Notes from a Quiet Space
Shhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'm realizing
Realizing I can write first thing in the morning.
Realizing I need structure. Too many empty days in a row and you go a little nuts.
Realizing I can write alone at night.
Realizing that inner critics love the quiet. They hear a gap in conversation and worm their way through the crack below the door.
Realizing that pain is apart of it all. It = the writing, the searching, the realizing. The breathing.
Realizing that someone really should’ve invented healthy cigarettes by now. It’s 2023.
Realizing that I don’t need to be a masochist. Too much pain = not conducive. I don’t need to be doing something at every hour of the day.
Realizing these days aren’t empty.
Realizing I don’t need to be perfect amazing cultured genius sexy angel. It’s okay. Try to “let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
Realizing that every day needs movement. Try to get this in before 3pm if possible.
Realizing that every day needs music. Try to remember to put it on.
Realizing that every human needs something to look forward to. Without it, life feels too heavy. Small things can work, too: a cup of coffee brewed with your favorite beans, plans with a friend for later in the week, being home.
Realizing that every human needs rest. Last year, when I was hiking for some days along the Appalachian Trail, I’d feel restless and stressed if I got to a campsite too early (I don’t have a book or anything–what do I do?). My favorite new friend (a 68-year-old curly-haired ex-marine man from New Mexico) kept saying to me, from the neon orange cocoon of his sleeping bag, “Rest. Just rest. The body needs it.”
Re-realizing that Mary Oliver is my favorite poet.
Re-realizing that walking in the woods restores the pieces of me I never realize are missing–the oddly shaped ones. It’s only after I’m home that I realize I’ve been trying to fill them by force, jamming down the wrong puzzle pieces with my thumb.
Re-realizing that this is the magic of simplicity.
Realizing that Mary Oliver really did wander through fields and hang out in trees all day. I picture an unassuming couple going for a summer’s afternoon walk down a country lane, looking up into an overhanging tree, and seeing Mary Oliver crouched there, like a gargoyle.
Realizing that I mourn my childhood summers at camp every summer. I miss it so much that sometimes I wonder if something’s wrong with me.
Realizing that what I mean is, I mourn belonging. Or the feeling of belonging, the type that grows amid simplicity. I can’t stop searching for it.
Realizing that what I am writing about, at the core, in this memoir project that I’ve been working on (and maybe here too?), is the search for belonging.
Realizing that I do belong. I’m reading a book late at night about a budding friendship between two lonely kids who are a little different but lovable because of it and tears roll down my cheeks. It’s not a sad part of the book; it’s in the first 20 pages.
Realizing that we do belong. We’re a little different but lovable because of it.
Realizing that this is the magic of books.
Realizing that this poem is basically Kylie Jenner saying 2016 was her year of realizing things.
Realizing that real eyes realize real lies, and I needed a filler to get to 27 which is my age aka significant.
Realizing that structure is overrated.
I’m trying to write regardless.
yesss (she said softly into the dark dark night, by way of reply via the stars). yes.