collected thoughts, vii

Once, I thought a tiny tumbleweed was a groundhog with matted fur. Then it blew away.


Last week I revised an essay about love lost, love learned, and love rediscovered. It was a lot more emotionally exhausting to write than I thought it would be. I kept crying. Among many other things, the past two months have revealed to me that writing is both a hurting and a healing process. We have to give it time.


In the mornings: cereal and coffee.


“I wanted you to have a chance to get yourself on solid ground, get your heart bolstered up first. There’s a fullness of time for things, Lily. You have to know when to prod and when to be quiet, when to let things take their course. That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

—dialogue excerpt from Sue Monk Kidd’s “The Secret Life of Bees”


I don’t know anything about clinical insomnia. I’ve had my share of sleepless nights but nothing worthy of alarm. That’s still the case. But last night I couldn’t have slept if my life depended on it, and I wasn’t even anxious or depressed. I was functioning fine, just wide awake, and even though I put my book (and phone, let’s be real) down and turned off the light at 1:30 a.m., I couldn’t fall asleep. None of the usual things that make me tired were working. When I finally nodded off around 5 a.m., I was awakened less than an hour later by the red-winged blackbird that has taken up residence in our backyard and the field beyond. It was not even 6 a.m. and the sunrise was just starting to roll the fields in gold.


The moment love becomes a means to an end, it has ceased to be love.

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