Just writing that word and I can feel a tightening in my chest, a constriction in my throat. There’s a desire to open another screen and let myself move on to some other necessary project: email, Facebook, Spotify, would somebody call me?
Unlike my best friend who follows an actual budget and adjusts accordingly when necessary (imagine!), I’ve taken a more ‘it will all work out approach,’ to financial planning.
With trepidation I’ve checked my account balance either to be relieved or completely panicked by what is revealed. An inability to “show myself the money” has allowed my imagination to generate all kinds of horrors. What if can’t make rent this month? Do I have enough money for food? When did I last pay my cell bill?
It hasn’t been pretty.
These apples were sent from a friend in New England who delights in their tart crispness. While I also enjoy a good apple, I think they shine best in crisp form, (and honestly what’s a girl to do with 5lbs of apples) so that’s what they became this week. Let’s perhaps keep their fate a secret. I included two neglected persimmons which obscured by the bananas had become a bit too soft for regular consumption. This was a good idea.
Sweet cinnamon, crumbly, butter, apple, fall goodness. Several servings were inhaled before I remembered to snap this pic. It’s gluten-free, dairy-free and my primary reason for getting out of bed. Recipe here.
In Silverlake this weekend we climbed the hills
And looked over the city bathed in rose gold and twinkle
The urban tangle
Where a tree’s stillness or shimmy forecasts the weather
sturdy black wires from here to where hold crows caws and
slope down then up through trees making it difficult to tightrope walk
Long honey fingers stretch in at 4:00 p.m.
the same time the man arrives looking for Kimberley
calling out above the soundtrack of Drake, the ice cream man and the every-so-often ricketing of car over speed bump
This, all of this
laid out from the comfort of the duvet
Remains my favorite scene
This is the year I will be 80 years old, if I am lucky.
What might the grey-haired, wiser me say to the internally awkward-fawn, 34 year-old me? I thought about the qualities this older self might possess: gentleness, kindness, contentedness, and wrote a letter (using real pen and paper) from this place. What poured out surprised me.
There was so much love, so much heart, like receiving a letter from my grandmother. The praise and overwhelming use of terms of endearment made me question if I should published the letter at all. Would it be considered self-centered and conceited? Who am I to offer any advice? But I’ve decided to share what came forth because it’s honest, and I hope inspires others to tap in to that older, wiser self who loves unconditionally and kinda knows stuff.
Here it goes!
Offering our hands
What they hold
And what they long to hold
Affordable housing, real mental health care, reverence for Mother Earth, feelings of worthiness
This is how we InterPlay
I spot him surveying his territory from a fence post
A misstep, a crunching leaf, and my location is compromised
Green eyes land squarely on mine
A roar, then a leap from his perch
Without pause he makes his way
Carrying, I hear, a weapon of disarmament
A contented hum intensifies as we assess each other
He, my firm legs, warm body ideal for an unabashed howdy-do
Me, his fine orange coat impressively decorated in autumn
An alliance forms with the discovery of the mole hole
You grinning imbecile
Don’t you know the candy was collected?
The last candle snuffed?
No more Elsa’s or Vadar’s or Minnie’s will run up your steps
It’s just the regular folk today
Who made you smile, then left you here
Under a November sun