Moving On

I’m sitting at my desk in my new work/live loft and thinking all the things whilst listening to Coleman Hawkins.

Coleman Hawkins is a staple.

There is something so soothing and grounding and also lighthearted about his music.

A touch melancholic at times and always a good winter’ish soundtrack for me.

It felt especially good to change up from the Moulton Music station on Soundcloud that I have had on constant rotation for the last two months…the soundtrack to the move for sure…and to which I will likely return on the morrow. I love House music.

I am trying to get my writing chops back after a hiatus from the blog, the book, the thinking, the, sort of, beating myself up for not having “the book done yet.”

I struggle with that process.

I don’t like to admit that.

It’s a learning curve that has taken me a long time to get to.

Put a deadline on me, like school semester’s and papers and a time frame and I will kill myself to get it done.

I will also isolate and get a little crazy and then that all gets channeled into the writing.

I thought I would have this book done by now, out into the world and I don’t know, quietly getting optioned for a film or something.

I can actually see that, sometimes, more often than not, I see things in a kind of screen play, a kind of movie in which my fingers are just taking direction from the picture in my head…the endless reel of a movie in my mind and it’s not so hard to just sit here and watch it unfurl and type the scene out.

The scene I am thinking about is one from a movie I would like to set in Paris.

It would be different than Emily in Paris or Midnight in Paris or An American in Paris and I wouldn’t call it Carmen in Paris either, although there is not a bad ring to it.

I was thinking more along the lines of the Paris Chronicles.

A movie about running away from home at the ripe age of 39 to try and “figure it out” and to have my fling with the city of lights.

Which just ate me up and spat me out.

It would span the six months I lived there and I would be just taking the audience around the city that I knew, that I learned about, that I walked around.

I could not, did not, cover a millimeter of the expanse of the city.

I don’t even know if I could say with confidence that I really discovered the neighborhood I lived in.

But I took a lot of notes.

Wrote a lot of blogs.

Took so many photographs.

I would like to put together that writing and put it into a book and make it into a screen play and then into a movie and like Hitchcock, make a cameo in the film.

I even wrote down how I want it to look in the back of a notebook I recently filled and put on top of the ever growing pile of journals I own.

The scene would be “me” or whatever actress was playing me, I don’t even know who I would cast, but she, as me would be walking past Shakespeare and Company and wander in, longingly stroking the books she could not afford (oh, could I not afford any books–the best I could do was a book swap at a church I would go to occasionally that had English books that one could exchange out for another, buying a book at cost at Shakespeare and Company would have bankrupt me when I could almost not afford rent or was eating packets of peanuts and single serving portions of Elemental cheese from the Monoprix) and the character would walk by a small audience of people listening to an author reading from her just published book.

That author, if you haven’t cotton to it yet, would be me.

I have a dream of reading from my own book, a published book, and inviting my dear friends to come with me to Paris and going out to cafes and museums and having coffees and long walks and then taking everyone to Shakespeare and Company and reading to them from a book.

I think this would be so fun.

And I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch.

I certainly have written enough to have material from a movie or fifteen.

I looked today when I was trying, like I have for months now, to figure out how to “unsticky” posts on the WordPress site and just have my blogs come up in the order of publication and finally, today, I did it.

It was not intuitive and a few times I came really fucking close to just being like, fuck, fuck it, fuck it hard, I’ll go over to Substack and try to figure out a new platform.

But then.

Something clicked and I figured it out and voila, I was able to unstick the blog and hopefully the posts will just naturally come up in order of them being posted.

Whilst moving all over the site I stumbled on my stat regarding how many posts I have published.

2,702.

That is correct, two thousand seven hundred and I think it was two or maybe it was twelve, but twenty seven hundred posts.

Even for not having written a lot of blogs over the past year, that’s pretty fucking amazing.

So.

Moving on, the title to this blog, also refers to what I am thinking about in so far as social media.

I quit Twitter way back, in 2015.

I never did X.

I tried Threads briefly and it didn’t stick and because my ex was so prolific on it I got dissuaded from using it.

Not that I know if he’s still on it or not, he blocked me after all, and I’m not looking to look.

I took Facebook off my phone years and years and years ago.

Although I do have an account and I look at it on a daily basis, on my laptop, but only for a little bit of time–very briefly in the morning and for literally bare minutes in the evening.

I try to be quite mindful of it, the amount of time I’m on it and now, it feels like ick.

And I have been debating, even before all the hoo ha with the owner, that I was going to go off it.

I see people, some with a loud fan fare of explanation, some quietly, so quietly you don’t know there gone until much later, leaving the platform.

I waffle.

But I do think it could be pretty good for me to get off it or at least turn it off for a while.

And the reason being is really quite selfish.

I want to write more.

I want to do all the books and all the things and I want to do this, this blog more.

And I want to put my books out.

My dear friend who did the amazing photographs for me last year asked me recently if I had published it.

I have not.

I have not finished it.

I did something wonky with the format, can’t figure out how to fix it, got flummoxed and stopped working on it.

Then I decided to go back, reformat it, change it, make it a book with five chapters and the photographs and then I had a computer malfunction and it didn’t quite save right and I got frustrated and stuck again.

And then.

I moved.

I mean.

I haven’t been in my new place for a month.

Although I did just pay rent for February, I like that, I like to pay it in advance.

I feel better knowing my rent is paid.

So the book project has been on hiatus, which has happened more than a few times.

And now.

This, this here, is my first blog ater a bit of time and in my new place.

This is me feeling settled into my space–I had the loveliest housewarming party last Saturday–and able to breathe.

This is me having slowed down today, partially because my Jeep is at the shop getting my hitch installed!

Aside.

I am freaked out about that.

I am supposed to take my trailer to see Rita from Wanderlust Vintage who is going to be either in Union City or Pleasanton, looks like Pleasanton after I just re-read the email, to go over my trailer and give me an estimate for work, and I have not practiced with the trailer yet or the hitch and may not have a chance literally until this Saturday to practice towing it when I’m supposed to take it to her.

Eek.

Anyway, it will play itself out, but I didn’t have my car since the dealership didn’t foresee how long it was going to take to install the hitch.

I also don’t get that, but they text me yesterday afternoon, I had dropped it off in the morning, and said, won’t be done until Monday.

Fuck.

So I didn’t have a car yesterday and today and I won’t tomorrow.

I had to slow down.

I took a car to the meeting I go to Saturday mornings, met a friend for lunch afterwards and she gave me a ride home.

I noodled about the house and knew that I would need to do some writing today.

Wrote for a while in my journal.

Figured out the WordPress stuff.

And then went for a walk.

Came back.

Sat on the couch in front of the fireplace and read for pleasure for an hour and a half.

And then.

Got on the Peloton.

Yes.

That’s right.

I am finally riding it.

I wouldn’t have ordered it when I did if I had known I was going to be moving, but this week, I finally had enough space to do it and I have done five rides this week.

I am pretty proud of that.

Afterward I stretched and ate dinner.

I looked at IG.

And then I was like.

Nope.

Go write.

Get back in the saddle.

Practice.

Get your keystrokes back.

Listen to jazz.

Let the cat cuddle in your lap, he’s a ridiculous creature and has been lying on his back in my lap, belly up the entire time I have been writing this, and write.

Feels good.

I don’t know that I can commit to writing a blog every day like I used to.

Life is full.

I am in private practice.

I have clients.

And things to do and places to be.

But I can write more often.

And tomorrow I will open up that book and figure it out, just like I did the blog today.

I will take a little action.

I will be on social media a little less.

And yes.

I am well aware of the irony that I will be linking this to the socials once I publish it.

But that may not be for very much longer.

The act of sitting down to the page is the act I need to do first.

The rest will follow.

It always does.

So.

Hello again.

It’s nice to be here.

I missed you.

xoxo

Waxing and Waning

Slowly walking towards joy.

I got a couple of tattoos yesterday.

Three hours of sitting.

Which is about as much as my body can take before I’m kaput.

During that time I spent a lot of time saying good bye to my ex-boyfriend.

Over the weekend I did a lot of reclamation of self.

Reclaiming my heart by doing deep self-care, loads of writing, and going out dancing.

Not once.

But twice.

And Friday.

I was home.

Home in my body, moving freely about the dance floor.

Completely non-pulsed to be “first on the floor”.

Meaning, literally, the first person on the dance floor.

I danced from 10p.m. until 2:30a.m.

By midnight I had done 12,500 steps.

By the time I got home I had done another 17,500.

My workout is to move to music.

I have always loved dancing.

And I love, love, love, house music.

I also went to 80s night at the Cat Club on Thursday with an old friend, so good to reconnect, and hopeful for more of that too.

We danced around to 80s music, most specifically from 1984, I think that club night was even called 1984, and then we took a break to re-hydrate and sit and I dished on the break up and it was good.

Probably need to do that over coffee and not in a club, but that was where it happened and I’m grateful.

So grateful for all the folks near and far who have reached out, given me love, opened their hearts to me, their kinds words, their experiences, helped me process and work it out.

The writing too, works it out.

The tattoos work it out as well.

Originally the tattoos were going to be just one tattoo–a sobriety commemorative tattoo for 19 years.

And that was definitely gotten.

But.

Because of the break up and how I have processed heart ache before I decided to also get a “break up” tattoo, as one lady I work with termed it.

They are more than “break up” tattoos, my tattoos are ways of marking change, transition, transformation, reclamation of body, working through emotional pain with the healing of the piece and the sitting through chosen pain.

I did not choose the pain of the break up.

I would not have broken up.

I would have chosen communicating and collaborating and working on it.

That choice was taken away.

Sitting still through the chosen pain gives me some autonomy back and pulls me from the ambivalent, ambiguous not knowing of the silence on the other end.

The deep, cold pain of being not spoken too, iced out, silence like being stabbed with icicles.

Oh, yeah, and he never got back to me, never replied to that email, I sent him in response to the one he sent me to see each other.

(I do want to see you)

I haven’t heard a peep.

I sent that out one week ago.

(No response is a response).

So I moved it forward.

I did have a moment or two on Friday thinking, well, maybe he’s going to reach out, I did say come see me Friday or Saturday.

But there was nothing.

Instead I met an old acquaintance from Paris for a meeting and then after that we went and got Thai food in the Haight.

I gave him a ride home and felt really good about having done some service, but more importantly just to talk through the relationship ending and his experience with the worst break up he had and how he said, “later, now, I can laugh about it or my friends will say, remember when…and laugh with me.”

“But at the time it was the worst pain imaginable.”

Yup.

I get it.

It is extraordinary pain.

But it is waning.

The heat in my leg from the tattoo assures me of that.

Emotional pain can be, is amorphous, it moves, it floats around you, it is like a constantly raining cloud of pain.

Anchoring my pain in the body with getting a tattoo also anchors the emotions and helps me process.

Lying on the table looking out the window at the dark rain clouds and the passing cars, the lights moving reflected wetly white, red over the pavement, the various framed flash art in the studio, the tattoo sign in red and purple glowing in the background, the sound of honky tonk heartbreak on the stereo system.

“Good bye _______” I said over and over and over again.

Good bye.

And I meant it.

I also reflected often on the night before, Friday night, when I was dancing at Monarch.

I saw New York House legend Tony Humphries.

So fucking good.

So powerful.

He took me to church.

House is home.

House is love.

House music is in my soul.

House brings me joy and happiness and helps me transcend.

House is where I go to church.

And as I danced and smiled and twirled and clapped, warm and safe in the underground belly of a club in the SOMA I reflected with joy that I was home.

That I was love.

“You are beautiful.”

“You are stunning.”

“You must be from New York, I’m from the Bronx.”

“You know Tony from way back don’t you?”

“You are not 51!”

“I feel seen by you.”

“I see you.”

Some many mini and macro conversations while moving, constantly moving and joyfully being washed in the music.

It set the stage for the long, rainy drive to Petaluma the next day to see my artist and also catch up with a friend at Sol Food, oh my God, Puerto Rican soul food, so good, and connect and have her love and time, she drove up from San Rafael.

I was ready for the tattoo.

I was ready to say goodbye.

My artist and I, DannyBoy Smith, collaborated on the piece, changing the art up a little to help it be a better tattoo.

The original art is by Fernanda “Lady” Guedes, a Brazilian artist that is part of a book called “Frida Obsession”.

All the artists in the book did their interpretation of Frida Kahlo in their own way.

I really resonated with Lady’s piece.

It felt like me.

I got the book from an art/zine/underground bookstore on a meander with my ex through Mexico City.

I love art book stores.

I got a couple of art zines and the Frida Kahlo book and a notebook.

We sat in an outdoor cafe after the book shopping, that I had talked the owner into serving us coffees even though they were closing.

We sat and looked at our art books and I wrote.

I took sly photos of my ex while he was reading, the hanging ferns framing his face as he read, the sound of the warm light misty rain softly drizzling, the pulse of the street, the owner and the staff transitioning from lunch to dinner service, the laughter of the man and woman at another table talking rapidly to each other in Spanish.

I look at the Frida book and I did think then that there were a few Frida portraits that I might want as a tattoo.

I was not expecting that I would get a tattoo five and a half months later to cope with the break up.

But there it is.

And here I am.

Still standing.

Walking through the pain.

Letting go of the story.

“If you cut out the story,” a friend of mine said the Friday before last, after I had told him the whole story while we wandered around China Town and North Beach, “this is what I hear,” he paused.

“He broke up with you because you didn’t offer to drive back from Tahoe.”

Jesus fuck.

I mean it was more than that.

But to some degree, it’s great short hand.

And there is more than a modicum of truth in it.

My friend also said, “take back your power.”

I felt like I did that this Friday night at the club, dancing to House music, surrounded by love and community.

I felt seen and appreciated for just being myself.

And I said goodbye to the relationship the next day and let it go.

I literally said, “I’m leaving you here now,” as I exited the tattoo parlour, “I’m letting you go.”

Good bye love.

Hello what ever comes next.

And I know there will likely still be twinges of pain, as the tattoo heals, so does my heart.

Moments of hurt.

But for the most part.

I think I am done.

Moving on.

Walking home.

Walking towards joy.

Conflict

Is the relationship asking to deepen, the pastor said from her pulpit at the Universalist Unitarian church.

I didn’t catch much more of the service because I was drowning in old religious trauma.

Dissociated.

Disoriented.

Collapsed.

Openly crying.

Eyes closed.

Tears streaming down my face.

I did not even realize that I had childhood religious trauma.

But there it was, on full display, in this church in Oakland that my ex had taken me to.

I had a lot of reservations about going and I can articulate many of them, but that if for another time.

The reason I am thinking of this particular sentence is that I have adopted it as an intervention tool with couples who are in conflict but afraid of talking about it.

Also, Esther Perel, who I have trained with, talks a great deal about how conflict avoidant we are as a society and the harm that it does to us.

I used the phrase tonight with a couple in deep conflict and extreme fear of walking into it.

And.

Lo.

There was a repair.

I am so grateful for getting to be a therapist.

I watched the couple move from being at either end of the couch at the beginning of the session to being tearfully in each others’ arms by the end of session.

There were a lot more interventions aside from that one, but that’s where it started, by walking into the conflict instead of avoiding it.

I am a very good therapist.

I am not always a very good partner.

But I am also human.

It is so very easy to see it from the other side of the room, or couch, if you may.

I couldn’t see it so clearly with my ex.

It hurts that I couldn’t always get out of my own painful past and shame with him in our dynamic.

My therapist was like, you got shamed, you shamed him, you both kept trying to talk to the other person and you only kept triggering each other.

I wish I had been able to pause.

God.

I wish I had.

But if wishes were horses beggars would ride.

And I would have a stable full of prancing ponies right about now.

It’s been such a wild ride.

Not comfortable.

Uncomfortable as fuck.

But I’m still on the ride.

Today’s ride is more about anger than it is about tears.

Yesterday I had my first, almost, so close, nearly, day without crying.

I made it to bed.

I knelt down, said grace, prayed for direction and guidance and had a picture of my ex float up behind my eyes that nearly floored me.

I was not expecting it and the tears came immediately.

Well, god damn it.

I thought I was going to make it through one day without crying.

But no.

I found myself today not so much sad but mad.

Mad at him for taking down his relationship status on Facebook before talking to me, days before talking to me, days of ugly anticipation.

Mad at him for being at his art studio in Potrero Hill, being in San Francisco when he lives across the Bay, the Saturday prior to this last, when he broke up with me in the evening, from Oakland.

Dude.

Why?

What the fucking hell?

Come over to my house.

Why am I seeing you post on Instagram about being at the studio and you won’t get in your car, drive over to my house, see me in person and do the deal face to face.

I suppose I will never know why.

Why is not a spiritual question.

But fuck, it rankled.

Rankled is not the right word.

It was like getting knifed in the heart.

It hurt so badly to see that.

I envisioned driving my car over and demanding, what the fuck?

Talk to me please.

Please, baby, please talk to me.

But I had never been over to his studio, I just know it’s in Potrero Hill, oh, I have a sneaking suspicion I could figure it out, there are only so many, but I’m not a fucking stalker.

I felt a moment of anger tonight too, saying those words to the couple in distress in front of me without having had the oppportuinity to deepen the relationship with him.

Fight for the relationship.

He gets the right to do whatever he wants, he decided to withdraw, he has his reasons.

“I don’t have time for you.”

But you have time to post to Instagram.

ARGHHHHHHH.

Anyway.

The anger is also a path forward, a light, a fire under my fucking ass.

I have been writing.

I have been reaching out.

And I have had people reach out to me over and over and over again.

Unexpectedly.

People I had no clue were concerned.

Messages on Instagram, Facebook, text messages, phone calls.

One friend even sent me a meme today via text that he made from my blog including a fake algorithm of me being offered “singles over 70” ads.

Motherfucker I am only 51.

And I dance like I’m 35.

Anyway.

I feel seen and loved.

Not necessarily loved by the man I want to love me.

Hmmm.

That’s not fair.

He did love me.

He just doesn’t have the time to commit to the relationship that it needs.

I think it’s the last that is unfair.

(If life was fair I would be dead)

He didn’t try.

(And maybe that’s unfair too, he just didn’t try with me in the way I wanted)

And that fucking hurts and makes me angry too.

I am worth the time.

Anyway.

I can’t convince him, or I would have already.

I have pretty much left him alone.

I will admit I have continued to leave him unblocked on Gmail, some small hopes that he will reach out and work towards repair, but the longer there is silence the more smashed that fantasy becomes.

One fantasy that has finally left is him being on my bed when I get home from the office.

He still has my keys.

I wonder if he is going to return them, I’ll come home one day with an anonymous envelope pushed through the mail slot, or if they’ve just been tossed in the recycling bin behind his house.

Enough repeated unlocking of the door to see my empty apartment, well, the cats are here, but empty of him, has quashed that fantasy.

I unblocked him on social too.

Maybe he’ll reach out there, he’s comfortable on it, uses it a lot.

Maybe….

Staying off that shit though, I can’t imagine seeing his handsome face, it would hurt too much.

I know this because I did look momentarily to still see some pictures of the two of us on his social.

It broke me all over again.

And.

Gave me what I now think is false hope, if he’s still got photos of us on his page maybe there’s a chance.

Anyway.

I expect that will change and I don’t know that I can stand to see that.

I may still go back and block him on social to avoid that pain.

But so far, the blog has given me the platform to process and process and process.

And the anger, like I said a moment ago has fueled the fire.

It has also fueled the fire for other writing projects.

I finally went through the steps to secure the right photographer for my tattoo book project and I am so fucking excited for it.

I have mapped out things I need to do before I connect with the photographer who is coming up from Los Angeles to work with me.

I am beyond excited to collaborate.

He is someone I know from my earliest sobriety.

I love and admire his work.

I cannot wait.

We will be doing the photo shoot the third weekend in March.

In the meantime I will be formatting the book and integrating the photos I do like from the previous photographer I worked will.

I will also be doing as much freaking self-care as I can.

I have been busy breathing and staying connected to people.

Breathing is work, especially when the pain was so bad I couldn’t draw breath without folding over and collapsing.

I have shared and cried and breathed and went grocery shopping and done food prep and written volumes in my journal, I have gone out dancing and will go out again in a couple of weeks.

I am listening to music that has no affiliation with our relationship and dancing in my kitchen in the meantime.

Anger is a part of grief.

And I know that at some point it will fade.

It will soften and I will accept and move gently forward into whatever unknown landscape there is in front of me.

I will forgive myself and him.

I will not shame myself for being messy, most of the time, and I will do my therapy work—with my clients and with myself.

I have to say my therapist being away has been really hard, but I have not come completely unhinged because of the sweet love and support I have had from my community.

And the anger is a little less now too.

Thank God for writing.

It is saving my fucking life.

So much so.

Thank God for the words, which are their own reflection love for me.

My heart needed so to process.

Here, now, in this way, I will show up for myself.

And.

Give myself the time he could not give to me.

Getting Closer

I am three days away from my trip to Havana, Cuba.

Three days.

Where the hell is my damn filtration water bottle and Cuban Spanish/English phrasebook?

Really Amazon.

This is not the time to drop the ball.

Of course, I have only myself to blame, but it is a little hilarious that these are the only things missing from my bag of stuff.

I am really set to go.

And.

I am not too worried about the phrase book and the water bottle.

They will show tomorrow.

I leave Sunday.

I was proactive today knowing that I wouldn’t want to have to deal with annoying things and took care of getting my laundry done.

I almost wore a dress today that I was planning on bringing to Cuba and I thought, um no, don’t sabotage the summery, warm weather, it’s even going to be warm at night, dress, for a foggy grey San Francisco day.

And then not have time to wash it before packing and heading out.

I wore a dress today that will not be coming to Cuba and did laundry and did a tiny bit of grocery shopping and really, I have nothing to do but see clients the next couple of days and get my nails done.

I am really excited.

I haven’t really been on vacation since last July when I went to France.

I am ready.

It’s been really nice having off from my nanny job, but I have been still seeing clients and I have more clients then I did this time last year.

I now have sixteen clients!

I am really happy to report that.

But with the extra clients comes extra supervision, extra paper work, extra scheduling.

Fortunately I finally got my phone and my laptop calendar’s synced up so that when I make a change on my computer it updates my phone and vice versa.

Such a huge relief.

Sometimes my calendar looks like I’m playing a game of Jenga or Tetris.

Tetris for sure.

I have eight more clients to see in the next two days.

One dinner with my person tomorrow night.

One manicure/pedicure.

And a night with hanging out with some girlfriends or doing fellowship Saturday.

Supplies are bought.

Although I would love to get a market basket purse, I have not found one that works well for travel and I won’t be bringing the one I bought in Aix-en-Provence last July, it is just too precious to stuff underneath the seat in front of me on an airplane.

I realized the other day that I was unnecessarily running around trying to distract myself with buying a purse when I needed to be feeling my feelings.

Oh feelings.

Man they suck right now.

I went to acupuncture Tuesday and the doctor tapped this spot on my tummy and said, “stuck emotions” and I just about burst into tears.

Yeah.

Those.

I had reconnected with my ex in an attempt to just be friends.

It just didn’t work.

I am not at all sad or upset or in anyway regret having seen him.

I missed him so damn much.

Miss him now.

But.

Being just friends with someone you are madly in love with might be the hardest thing in the entire world.

So.

Sunday I said I can’t do it anymore.

And I really want to ball my eyes out all the time, but it just keeps getting stuck.

Like right now.

I want to cry and the tears sort of start and then my body just hunches over and it stops.

Yeah.

Stuck emotions.

Reflux.

Tummy upset.

It’s all getting internalized.

I think I’m afraid that if I start I won’t stop.

I want to reach out.

I can’t.

I haven’t.

I won’t.

I want to anyway.

I did mail him a card on Monday and then my person said knock it off, no more contact.

I almost bought him a card yesterday and today too.

I still feel like there is so much to say.

So much.

And so.

I am just over here trying to breathe and let it go.

Let him go.

Even though I didn’t want to.

I had to.

I have to change.

I have to do something different.

I recognize I’m enough but I have to act it too and saying no more to trying to be friends was a part of that.

I don’t know what else is and I’m just going to try my best and believe.

I believe something wonderful will come of all this damn work.

It just has to.

I mean.

Seriously.

It fucking has to.

I have done so much work over these last two years.

I have suffered and cried.

And I have loved.

I have loved unlike anything I have ever done before.

No regrets.

No apologies to you who may have judgments.

I did what I did and I fell in love and I don’t have a single damn regret.

I would do it all over again.

And the love hasn’t gone anywhere.

I don’t suspect that it will.

So I will go somewhere.

I will change my scenery like no one’s business and I will immerse myself in a culture and people and experience and I will bring my best self.

Even if once in a while, it may be my sad self.

I will bring it all and I will dance and I will swim in the ocean and I will meet new people and have a new experience and adventures and take photographs and grow.

I have not died.

He has not died.

Although.

Yes.

It felt like a part of me died when he walked away.

I die a little more now thinking about it.

Perhaps that is what this is too.

I am too afraid.

That if I let it all out my heart will just die.

That it will just break this time.

Oh there.

Hello.

There are some tears.

Another reason to write, it gets the emotions unstuck.

The acupuncture helped, but the blog is the best.

That and my morning pages.

I cried a little writing them today.

I cried in my towel last night after washing my face.

Surprised myself.

Howled with grief.

The gasped and stopped it all back up.

Stuck again.

I keep reminding myself–

Those things worth having are worth the work.

What I am working towards is a free and untethered love,  completely out in the light of day, in the sunshine, transparent and honest and open and I am worthy of that.

So this pain.

Though it hurts.

Hurts so damn bad.

Is worth working through.

I am worth it.

I am enough.

 

And That’s About Enough

Fuck.

It’s been a long damn day of study.

I’m all done in.

I could use another two hours of work, but I can’t do it.

I have written two different reaction responses to material.

I finished a book.

I read another dense chapter in another.

I watched one video of an hour and a half and launched into another four-hour documentary.

The level of discourse is deep and I appreciate all that I am learning and I’m tired.

Pooped.

Done.

I also am getting settled into my life, my home, my new space.

I got furniture assembled today and organized.

I hired someone from Task Rabbit to do the work and honestly, I’m so happy I did.

The woman was really kind and quick and it took her, a skilled person, she’s got great reviews, three hours to put together the furniture I ordered.

I did not have three hours to spare today.

I should probably not be blogging, but you know, the blogging saves my fucking ass.

I need to get all the cobwebs out and I need to process and this is where I do it.

Oh, I know, you’ve had to have noticed, I’m not blogging as much or as regularly as I have in the past, but I am doing it when I need to.

It feels like a need.

Just like writing in the morning feeds me and helps me to get ready for my day, the blogging helps me filter through everything that happened and helps me to not ruminate too much on what the day has brought.

It brought laundry.

My first trip to a laundry mat in years.

Sigh.

I’m not going to lie, its not optimal.

I wish I could use the laundry that is here at the house, but I don’t have access to the garage.

On one hand its fabulous, I don’t have to go through the garage to get to my place anymore.

“I am so jealous of your space!” The woman who came over exclaimed looking at my place.

I had to say, it did look pretty spectacular today, the sun was shining in the windows, my God it gets such beautiful light, today was my first time being in the space most of the day, so I got to really see how much light came in.

So much.

I was reluctant to leave today.

But I knew I had to.

I had to do laundry and I did it and yeah, it wasn’t super fun and I feel like the laundry mat rips you the fuck off with the cost of drying and dryers that don’t really dry, but it is what it is and I did study the entire time I was there, which set the stage for the writing that I did for my classes today.

I still have to do a response in one of my classes, I did two out of three today, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do more.

I had to shut down the video I was watching, which I have watched before for my Freudian Analysis class three years ago.  I remember being fascinated by it when I watched it then, now I’m just tired from it, it’s a bit dark and like I mentioned, four hours long.

That’s a long time to watch anything about psychoanalysis and I’m a psychotherapist, it’s material I do enjoy, but it’s a heavy-handed version of Freudian analysis and I just got a bit worn down by it.

Anyway.

I am happy to say that as my home becomes more and more realized, that I am resourcing myself by being in the space.

It is warm and sweet and inviting.

It is also pretty and fun and colorful and it smells good.

I like the good smells I do.

I can look anywhere in the space and I will find something beautiful to rest my eyes upon.

I really like it and I like how unconsciously I have found things that fit together in interesting and arresting ways.

I don’t set out to create these patterns, but they are there when I step back and look, colors that blend with each other, complimentary shapes and pleasing ways of things coming together.

I will, as I have mentioned, post pictures soon, but it’s not quite fully realized, I still have to get my dresser and it will get set up next week, yeah, I re-hired the woman who helped out today, especially since next Sunday I will be deep in a ten page paper.

I can’t spare the three hours of assembly the product says it will take to assemble.

I mean.

It’s hella cute and had I the spare time I would totally do it, I have the tools I have put together plenty of things before, but this is an active act of self-care to delegate this out.

I have to focus on that paper and I have some ideas percolating, so hopefully it won’t break me.

It’s going to be a big week as I end my time with Liberation Institute and say goodbye to some clients and to the group I have been working with the last year and a half.

I also have to get the rest of my things together for Grateful Heart.

Like now.

I’ll be sitting with a friend from school to design my website on Wednesday and I will be getting a phone number and setting up a Square Reader.

I need to research that too, find out how long it will take for me to get the reader, etc.

Jesus.

I just did it.

Now my brain is officially fried.

I just set up and ordered my Square reader.

I will get it sent to me in the mail and hopefully it will arrive, it should, by the time I have my first client who will be using a credit card.

This is happening.

I think I have done just about all that I can today.

I have to call it a day.

Or a night.

I’m cooked.

Time to make a cup of tea and wind down, get some sleep and leap into what is going to be one hell of a busy week.

Seriously.

More Books

In the mail today.

Two more.

Now I have a total of four books and two electronic books in my possession for my PhD program.

16 days and counting.

I talked with my therapist a bit about that, the PhD program looming, the internship and all that needs to be done, dotting the “i’s” and crossing the “t’s” as well as the overwhelm I felt after the orientation on Saturday.

Overwhelm, I am happy to say that is beginning to dissipate.

It was helpful that I heard back from the professor from whom I will be renting an office from and that she gave me the days and times I could use the space.

I will be using it that’s for sure.

It will mean a slight change in my schedule, but I think that it will work nicely.

I also will, fingers crossed, be taking on more clients than I currently run with.

Right now I’m at seven.

I want to go up to ten.

That is possible because the office is available on the weekends.

Both Saturday and Sunday.

But I won’t be using the office to see clients on Sunday–my new internship requires one Sunday a month to do trainings.

And well, from a historical perspective, Sundays are my day to do homework.

I did this Sunday, I foresee doing homework on many a Sunday for the next few years.

It’s my “day off.”

Bwahahahaha.

Sigh.

One day it will actually be a day off, but not for the foreseeable future.

That’s ok.

I’m happy to be getting the groundwork laid for my private practice.

I am really beginning to get excited.

If all goes as hoped I will see clients Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday nights after work from 6:30p.m. to 8:30p.m. and on Saturdays.

I’m thinking either noon to 4p.m. or 1 p.m. to 5p.m.

For a total of ten clients.

Which will be perfect to get me up and running and through the end of this year.

The office is available more than those times as well.

One of the days that it is available is also on Fridays, all day long.

I am hoping that once I finish out my contract with my family I will transition down to part-time with them.

I want to take Fridays off from nannying in January and build up my practice to all day Friday and all day Saturday.

I could also, if it works, which it may, take the office all day on Tuesday too.

Getting situated into this internship is huge for me.

There are a lot of things that I will have to do in the upcoming weeks, but I feel like I can handle them and once all the things are put into place, it will run like a well oiled machine.

I have a feeling that I will get up and running fairly quickly and I hope to be able to transition to being paid by February or March of next year.

I may be able to pull it off by January, but I’m not going to try to force it, I want things to unfold naturally and with ease.

I also will be doing a GoFundMe to get my office off the ground.

The clinical director spoke of a number of interns whom had used that platform to get the necessary start-up funds to begin their practices.

I had a friend who did a GoFundMe for me when I hurt my ankle so horrendously four years ago and was completely layed up and unable to work.

He got me rent and one month of my student loan payment taken care of.

He said it was really easy to do.

I can’t actually do the fundraising myself, nor can I donate to the pool in my own name.

The money has to either come from outside sources or from the fees I will be charging clients, which will eventually add up to enough to get me going and paid.

The GoFundMe helps get the ball rolling and establishes my office rent fund, administrative costs, group supervision, and insurance.

The internship basically is an umbrella under which I establish my own private practice.

They have faith that I will bring in money and clients and that I will serve the community.

I have faith as well.

Which is nice.

I also talked with my therapist, of course, about my ex and how the no contact went down and how that was also a big part of feeling overwhelmed and a bit at odds with the transitions happening.

Fuck.

So many transitions.

I mean, I haven’t even touched base on moving yet as a topic.

But that I was glad for the busy work that I got given on Saturday, it helped ameliorate the grief a little.

Or better.

I should say, it delayed it for a bit until I had the down time on Sunday to really let the sadness come out.

It came out.

It still is coming out, definitely in my therapy today, good hard cry there.

I also am aware that grief has no time line and there isn’t going to be a day sometime in the next week or two where I suddenly am 100%.

But there will be.

And I will make it there.

I will say, though, I was surprised today to remember, out of the blue, I think because tomorrow is Wednesday and we connected for the first time on a Wednesday, our first kiss.

My body shot through with electricity and I gasped in recollection.

Then.

Of course.

Sadness.

I don’t know when the feelings will come.

You would think they would come right now, I’m writing about it, I’m sitting in the spot, or damn near as close to it as I can, where he kissed me in my little tiny kitchen, and blew apart my body with the fire of chemistry that was lit by the kiss.

But no.

Not like it was earlier.

Just noodling along at work, prepping dinner and thinking about tomorrow being Wednesday.

Tomorrow being one week since I last saw him, heard from him, was held by him, kissed by him.

Of course I would get sad thinking of that.

But it was the kiss, the memory of that astonishing first kiss that floored me.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

Probably another book in the mail.

And feelings.

I am pretty sure there will be some of those as well.

There usually are.

It’s Been A Day

It really has.

It was preceded by a night with little sleep.

I had a really hard time falling asleep and I couldn’t stay asleep when I finally did.

I rarely have insomnia, but last night there was a kiss of it.

So much to think about.

And my wild thoughts got me up so early.

Really too early.

But.

I have to say I am surprised that I didn’t feel tired today.

I also had a bit more to do than I thought I was going to.

In between my therapy session and dropping off paperwork to a former supervisor in Hayes Valley, I got a text from my boss asking for a huge favor and could I go help out at the house for a few hours.

I said sure, I went, I let in the cleaners, I hung out and listened to French House music, I did some spending plan for July and I added up my expenses for June.

I got a bit walloped yesterday.

Truth be told.

Unexpected conflict.

Lots of fear.

High amounts of anxiety.

And lots of having faith and leaning in.

I spent most of yesterday outside the house, I didn’t feel safe here and I didn’t want to have more conflict escalate.

Fortunately nothing further happened.

You want details you contact me directly I am being circumspect about what goes on my blog for a little while.

When the dust settles I may elaborate more, but tonight as I write, suffice to say it’s been unpleasant and I have been taking actions around my housing situation to the best of my abilities.

I also have to say thank God for my external support and for the people who I could call and talk to and get suggestions from.

So much lovely help.

I needed every bit.

And so, it was of no surprise, not really, when I got home after a long stressful day yesterday and found a bill from my health insurance for $867.23.

Fuck.

Really?

I knew it.

I had a feeling I was going to get a sucker punch from the endoscopy.

I looked over the bill and though yes, I was a touch upset, in the end my insurance did cover $3200 of the procedure.

Grateful for that.

I sat down and wrote out a check.

Then I balanced my checkbook.

Then.

Well.

I have therapy and need groceries.

I am sitting with money in my account, but it’s earmarked toward rent, my rent check has not been cashed yet.

I double checked my addition and subtraction and I thought about a few things I wanted to do today.

Car wash.

And decided to pull money from my savings account.

Did I have to?

No.

I would have been ok until payday.

I mean.

I would have bought nada.

But I would have been ok.

Then I thought, why feel pinched when I have money there that can be used?

I transferred the money that I had earmarked for Paris into my account and decided to make sure I looked over my budget and spending for the month.

It’s a big month for travel.

I have no regrets about what I spent in New York.

I am very happy for the trip, the memories, the mementos.

Absolutely no thoughts that I should have done it any different.

It was a wonderful trip.

Paris will be too.

I may not have the $867 that had to go to the hospital bill, but I have enough.

I’m o.k.

That became sort of the theme today.

I am o.k.

I am going to be o.k.

Everything is o.k.

Yes.

Things are hard.

Things are challenging.

Life is showing up and doing what life does, giving me opportunities to learn and grow and expand my capacity for love.

Yes.

There were tears today too.

Therapy.

I talked for the first half about my living situation and what happened yesterday.

My therapist really applauded how I handled the situation.

I was not expecting that, to be told that what I did under pressure was admirable.

That felt good to have reflected back to me.

I still had few moments of feeling overwhelmed when I talked about what had happened, but hey I didn’t die and though it was intense and unpleasant, I got through it.

I had lunch with a friend today after therapy and he reflected some of the same things back to me.

It was super fun to see him.

He works in a cool tech company and they have lunch delivered and so yay, free lunch and an hour with a good friend.

He also helped me figure out my bottom line around my situation and gave me some brilliant language should I need, when I suspect, it’s not going to be a should, it will be a when, to stand up to the situation and what is happening.

It was calming and I appreciated hearing it and that he also acknowledged I do have a lot of power in the situation.

Ultimately.

Faith.

Faith.

And more faith.

It shall prevail.

The rest of the day was nice, like I mentioned, helping out the family, getting to do the work on my spending plan, taking time to eat a nice dinner, just a salad and sparkling water, but it felt good to nourish myself on the earlier side of dinner as I had a client cancel and I wanted to do the deal tonight at 8p.m.  I was able to leave after my first client and get across town right on time.

Where again I got to be aware of fear and faith and that they are similar, belief in something that cannot be proven.

So I chose faith.

I will continue to choose faith.

Knowing that I am loved and carried and I just have to show up and take the next actions in front of me.

It will all work out.

It really will.

Summer

Or so it seems when I am on social media.

Not that San Francisco is exactly its normal summer beast of fog and cold wind, though, true, it’s been quite windy, it’s just not really warm.

Although I did catch a bit of sun this past weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about how it’s “summer vacation.”

It doesn’t quite feel like that.

I mean.

I got up, went to therapy, worked a full day at work, then saw clients at my internship.

It does not scream summer vacation.

I keep getting this cute, well-meaning messages about enjoy all the time you have now that you’re not in school!

Sure.

And I can’t complain, there is a feeling of easing into this moment of not having to write a paper or get something signed or run around to this supervisor or that, but I still have things to do.

Tomorrow I will get my fingerprints taken with LiveScan and then I am one step closer to turning in my application to the BBS.

I’m really happy to have the process moving along.

The faster I can get that number the faster I will start seeing clients at my paid internship.

 

That too, the paid internship, is going to have some working parts that I have to figure out.

My supervisor has not had a supervisee before, or an intern, I’ll be her first.

So I need to do some due diligence and find out the things that I need and the things that she needs to do.

I have a membership to CAMFT, the California Association of Marriage Family Therapist, so that means I get to call them and ask questions when I need help and this definitely falls under their bailiwick.

I get insurance with CAMFT as I’m still technically a student.

Which is really nice.

And I get to use their legal team too.

Not that I think I need their legal team for finding out what the necessities are for being a paid intern.

I just need to contact them and ask some questions.

Of course.

That has not so much been on my mind.

I’ve been trying to reconnect with the phone counselor who left me a message from the SF Tenant’s Union and not having any luck.

I may just end up going into the office for another quick drop in to ask a few follow-up questions.

Tomorrow I’m planning on getting my LiveScan fingerprints done at a place on Mission Street and if it goes quickly I am thinking I will pop over to the Tenant’s Union afterward, they are open until 7p.m.

I just want a little more direction on what next actions to take.

It feels better for me to be taking action rather than just sitting on my hands.

I am still looking at places, but I think that until I have a touch more clarity I am not going to move real fast on anything.

I know it’s important to keep doing actions though, as I don’t know which action will result in me finding a new place to live.

I, as I have said before, am casting a wide net.

I don’t feel as pressured to find a place as I did when I first got the news since I found out that the 90 day verbal notice is not legal, but then again, as I expressed to my therapist today, processed the shit out of this situation let me tell you, I also don’t like living somewhere I’m not wanted.

And I feel somehow small in this space now.

It’s gone from being a little cozy and sweet, to being cramped and cave like.

Maybe it’s that need for summer, for sun, for light, that makes me feel this way.

But I want something bigger, more expansive, something that will support me in this next phase of my life as I work on my PhD degree and accrue the rest of my MFT hours for licensure.

I want abundance.

I keep writing about what my next place will look like, I try to see it in my head, I don’t always, but I do have a really good sense of what I want.

Of course.

What I really want is my own place.

But that’s a pricey thing in the city unless I go with a studio or, as I just did, I continue to apply to the Below Market housing through DAHLIA, which requires that new buildings in the city rent a certain number of units below the market value of the apartment.

Tonight I applied for a lottery for 33 Tehama.

I’m not really interested in that neighborhood all that much, to tell the truth, but fuck,  a 1 bedroom in the brand new building at below market is renting for $1303-$1450.

I can fucking afford that.

I’m basically paying $1352 right now for my studio.

Few more bucks for a one bedroom in a brand new building with views of the Bay Bridge and a spa and bocce court, yes please, I’ll take it right now.

My dream is to have my own place, but yeah, unless I win the lottery, and I would love to win this one, or the Yerba Buena Dream House Raffle, which I did buy a ticket for when I got my tax return, living alone may be out of the question.

Unless I get a studio in the Tenderloin and that is just not appealing.

I would be in the thick of a notorious neighborhood with a lot of open drug use and dealing.

I can only imagine how long it would take for someone to break into my car after I parked to go home.

Two minutes.

So studio’s like that are out.

I’m open to studios out here and I have checked out a few, but nothing that compares to what I have.

I’m open though.

And I really do believe that things are going to work out for me and the new place I move into will be amazing.

I really do believe that.

So, yeah, summer.

It’s here but not here.

I’m sure it will feel like it soon though.

Three weeks from today I will be flying into New York City baby!

I cannot wait.

I am so very ready for my summer vacation.

So ready.

 

Done

I mean.

The paper, that is.

It’s done.

It is done!

IT’S DONE!!

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

IT’S DONE.

My last paper of the semester is done and sent in.

30 pages.

10,062 words.

That makes it the longest paper I have written in graduate school, apt that it is the last one I am writing for my program degree.

My God.

All I have to do for the next weekend of classes is show up.

I have no homework.

I have finished it all.

I didn’t have to finish it today.

But.

I absolutely had to finish it today.

I have a full week and not much wiggle room between work and clients at my internship.

Plus trying to figure out supervision.

Which, I think I may have figured out, I contacted my group supervisor and asked if there was any way I could meet with her after the normal group meets on Saturday.

That means I will miss the closing class ceremony, but that’s not a requirement of the course load, it’s just something the cohort is doing as a sort of ending ceremony.

Which is fine.

I don’t actually mind missing that.

I do mind missing the class time.

I would rather be in class and participate that way.

And I also sent out another request to the Wednesday supervisor to please let me know if an opening comes up, so if there’s a cancellation or a missing person I can take their spot.

I would like to do the ceremony with the cohort, I think it will be a nice way to close out the experience, though if truth be told I think it’s a bit on the woo woo side of town.

However, I don’t have an issue with it.

I am going to have my own little ceremony, my own party, and I will get to be with my people.

People who have seen me through this very long and arduous road of academia.

My God.

I mean.

I had stacks of books and readers on the floor of my kitchen today.

I was amazed at the amount of reading I have done.

And the stacks of books and readers was about a 1/4 of what I have read and digested.

A lot of articles were on-line, especially this last semester.

And I sold back a lot, the majority of my books.

I had to integrate 10 different sources into my paper from readers, articles, lectures, books, that I have read, and I pulled a bunch of them out of the closet today where I keep the books and readers I couldn’t sell back, and I did a quick dive in to see what there was to see.

There was so much.

So much.

I was really taken by how much was there that I have read, every semester, the accumulation of knowledge in my head, the reading, the writing, the integration of all the work.

I really have done a lot of work.

Not just on this paper, which yes, I did a lot of work on this paper, but overall.

The amount of showing up, reading, and writing.

The amount of internal processing and external.

The year and a half of practicum work and supervision.

The two-week long intensives that I attended.

All the things I didn’t do because I was doing homework.

And the conflict in my cohort, the privilege that I got to speak out against, the learning how to hold that conflict, address it, heal it and move on.

The work is no joke.

I’m grateful for it though.

I have learned so much.

About myself.

About others.

The paper I wrote today had four parts to it and each part had a series of sections, about four to six parts, sometimes eight that had to be addressed.

It made me really break apart and break down what I have studied, what I have learned.

And it showed me that I have learned more than I thought.

I have a great capacity for knowledge.

For this I am grateful.

I also am grateful that I am, that I have chosen to be, in a career that will continue to push me, continue to require that I learn more.

My career is always going to have me expanding my knowledge base and learning more.

It’s exciting.

Although.

I am also grateful that I can take a little break now.

The weight of that paper has been lifted off my shoulders.

It still doesn’t feel real yet, but it’s really done.

I have submitted it and that means that there is nothing left to do.

Oh.

Ha.

I have to lead a guided meditation on Friday for ten minutes.

Heh.

I think I can do that.

Sit down, close your eyes, breathe.

Done.

It’s a beautiful thing being done.

I’m just going to sit here for a moment and enjoy the lack of nothing to do.

It’s rather extraordinary.

That Was Fast

Today just flew by.

For which I am grateful.

I am so ready to get out-of-town and hit the East Coast on my mini-vacation that it was a pleasure how fast today went by.

Hopefully tomorrow and the next few days will go by as fleet.

I had a good supervision session, so grateful, constantly, for the supervisor I have, he just really hits things out of the ballpark for me and he is brutal honest with me about what I need to do and how to work with my clients.

It’s good stuff.

Fucking intense, but really good stuff.

I had a lot to bring him this Monday, last week was a big week for me and I was very happy to be able to process some of the work with him.

I will miss him as a supervisor when I wrap up this semester, I can already tell.

I like the group I’m in for group supervision, but I do not get the kind of guidance from the group supervisor that I do from my solo supervisor.

I don’t really respect my group supervisor, if I have to tell on myself, although I do like her.

She’s ineffectual at holding a frame and a bit vague and nebulous in her approach.

Which always baffles me a bit.

How the hell do you hold a frame for a client if you can’t hold the frame for a group of therapist in training?

I have hopes to switching out to a different group when I get done with my Master’s program.

I’m in the group that works the best for my work schedule and my current solo supervision and therapy work.

Man.

I do a fucking lot.

And I’m still doing my own personal writing.

I am very proud of myself for that.

I stay grounded when I do my morning and evening writing.

I didn’t do a few days of my blog over the weekend, but I did do my morning pages every morning.

I don’t really recall all that many days when I didn’t do either of them.

Probably being at Burning Man last year and not taking my laptop for the first time in a long time, although I still did do plenty of writing out there, I ended up doing it during the heat of the afternoon at the cafe with a big iced coffee and a shady spot under the Center Camp Cafe’s gigantic circus tent.

The fact is.

I am a writer.

I believe that it’s a huge contributor to my therapy work with my clients.

That I am constantly self-reflexive, and continually processing my stuff and finding my way through things.

I don’t know that I would be where I am without the practice.

I like where I am.

Even walking through some really challenging personal times, I still like who I am and that I am trying to grow more, change more, become more myself.

Advocate for myself, for my own change.

The only person I can change is myself.

And I’m not talking about self-improvement, I feel that’s a slippery slope, self-improvement implies that there’s something wrong with me, that I’m not good enough.

It also has connotations of always having to strive to change myself to be better and that when I’m finally better I’ll be perfect and everyone will want to be with the perfect version of me.

There is no perfection.

I am perfect.

Imperfectly perfect.

Humility much?

I can be a perfectionist, so the way through that for me is self-acceptance over self-improvement.

That still means change, it just may not mean change in the way that I used to think it did.

Some miracle wave of a wand and poof!

Happily ever after fairy princess unicorn castle in the cloud magic glitter balloons of joy.

Not so much.

It just means that when I focus on what someone else needs to do so that I can feel comfortable I have to look at myself, what do I need?

How can I change?

Where can I be in acceptance?

There’s loads of room for that kind of introspection.

How can I care for myself when I want to focus on helping others, which is wonderful, but also recognizing that I can’t help anyone if my own needs are met.

Which means that I have to know what my needs are.

Tricky thing that.

I get better at it the more I practice.

The more I get used to paying attention to what makes me happy.

What brings me joy.

And trying to cultivate that.

My writing brings me joy, being a good therapist does, being with people I love, accepting love, travel, eating well, flowers.

My God.

I have a gorgeous bouquet that keeps getting prettier and prettier.

The lilies in the bunch of flowers have been opening over the last few days and it is like looking at a tender heart opening to the sunshine, shy and pink and exquisite.

I feel such sweetness when I look at my flowers.

A girls like her flowers.

And hearts.

I made Valentines Day cards today with one of my charges that came home sick from school and we had such a sweet time with it, drinking tea and taping the Valentines up on the windows at the back of the house.

It was a happy afternoon.

I felt a lot of happiness today.

Some sadness at the beginning, some tenderness, some tears, I probably should skip the sorrowful music I had been listening to for a little while, but this morning, for some reason I just indulged.

A sort of get it out-of-the-way at the beginning of the day and get on with the day.

It seemed to help.

That and it just being a great big full day.

Grateful for navigating through, being of service at my job, showing up for my clients tonight.

And.

Showing up for myself with my writing.

Day and night.

Day.

And.

Night.

All the damn time.