I’ve written about this Saturday before, but today I got to truly slow down and consider what it means for life to return. The stomach bug will do that to you.

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.