The Scary Stuff

I pay lip service to taking care of myself, but I don’t really do it. I pretend that I’m taking enough breaks and giving myself time to relax, but I’m not really doing either. I compulsively take responsibility for too much because I believe no one else can. I believe I have to step up, because that’s what responsible people do. And that belief is slowly killing me.

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The Sweet Spot

The trick is to find the sweet spot and stay there for the evening. This is the place where I am pleasantly buzzed. Still coherent enough to carry on a conversation (albeit in a slightly slurred fashion), still on track to remember everything I did when I wake up in the morning, and yet blissfully free of the many things I’m usually worried about as I go about my day.

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Blind Baseball

I can run around, waving my glove after each crack of the bat, hoping to broaden my chances of catching the ball by some tiny percentage. Or I can pick a spot in the middle somewhere, put my glove in my lap, and write some poems. Or eat a pretzel.

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More Gratitude

Over glasses of wine or plates of cookies, crowded into the kitchen or outside watching our breath in the cold, in groups or pairs, old and young, we drift together bound by the strange gravity of family love. I am safe and warm and strong, orbiting that star.

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