of comfort and security. Like sleeping in the backseat of a car while it’s raining. How does one cultivate that feeling from within? Life is a slurry of chasing, and working, and laughing, and trying not to yell, and taking deep breaths and honoring my body and feeding my curiosity and hoping that when I sit down next to my other person, we hopefully call it a good one. 

Wearing: Yoga pants, a blue shirt that says, “dreaming under the pale moonlight,” and a black cardigan. There was a cute chunky necklace too. Took it off to do yoga. Day two of the rest of my life. Or at least of trying to do course one in the appendix of light on yoga. The time will pass regardless, right? Wasn’t I talking about what I was wearing. Just capturing this moment in time. That’s it. I swear.

Chachi was a good dog.

If my notes app could talk:

I finally caved and did the dishes; I had run out of clean stemless wine glasses.

Do I say supposedly like suppossively? 

My doorbell has been a man’s voice demanding, “INSTALL” for three years now. Finally, it was pressed long enough for him to finish his call to action. “INSTALL COVER.” I finally understood what needed to happen. (Wrap masking tape around the little plastic piece that clicks in the button to signal the doorbell cover is clicked on because apparently that is critical to the doorbell’s operation. As if it would explode or set fire if that covered was not in fact installed.) He had been trying to tell me for three years, but I had never let him finish. 

Four years old is equal to 84 in matte liquid lipstick years. 

My body is like a spiral ham. 

I realized my eyelids were oddly saggy from watching YouTube makeup videos when I was 23.

One of my goals in life is to swim in Martha Stewart’s pool while listening to Transviolet’s “The Hamptons.” 

Burberry Brit.

Do you ever have days when your mind refuses to line up at the starting line of reality?

Coming out of my cage: And I’ve been doing just fine.

What happens when one becomes a virtual voyeur? No longer creating any of their own. No words slowly culminating as a book. No lines of a poem. No yoga sequences. No playlists. Nothing for themselves. Is that how to disappear? Without the expression, the emotions, the details, the vague high-level overview, the anything, it all gets stuck inside. I’d imagine the result to be a tornado in a bottle. The mixture, however, is slow pouring concrete, blended to the color of my hair in the winter, like thick oil paint in the hue of ennui. 

I am not without purpose, ever the diligent worker, I find joy in my day-to-day responsibilities. In quiet moments, I see myself through my son’s eyes. A completely inescapable lens. “Just be happy, Mom,” he offers. “I’m working on it, bud,” I say, hoping those words ring true for each of us. 

“When death finds you, may it find you alive,” an African proverb that has taken residence behind my eyeballs and refuses to leave. Referring to may death find me living my life in my own full colors. Whatever that means for me. I get goosebumps imagining the possibilities. I am not sure who I think I’m benefitting from living in the shadows. Keeping my joy and love and discoveries hidden has only led to experiencing grief and discomfort and loss alone. Coming to terms with the idea that only I, me, this broad right here, is responsible for my happiness has been liberating and terrifying, and a lesson I think I will continue to learn over and over again. 

A story I told myself, and perhaps still do at times, is blogging (or whatever this is), is no longer for me. I was never quite comfortable with “partnering” with anyone for anything. I don’t take nice pictures. I’m not here for the stats. I think about seventh grade me, freezing in an unheated room, typing away with cold fingers, postulating on how shaving my legs is like living life. Sticking my hands between my thighs between thoughts for warmth. Poor grammar. Song lyrics. Naming names with reckless abandon. 

Sometime after moving to Nashville, I came up with a veritable list of reasons of why I would stop blogging. The blogger world had changed so much. I bowed out of the one thing I knew I loved to do daily. I took myself out of a self-perceived race like I have so many times before in life. They can’t take something away from you that you’ve already given up. Like my son chucking a tree branch as he runs away before anyone can snatch it from him. Except no one’s chasing me and I’m supposed to have this branch, but I needed to learn that for myself. 

Part of this journey is knowing and trusting myself. There will be no declarations or lofty goals. I cannot even commit to a seven-day yoga Instagram challenge. It is like something misfires in my brain when I commit to anything. The accountability of publicly declaring something holds no bearing on me. My rebel spirit won’t allow it. This is for me. When I started writing, there was no question around why or for what. I had not internalized that sort of transactional line of thinking yet. It just was. Two decades later, my heart is still there, just waiting for my thinking mind to take a day off.

Poems: How did I forget?

Funny to think when I began writing haiku last fall, I thought it was the first time I had ever written poetry. Going through my old notebooks and folders, I have found hundreds of poems. How did I forget?

Sometimes the words are breadcrumbs back to my being. Sometimes it seems as if I knew I could lose that magic, those emotions, the sparkle, and I scrawled endlessly in order to make it stay. Or perhaps so I would come back. 

I re-write them. At least three times. Usually.

What is True

Windows down, music up.
Blaze the highway, Dusk extinguishes the day.
Splashes of orange and pink rinse into gray.
No barriers between my heart and my mouth. 
I feel the most alive.
Feet on the Dashboard

My hair unbound and wild in the wind.
You, masked in dark sunglasses.
I laughed when you said something about my hair.
I couldn’t really hear you, though.
You were that guy, from that one party.
I was some girl, from that one time.

She Writes: Sometimes poems.


Sometimes, when folks are not gentle with me, I interpret it as a sign, a worn billboard, just off the side of a country road.
“I am not worthy of tenderness.”
And so I become rough with myself.
I mistake the callousness of others for what I deserve.
And so I feast on my own inadequacies.

My soft spots throb, from all that wanting, from all that craving.
My rage tremors, from all that withholding, from all that neglecting.


I Love You a Lot: Field notes of the day.

After we finished baking cookies today (two days after the dough was made) H, of his own volition, hugged me and said, “I love you a lot.” It’s a big day. Normally, his idea of affection is kicking me in the ribs. We all have different ways of expressing ourselves.

Continue reading “I Love You a Lot: Field notes of the day.”

Nonsense: As is everything.

I don’t know anyone who had a spectacular day. The sample size is not statistically significant. I can speak for myself, staring down the barrel, of at least another month, of this is daunting. No matter how reasonable or expected it is. At one point H crawled under the dining room table during dinner and said, “I need to take a little break, leave me alone.” Same, little dude, same. Continue reading “Nonsense: As is everything.”

It’s True: I don’t want future me to hate now me.

If I didn’t at least feign an attempt at documenting whatever this is, I would be disappointed in myself, at the very least. I even almost kept a multi-day log of an amazing trip out west. Almost.

Continue reading “It’s True: I don’t want future me to hate now me.”

A Lesson from the Universe: Stop Worrying.

Hello Universe. Yes, I can hear you. You’re coming in clearly, I assure you. The message? It is not worthwhile for me to linger or languish in my fears and worries. Why? Because you will make me face them, over and over and over again (like the world’s worst groundhog day), until I accept my anxiety is far more harmful than what I worry about. Continue reading “A Lesson from the Universe: Stop Worrying.”