Monthly Archives: November 2016

I survived 23

birthday-blog-postWords nest on my phone by the time it’s November. Scribbled in the skywalk on my way to work. Typed furiously between meetings and happy hours and volunteering. Words that naturally mold into ideas and lessons throughout another year, culminating in my annual birthday blog post.

I’m almost out of words this year. The words I have left for 23 are fragmented at best. They exist in the infusion room, doctor’s offices, the beige and maroon waiting rooms that blur into the muted color of anticipation and silent hand squeezes.

November woke me up with a nightmare, a subconscious convergence of 2016’s lurking badness. At 3 a.m. on Nov. 1, I poured a mug of peach tea and nested not in my orderly life lessons but in the dull throbbing of a dark year. Even in my aggressively neat apartment, I felt unkempt.

I swirled the tea bag in my cup, watching the orange color form a tiny tornado before staining the water, the two indistinguishable. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing the good from bad in 2016; it all steeps into a murky, steaming blend that stings my lips if I sip it too soon. I am still letting 2016 and 23 cool. Maybe they never will. Continue reading

The supermoon and splintered glass ceiling

supermoonI will myself to stop shivering; I want to be here, unabashedly here, the kind of here that renders me still and silent. The motion of the lights reflecting on the water is enough, rocking me into a quiet calm. A supermoon gazes down at me, a reminder that the election isn’t all-consuming, that it hasn’t dimmed the glow of the moon. Or me.

This year has splintered me in a lot of ways, like the rippling water splintering the supermoon’s reflection on the water. But then, everything is calm. It’s like the universe put the fragmented reflections back together, put me back together. Or a bit of me, anyway.

Ripples pick up again as the breeze whips at my foolishly bare feet; I should have worn boots rather than flats. The water below splinters the light of the supermoon once again, reminding me that healing isn’t a steady process. It comes and goes, splintering me as it puts me back together.

2016 aches. 23 aches. This election aches. I look at the water and give myself permission to be a mess. Until all is still and calm. There’s work to do, a glass ceiling to splinter. Maybe I’ll be the one to break it.