A tiny hope on the darkest night
The nights have been long this year, and tonight is the longest. Happy solstice!
I adore James Pearson’s poetry and if you want to get the book that includes this poem “The Wilderness That Bears Your Name,” you can find it HERE. Not an affiliate link, just a book I love that I hope you’ll read.
I’m not going to burn any pages of my journal today, won’t cast any spells or drink any potions, won’t do any half-naked dancing around fires in the forest (mostly because I hate being cold).
But what I did do is write a letter to myself for the beginning of the year that’s now almost over:
This year
Your relationships will evolve in ways that you think might break you, but you won’t be broken
There will still be laughing and closeness and conversations and hope
You will get very comfortable with uncertainty
Just kidding, you will be so fucking uncomfortable most of the year
It will suck very badly and there will be absolutely nothing for you to do about it
But you’ll finally find pants that fit your ass and bras that don’t gap
So there’s that
There will be good light and gentle breezes on hot days and ocean waves crashing around you and so very many flowers
And a friend coming over to have coffee on your porch on the first warm day
And beautiful things in the mail, a jar of Nutella and SourPatch Kids, a tiny homemade journal, a long letter, so many obscene glittery cards
There will be great sex
And makeout sessions so delicious you’ll feel like a teenager again
You will cry in all your favorite places, on the bathroom floor, in the car, in hospital hallways, at the grocery store, while watching sappy movies, and on unfamiliar highways pulling down your sunglasses to hide your tears
And you will laugh in many of these same places because
There will be women
Your sister and your friends
They will cry with you in public while eating soup at Whole Foods and then laugh so hard they will snort
They will take you into the mountains to get sunburned and treehappy
And look into your eyes while holding your hands across the kitchen table when you think you’re going crazy
And take care of you when you’re sick
And hold tissues under your face to catch your literal snot pouring out of your faceholes
And tell you they won’t judge you even if you still feel exactly this way in five years from now
You will lose control a million times, wishing you could keep it together
You will fall apart again and again
You will keep putting yourself together
You will keep finding new pieces
You will remember what you thought was lost
You will judge yourself for this at first, for all the crying and raging, the pettiness and lack of self-control
But then you will notice that it is getting easier to be kind to yourself, which somehow makes it easier to be honest and to take responsibility
You see the progress even though it’s slow and small
It’s like you looked up at a clock and the hands have moved and you don’t quite know how it happened but you know you were there, just practicing one tiny tick and tock at a time
You will be on planes and in cars, miles ticking away, eating gas station snacks and soggy food on flimsy trays
You will travel so much that you will finally fall in love with Montana
With home
Its cruel beauty and wildness
You will not regret any of your trips although you will seriously consider canceling all of them. You will be so grateful when you don’t. You do cancel that one trip. And you will regret it.
You will not write your book even though you promised yourself
It is still easier to disappoint yourself than it is to disappoint others
And you know this, too, will change
And you will still write so many more of your own words than any other year
Some alone, some with friends
You will meet with three friends every morning to put words on paper, all four of you in your little screen boxes with unwashed hair and threadbare shirts, showing up on the horrible days that follow sleepless nights and the sweet mornings full of everything good and somehow it will be magical no matter what and you always leave a tiny bit lighter, a tiny bit more rooted, and nearly every time you log off, you will say I love you so much and I don’t even know how I got so lucky and I will be here tomorrow and I can’t wait to see you
You will start a writing lab and listen to others read their work out loud and it will feel like sacred ground hearing them turn their insides out
And after months you will be brave enough to read your own work
And your voice will crack and your eyes will be oceans and you will feel heavy and pressed into the earth and you will sweat so much and feel the heat of shame and acceptance pulsating through you
Finally warming those perpetually cold hands and feet
You will lift weights most weekdays and you will get so much stronger than you ever thought possible
You will squat and deadlift and press and push, redfaced and dripping
The vein on your forehead will show up now and then, and one day, it will stay
You will love your legs in all their short, thick, juicy glory
Massive quads keeping your kneecaps in place
Feeling solid for the first time in your life
And you have a thought that maybe, just maybe, you might dance again
Without fear
You’re not quite ready, but that’s okay
You will drink gallons of delicious coffee in all your favorite mugs
You will break your two very favorite ones, so enjoy them while you can
You will not respond to a random text from your brother and you won’t feel guilty for it, finally
One morning, a friend will bring you coffee and a bagel while you’re on a trip together that you worry will be too expensive, and it will be but it will also be worth it. Your breakfast will be ready and waiting when you emerge from your room sleepily and the small kindness undoes you in a way that won’t make sense for a long time
There will be deaths and losses and graduations and birthdays and trips and meals and fights and tragic accidents and health scares things you wish you hadn’t said and things you wish you’d done, like go to your favorite poet’s once in a lifetime show that you had tickets for and canceled at the last minute because you felt obligated to stay home
You will watch your kids get hurt and hurt themselves and move out and get new jobs and buy cars and take care of their pets and decorate their apartments and ask you how to get health insurance and how to get internet and how to get a credit card and how to make those cookies you used to make. They make you cry when they play the piano or hang out together on purpose or say something so profound and mature you almost forget that they also pierce their own body parts and scratch tattoos into each other and don’t wear their seatbelts every single time as promised.
You will be so terrified to lose them and you will come close a couple of times which is entirely unbearable but you will make it through the year with everyone alive
And you know that’s more than enough
There will be another day to love them and the world and yourself
And if you should be so lucky
An entire new year
You know me better than I know myself. But also, where do I find a bra that won't gap?
“And you know that’s more than enough.” So beautiful. And what a year! 🌙