I 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.