Decembers

I got a new planner today. I filled in every date I could remember for this upcoming year. Crisp white pages and black lines. Pen and pencil and highlighter almost-but-not-quite smudged. I haven't used a planner in a few years. While I was thinking of it, I updated my google calendar and deleted old categories: classes, study group, exams, gym. I decided I didn't need them but then thought twice.

 

Yesterday's 5pm coffee; a rambling, panicked email; and finally the meltdown that had been brewing all day. A mini meltdown, but only because she knows how to defuse them - she has years of practice - years of Decembers and Mays. Almost a decade.

 

I have old-time comforts now. I fall into them without noticing. That playlist on repeat, vanilla lattes rather than seasonal specials, three squash soup and corn bread from Whole Foods, that old hooded sweatshirt. The hours of the day blend with the days of the week - I shower at almost midnight only to wash away anxiety and throw my wet hair into a bun. Disheveled.

 

One December, six years ago, I hung holiday decorations, planned thoughtful gifts, made Christmas cookies, wrapped presents, talked with Santa at our holiday party. I spent my evenings with carols and Delilah's everyday miracles. I sent cards that year. That felt like a miracle.

 

I haven't since. Done any of that. Felt any of that.

 

There is peace, though, that comes from my own December traditions and rituals. The coffee, the soup, the nights that consist of only a few hours, the days of marathon writing or studying. Accidental traditions and rituals but nonetheless orienting. A final push before calm and then change. 

 

It came again this year. Unplanned and unexpected. A December closer to anxiety-filled Decembers of the past but also closer to the familiar, the known, the soothing comforts than I have been in months. A soft reminder that these years, these Decembers, strung together built a life. I built a life. This December, that feels like a miracle.

 

I'll over caffienate and undersleep. The cashier at Whole Foods will worry about my blood-shot eyes and incoherent greetings. It has really only been a few days. It will only be a few more. But I've already settled into it, welcomed it back like an old friend stopping by for just a cup of coffee while passing through town. I have to ask, though, will you return again, soon? This time, maybe for good?

 

My planner and I would like to know.

On Definitions And Fuel

The rush. The wave I ride through days of focused persistence and nights of determination. Important work fuels. Runs through my veins. Steady. Cluttered chaos falls away and I intuitively navigate. Hours melt away and minutes pass unnoticed. Until completed.

When it's time to go, nothing more to do here, solid job, I walk out the door into the night.  The air has a new depth with woven dark and damp pieces I didn't recognize before. The bright street lights force a squint until a yellow halo appears around the head of the man selling newspapers to support the homeless. The escalator doesn't move fast enough on these nights. I'm a few strides short of running and my feet move at a pace faster than my head. I'm still thinking slow and steady, as I stream through the entrance gate and slide into the empty seat in an almost empty car.

That song on repeat. As if I could ever help it. Perhaps I'm swallowed whole, but I already dove in. Let go and let this all wash over me. With my eyes closed I can see clearly and with them open I watch the rain slam sideways against the metro window. I'm already outside with it streaming down my face. Out there somewhere between laughter and tears where it all feels exactly as it should. We're here together. I can feel it all. I know precisely what to do.

The rush will wear off and the wave will deliver me to the shore, where my legs will give way. I'll end up laid out on the sand out of breath. Left wondering. About the dark woven sky and the feel of rain. Everything that I knew, now gone. The clutter returns. And I try, again, to define myself.

In Which The Nights Have Their Own Ideas

It begins with an extra toss, an extra turn, and too many sighs.  The clock minutes change too many times before they disappear.  It begins with a dream that feels uncomfortable and ends suddenly against a dawn sky.  Light blue and gray skies mix as I roll over.  I move my hands from over my head and place them under my chin, where they belong.  Drift off again, without tagging those hours as a nightmare.  Forget the minutes, the nightmare, the hands by morning.  Recall the distant memory during the third sip of afternoon coffee and then again that night when those minutes begin to grow. 

It grows into tangled blankets, warm legs, and too many sighs that turn guttural with frustration.  The clock hours change too many times before they disappear.  Denial and acceptance roll into each other as I refuse to press play on a lullaby and begin to panic about tomorrow's productivity and dark circles.  When sleep finally comes, it arrives with jagged nightmares that end with my arms over my head and fists clenched in the dark night.  It takes too long to pull them down, to tuck them under.  It doesn't take long enough to fall back to sleep and back into those hours that I've already tagged as nightmares.  They'll haunt me during that third sip of afternoon coffee.

Too many days later, and too many hours passed, I'll find out that last year's lullabies still soothe.  The same ones I found during those nights I memorized the intersections of the four walls and ceiling.  They fill the darkness and rock me to sleep.  Quiet my mind with their notes.  Quiet my heart to a steady beat.  Notes tumble over my bed, but I'm drifting, falling sound asleep.  They'll dance around me all night and scatter at the sound of my alarm.  If I had turned to them sooner, morning would not come as such an unwelcome surprise, but my afternoon coffee will taste like cream and sugar rather than stale nightmares.

Sleep feels heavy and consuming tonight.  I'll slip in quietly and let it wash over me.  A surrender that brings peace, if not a peaceful surrender.  My body finally disconnected from my mind, and a heart without, without, without.  Quiet, still sleep. The kind that needs a hand placed on the back, on the chest, in front of the nose, just to make sure... disconnected but still here.  So still.  Quiet.  Dangerously safe.

Summer Rain

I wonder how I will remember this summer.
Will I think of the steady downpour of rain?
Jeans rolled up, collecting sand in the cuff,
Dragged in from the puddles in the parking lot,
Smeared onto the chair in the lecture hall,
Where I sit and swivel and sigh,
A deep sigh.

Will I think of the rain drops pounding the dark window?
As I toss and turn,
Searching for sleep,
Loyally abandoning consciousness,
Only to the betrayal of my unconscious,
Thrashing and gasping with fisted hands,
Not strong enough to fight,
The demons of my night.

Will I think of the steady streams flowing down the glass,
Over my right shoulder, in front of the dark gray sky?
Matching the dark gray circles,
The rows of penciled in bubbles,
Rules and exceptions,
Perfectly laid out in baby blue books.
A test I never wanted to take, for
A dream I never had.

Is that how I will remember this summer?

Promise

I will return here soon(ish). I promise.

Voicemail

Some days (okay, most days) I feel compelled to change my voicemail greeting to something like this:

"Hi, you've reached Emily. If you actually need to get in touch with me please send me an email or text message. Chance are, I won't check my voicemail messages until well past midnight, upon which I will feel the sting of jealousy knowing that you are asleep at that time of night, and refuse to return your call under the guise of "politeness" towards those who have schedules different than mine - as in those of you who do sleep. I will then delete your message, make a mental note to call you back in the morning, and promptly forget. I'm sorry, but it is true. I have a problem admitting that my memory bank is fuller than my voicemail. So in all seriousness, send me an email. And don't judge me if I respond past midnight, just be happy I didn't wake you up with a return phone call. Beeeeep."

Employment Opportunity

For Hire: Grocery Store Runner
Qualifications - Must be able to: find a parking space that doesn't have an unreturned shopping cart already occupying the space; remember to grab everything on the shopping list - or, you know, just remember the shopping list; push the squeaky-wheeled-mind-of-its-

own shopping cart through the obstacle course aisles, nearly colliding with no more than three persons per aisle; reach the last box of granola, sitting on the tip top shelf, a foot back from the front of the shelf without losing your balance and toppling over the small child grabbing for Lucky Charms on the bottom shelf; stand in line reading the tabloids headlines without making an over-expressive disgusted face; chit chat with the check-out person without addressing the thousands reasons why you look like you have not slept in weeks or why your purchased items are so random that it is possible you slept-walked through the store grabbing items within reach every third aisle; find the car in the parking lot; and arrange the groceries in the car so that they actually stay in the bag and don't end up scattered around the back seat.
Monthly bonus for anybody who can put the groceries away and figure out what to do with all those plastic bags week after week after week after week after week after week.

Good News, World

I survived today.


That is all.