making space
writing on life
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It snowed nearly 25 inches last week. On March 14. Six days before the first day of spring and one day after daylight savings. What surprised me the most about this noreaster was how happy I was to see it arrive. Daylight savings is a hard time of year for me. While lots of people can experience depression during the fall, often times the spring is the worst for me. I think one of the causes is that—in just one day—the dark and peaceful nights are taken away. It’s suddenly still light after work. People expect you to do things. I expect me to do things.
But this year, I was given a reprieve of sorts. In the hours after daylight savings 25 inches of snow forced me, and the rest of the county, to hunker down and stay inside. It was okay to work on my knitting. It was okay to sleep during the day. There was no judgment.
I’m trying to be easy on myself these days. Even with everything good around me, it’s been a tough six months for me and my mind. Part of the process of getting better has been simplifying what happens in my life. This means a lot of things to me—taking time off work, postponing trips, saying no to things, and trying to be kind to myself for what I am able to do.
I am making space. “Making space.” I almost want to gag when I hear the term. It makes me think of pretentious people preaching *balance* without understanding their privilege. But, in an attempt to reshape my thoughts, I’m imagining a poet saying the phrase to me instead. Make space, this sweet writer says to me. Make space for what you need.
And so, this past weekend, I made space. For two days I sorted through all the papers scattered about my office floor. I pulled out the bins of notebooks and half-finished manuscripts that I hadn’t even looked through since moving into this house over a year ago. I found a table to put my printer on so it doesn’t attract as many dust mites as it did on the floor. I recycled bags of old New Yorkers and copies of Poetry Magazine I’ll never read.
I reshelved dozens of books that were haphazardly piled in the corners. I changed the calendar from February to March. I found my tax papers. When I walk into the room now I only step on the floor or carpet. There is literal space.
There are other ways I’ve managed to carve out a little space in my life lately. It’s not a comprehensive list, but it’s something I thought I could share. It’s also an attempt to get you, reader, to share your thoughts and tricks in the comments below. Let’s make space together.
Downloading both Pinterest and NYT Spelling Bee game onto my phone. Now, every time I reach for Instagram, I go to one of them first. Pinterest usually satisfies my desire for pretty pictures and inspiring thoughts. Spelling Bee distracts me so I forget why I went on my phone in the first place.
ACTUALLY getting up an hour early to sit in the quiet house. It is wild. This works. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
Taking breaks outside. (Teo likes this one.)
Stopping before signing up for another workshop, another class, another trip, another meeting, another group, and asking myself if I really have the mental capacity to do that right now. Ten times out of ten the answer is no. A friend called this desire “courting creative cul-de-sac.” I am trying to stop this.
Attempting to journal every morning. The lefthand page holds to-do lists for the day and the week and the righthand page holds my endless worries.
That last bullet is really tied to how much poetry I’ve been reading these days. Jane Kenyon, Bernadette Mayer, Carl Phillips. There’s a poem by one of my favorite poets, Ellen Bass, and I think she puts into words this feeling much better than I ever could.
The Thing Is
by Ellen Bass
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you down like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
The snow is melting outside. Yes life, I will love you again.
And a note: Don’t worry dear friend. I am doing so, so, so much better these days. I am so grateful for the help I’ve been able to get, and if anyone out there needs assistance or guidance I truly encourage you to reach out to the services near you. Just call 988, someone is there.
*bonus new* the latest books I’ve read
MILKWEED SMITHEREENS by Bernadette Mayer
THE BLUE BISTRO by Elin Hilderbrand
REAL LIFE by Brandon Taylor
THE GIRLS by Emma Cline
NIGHTBITCH by Rachel Yoder
Talk soon.
♥️ this
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