I’m coming back now.
Back to myself.
Back to my family.
Back to waking up before noon on my own, and back to not thinking, first thing, “When do I get to go back to bed?” I’d forgotten that part of life; the absence of longing for the constant escape of sleep.
I had a few hours not many days ago when I remembered myself. Who I am when I have clarity. Who I am minus the Muddled Mind. It was like swimming above clear water instead of sinking, mired in mud. It was ah ha and oh yeah and one deep, complete breath of invisible air; oxygen delivered in full.
I became muddled again, but not as muddled as before, as though there are steps out of the sludge at the bottom, and I’ve managed to crawl up a few. Enough that I can see more steps and the Way Out. Enough that I remember there’s air above me.
I visited my college kid last week. We laughed, and sat in the sun, and ate udon, and set up her room, and watched Family Feud and that horrible Stephen King movie about the clown. We hung out with her roommates, and they told me beautiful lies about how they want me to live with them forever. We slept in the same bed, and she hogged all the covers like she always has. I watched her confidence and her poise, this child-turned-adult who I’d like to be like when I grow up. We took ridiculous photos, too, because I wanted to and because she’s magically not embarrassed of her mama. I’ll share them with you soon. There’s underboob involved — mine, because I may have been recreating my favorite pics from her adorable Instagram feed, except with my body in them instead of perfect her.
I’ve been writing again, too. The words are back, at least in part, and so is the drive to use them. I’ve written again and again about racial inequality, and heartbreak in Charlottesville, and my confessions about my own embedded racism and benefitting from an entrenched system that continues to oppress others. You can read those, if you like, here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. Of course, every time I share things like that — political things, and things that call on white people like me to confess the ways we contribute to the ongoing oppression of minority populations — things that beg us to educate ourselves so we can learn to do better — there are waves of “unlikes.” I high-fived my daughter for a few of those waves while I was with her. She said I’m doing the internet wrong again. She said I’m supposed to want likes and not ask for congrats for being unliked. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Whoops!
So I’ve written, but not here in this space. I’ve been hoarding my spoons for waking up, and getting out of bed, and feeding myself, and finding Me again because I was very, very lost. Now I’m still lost, but I’m also found, which Anne Lamott calls grace, and I’m coming back here again.
I don’t know how many words I’ll write on any given day, but for at least the next 7, I’m going to write something. I have spoons in my back pocket for that long, and maybe longer, and I need to spill my words out again, because words are another step away from the murky bottom. The things I write may be political, or religious, or utterly ridiculous like pics of underboob because God knows there aren’t enough of those on the interwebs. Your guess is as good as mine. No matter what, though, thank you for hanging in there with me. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for waiting for me to make my way back. Thank you for being my friends.