2022

We visited our local movie theater last night, for the first time since moving to Alaska. Sing 2 played and apparently we had purchased tickets for the one-night-only singalong version. People brought their own bowls for popcorn and a teenaged boy walked up and down two aisles, delivering hot dogs to those who’d ordered them at the counter. Children and adults alike sang their hearts out as lyrics bounced across the bottom of the giant screen of the one-room theater. The building was old and creaky, and the toilets in the bathroom a perfect retro shade of pink. We sneaked Red Vines in but were too scared to try the sushi and veggies and so they waited for us in the car. We stepped out into the cool evening air after the show, sun still out and shining on ocean and mountains alike, both of which waited for us at the bottom of the street.

This place is magical.

There is a very real grief, petty and strange as it may be, that follows losing a houseplant.

One of the most striking things I found in scrolling coverage of the Brooklyn subway shooting was the way in which the bystanders were described — calm, reactive, swift with the help and care. Someone made tourniquets from t-shirts. Someone took photos of the scene. Students made encouraging signs to post in the windows from their locked-down school nearby.

We have all grown used to tragedy. In a time where neighbors are often strangers, strangers become neighbors in times of need. What a time to be alive.

I concluded my day by pulling splinters out of my kid’s hand; I might not have touched her otherwise, the day long and full as it was. Thank God for splinters.

One of the things I learned in trauma therapy is that while so much of life is beyond my control, it’s okay to create little pockets where I feel safe, I’m always in charge and the outcomes are guaranteed. I’ve settled on my email inbox and my closet. Everything zeroed out or and in its place, just the way I like it, makes the rest of my life feel more peaceful and manageable.

I can’t believe we live here is the phrase we use each day; perhaps it’s getting old? I’ll try a different way…

I never knew I’d live a life that allowed me sneak away with my husband in the Sunday afternoon sun to celebrate the Winter King Salmon Derby. The winning fish weighed 27.3lb, caught by a child. I ran into friends, who introduced me to new people. I shared Red Vines out of my purse. I held my husband’s hand and smiled into the sun and stayed warm, because I’d brought enough layers, because I’m finally getting the hang of living in Alaska.

I can’t believe we live here.

I knew one of my daughters had a live reading last night. She’d won an award at the local arts council and they’d be recording her performance for the radio station. I put it in the calendar but when the hour came, I simultaneously lost track of time and somehow assumed it started later than it did. When I realized my hour, I blew out of work and met Chris in the church parking lot to scoop her up. We arrived a half-hour late, only to find them locking up. It was a quick reading, guys. Sorry.

Just then, an elderly lady walked in. They greeted her by name as she yelled (seriously) I thought it started at 7! What is wrong with me?! The kind attendant suggested my daughter read to her, and he began to unpack his recording equipment. The woman sat, enraptured as my baby shared the tale of the summer when she was injured by our new puppy and had to visit the emergency room, bringing special attention to her memory of the doctor with a voice that boomed like thunder.

A staff member came out of the office and by the end of the reading, there were three of us. I apologized profusely, to everyone from my baby girl to the arts council staff to God to my husband. I’ve been quite busy at work during a potential career transition, and apparently there just wasn’t enough room in my foggy brain for Friday night at the arts council. Everyone was gracious, especially my daughter… it was the perfect audience, Momma. I wasn’t even nervous.

I can keep a lot of plates spinning, but only for so long. The crash is sometimes small, sometimes loud, always heavy, a kind reminder that I should not attempt to do it all.