There—that calm of sifting spices into matching jars, cleanly labeled, creating order where there once was plastic-bagged-chaos. On the phone, my sister, Are you busy right now? Do you want to talk? And then, two hours later, I’m sorry for taking up so much of your night, but what she doesn’t realize is that I’d rather talk to her than do most anything else. The people I am closest to are seven years older and seven years younger—there is some metaphor in there, I’m sure, about seven being a holy number and all that. When my sister was born two days after my seventh birthday, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not have to share a birthday with her. Now we both agree we wouldn’t mind having a day to call ours alone. When we are together we can’t get anything done; a week to talk doesn’t seem like enough. The other month we had a phone call that lasted for only fifteen minutes. A few days later she called me back, making up for, she said, that pitifully short conversation. It lasted three hours.

(Oct. 21)

I’m afraid that by focusing so much on delight people will get the wrong idea about me, or think my life is exceptionally idyllic (there is a strange assumption I’ve encountered that if you live in Colorado your life must be perfect). I have both the blessing and curse of being able to see beauty even when I’m suffering—a blessing because, well, beauty is necessary, of course it is, but a curse because beauty can be alienating, and you find yourself thinking, How can I truly be depressed if I am still able to feel a jolt of gratitude for the sliver of light caressing my lover’s face? But in the short week I’ve been doing this practice—and this is why I started, for the hope of reaching this point—the hole in which I’ve been wallowing for months suddenly doesn’t feel as deep or wide. It’s not that zeroing in on delight suddenly erases despondency, but it has suddenly given parameters to my turmoil, and I’ve found myself increasingly able to live alongside the discomfort rather than being wholly engulfed by it.

(Oct. 20)

Well, some days it feels like there is not much. But here is what remains: the marigold leaves of the maple tree in the front yard; smoke lazily trailing from the candles I blew out after breakfast; half a loaf of banana bread; the overlook at the edge of the neighborhood where we all congregate to assess the current state of the fires; a few lavender bushes holding strong down the street; roasted butternut squash with a hunk of sharp cheddar; 4th Street, which turns into a veritable dog parade come 6pm; the old crow screeching outside my bedroom window. Maybe these things can be enough.

(Oct. 19)

Today dawned cold and misty. I gave into the rush that a weekend morning free from obligations can give; the person you love is home and the day can be dedicated to making a cozy nest for yourselves. It made me think of a similarly gray Sunday last fall—but that Sunday was laden with papers to write and projects to design, while today remains a blissfully blank square. That’s not to say I don’t miss being in academia. Of course I do, academia is in my blood. Fall feels incomplete without the briskness of rushing on campus through a whirl of leaves, the wind slapping red into my cheeks as I hurry for a coffee between classes. I miss the ability to be so self-driven, having the guidance of mentors and peers but being singularly responsible for the semester’s outcome. Now all that is behind me (unless I go to grad school which…I’m considering). I understand why people say college is the best time of their lives—and I had a mediocre college experience compared to many. When else is the future so utterly limitless? 

But our old lives are so easily romanticized. No sense in doing anything but looking forward. Homework-filled Sunday afternoons are only a memory now—sometimes joy is the absence of something.

(Oct. 18)