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.

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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

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German Vanillekipferl (Vanilla crescents, or as my girls used to call them - “Christmas bananas” but thank god there’s no banana in them, because EW. They’re easy to make (and adaptable to be GF and/or vegan). This is a good base recipe.