Underwear, Avocado, and Being Loved Inside the Hunger and the Mess

Give me this life where I don’t cringe at the sight of my own flesh or wish I were someone else, and where I am not only tolerated but loved most of all, most adored, in my hunger, in my mess, in my half-naked sandal-wearing ruined beauty.

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Surfing Ocean and Sky: Mary Oliver and Synchronicity

I sit with this for a moment, tears in my eyes. I feel the impulse to deflect it, to say something funny or self-deprecating. But I don’t. I take it in. And then I thank her and say, “I need you, too.”

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Heart Wide Open Hurts

Apparently, I wasn’t done crying yet, as her question triggered another round of heaving sobs. Flooded by how much I love my kids, more than perhaps they will ever know, and feeling in my bones that this is how much my mother loves me. The immensity of love felt almost like too much to bear. Because it is also pain, and it is also loss. There is no picking and choosing here.

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Bigger, Better, Different

So I wrote and kept writing. I worked and loved and read books to myself and read books to my kids. I wrote about them, I wrote about showing up. I wrote about depression and the layers and the falling apart.

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Spa Day

“I have what might sound like a stupid Poor White Trash question, but… what exactly is a Spa Day?” I cracked up. Sometimes our socioeconomically different backgrounds birth the best conversations.

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