Three pages again. It’s supposed to be every morning, but this morning I was preoccupied with hair washing and getting ready for the Easton Farmers Market. We met Samantha and Darien there. It was hot, sticky. A thunderstorm rolled through last night, and I was worried it would wake Charlotte, but she slept right through it. Totally unbothered. I’m sure that will change as she gets older.
I had more vivid dreams last night. I dreamt I was pregnant — but it was through IVF, and I had four babies, all of different gestational ages, inside of me, and something was going wrong. One of the babies had Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a condition affecting connective tissue, I believe, but specifically there were characteristics apparent on the ultrasound — namely an upturned nose, large forehead, and smaller eyes.
I wonder if I am pregnant? I had a dream I was giving birth to a baby girl the night before I found out I was pregnant with Charlotte. Today I was a little nauseous too, but I’ve been nauseous ever since my first trimester — twelve months ago. I wonder if that will ever go away. My eating disorder loves fitting into all my pre-pregnancy clothes so quickly, I’ll tell you that much. The downside is I don’t have the energy to work out, and I used to ride Peloton every morning.
I’m taking an easier approach these days and going outside for walks with Charlotte. I like exploring the neighborhood, feeling like I live in a suburban daydream — waving hello to neighbors as they mow their lawns, ride their bikes, get the mail. I also enjoy admiring the different home decor choices — I can tell which homes are newer by the windows. You can always tell by the windows. Or by the color and condition of the siding, the sidewalk.
There are a lot of nice houses near us. We’re lucky to live in such a beautiful neighborhood, and I was inspired yesterday to add two black rocking chairs, a red oriental-style rug, and string lights to our front porch to show our uniqueness. Give the neighborhood an idea of who we are by curating a front porch that screams out for intellectual conversations, book clubs, pretentious coffee snobs. Not that I think I’m the type — or maybe I am? I’d love to join a book club.
I’d love to join a writer’s circle, too — something to keep myself accountable to continue writing. Philosophically, I feel a duty to the universe to create. I have consumed so much, overconsumed, indulged daily, become beguiled by overconsumption (not sure that’s the right way to use the word beguiled, but it sounds right in my head). I have to give back. I have to give back in writing, in stories, in essays. Though taketh and though giveth, said some religious doctrine somewhere in the world once.
I imagine that there are a million stories circulating inside of me — all the words swimming together — and it is my job to pull them out one by one. My life’s purpose: the thing I can give to the world (outside of my children). I just have to open the gateway at the right time, at the right angle. And in order to do that — in order to give myself enough chances to fulfill this purpose — I have to write regularly.
I used to, when I was younger. I journaled every night — religiously. It wasn’t my first foray into self-expression through words. I’d written stories when I was younger, always coloring pages and stapling them together — self-published children’s stories only my family got to read.
My mom called and interrupted me. She was pleasant to chat with. It’s not always that way, but sometimes that’s because I’m not in the right mood to chat. I could set better boundaries by not answering in those situations, but it’s my mom. I’m sure many adults would agree — parental relationships are where boundaries go to die.
Kris is finishing up the bookcases behind me. I love the way they turned out. It looks so pretty — especially with the wallpaper.
Back to my thoughts on writing and my existential duty to create. Writing is something that has always come naturally to me. Prose appears out of the blue, and poetry runs through my mind about the silliest things, the smallest moments, and the big ones, too. Art is what I get for all the trauma I’ve endured. The words, the light I can provide to someone else who may need it.
On a more spiritual level, I imagine the stories I write are letters to former, younger versions of myself. By putting down on paper how I’m getting on, it gives her the strength, hope, and resilience she needs to push forward. You know how, when things are really hard — whether it’s a breakup, or losing your job, or somebody dying — and it seems like that pain infuses itself into every aspect of your life? The way mornings are so heavy and nights are so long. Eating is a chore, and every moment in between is so unbearable there’s a numbness that arises in self-protection. In system override. Overuse?
Well — below all of that, or within it, there’s (for me) always a sliver of hope. One small speck of light in all the darkness. And maybe it isn’t actually there, but I believe it’s there — and because I choose to believe it’s there, so it is. I think therefore I am. I write therefore I am. And I send all that hope back to her. It will be okay. You’ll get through this, too.
So while I haven’t respected my writing as well as I should have in all these years, I’m picking up the pen and putting down the words now.
I was thinking just yesterday about the importance of being outside, of fresh air, of living outdoors — living in general. I looked around me from a picnic blanket in the yard and saw the shapes of the bushes, the light on the flowers, the chartreuse truth glowing from a hydrangea bush. This is what life is about. This is the earth I came from.
It seemed as though the world was hard to perceive — parts of me have become so used to digital/virtual realities that looking at a bush seemed to put my mind in overdrive. So that is what I’ve been thinking — Chartreuse Truth. I can see pictures of a bush, watch videos of people enjoying the outdoors, but the chartreuse truth of my hydrangea bush in sunlight is only accessible here — on this picnic blanket — the green-yellow glow that needs the revelry of spring and the scent of grass to convey its beauty wholly.
I am no painter. I’ve never had a hand in sketching. But I watched some videos recently on dimensional reality, and the narrator described how we perceive the world in 2D and are only able to identify an object as 3D because of the light and shadow that is cast upon it. For example — a sphere, when faced head-on, looks like a perfect circle; 2D. However, shine a light on one side, create a shadow — and voilà! 3D.
So the world these days is beautiful. The fresh spring air, flowers blooming, birds chirping, blue skies collecting white puffy clouds. I cannot transmute this imagery on paper, but perhaps I can swipe keystrokes, arrange sticks and dots on digital paper, and preserve the beauty of the day that way.
Let me paint the light and dark emotional reality of one life. Let it glow, and let it be shadowed. Let me create depth in the way that I can. Give back to the universe a reflection of itself — a reminder to civilization of the beauty in everyday life. Specifically, late spring mornings.
As a species, we must have done something right to deserve late spring mornings like these.
three pages 
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