Back in Brooklyn.

I made this rule in the midst of some short-lived breakup with Z that I could never date another boy who slept in a mattress on the floor. It seemed to say so much about the priorities and stability of a person's life. Now I sleep in a mattress on the floor and it's the most settled I've been in over a year.

I guess that's what I've learned about rules.

22.

4:50am and I sat on a suitcase in the driveway, feeling prematurely tender towards the cool mist, the low-blinking buildings, the creaking backdoor I spent four months swinging through. The cab to the bus to the airplane all came and went before sunrise, and I hardly noticed any of it. I felt a giddy, quiet sense of freedom, like I was sneaking out the door after a one-night stand.

I turned twenty-two the next day, sitting in a Waffle House in my hometown. It was 12:15, and all I could do was try to keep my eyes open.

I think back over the year, and have to laugh at all the hair-brained scheming, and the skin-of-my-teeth adventures. I've never felt such intense emotions, never cried so much, never wondered at the world with such depth.

All in all, I'm writing it off as a success. I visited four countries, lived in five different cities, made a handful of new friends that I'll cherish for years to come. I feel more at ease in my own skin, and more comfortable with living in uncertainty.

People have been asking what I'll do next and the answer is so simple: All of it.

Past the Feeling.

(L'Abri, photograph by Christena Dowsett)

Cornered by a spot of sunlight, / I sat on the back porch  / listing words that made me feel simultaneously / dead and alive.

"Breath-
blown, sun-choked,
tree-torn."

Oogum Boogum.

I hesitate to call any day in Ann Arbor "good," because even in peaceful moments, I feel a deeper sadness. But it was green and yellow. It was the kind of day I spent reminding myself to inhale fully, to reserve an hour to sit in the sunshine. I know in a few months I'll miss the warmth, and regret not making the time for any heat.

I watched Blue Is The Warmest Colour in the late afternoon, smothered with light from the window by my bed. What I loved most was the physicality of Adele. She eats voraciously, with no sense of shame at her own hunger -- no need for daintiness. She fucks, she dances, she blubbers messy, snotty tears... all her sensuality and allure derives from how in her body she is.

I'm through with apologising for myself. When I'm hungry, I'll eat. No more hospital IV's, no more meetings with nutritionists after class. When I'm in love, I'll say so. No more climbing through the bedroom window when the front door is unlocked.

Last weekend, Dan and I danced barefoot in Andrew's back yard. It was the first time I'd felt like myself in months. The rest of the party stayed standing in a cluster on the concrete, snide and self-assured. I didn't care. Why deny wet grass, Duke Ellington, the glow of the porch light, the sheen of the picket fence?

I clenched and unclenched my toes against the dirt. I thought: I'd rather die than get that old and quiet inside -- like an empty room.

June Phone Log.

(Joy and I. West Michigan. April 2015)

I called my dad today.

I put my head in my hands when he said what he always says: I'm confident that you'll figure it out. You always do.

It's Father's Day and I miss him, so I couldn't yell what I wanted: I need your help! I don't want to do everything on my own anymore.

Sometime after his fourth or fifth brain surgery scare, (I must have been nineteen), (that first summer when I still couldn't eat or sleep), he climbed the steps to my room. I turned my face to the wall when he said: I don't worry about you doing the wrong thing. I worry about it being done to you.

He's always had too much faith in me. (That's a nice way of saying something else entirely.)

- -

I called my mom yesterday.

After I talk to her, I mark it on my calendar with a small blue dot.

I'd like to call her twice a week just to cry, but I don't want her to think I'm as weak as I am, so I'm keeping track. I'm only calling twice a month.

- -

Dan called from Paris. I kept quiet when he said: You gave it the old college try. You can be done now.

- -

Joy called a day later. Dan says you're sad. More sad than usual. Are you?

- -

I re-read that scene in Franny and Zooey -- that one at the very end -- when Zooey calls Franny from the other room pretending to be Buddy. Afterwards, she seemed to know just what to do next.

- -

Who is it I need to call, and who is it I need them to pretend to be?

On Decisions, Transience, and Faith.

(Dan and I, Brooklyn, Summer 2014)

I've never been very good at making decisions. A big part of this is simply that I'm a creative person, and the world is endlessly fascinating to me. My brain and my life both move quickly, and when I find myself standing still, I get bored. But I'm noticing my friends and family struggle with decision making and commitment lately, and while many of them are artists, some aren't, and they're still struggling.

There are so many options and opportunities for my generation, especially for those of us economically and socially privileged to have been born as white, middle-class Americans. It's a privilege to have choices, and one that I think every human being should have, but lately, it has also felt debilitating. For our grandparents and even our parents, the choices were simpler, and the definition of "success" more polarising and particular. Now, I can imagine and achieve so much. The world is smaller and experiences are more attainable. I'm constantly distracted not just by social media or Netflix, but by the idea of a tent in Hawaii, a commune in Canada, a train in Boston. I've always wanted an adventurous life, and I've had one. I've lived all over the country and the world, and I've been daring in my relationship with myself and with others. But I'm reaching a moment in my young adulthood where I feel trapped between the desire to continue to live adventurously, and the need to live responsibly.

The longing to create a home, to have my own space and life, is seemingly at odds with my longing to see the world. As it is, I'm stuck somewhere in between. Ann Arbor is a stop along the way for me. That would be okay if I felt that there were a destination. I've got "a stop along the way" stretching out before me without end.

Most days, I feel completely lost. But I've been taking a lot of comfort in these words from Amy Poehler: You can only move if you are actually in the moment. You have to be where you are to get where you want to go.

So, I'm practicing that. I'm taking hope in the idea that life always leads to more life. Every stop along the way is meaningful and worthwhile in its own right, but every stop along the way also propels us forward.

I would never have moved to New York for university if I hadn't done a summer internship and lived in Manhattan as a high school student. I would never have gone to Belgium four years later if I hadn't done that summer internship with the same company. I would never have gone to Canada if I hadn't read a book about L'Abri in a college class.

Life leads to more life, and I'm looking forward eagerly to what "more life" will look like in the fall.

In the meantime, here's to what life is now: a bicycle with a basket, four jobs, a front porch, an empty closet, a little homesickness, and the sweetness of learning to walk by faith.

New Things.

In my continued efforts to revamp this blog into something a bit more eclectic and inclusive, here's a bit of a personal life update.

Working here: Hobart: another literary journal
Attending this: Anne Carson and Anne Waldman
Reading this: 100 Years of Solitude
Listening to this: Lurid Glow

(Brooklyn, April 2015)