june to november edition.

November 11, 2012, 9:47 pm

ON WHAT TO INVEST IN:

a bedskirt. ah, a bedskirt--adulthood made manifest! the very thing to hide those ugly plastic bed risers so necessary to any New Yorker in need of that sacred under-bed-storage-space.

Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day Dish Soap (geranium scent).it smell delicious. makes dish cleaning fun (well, as fun as dish cleaning can be). and keeping the sink from accumulating a week's worth of dishes is imperative when living in a small space--imperative in any space, really.

a frame for that DEAR SUGAR poster you ordered off the Rumpus website all those months ago. the frame doesn't have to be expensive to look good. and it makes a difference, it really does. nothing like framed photos and posters and lovely words to give shape and meaning and weight to one's own space.

an espresso maker.need i say more? (side note: the machine i have is available on amazon for 72.88 {not bad}).

WHEN BATHING:

when after taking a shower (or a bath) you find you've left your towel in the section of the flat that cannot be called the bathroom, do not go in search of said towel at anything resembling a breakneck speed. the water against the refurbished wood floors creates a veritable slip and slide that will invariably (INVARIABLY) lead to a fall of such force that you'll send up a prayer of thanks for a somewhat limber and resilient body before you even attempt to collect your derriere from off the floor. and from that point on you'll make sure you move about the apartment at a manageable speed--ALWAYS--and you'll eat at a manageable speed--SMALL BITES--because there is no man to save you here. no friend. not even a cat. it is you against the wild of your own small space.

WHEN ATTEMPTING TO FALL ASLEEP BEFORE TEN BECAUSE OF A RIDICULOUSLY BAD COLD:

do not slather your naked body in vick's vapor rub. because lord knows if you do, the chances that your cute neighbor will bring home a pretty girl (you can tell she's good looking just from her voice) and that they will then climb onto the fire escape while you are stuck in bed, now awake and paralyzed because you're quite sure that the girl is looking into your apartment through the sheer lace curtains (you feel her gaze) and that she then bears witness to the moment you reach for your phone and the small screen lights up is preposterously high. and if this does happen (which it will and it did) that lit screen will signal to them that you're home--and surely they only climbed onto the fire escape because they figured you weren't--and so now they know you're there but you can't turn on a light to get to the bathroom to dress yourself because you would be revealed in all your naked (and slathered vick's vapor rub) glory. and so you'll have to sort of belly-crawl in the dark to clothing and safety and then spend the next few minutes turning on all the lights and opening and closing every imaginable door so that they'll recede into the safety of his small space. and then--then!--insult to injury!--you'll be so awake that sleep isn't an option, but for damn sure the cold is still bad and you want to take your nose right off your face and you are really not feeling pretty which just makes the good looking neighbor and his pretty date all the more of an affront. on. everything. ever.

ON DATING:

don't date anyone who lives--or works--too close to home. impose a strict one-to-two-neighborhoods-over-rule. this will greatly lessen the chance of spur-of-the-moment-meet-me-on-the-corner-requests which will hit the sacred space, violated! bone in your body in an unpleasing way and cause you to then hide behind one of the green pillars in the subway station. this behavior is not adult or ladylike or becoming, but it is. so do what you can to lessen the chances of this happening.

and when, on a date, a man says carroll gardens is too quiet for his taste, wish him well and send him on his way. because, for you, this neighborhood is exactly the right amount of quiet, and you'll take it, not him.

ON HAVING NEIGHBORS:

smile, be kind, make friends. but know when to turn the music up (cough, shuffle,cough) and know when to extract yourself from a conversation with a zinger-of-a-line.

ON ALWAYS (ALWAYS) HAVING MILK IN THE FRIDGE FOR THE NEXT DAY:

your morning-self will thank you.

AND WHEN THE LEAVES FALL OF THE TREES:

invest in curtains. (still on the to-do list).

↧

attraction and expectation.

November 12, 2012, 9:01 pm

≫ Next: MY NEW YORK// in black and white.

≪ Previous: on the things i've learned since living alone//june to november edition.

Sitting in Court Street Grocers today, a turkey club the size of my face on the table before me, I kicked Kim under the table.

Kim and I have the same taste in men.

Taste: a personal preference or liking.

She looked up from her sandwich to me to then where my eyes were glued. He was tall with dark hair and a full salt and pepper beard.

We've gotten good at alerting one another when we find a man attractive. Gentle nods of the head, not so subtle elbows into ribs, and from there the two of us mostly just stare.

There are subtle discrepancies here and there--where she loves an Italian, I'll lean toward the Spaniard, but often we find ourselves stealing glances in the same direction and groaning as two grown women sometimes do when reduced to little more than hormones and awe by a good looking man.

When the full-bearded-man with his rolled jeans and broad shoulders finally left our viewing area leaving us to the sandwiches at hand, I asked Kim, Do you ever think we've had that effect on a man?

Attraction: the act or capability of attracting // the gravitational force exerted by one body on another.

On the subway tonight I began to think about attraction--about what it is I'm most attracted to and if that thing--that unnamable thing can in fact be named and conjured and spoken aloud.

And then I began to think about how if I attempted to write (or okay, let's call a spade a spade, blog) about attraction than Anonymous would be sure to skewer me because heaven forbid a woman knows what she wants--physically or otherwise. So we can then add knowing-what-we-want to the list of things women are not encouraged to do, which I'm pretty sure also includes aging-gracefully and the-right-to-vote (which this last one I thought we took care of in 1920 but I came across a tweet today which led to a blog and apparently it's a thing again) and can we then take a minute to talk about how it's women that are holding each other back? How each and every last one of us does not proudly admit to being a feminist is simply beyond me. I am a feminist. This does not mean I burn bras. This does not mean I hate men. This means I think women have a voice and an unparalleled strength and a unique set of gifts. Women have birthed empires. And if you try to use religion on me and start talking about your god versus my god and how it's the Lord's will that women submit to a male authority then I will simply lose my shit. I mean, I will. I will lose my shit right here, right now, right over all that's to follow. Because the whole your god, my god thing is enough to make me end the conversation right then and there--it's entitled and possessive and wholly small in a way that seems so very against the spirit of things.

Hmmm. Okay. So... I seem to have gotten off topic.

Derailed: to have left the rails.

Attraction.

I went on a date with a guy recently. A lovely guy. Charming and kind. A guy that my girlfriends were convinced would surprise me and sweep me off my feet in a slow moving kind of way. But a guy that I knew after the first date was not the guy for me.

But why everyone asked. And I groped in that language-less land.

Because. Because, because. Because I just know.

But how do you know?

To Tom I said, because I didn't feel safe and protected with him. And Tom, bless him, knowing when to press and when to simply listen, said, if he wasn't able to convey that within the first date then he probably wouldn't have ever.

Which is not to say that he was a man who could not convey that for many another woman--he most certainly was and will--of that I am sure.

Feeling: an awareness or impression.

Sitting next to him at the bar I was aware of his body. Of how I felt it no further than an inch beyond him. And how there have been men in my life I've felt the force and wind of from across the room. Their scope penetrating me in an altogether different way. Attraction. A meeting of small force fields. Some aware of others, some not. Some compatible, some not.

I struggled for weeks to tell him why we weren't a match. And in the end I was not terribly honest and not terribly courageous and I became a very small and ugly version of myself as I tried to push him away.

There just wasn't a spark, Tom said a few days after my fumbled attempt. Where you with that word when I needed it? I replied.

Spark: a quality or feeling with latent potential; a seed or germ.

Spark. It is either there. Or it isn't.

I want to feel enveloped by a man. I want to feel absolutely challenged. Valued for my size and femininity and flagrant feminism. And yes, I want him to have moved past the roommate-stage of life, the constantly-high-stage of life, the video-games-till-two-in-the-morning-every.single.night. stage of life. I want a real, gown-up Man--the capital M kind of man. And I will not apologize for that. I want a man prepared for a life with someone else. Prepared to fight and compromise and sweat till the sun does rise. I want him to know his worth and respect me for mine. And you know what? At twenty-seven I feel like these are things I have the right to want, and to say I want. Because I'm coming to the table as a more fully formed person. Because I grew up by myself, without a partner. Because I've been on a lot of bad dates and gone out with a lot of wrong men and moved past the sort of heartbreak that threatens a forever-sort-of-haunt. And so yes, I have certain expectations of myself at this age and of a partner at this age. Moving forward I have certain expectations. To not have them would be immature and irresponsible.

I might fall in love with a man who is none of the things I say I want. Who is so very much not what I ever expected. But I'm more skeptical of this now, as I age and know myself better. Details may change--where he's from and what he does and if he actually has that much coveted salt and pepper beard--but the core of a man who knows himself is a constant sort of thing.

This desire for a man and the specifics of this desire--of two people meeting and jointing together in a union where neither person loses himself in the other--well it feels like the best sort of attraction.

A feminist's dream.

↧

MY NEW YORK// in black and white.

November 13, 2012, 9:15 pm

≫ Next: ...

≪ Previous: attraction and expectation.

Ruffled Flags following Sandy//Brooklyn Waterfront

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...

November 15, 2012, 9:24 pm

≫ Next: WEEKLY WELLNESS// to nourish

≪ Previous: MY NEW YORK// in black and white.

via.. .

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WEEKLY WELLNESS// to nourish

November 16, 2012, 7:37 am

≫ Next: how it begins.

≪ Previous: ...

there was a dance in my kitchen yesterday afternoon, just as the last of the now-too-quickly-fading light crept under that wet blanket of winter night.

the lift of the faucet to fill the pitcher, the turn of the dial to warm the coffee maker, the twist of my foot to open the fridge. the flick of the match to light the candle, the shuffle of feet to get to the bath to run the water to pour the salt.

a messily orchestrated movement of steps that ended with me submerged in water, coffee mug resting on chest.

bath and latte.

the thrum of the details of everyday life.

this is the way in which i nourish myself. with a song that is that thrum of everyday life.

to nourish: provide with substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition//enhance the fertility of (soil)

when i read that definition the first time round i mistakingly read (soil) as soul and i had this really hippy-dippy moment in with i let out a huge breath and felt totally justified. yes! yes, yes! fertility of the soul, perfection! and then i realized my mistake.

such a good mistake. such a good and delicious mistake.

you know that expression, food is love? you must. surely someone reading this has it on a sign hanging in their kitchen. and i get it, and i respect it, but the thing is, i hate it. i absolutely loathe the expression. because it's true in that it's some of the story. but it's not true in that it's not enough of the story. and i think it proves dangerous in that most people in most places think it's entirely true and so they eat and eat and eat. but most things cannot be fed by food.

food is not love. food alone is just not love. believe me, i know. for years i let it try to fill that space meant for self-love and i ended up with a lot of extra weight and a sadness far heavier than there are words to describe it.

when i first met tom he would have me fill out a sheet of paper when i ate. i was meant to say what time it was, where i was eating, what i ate, and how i was feeling. it's a pretty standard practice--he knew that, i knew that, and i wasn't terribly invested in it. i didn't do it for too long, but i have to tell you, the practice of it stuck with me and over the course of time i began to understand the method to this madness.

when i was deep in the throws of the eating disorder people would ask, well, why do you binge? what is it that brings it on? and that question would drive me nuts. it would absolutely unhinge me--because it was so very much the right question and so very much the point and i didn't have an answer. if i knew, i'd tell you. if i knew, it'd be easier.

how i was feeling.

i used to feel like every emotion was wound into one giant ball of string and a binge was brought on by one of the strings, but all i could ever identify was the mass of the thing--everything and all at once. but slowly, over time, i began to unwind and untangle one from the other. this one here that's guilt. and this one is frustration. and here's thirst, and this one is failure, and this one is that shitty, shitty thing that that shitty, shitty person said to me. and on and on i untangled until i had a thousand separate threads spread between my hands, a bouquet of all i'd ever felt or wanted to know.

and i came to figure out that binges often occurred when i confused thirst for hunger or when i was overly tired and a good long way from bed. to drink and to sleep. basic needs. two ways in which we must nourish ourselves--a need to feed that has nothing to do with food.

to nourish: provide with substance necessary for growth, health, and good condition

to fill. to provide with sustenance. to enhance the quality of life. to drink a cup of tea. to hold something warm between the hands. to submerge the body in water. to take a bath and wash one's hair. to read. oh, to read! to challenge the mind. to call a friend. to crawl into bed. to make love. to date. to laugh. to see a film. to see the world--by boat or train or foot or through a camera lens. to do something of great risk with great love. to listen. to compose. to dance naked. to sit down to a good meal. to hear a child's footsteps against the wood floor.

to ask for help. to say no when no is what is needed. to live one's truth.

there are an infinite number of ways in which we can nourish ourselves. and to nourish one's self is to love one's self. it is to give and offer up love. it is to receive love. food is one form of nourishment, yes, but just one. it is but a sliver of an ever-extending, all-encompassing sky.

i truly believe that when we figure out how to nourish ourselves--and the importance of it--we'll have begun the next great revolution. that will be how we change the world. that will be how we step back and see the whole of the picture. that will be when we begin to act with greater courage and greater love.

small acts, small kindnesses that we must first give to ourselves.

to feed the (soil) soul.

↧

how it begins.

November 16, 2012, 11:00 am

≫ Next: MY NEW YORK// Brooklyn Heights

≪ Previous: WEEKLY WELLNESS// to nourish

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MY NEW YORK// Brooklyn Heights

November 18, 2012, 9:35 am

≫ Next: MY TWO LAST WORDS FOR YOU.

≪ Previous: how it begins.

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MY TWO LAST WORDS FOR YOU.

November 19, 2012, 8:03 am

≫ Next: WHAT I'M LISTENING TO// winter song {the head and the heart}

≪ Previous: MY NEW YORK// Brooklyn Heights

someone showed me a picture of you recently and you looked. so happy.

and the gorgeous and lithe and so-obviously-cool woman next to you looked. so happy.

and together, the two of you, looked well and good and right.
the way her head turned in to your shoulder. the way your arm snaked round her waist.

it was a sad sort of thing. me seeing this picture. me knowing that i never got that--you could never give me that. because whatever it was we shared was broken and fractured and kept hidden away from the very start.

i had a dream several months back, about jared, who we've been without for six impossible years now. and even as it was happening i knew it was more than a dream. because i got to see him and laugh with him and touch his smiling face. and the two of us had a grand time in this half-dream of mine. he seemed so exactly like himself and we spoke and laughed and talked on the last six years and then we went to a party. and you were there. and this woman was there. and she made you smile. and i turned to jared and i said, it's time to leave now. i'm gonna go. i'm not the one who makes him happy.

and do you know what happened? he told me i couldn't go. because ours was the story that needed to be told.

it all seems so ridiculous now. it seemed ridiculous then, too.
but also very real.

and i woke up from the half-dream filled with peace because jared was always just love and so i messaged his mother to tell her that i'd felt i'd seen him and he was so very good and she responded saying that that very day would have been his twenty-seventh birthday.

thing is, days later, i was so angry. because i was walking away from you. because i was leaving. i was leaving the party in some large and cosmic and tremendously important way and he stopped me.

in looking at the photo of the two of you i think, my God--i'm not in love with this man anymore, i'll never again be in love with this man. i did leave the party. i just didn't know it.

i thought i'd carry my love for you forever. i thought it was a forever sort of thing. i'd resolved myself to that. i didn't think it'd stop me from loving others, i just thought it would live in me, mostly silent, mostly private. and so the loss of that love--well, there is a death in that. and a sadness to that death. but a birth, too.

the opposite of love is not hate. it's just the absence of it. the vacuum where it once was.

a few years ago when my adult and on-the-mend self lay next to your adult and deeply-wounded self i thought it was just that the nineteen-year-old in me was in love with the twenty-five-year-old in you. i convinced myself that it wasn't love then, it was a refraction of it. but it was. i was in love with you then as i had been all the years before.

i once told tom i had no doubt i'd one day tell you. it was just a matter of time and courage and those two things meeting and we'd not gotten there yet. and he said that just as important as the three words was to tell you that i'd been so afraid--that the fear was such a huge and vital part of the story and that you probably didn't know that. but how could you not know? and for one glimmering moment i understood--the subtraction between what i knew and what you experienced--the space between what the female mind knows and the male mind can't fathom.

but here i am, smiling from the shores of having-moved-on and it's so good. getting over you was the second hardest thing i ever did. the second best thing, too.

i won't tell you now. i won't ever tell you. because it was for me. if those three words needed to be said it was for me and i just don't need them anymore.

maybe jared was right though, maybe it is the story of you i need to tell--or the story of the last several years. maybe that's my second-beating-heart (as sugar would put it)--not you, but the story of you.

there's no love for you left. just the knowledge of those deep, unfathomable well-springs of which i am made. and for that i won't give you three words, but two:

thank you.

↧

WHAT I'M LISTENING TO// winter song {the head and the heart}

November 20, 2012, 11:30 am

≫ Next: wisdom (nourishment) from dear sugar.

≪ Previous: MY TWO LAST WORDS FOR YOU.

two years ago i had this song on repeat for weeks on end. now i find, i'm falling in love with it all over again.

↧

wisdom (nourishment) from dear sugar.

November 21, 2012, 8:37 am

≫ Next: AND SO IT BEGINS...

≪ Previous: WHAT I'M LISTENING TO// winter song {the head and the heart}

there have been two books in my life where i've said, if i had all the money in the world (or even just enough) i'd buy this for everyone i know.

for every woman i've ever known (for every woman everywhere, actually): what french women know: about love, sex, and other matters of the heart

and for every person ever (men and women alike): tiny beautiful things

tiny beautiful things is a compilation of many of cheryl strayed's columns as dear sugar writing for the rumpus. {i've posted some of those columns/ letters here before.}

last week and the week before when i was thinking about this idea of to nourish i was reading tiny beautiful things for the second time when i happened upon a letter by a woman in her mid-fifties who had just ended her marriage with her husband and was venturing into that terrifying world of meeting men and making love and forging real connections (a difficult thing for anyone, at any age).

much of her letter revealed a certain level of disease with her body. all women, all ages, we all have it, don't we?

and so i wanted to share some of what sugar//ms. strayed wrote. (to nourish).

(please note: what follows can be found in its entirety on page 178 of tiny beautiful things. what follows are just bits and pieces i wanted to share. all words are by the unparalleled cheryl strayed.)

"I've advised people to set healthy boundaries and communicate mindfully and take risks and work hard on what actually matters and confront contradictory truths and trust the inner voice that speaks with love and shut out the inner voice that speaks with hate. But the things is--the thing so many of us forget--is that those values and principles don't only apply to our emotional lives. We've got to live them out in our bodies too.

Yours. Mine. Droopy and ugly and fat and thin and marred and wretched as they are. We have to be as fearless about our bellies as we are with our hearts.

Real change happens on the level of the gesture. It's one person doing one thing differently than he or she did before...It's you and me standing naked before our lovers, even if it makes us feel kind of squirmy in a bad way when we do. The work is there. It's our task. Doing it will give us strength and clarity. It will bring us closer to who we hope to be.

You don't have to be young. You don't have to be thin. You don't have to be "hot" in a way that some dumbfuckedly narrow mindset has construed that word. You don't have to have taut flesh or a tight ass or an eternally upright set of tits.

You have to find a way to inhabit your body while enacting your deepest desires. You have to be brave enough to build the intimacy you deserve. You have to take off all your clothes and say, "I'm right here."

There are so many tiny revolutions in a life, a million ways we have to circle around ourselves to grow and change and be okay. And perhaps the body is our final frontier. It's the one place we can't leave. We're there till it goes. Most women and some men spend their lives trying to alter it, hide it, prettify it, make it what it isn't, or conceal it for what it is. But what if we didn't do that?

We don't know--as a culture, as a gender, as individuals, you and I. The fact that we don't know is feminism's one true failure. We claimed agency, we granted ourselves the authority, we gathered the accolades, but we never stopped worrying about how our asses looked in our jeans. There are a lot of reasons for this, a whole bunch of Big Sexist Things We Can Rightfully Blame. But ultimately, like anything, the change is up to us.

The culture isn't going to give you permission to have "robust, adventurous sex" with your droopy and aging body, so you're going to have to be brave enough to take it for yourself.

I know as women we're constantly being scorched by the relentless porno/Hollywood beauty blowtorch, but in my real life I've found that the men worth fucking are far more good-natured about the female body in its varied forms than is generally acknowledged. "Naked and smiling" is one male friend's only requirement for a lover. Perhaps it's because men are people with bodies full of fears and insecurities and short-comings of their own. Find one of them. One who makes you think and laugh and come. Invite him into the tiny revolution in your beautiful new world.

↧

AND SO IT BEGINS...

November 26, 2012, 6:45 am

≫ Next: THESE DAYS// bagels, christmas lights, and high buns

≪ Previous: wisdom (nourishment) from dear sugar.

between my winter allergies and the horrendous cold front that swept in this weekend you'd think i'd be done for. but you see those christmas trees in the background of the photo? if you look closely, they're there. they make it all bearable.

(well, the trees and my new winter coat which allows me to retract inwards like a turtle. the coat too--the coat really helps).

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THESE DAYS// bagels, christmas lights, and high buns

November 27, 2012, 9:17 am

≫ Next: AT CHRISTMAS TIME...

≪ Previous: AND SO IT BEGINS...

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AT CHRISTMAS TIME...

November 28, 2012, 7:21 am

≫ Next: //mistaken identity//

≪ Previous: THESE DAYS// bagels, christmas lights, and high buns

i keep thinking about this. about how long it's been since i wrote it.

about how much has changed.

and i keep thinking about the end of it. the desire for christmas lights.

and how suddenly i live in a place where there are lights everywhere. and i don't have to drive to the suburbs--i don't have to go anywhere--to see them.

because everything here in this small corner of brooklyn is swathed in the small and twinkling lights.

and i am home.

↧

//mistaken identity//

November 28, 2012, 9:24 am

≫ Next: ...

≪ Previous: AT CHRISTMAS TIME...

i saw your face and i had this impression, in that instant, that i would know you. really, deeply know you. and that the person i'd been in love with for all those years--the person i'd thought i was swimming towards--well, i'd confused him with you. but i didn't know that and i couldn't know that because i hadn't yet met you. and then all of the sudden there you were. there you are. a slow, long glance across a crowded bar.

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...

November 29, 2012, 4:23 am

≫ Next: DECEMBER SPONSOR INFO...

≪ Previous: //mistaken identity//

"Hang in there. It is astonishing how short a time it can take for very wonderful things to happen."

Frances Hodgson Burnett

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DECEMBER SPONSOR INFO...

November 29, 2012, 4:53 am

≫ Next: THIS IS JUST TO SAY...

≪ Previous: ...

{I will be accepting sponsors for the month of December.
If interested please email wilybrunette@yahoo.com.
In the spirit of the season I have discounted the usual price
so it's a great month to give it a go.}

↧

THIS IS JUST TO SAY...

November 30, 2012, 6:39 am

≫ Next: MY NEW YORK// it's beginning to look a lot like...

≪ Previous: DECEMBER SPONSOR INFO...

I'm always gonna be the girl with baggage.

Thing is, I wanna be the girl whose baggage doesn't weigh a damn thing.

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MY NEW YORK// it's beginning to look a lot like...

December 3, 2012, 7:44 am

≫ Next: THE SMALL WELL.

≪ Previous: THIS IS JUST TO SAY...

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THE SMALL WELL.

December 3, 2012, 10:30 am

≫ Next: THE BEST SORT OF QUESTION.

≪ Previous: MY NEW YORK// it's beginning to look a lot like...

I don't know why it took me so long to learn to look up. To get to the period in my life in which I'd fall in love with men in the space of those few seconds of a held gaze. I don't know why it was so hard, for so long to meet a glance and join in.

But I'm there now. I've made it. And I understand. They say there's nothing like a man looking at you. But that's not quite right. There's nothing like a man looking at you, when you want that man to look at you. There must be a tension to it, a silent waltz. There must be two people desiring for the the thing to take flight.

On Saturday morning, crossing the street, I met the eyes of a man who stood next to an older woman. His mother, perhaps? We stood on opposite sides of the street. All of us with coffee cups in our hands. He wore a hat and had dark eyes and he looked at me. While she spoke to him, he looked at me. And I looked back. Surprised and flattered and totally undone, I looked back. And god, his look became a flagrant thing--ballsy and forward and totally welcome.

He filled my cup. This total-stranger-of-a-man filled my cup. If only for a moment. He filled that small well between my hands that needed to be filled. That needed to be reminded that it does exist. That the impossibility of the two right people meeting at just the right moment might actually be possible. That love is the thing, after all.

↧

THE BEST SORT OF QUESTION.

December 4, 2012, 6:16 am

≫ Next: ...

≪ Previous: THE SMALL WELL.

Sitting in Tom's office yesterday, I ran out of things to say. I had caught him up on the two weeks before. Had filled him in on this guy and that, this work debacle and that--all the many things I can't control, but worry about nonetheless. Small fries, all of it. Mostly small fries.

And so we sat for a moment. Both of us quiet.

And then Tom took a breath and asked me what I was most proud of—in terms of the last few years, what was the best thing I’d done.

And I smiled. And he smiled.

Because it was the best sort of a question.

A question having to do with successes that only and he and I really know about.

A question as an acknowledgment of what we'd accomplished. The crossing from one impossible shore to another. A nod to the end of the thing. Which has not yet ended, but which we both now know will. Which we always knew, but now know knowin that way that makes it easier to talk about.

It's important to identify what it is you're proud of because it helps establish identity. And if the eating disorder steals identity, which it does, we must then fill it back in.

And so I shared what I thought. And Tom shared what he though.

And we sat in silence a little while longer.

You know, I'm sad today, I said, my words carving a gentle river in the quiet. On my way here I was feeling angry and then I got on the subway and I took a big breath and I thought, oh, huh, sadness. It’s a sweet sort of sadness—one without a why--one that will pass. I’m proud of that--I’m proud that I know it’ll pass.

And I’m proud of the wreath on my apartment door. Because that wreath hanging there, says something. It speaks to who I am and what I value. It speaks to the very notion of home.

Identity.

I’m proud of this quiet little neighborhood. Proud that the corner nursery turns into a Christmas tree lot the day before Thanksgiving. I’m proud of these things that I have no control over, that have nothing to do with me, but have everything to do with what I want and what I value.

I’m pretty sure life has very much to do with things beyond our control. And very much to do with things not beyond our control. And it has everything to do with the balance we strike between the two. The constant leap after constant leap of faith that we must make. And the bridge we build in the wake of those small and consistent flights.

I’m proud of the things I’ve quietly let go of. The loves and false notions and truths that became less true over time.

Identity.

I’m proud that who I am now is not who I was before. That I’m not really who anyone--myself least of all--thought I’d turn out to be.

I think pride has much to do with actions aligning with desire. Small actions and small gestures that plant flags in territories we wish to claim.

I’m proud that Tom asked the question. Proud that I had an answer.

Now on to make my morning coffee and begin the day...

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