Dear Diary,
The note posted next to my desk asks me two questions: “How do I feel?” and “What might I do right now to feel more peaceful?”
The regular reminder to pay attention to myself, to work on positive self-regulation, to meet my needs like I rush around trying to meet my family’s needs is unbelievably helpful. My answers are as wide and broad as the day is long. (And some of the days are REALLY LONG, Diary.) ...
Dear Diary,
I’ve been keeping a close eye on hope.
You remember we found hope two weeks ago? Our Fairy Message Mother left her for us where hope is usually found — on the paths where we meander, consumed by angst and despair, a quiet reminder sits by the wayside, waiting for us to notice.
Hope.
It was there on a painted sand dollar in white scripty font. ...
Dear Diary,
Three of the humans who live here in my house left for the day to go work at the farm, AND IT IS SILENT AND I LOVE IT AND MAYBE THEY COULD STAY THERE A FEW NIGHTS??
Now, listen, Diary; I LOVE those humans. I do. I ADORE them. But two of them are the Talkers around here. They’re the Extroverts. They’re the Insatiable People Needers. They’re the Men of ALL THE WORDS. ...
Dear Diary,
Apologies for failing to write to you yesterday. I’m certain you cried giant crocodile tears of anguish and despair. I would not have left you in your hour of need except that it was a GIGANTIC, BUSY DAY. I had TWO THINGS TO DO outside of my house.
Word of advice, Diary — it’s not the wisest choice in the whole universe to give blood and then do your massive, now twice-monthly grocery shopping. Wrong order. If you do that, you’ll wonder why you’re so dramatically exhausted. Why you feel a little barfy in the middle of the dairy section. Why you’re light headed and boneless when you get home. Then you’ll recall, AH, YES — less blood = more tired. And you’ll sit on the couch where you’ll decide to watch just the opening sequence of Tiger King so you can figure out who the eff Carole Baskin is and why everyone thinks she offed her husband even though you know you won’t like it. ...
Dear Diary,
I SHOULD NOT HAVE TOLD YOU I’VE BEEN SLEEPING LATELY. I didn’t knock on wood which was FOOLISH, so the Universe used this day, April Fool’s, to remind me I chose poorly.
I tempted the Fates, and the Fates, as they are wont to be, were unkind.
I woke up at midnight. I had to pee. I was awake again at 1. I had a pounding headache. I was awake from 2-4am concurrently. I wandered around the house. I took medicine. I drank water. I ate pumpkin bread in bed. I did not brush my teeth post-pumpkin-bread. I read Patricia Briggs. I looked on the Book of Faces. I contemplated life and death and stress and authenticity like the Little Bundle of Nerves I am these days. ...
Dear Diary,
IT’S FINALLY THE FINAL DAY OF MARCH.
I don’t say things like “egads!”, Diary, because people who say that are a billionty years old, but I FEEL like I’m a billionty years old after surviving March 2020, so
And now we head into April which VeryPossiblyLikely will be even longer than March, BUT WE ARE NOT GOING TO WORRY ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW. We are just going to take a deep breath, Diary, high five each other (from a safe distance), and worry only about one day at a time. Or when we can’t do one day at a time, we’ll decrease our goals to one hour at a time. One minute at a time is also an acceptable increment. ...
Dear Diary,
I made waffles for breakfast last Thursday. I prepared my sourdough sponge the night before. I was awake before All the Children. I made myself a cup of coffee, and I puttered around the kitchen, and I thought, “Oh, this is why Morning People like getting up before everyone else. It’s so quiet and calming and lovely. I have a Start on the Day. I have time with a Quiet Brain before everyone chatters at me.” ...
