Spaces

In this world, there are tough spaces.

There’s the rain that comes down so quickly it pools on the pavement. It rushes and whirls, frantically searching for a way out. There’s the ripples in the puddles that hug the curbs, they ricochet into the edges of me. I feel the dampness in my soul. I feel stiff and achy for change and a soft blanket. I want to be wrapped in a warm towel embrace. To nestle into a neck and feel a wet strand of hair on my cheek. There is the ache of missing.

There is a bench on the coast where the water rushes into the shallow, and I saw you there, more than once. There's a place on the hill where you live, and I'm not sure I'll ever run into you. I’m not sure I want to. There's a seat on the plane next to you and I don't know if I should take it. It was never mine to begin with. There are so many spaces you could fit in, and I admire how you fill none of them. You dance your own streets at dusk, not bothering when the streetlights turn out. You are your own beacon. 

Your shadow passes shop windows and you don't look once. You don’t need to.

You throw your body in front of oncoming pain. You protect. You walk with your shoulders pinned back as if you’re not carrying the world on them.

There are words, that might not be spaces, but they echo through them. You know, the words that feel like cereal scraping the roof of your mouth as they come out. There’s blisters with bandaids that won’t stick. There’s emptiness that won’t be satiated by a good meal, not even a good cry.

There are hollow nights where instead of a head and a neck, I have a hot air balloon balancing on a toothpick. The pressure mounting. The emptiness expanding.

There’s thoughts that still fight for attention even though my mind’s been in overdraft for days. There’s ball of yarn thoughts and runaway train thoughts. I’m equally afraid of each of them.

And then there are good spaces.

There’s the arm of a chair, the one you perch on because the kettle is calling you, but the conversation’s too good. There's the flour on the counter, remnants from homemade pizza dough and how you forget that adding water won’t clean it. There’s the sticky-handed laughter that follows. There's a wine glass on the side table, a ring of red on the coaster. There's a candle half melted and a drawer full of magazines. There's a couch that’s only comfortable when you're sitting on it. There's a bathroom door that isn't closed often. There a door creak in the morning. A teddy bear traded. A plant gifted. The perfect card.

There’s spontaneous afternoons in the sun drinking sangria. There’s so many photos and then there’s forgetting to take any at all. There’s hugs that are all elbow and peripheral giggle. There’s overused phrases and comical mispronunciations that become the only way to say it. There’s hoppy days and stolen glassware. There’s toilet paper turns and comfortable silence.

There’s aging, and the way you make me feel okay about it.

There’s time, and the way I want more of it.

There’s life, and the way I am grateful for it.

Thoughts from the cereal aisle

 The brightest part of my day comes at 7pm. Just as the dusk creeps up to wrap the city in its daily embrace, the desolate air fills with sound. Pots and pans and claps ring from balconies and rooftops and I too arrive at my window with a voice and a purpose.

This seems the only moment I can guarantee with any consistency. The evening that follows brings some twisted comfort too. It helps knowing the lights in the windows across the way belong to the people from 7pm. I call them the good people. My neighbourhood is full of good people, I say, as I hold my tea between my hands and try not to think too hard about the sick people.

I try to find some comfort in the things I know for certain. Everyone is home, unless they are heroes or being helped by heroes. Everyone is home. Nobody is ordering a vodka soda at a bar. Nobody is sitting in a restaurant smearing a pat of butter on a slice of appetizer sourdough. Nobody is being rude to a waitress, or shoving through a crowd at the club. Nobody is yelling at a sports game. Nobody is anywhere but here, in our homes, sitting in dim light watching something on a screen, waiting. Waiting for someone to tell us it’s okay. For someone to call us, and tell us they love us. Waiting for a sign, or a distraction.

I imagine brushing past the man at the end of the cereal aisle, the sleeve of his sweater touching mine with a spark of static denouncing the contact. It’s no use though. He’s out of reach and the voice on the PA reminds us, these measures are in place to keep us safe. But the voice doesn’t know that the only time I feel safe is in someone’s arms. 

I keep dreaming of being in the back of a cab with my best friend. Laughing into the foggy window after too many glasses of wine and not enough sourdough. Dreaming of accidentally touching hands with someone on a dance floor or swaying against lanky bodies in the crowd of a concert. 

I never even have cash on me, but I miss paying with it. I want to hand a cashier a bill and ask for quarters—not even because I need them for laundry, just because there’s been so much change and I need something to hold onto that’s more concrete than the tap of a card and an aversion of the eyes.

It doesn’t feel like the end of the world. No, it’s a little heavier, and a little emptier than that. It feels like we’ve all become children to the only people who can help us. Like we’ve all got to follow the rules we’ve spent our whole lives growing up to break. Like we’re all thirteen again and our parents have sent us to our rooms.

It’s just that I want to see your face in dimensions that don’t fit in the palm of my hand. I need you near because I think I’ve forgotten what skin on skin feels like. And for fuck’s sake I just want to look into a pair of eyes for longer than it takes me to say, “That’ll be on debit.” 

It’s just that the loveliest in-person conversation I’ve had in weeks was asking a man on the street where he got his toilet paper and he hugged it to his chest and said, “It’s gold.” I laughed and agreed with him, but in my head I was thinking, “I want someone to hug me like that.” Yes, hug me like you’ve been looking for me for weeks. Like I’m soft, and rare, and essential. Hug me like 3-ply gold. One ply for each string I’m hanging on by.

Jinx, you owe me a good life.

I’m following my heart and doing what feels best. And sometimes that means being far away from a lot of the people that I love and the people that love me.

It’s not always an easy thing to be away, but there are all kinds of love in this life and I feel beyond lucky to have people in mine whose love will remain while I go in search of the other kinds.

***

I haven’t been in one place for an extended period of time for a while, and I have wondered if maybe I was afraid of staying put—of things getting stagnant. Truth is, I think I was afraid of being happy for long periods of time. Let me explain.

I haven’t posted in a while, but that’s not to say I haven’t been writing. What I have written is: a lot of half things, a lot of mediocre things, a lot of work things, and a lot of things that feel too personal to share. I also got into an odd habit of writing really obscure things. Sometimes a poetic way of saying something is the best way to say it, but not always, and I found I had begun writing in a way that started to make no sense, even to me. I think I was afraid of what I was trying to say, as if saying it would cue some sort of voodoo—you know, notify whoever’s job it is to mess things up when they’ve been too good for too long.

And that’s when I realized, don’t we all get that way sometimes? I can’t be the only one?

It reminds me (please excuse the volleyball reference) of when you are peppering (keeping the ball up), and all of a sudden one of you starts to realize that it’s been going on forever, and your lip start to curl, maybe you laugh, all while trying to maintain focus on this thing. You’re juggling a ball in the air and the simple acknowledgement of it going well is what averts your focus, is what ends up being the downfall of it all.

I wonder, too often, if it’s possible that it’s the same in life. By noticing that things are going well, can I, for lack of a better word, jinx myself?

There were a few moments in the past year where I felt this way.

Were things too good? Was there a shoe that was bound to start dropping? Do I deserve this? (Hello imposter syndrome) Is this really where I’m supposed to be? Surely I must need to move on to the next thing by now?

And then, as if by some perfect miracle, I found myself in a very wonderful situation that allowed me to be somewhere new, living a life with a component of constant change, yet also remaining in the same place for an extended period. I was blessed with a dream job opportunity in a beautiful city different from my home, in a role that never gave me the same challenge twice.

I found myself toggling between feelings of thrill and comfort. Thrill, due to new experiences and unfamiliar surroundings. And comfort, due to encouraging experiences and consistent surroundings. I oscillated between anxiety and calm—sometimes hourly.

I found myself a tiny ounce fearful of an unrecognizable life, an unexpected stillness, and an uncertain future. And then in my very next thought, came a small gram of relief and a pinch of laughter expelled from my body, because wasn’t that the very life my heart craves? I know myself well enough to know I thrive in off-the-cuff situations, ones that challenge my thinking, put my problem solving on the spot, and encourage creativity and spontaneity. I am the first to admit that deep down I don’t love an uncertain future, but through some unfortunate—or blessed, depending on which way you look at it—uncertain past events that didn’t always go my way, I have had the pleasure of learning to live with this uncertainty. Yes, this unfamiliar combination of feelings is terrifying, but that was the kicker for me: I have been able to thrive because of precisely that reason. Terrifying, for me, has become synonymous with challenging, and boy do I love a challenge.

So, whether it’s a dream of mine altered beyond my control, or a love that goes unlived, or learning to stand still for longer than my spontaneous soul wants to, I will approach it with the same open and empathetic heart that has gotten me through everything that preceded this. What I think I am trying to say is, I understand why too much stillness seemed scary. It was just unfamiliar. And then, as most unfamiliar things are, they only seem scary until you’ve lived with them for a few months, and then they become a regular part of your life. That once dark street becomes your walk to work, that once intimidating guy becomes your quiet neighbour, and that once bloody gash becomes a faded scar and a funny story.

Don’t judge a new feeling by the first feel. Feel it a few more times before you judge whether it’s good or bad. Sit with it and ask it questions. Ask it where it’s from, and why it’s here. Chances are, it belongs here just as much as the rest of them, and you should probably welcome it in with the same open arms you do with other familiar feelings. You just might be surprised at what it could teach you.

Tenderness

I want old seconds
I don’t want hours
I want your thumb wiping a tear from my cheek
My body forgets what that kind of tenderness feels like

Maybe you’ll love me for the rest of your life
Maybe you’ll never get over it
search for parts of me in every woman after me

Maybe you won’t
Maybe you never loved me

Maybe I’ll love you for the rest of my life
but never want to be with you

Maybe I never loved you
(We know that part isn’t true, but it’s an interesting thought)

What if we loved each other
and the world cracked open with the weight of us

And what if it couldn’t handle 
the way you looked at me in the moonlight
It couldn’t stand the church bells 
chiming along to the kisses on my forehead
What if it couldn’t bear the summer heat under just a bedsheet
and the way electricity flooded our skin when we touched
What if the universe crumbled under our heavy hearts

What if we loved each other 
and there was nothing that could hold us
No world that knew something so grand

What if we loved each other 
and even your body ached
at the thought of carrying it for a lifetime
even your smile quivered
as you imagined trying to sustain such a feeling

What if we loved each other
and there was nothing we could do about the falling apart 

What if we loved each other 
and it was doomed from the start

Candlelight and sugar

I’ve got an affinity for a good heart
and yours is something noble
made of solid gold sarcasm and 3.6 percent milk

This budding is all blooming
in a way that makes nobody hesitate
It’s not dire, it’s sweet and it’s honest
It’s candlelight and sugar
It’s warm sunlight through my window

You come out of nowhere knowing what I am
Hand on the doorknob and you kiss me
before I can open it and run
No I couldn’t run if I wanted to
So I don’t and when you ask me to stay
I put on a t-shirt and I finally feel
like the girl I always wanted to be
The one who stays

I was never afraid of baring my chest
my heart always in full view
I was never afraid of a turned cheek
until I saw yours rosy and cold
I was never afraid until I realized I wanted you to see my heart
and I wanted you to love it

 You’re far different from the boy who times his tea
– though I think he would’ve liked you
And you’re in stark contrast to the one who put the kettle on
because you don’t like tea at all
and you don’t even own a kettle
It’s polarizing like cold water in July
You are 5-hour energy when the clock strikes midnight
You are lack of sleep welcomed into bear-chasing arms

Your feelings didn’t just hang in the air
like things I thought I might recognize
No, you made them tangible like
elbow noodles at midnight
or a cell phone plugged in at 4

Now I whisper into the night
You were a twinkle in my sky
And if the man on the moon asks why the tears
I’ll tell him I just wanted to enjoy it

And I’m trying to forget
that by the time your star reached me
it’s light was already out

Fire and rain and all the things that time does

I don’t hang postcards around my room anymore, but I keep them in a drawer beside my bed. What I’m saying is I like to keep the things I used to love in the same room as my dreams. To remind me. Love is still here. Within me. I write myself letters with questions I don’t know the answers to, in hopes that by the time I go back and read them, I’ll have already answered them.

I ask, does the foggy Boston morning look the same if I’m not feeling the same as I did then? If I was standing on the train platform tomorrow morning, would I dance the same way I did then? Would sitting on the trampoline in the backyard still feel as good if the sun wasn’t on my face? Will that passageway still tie knots in my gut if I walked through it today? Would I do it any differently? Would you?

I have an addiction to the word why. But there is a misconception about my intentions. I have only ever wanted to learn. That is all it’s ever been about. I have a child’s curious heart and I just want to be better. Not better like I used to want. Better like stronger. Better like it’s a question in my drawer that I’m still trying to answer.

You see, I have a blue heart. This is not a sad thing. Believe me.
When you asked me what music I listen to, I looked at my feet because how do I say I have a list of songs that correspond to feelings. I have a list of songs that remind me of people I’m not in touch with anymore. I have a list of songs that give me goosebumps, and one for walking alone. I look at my feet and weigh my options. I settle on this, “If you listened to my melodies, you’d think I was a sad girl.” And I wonder if this makes you run. I wonder if you’ll wait around to find out that I’m not.

At heart, I just want to make things immortal.
You, mostly.
I have always thought you were mad
and remarkable and wildly intelligent.
I am never sorry for documenting it.

***

I wonder if you’ll understand why I cry when people say I look happy.
Sometimes you never know what you’re feeling until someone tells you that it’s oozing out your pores.

Somewhere in the ravine behind my parent’s house there is a pale filled to the brim with tears of laughter. I used to keep it in my room, but that’s back when I was keeping score. Now, I sleep without thinking much about it. Now, I wake up with tears on my pillow and I’m not afraid. Not as much as I used to be anyway.

Whenever the songs start getting a little too “rainy Tuesday afternoon,” I think about eighth grade, and how we had a little boom box and one James Taylor CD. We played Fire and Rain on repeat for weeks. No one thought to bring another CD to school. Whenever I hear it, I am sitting between white brick walls drawing hearts inside my desk with pink gel pen. Those innocent untouched days, I remember how I never once tired of it. The same way I never tired of you. But then one day we stopped playing it and I don’t remember anybody being too sad about it.

Skinned knees and stories to tell

Dance they said
You were supposed to dance
So you slipped off your shoes
Slid your barefeet along the wet ground
Let them kiss the grass, twist in the sand
Felt your shins touch cold metal
as you hoisted yourself over the fence
screamed a little too loud
and traded skinned knees for stories to tell
Felt your thighs stick to the leather on the back of a motorbike
Laughed out loud and brought your hands to your face and felt
the softness of your cheeks
The way they flush and
the bronzed warmth radiating from your shoulders
the shoulders that spent all day in the sun
Watched the moon rise like a new day
But in the darkness you came alive
You moved through mountains and big worlds
through barriers and across oceans
Watched the sky electrocute the moon
Closed your eyes and listened for it’s retaliation
Felt the droplets come to rest on the backs of your hands
Licked your lips and tasted sugar
Now hold on so tight that the memory sinks
so deep it builds roots and grows
grows so big that you know it’s not going anywhere
The only thing that’s moving now
are the butterfly wings of your heart
as it does a lap around the room
because it can’t contain the joy

Things I learned about life on the S-train

I spend a lot of time on buses and trains. I’m always moving from one place to another, always on my way. This leaves a lot of time for self-reflection, for introspection, but also for discovery. As was I navigating the world around me, and the world inside me, I thought about all the others around me that were doing the same, and I wanted to know more – I had to know more. So, I put myself on a little project. I was going to talk to these people, and find out what they knew about life.

For situational and cultural context, this project took place on the S-train in Copenhagen, Denmark. From my experience, the stereotype that Danes are more reserved seems true, but perhaps especially so when their commute is interrupted by a solely English-speaking stranger. I was, after all, interrupting their peaceful ride, and maybe for some people, interrupting the only moments of solitude in their day. I was poking into their bubble, and it wasn’t always pleasant. Each time, as I began speaking, I could see in their eyes the way they were considering my motives, judging me to see if I was some potential danger. There I was with my backpack, blonde hair pulled back, usually coming from practice, sometimes carrying avocados or bananas because I had stopped at the store and they wouldn’t fit in my bag. Now I know avocado girl doesn’t scream threatening, but I wasn’t in their shoes – I just wanted to be for a minute or two.

Some days were good. Really good. I got lucky, I talked to some awesome people and had some great conversations. Some were quiet, but inspiring. Sometimes, I’d speak to someone who seemed super apprehensive throughout our entire conversation, but they still had something good to share. That’s the thing, anytime I could engage someone to participate, even half-heartedly, it became an accomplishment in and of itself. The more casually and freely I approached the conversation, the more willing people would be to offer more; more words, more wisdom, more time.

But those were the good days. There were many bad ones, and unsurprisingly, this is where I found much of the noteworthy growth lies.

If you think you handle rejection well, you’re probably wrong. I experienced a lot of rejection. A lot. Some days, I would try to talk to someone, but they wouldn’t speak enough English, and the conversation would fizzle quickly. Trust me when I say this is the best rejection outcome. This was easy to handle. 

Some people though, lacked a certain tact. I had palms thrust in my face, or was pushed to the side as they tried to exit my presence. I had a few people “outwait me.” Essentially, they would entertain me, say something to please me like, “Oh that’s a tough question, give me a minute to think…” and then not say another word until they got off the train at their stop. I think this was just their way of declining to participate without actually having to say no. I can understand this, learning to say no is something I’ve had to work on myself.

I had one woman seem pleased to speak to me at first (probably willing to help me with directions), but the more I spoke, the more her facial expression changed. She sat back, looked away, and shook her head at me in disgrace. She wore a look of disgust that burned into my soul. She never said another word and refused to acknowledge that I was sitting in front of her still speaking. I trailed off, barely finishing the conversation I was now having with myself. I had to move train cars because the awkwardness was so excruciating, not to mention I was mortified and in shock at her discourtesy.

This was bad, but it wasn’t the worst…

Do you know how horrible it feels to talk to someone and offer suggestions for them to speak about anything in life, perhaps things such as love or happiness… and have them respond with, “His mother is in the hospital, so we are not feeling very happy right now.” Yes, that happened.

Okay, so there’s an important lesson – be kind, be courteous. Always. You never know what other people are going through.

Amidst all these rejections, especially if I had too many brutal ones in a row, I would begin to get embarrassed by myself. With each rejection, it took longer to build up the courage to talk to someone new. It certainly helps to have friends that can make you laugh when you text them to tell them you’ve just been shut down again. It helps to have friends that will tell you to keep going, friends that will be your number one fan when everyone on the train just wants you to go away (shout-out to those friends).

OK. So, what did I learn?

Aside from all the advice? I learned never to predetermine the way you think a certain person might respond. Like the famous phrase, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” you never know who will surprise you in the best way.

I learned that there is always someone nice, whether you have to get pushed around first to get to them, or move through 3 train cars just to find them, that one person really can make it all better. They can make you forget the brutal rejection. They can help you bounce back.

I learned never to bother with people who’ve had a bit too much to drink – it’s just asking for trouble or inappropriate responses. And while you’re at it, don’t bother if the person who’s had too much to drink is you – your notes will be incomprehensible (no shout-out to the friends who thought this would be a good idea).

I learned that despite their reserved nature, not all Danes want nothing to do with strangers. Therefore, with every stereotype, there is the exception.

I learned that it is up to me to strap the boots back on and try again, that if I let one rejection discourage me, I’d never feel the good again. I changed my own fate by choosing to talk to someone new.

I learned getting out of your comfort zone is good. It’s thrilling, and it’s terrifying, but it led me to some awesome conversations. Sometimes, the advice people gave would end up being exactly what I needed to hear in my own life. Sometimes, someone would say something that I had just been talking to a friend about, something I was struggling to give myself advice for. Some days were truly magic.

In the end, life is simple, the advice we need is simple. There is no grand secret formula for how to live a good life.

I learned that much of the time, everyone was giving themselves advice, whether they realized it or not. I saw the man who gave relationship advice, sit and smile warmly at his partner as he spoke with me. I watched the girl who gave me advice about anxiety, holding her own hands tightly, trying to calm her nerves. I learned the advice we truly need, is almost always inside of us.

People’s honesty and willingness to open up continued to amaze and inspire me, and it’s what kept me going day after day. I will never ride a train the same way again.

So, without further ado, here is some of the most noteworthy advice I was given while riding the S-train:

1. “If you want to succeed at something, you have to believe in yourself. Because if you don’t believe in yourself, then why would anyone else?” – Mikkel, 25
   

2. “Be kind to one another. If you give love to people, you will get it back. I have been studying psychology all my life and I see it all the time. I see it especially in my grandchildren; if you are sweet to them, they will be sweet back. If you are sweet to them, they will be more likely to do what you need them to do. So, give love, be kind.” – Hanne, 69
   

3. “Actions speak louder than words. Simple, but true.” – Andrea, 23
   

4. “Spend your money on experiences not things. Travel makes you richer even if your bank account doesn’t say so.” – Linette, 20
   

5. “It doesn’t matter how many times you have an argument with your spouse or partner or girlfriend or wife or whoever, the important thing is how you move past that argument in a constructive manner. It would be cliché to say communication is key, but it is so important. And what is just as important, is when you’ve had an argument, try not to hold a grudge. Try to see things in a bigger perspective. Sometimes it can be the most trivial things you argue about; who drank the last milk or whatever… but when you see things in a bigger perspective, you are able to see what’s really important. So, communicate to the best of your ability and don’t hold a grudge. You are always going to get into arguments, the important thing is how you move past it.” – Philipe, 28
   

6. “My father said to me 42 years ago, ‘Take the job,’ and I still work there today. I have been at the same workplace for 42 years. Stick with things. Stay at the work you like. I have a good job, I like it very much. If you are happy where you are, stay. Don’t always go searching for something better… and plus, I got my pension in two years!” – Fleming, 61
   

7. “Not very long ago, I went travelling for half a year. I think I discovered that you can’t change yourself just by moving away or escaping. The changes come when you work on it yourself.” – Rebecca, 21
   

8. “Do what you’re interested in and not what you feel you are obliged to do. Don’t just do something because you feel like you must.” – Marcus, 20
   

9. “I’m having some trouble right now, so I’m just taking things as they come. I have some anxiety. The only thing I can do right now is take it as it comes. Appreciate the little things. That’s what I’m doing right now – trying to do right now actually, before you talked to me. There’s things you can choose to do differently and only so many things you can control. I’m only 19, I’m part-time working. I don’t know what to do with my life, I’m not doing high school or anything, but I know there is something I like. I like makeup, and that’s where I’m going right now – to work. I know it’s not a full-time education, but that’s what I like and what I’m trying to do. See the time as it comes, deal with it as it comes.” – Stephanie, 19
   

10. “I’m a person who very much gets into details. I am always focusing on details or overthinking. Wondering what body language means, watching what people are doing, how they are acting. I’m hyperaware. So, I have been saying to myself, ‘Every sadness and every happiness, lies in the details.’ I tell myself this because I can use this to help me. Since I am always focusing on everything, my brain never relaxes, but I can use my knowledge of this to choose to either focus on the sad things, or focus on the things that make me feel good.
    
    I try to be aware of the thoughts I have, where they come from, and where they bring me. If I choose to ignore the bad things completely, I could possibly ignore the good things too. So instead I want to work with them and incorporate them and understand when and why they come, and what I can do with them.” – Mohamed, 22
    

11. “Just calm down. I can get very passionate about things. I guess I just mean, you don’t have to overthink too much. I ask myself, will this matter in a year?” – Asla, 22
    

12. “Don’t take work too seriously. Enjoy your spare time. I think you become happier in the end when you know how to enjoy the time you have away from work. I think I realized it just as time went on working. I appreciate spare time so much more. And I think you become too stressed by work if you spend too much time only focusing on that.” – Anna, 25
    

13. “Finish your studies. Get it over with. I’m an engineer. Studied a lot. You get way more experience in the field than you do on the bench. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to finish. Finish first, and then enjoy life. You can still take trips and stuff afterward.” – Morten, 30
    

14. “I tell myself that at the end of the day, when everything is said and done, and you’re in your bed, the only thing that really matters is how you feel. If you feel bad, that’s an indicator you need to fix or correct something that maybe you did today or yesterday. It’s a true guideline of how you manoeuvre in life, and being able to have that inward look at yourself, without any kind of smokescreen, is important. Not thinking you feel, or should feel, a certain way, but then not really feeling it. To be introspective, it’s a much better way to be. As a main rule, I think, when you are able to identify how you feel, it speaks to you and it tells you what needs to be done, if anything. You never hear about anyone seeking a therapist because they are doing so well… so I think it’s important if you are able to identify those things in your own life, that not only make you feel bad, but feel good, then you can live the way you want to. It’s good to reflect on the good things too and why they are as they are.” – Jon, 40
    

15. “You can be who and whatever you want to be. I’m an astronaut on Facebook. I’m free, you’re free. I’m free and I enjoy ladies and beer. I chop trees. I have good boots for mountains and working. Be free. What you do in life, you get it back. Sometimes you have to give, give, give. That’s OK. Sometimes you give something and you get it five times back. Life doesn’t work equally all the time, but don’t let that stop you.” – John, 35
    

16. “A good friend told me a few years ago, spend some time alone and figure out what you want out of life instead of trying to force things. I was surprised by this actually. In relationships, I always tend to end up in a passive role. After being alone for a while, it allowed me to figure out who I am, what I want.” – David, 31
    

17. “I think the first thing that comes to mind is be yourself. Even if you’re a bit of a brat? Even if you’re too proud? Be yourself. It’s something that’s very important to me. I’ve always been a bit of an outsider, but I’ve always enjoyed being myself in spite of that. If you are honest to who you truly are, the right people will come. And like my mother always says, go for your dreams.” – Julius, 26
    

18. “Be open-minded. Smile to the world and it will smile back. Try to meet people like you want them to meet you.” – Max, 48
    

19. “You know the famous Danish rye bread? My mom used to say, life is too short for a bad rye bread. I actually don’t even like rye bread, but I like the philosophy. Life’s too short for bad food. In general, life’s too short for a lot of things.” – Sissel, 26

More dreams about you and buses

Not the 500S

We were on a bus
You were leaning your head on mine
I held your hand to my cheek
to my lips
like I did in your mom’s car
like I did in the bar
on the blanket in the park
It was so natural I didn’t notice I was doing it
until someone looked at us
I don’t know where we were going
but our stop was coming
I could tell by the way your eyes watched the screen
Still they always made their way back to me
You didn’t want to miss our stop
but you didn’t want to take your eyes off me
As usual, you were torn
As usual, I didn’t want this moment to end
What was I waiting for?
you to say
No let’s stay and ride it until the end
you to say
We’ll get off together when we’re ready
I was waiting for
what I was always waiting for
You to be ready
Yes
But what if in this dream
I said you don’t have to be ready
And you pressed my hand harder to your cheek

***

Inspired by a photo of your living room

In the forest there is a house
with a widows peak window
willow tree out back
On the kitchen table
there’s boxed wine and
a bag of pistachios
Two young faces on a couch
pinned to the fridge with a magnet
Inside the fridge there’s homemade tiramisu
made with Baileys
because that’s all you had on hand
There’s a photobook on the coffee table
with a few more photos
mostly sunset piers and skylines
and a couple of the two of us lying on the bed
There’s a sidewalk where the bed is supposed to be
but that’s only because you put it there in your dreamy state

I don’t get to see what happens in this house

But I see me hugging you twice before you go
I always did that
I don’t know why
thanks for letting me

If I see you here again
I’d kiss you twice and make you stay

The nicest thing I have ever written about you

When I was younger, maybe 16 or 17, I wrote letters that – in every sense – were love letters. Except smack in the middle was the sentence, “This isn’t a love letter or anything.” As if adding that sentence would somehow prevent me from any hurt or rejection that was coming my way. As if it would stop that person from running if they wanted to.

***

I told the man and his daughter sitting next to me on the airplane that I was crying for my dead friend.
I didn’t feel bad about it.

Sometimes we tell lies to make sense of it to ourselves. Sometimes we hurt others in the process.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Most of the time it does.

When does the lie stop being white? Does it stop being white if I tell him your name?
What about if I show him your picture?

***

I’ve written so many poems about this. About the running. Sometimes it’s about you, sometimes it’s about me. The way you took the love I shoved down your throat like a spoonful of cinnamon in the mouth. The way the fridge is full of leftovers that I forgot to eat and I still don’t know how to love myself properly. I’ve written poems that say I don’t want to be sad anymore. But I’m not. Not really.

***

I am enduring a large, very critical, period of personal growth and it is of great benefit that I must spend so much time on buses and trains. This leaves much room for self-reflection, for many thoughts to pass through – and I must do exactly that, let them pass through. While I am on the move, there is no question of where I need to be going, for I am on my way. In this headspace, I can assess myself with the same lens. I am in growth, so there need not be any questions or doubts about where I am headed, for I am on my way.

***

And then I wrote the nicest thing I have ever written about you.

You were,

“influential in developing my capacity to love.”

***

I’ve gotten much closer to the point where I can say,

“Hey, this is a big ol’ love letter.
This is a big ol’ confession of the heart.
I think you’re wonderful. I think you’re lovely.
I want to spend time with you. My days and my nights.
I think having you in my life is pretty awesome.
You are all the poetry I could ever need.”

And that’s it. It’s big. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel. You can handle it how you’d like to. But this is me. My love for you does not depend on you. This is my love for you, and how you respond is on you. But this is how I feel. This is the magnitude of it.

Milky love

Is it a good or bad thing to always look for the meaning in things? I was once told nothing is inherently good or bad, that it’s just the way you choose to think about it. I like this, because it pulls me away from self-doubt, it stops me from questioning myself and my thoughts. There is a purpose in my meaning-making. When I get home from the bookstore and I start wondering why I always buy books that confuse me, it helps to remember there might be a meaning for this, but it’s never a bad one if I don’t want it to be. I hold the paperback in my hands and examine the pages, the lack of chapters, the odd divisions and abrupt breaks in the lines. I start reading. I stop. I try again. I remember the excerpt that sat beside the book, “I know I need a structure full of holes so I can always find a place for myself on the page, inhabit it; I have to remember never to put in more than is necessary, never finish or adorn.” Ah, meaning!

I always want to know there is a space. I want to fill it. Don’t give me a cup full to the brim, I need to add milk. Don’t give me full anything, I need to add love. I think this is also why books have margins.

Nobody is full. Everybody has room for a little warm, milky love.

You said, “Don’t give up on me,”
but in hindsight,
always in hindsight,
what you were really saying was,
“Don’t let me give up on myself.”

I tried. But it had nothing to do with me.

A man standing beside me holding a cup of black coffee in his dry hands tells me that trying is no good. He says, “Don’t try, just do.” I give a courtesy smile but I want to tell him there are some things you can’t do because they aren’t yours to do. And that this is okay, this is life. He tells me to have a nice day, and I refrain from spilling a sarcastic, “I’ll try.” His coffee still has room and his heart is in a good place and having a good day is something I can do more than try.

You wanted to fill things too. You wanted to fill yourself.

Did you have a hard time finding space in me? I spend a lot of time in cafes filling my margins. I know sometimes I make it look like I have no space, but nobody is full. Everybody has room for a little warm, milky love.

Recently I was navigating loss and I thought, do I get to call this real loss? How do I find my way through if I can’t call it loss? Then I remember, I get to decide what I call it, and I know nothing is good or bad, but this is loss. And today, loss is bad. Loss is sad. And I fall back to the soft, the soft that draws empathy from my blood. And today, empathy is good, because I will fill myself with it.

It's okay if you're hungry now

Forgiveness comes at a point when it’s almost too late but it’s never too late. For me, it was a piece in the puzzle I didn’t know would turn a page. Forgiveness comes in the form of a note and a harsh tone, but some sincerity. It comes from a voice that is making maturity from day old bread, but a voice that is trying. I ate my bread a few months ago, but it’s okay if you’re hungry now. It’s your turn and I will always understand. Everyone moves at different speeds, and even for me, I couldn’t run there fast enough. I couldn’t tip the scale quick enough and I lost some pieces of myself trying. It always felt like I was trudging through mud. Yes, forgiveness is a dish best served with a hug, but in this case, it’s best served when I have a minute to stifle a tear between work emails or when I can pretend I just yawned if anyone asks.

You wouldn’t say his name. But before I criticize, let me reflect on how I often referred to him as the kid – a way of distancing him from the problem. A way of making it less real, more bearable. Maybe his name was everywhere and this was the best way I knew how to reference the lack of responsibility he was taking. I was putting a light spin on it. For you though, I think his name must come with sting. Best not let the wasp loose in the car with the windows up. Right? These are all my best guesses.

You think we’re both good with words, but you don’t see what I see. And it’s the lack of words that I notice most. We don’t work the same way, and we definitely don’t hurt the same way, but we both hurt, I know this.

I know you see her too. Don’t you want to whisper, “That’s how it starts honey, with the music.” It seems so innocent at first, you’re just listening to a song, sharing a playlist, and then suddenly you’re in the maze. Don’t you want to whisper, “Don’t lose yourself.”

I wonder how many metaphors there are for continuously trying to fill something that is determined to be empty? Do you know what it’s like trying to fall asleep feeling like you’re missing the closing parenthesis? What about trying to fall asleep without dreaming of all the notes in the margins you never saw? We’re all missing something. Forgiveness doesn’t have the answers, but it helps us deal with the hurt.

The parts you didn't find

I’m sitting in a coffee shop by the highway ramp
There’s a chai latte spoon sawing at your arm
But it’s not sharp enough
I'm trying to draw blood
the way you did from the very first night
but I keep getting distracted by the sky
Now my arm is sore and I’m getting frustrated
Kicking the door when it won’t close properly
How do I blame the dented surface on the barista
who gave me a spoon when I needed a knife

I’m getting out of the tub and I go to dry off
and nothing is wet and it's just like lately
I've been wringing the towel when it’s dry
Looking in the mirror
examining the skin still giving off heat
Looking for the soft parts – possible entry points
The parts you didn’t find
The parts that are still only mine
On my knees worshipping
the places inside of me you haven’t touched
haven’t even come close to
I swallow a prayer of relief for the
decibels of laughter you haven’t heard

I ask the barista for the wifi password
before he can give it to me
the boy in the booth next to me walks by
slips a folded piece of paper on my table
it says push the door until it clicks
When I look up he’s gone
But there’s a car getting on the highway
and I could’ve sworn I just heard a faint click

The same old fears

Life is like a puzzle and some days I feel nauseous and I just spew pieces all over the sidewalk. People start giving me looks, start having to walk around me. I apologize but I can’t clean it up. It might be all in my head, it might not, but I just have to wait until it makes sense. I just have to sit on this spoil until I can throw it out, or crack it and rebuild. Until I get one of those mornings where I can finish the puzzle with my eyes closed. Bless those mornings.

Don’t bless the mornings that feel like dead weight. Or the afternoons fraught with messages that pop up like landmines in your inbox. I’m struggling with the permanence of nothing. I’m talking about the way that everything changes but somehow things can still stick to you like a smell or a song.

I feel like I’m standing in a claustrophobic pile of frilly bridesmaids waiting for the bouquet to be thrown… but I’m really just standing under them waiting for one of their shoes to drop when they lunge for the stupid thing. What do I get if I catch the shoe?

Do I get happiness? Is that what this is? Take a deep breath. The shoe is about to drop.

You know when you get irrationally upset over something ridiculous like you order a coffee and you’re watching them pour it and they don’t fill it to the brim and it feels like a blister popped on the back of your throat. You’ve feel like you’ve been ripped off and you are in the mood for pity but nothing comes out of your mouth because the only one you’re really mad at is yourself, and deep down you know this.

Yes, emotions are a physical thing for me. They come with their own symptoms; some overlap and this wreaks havoc on my soul. This causes confusion of the mind. How do I know which feeling is causing this? I don’t know how to hold it down when my head is full of helium and busting through the ceiling. My lungs are filled with miniature balloons and someone is poking a needle through the spaces between my ribs. I wince and try to stay straight face like I just took eight shots of gin to the face and I’m pretending I’m not afraid of ten minutes from now.

I’m in a fish in a bowl and everyone that’s looking in is either a little worried, or a little confused. Okay fine, I am afraid of ten minutes from now. The gin is a bottle of hot wine and it’s bubbling in my stomach. Stop moving for a second and let it settle. Let the blood rush to all the edges. Breathe damnit. I’m in a fish bowl and you better not get too close because I’m about to shatter this thing and it’s going to hurt.

I don't like to say these things out loud

I hear myself saying I’m not that naive, saying I’m well aware, but you don’t hear me saying I’m that smart either. Sometimes I get home, close the door behind me and spontaneously combust. I don’t like to say these things out loud.

You’d think patterns would be proof enough. You’d think history would be both a lesson and a teacher. You’d think personal experience is all it takes. “She has to figure it out for herself.” Yes, but what kind of fool wouldn’t have figured it out by now? I can hear you all talking. Don’t think I don’t see what your eyes are saying. You can’t hide your disappointment.  

“You’re letting your emotions get in the way.” What if they are the way? What if they are my way?

Blow out all the candles. This is a pipedream on a track to the edge of nowhere. The doomed rock face on the island of your ambiguity. Oh sweet girl, sit on the floor and eat chocolate almonds until you feel sick. It’s okay to give in to temporary if it’s just temporarily. Acknowledge it, and notice when you’ve been giving in for a little longer than you should. It’s okay to get distracted, distractions can be oh so beautiful, but remember that’s all they are – distractions, not places to call home. You must keep moving, home is not here.

I hope my heart wakes up. Somewhere warm. I’m hoping it digs my mind out of the ditch. I’m anticipating the moment I’ll stop slipping down the hill for long enough to catch my footing. I keep holding my arms out like I’m walking blind, feeling for something. My gut is trying to crawl out of the woodwork. I can’t remember when I last had it. I can’t remember when I wasn’t always about to walk into something.

“Keep being patient. It will come.” I never stopped looking for it and maybe that’s what matters. Because my gut appeared as a pair of scissors under leaves of all the falling. Scissors to cut the blindfold off, and all the obstacles that were in my way were in my mind. I wonder why my dog won’t jump the boards in the hall when she could clear them with a foot to spare. I ask myself the same question. Don’t let fear make you forget the length of your legs and the strength of your bound. Jump baby jump. And don’t look so surprised when you make it.

“My skin soft against your rough
Your rough tough against the heart
I am only holding on for love
I can only see your watery eyes in the light
that peaks over my shoulder
We’re not crying but we will be soon

The room is always on fire
but this time it’s burning down
and I have to be the one to go

I’d swallow fire and my pride
For you
But the room is burning down
and I’m not asking you to dance this time

We’ll both make it out
and we’ll be tired and we’ll be happy
lying on the sidewalk outside
We’ll dance when we’ve learned how
and the room will always be burning
But we won’t have to leave”

Have you slept lately?

Turn down the bed. Lay your suffering down on the mattress and tuck it in for tonight. Tuck me in and sing to me. I need you to say the right thing tonight. I need to hear your care. Your arms are what I'm fighting with, but I don't want to be like this. Know this – and tell me to stop. Tell me you won't allow it. I'm a glass of spilled milk and I've been sitting out all night. I'm sour and achey and I need a place to lie down.

I'm sorry. Shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know the monster that I am when I pick up the phone. You only hold out your hands, you only try and try, and I don't understand why you aren't better. It's not fair and I'm so sorry because how can I expect this from you when anyone could see that half the time I’m just a human fire – no, this is not a good thing. A quarter of the time I'm loose stitching and the final quarter I'm all-cylinders-firing mania. How do you deal with me? How do you love me without blood. Without tears. Oh. It's not without tears – or blood. Right. I’m sorry again.

Misery loves company and I'll sit here all day in your sadness because it's different than my own.

I wish I could keep my mouth shut. I wish I would remind myself that you don't owe me your ears, that my expectation is just mean, that I blame the blood in my head for making me cruel sometimes. You’ve tried to tell me this before and I don’t blame you. I try so hard to be appropriately defensive, but not so much that it looks like I actually think you might have a point.

I do, by the way, think you are right sometimes.

I just want to wrestle the words from my throat so badly in those moments that I end up with a handful of my vocal chords and silence. I'm always hiding under clothing racks from my younger self – the round ones in department stores with sweaters like the ones I always steal from you. I hide from my current self at times too. I don’t know if I can ask this of you, but please don’t ever stop looking for me. I promise I’m working on this. I promise that one day you won’t find me feet up in the last fitting room on the left.

Know that I appreciate your patience and your ears and I love your heart so much that I modelled my own after it. Know that I have the passion I do because of you. I have his stubbornness, there’s no denying this, but I use it for my determination to pursue love rather than logic. And he loves you, so I hope he can appreciate this, even if he can't understand it. You taught me to stand with that notion.

My burdens shouldn’t weigh on your tired eyes. There’s no sense in the both of us trying to carry this. I worry about you too, you know. Have you slept lately? Please, I love you, get some sleep. You want to know how I’m doing, but I need to hear anything other than my own voice tonight. Please don’t worry so much. I will be better in the morning.

Indigo is sold out of bookends

My father is standing in a field of poppies
and I am weeping under a tree
The field is a photograph and the tree is nothing
Forgive me I’m a little lightheaded
and it’s just that I am weeping
and the poppies won’t bloom for me

The tide is coming in faster than I can walk back to the house
and when I look up at the sky I can’t see blue
I usually bring my umbrella with me
when I know it’s supposed to rain in the afternoon
but today the rain came in the form of a bus
at 6am while I was still lying in bed

My bookshelf is top heavy and reeks of poetry
The kind that smells like warm skin
and Monday evenings spent wearing headphones
My bookshelf is missing a bookend
and I keep loading books on one edge
wondering why they tumble off the other

My chest stings in the way that I imagine peeling
dry cement from your skin feels like
I’m pumping fresh blood into my veins
and staring as it pours out of the open wound in my foot
My metaphorically bloody foot is in my mouth and
I’m choking on all the reasons why I can’t just buy a new bookend

And today it was not supposed to rain
but there was a nail tacked in the wall
that’s fallen on the carpet that I’ve stepped on
and there’s blood on my foot again and now I’m weeping
under nothing but an empty hole in the wall where
a photograph of my father standing in a field of poppies used to be

Poker love

We're all just out here trading pieces of love. Everyone has a pile of chips. We can trade or we can give away. When we give away, it shows we have faith that we’ll get some back somewhere along the line. We hope someone is feeling generous. We’re all trying to make good trades. We all want to be left with something to hold onto.

It’s a wonderful feeling to be given with no condition that you must give back – but if you’re kind enough, you want to. Or if you're me, you want to dump the whole bunch of chips into someone’s arms. TAKE THEM ALL TAKE ALL THE LOVE, you need it you need it – not thinking for a second what that means for you.

Some people have the hardest time giving any away. Some people aren’t the gambling type. Others have a hard time accepting any chips at all. Some are tapping the table repeatedly, hit me. Hit me again. Be careful, I think. You’ll bust open with all that love.

I’m the unabomber with cheap sunglasses on. I am the identity you all told me I wasn’t, but I’m mistaken to think this world can’t read me. I’m not as intimidating as I think I look. I wear my love like a shirt on inside out. And if you’re cold, I’ll give you that too.

Everyone I’ve ever loved got up from the table. Now it’s just me and the dealer. She’s looking at the few chips I have left in front of me. Nothing about me is by the book. “All in” I say without hesitation.

Sometimes you bet on the wrong people. Sometimes you lose and you have to leave the table.

Sometimes you’re walking down the street and a stranger hands you a chip to keep you in the game. Just when you thought it was over, you’ve made it one more day. And you’re glad you have.

There are other tables. You can sit down at a new one and look up and see someone you thought you lost. Sometimes I imagine seeing you.

Then there are times when you think you’re bluffing, you think you’ve got nothing. And you take another look at your cards – just before you get up. And you realize you don’t care what they say. You only care about the person sitting across from you. And you’ve got all the love you need right here. You’re not bluffing anymore. And you realize you’ve won.

A letter to you. And a letter to me.

Become big
Become as big as you need to be
as big as you can
You will never be too big
too much

Light yourself on fire
Don’t worry about the flames
the burning or the ash
Don’t worry about being too hot
or burning out
Ignore the smoke alarms
Ignore the paramedics when they come

Become everything you want to be
even when you have no idea who that is
If you don’t like what someone tells you about yourself
Don’t believe it
If someone tells you that you know what you want
and you don’t think you do
Don’t believe them
And keep trying to figure it out yourself

Don’t be too proud
Don’t forget to be grateful
Don’t forget to appreciate the good ones
Let them inspire you

Don't believe what you've always believed about love

Keep your word
Do as you say
Follow through with your actions
Words are lovely
but you need to show
that you mean what they say

Be unapologetic
I think that is one of my favourite words
Do it unapologetically
Be unapologetically yourself
Own the voice cracks
wear them like scars
you are only breaking open your beauty
They imply openness
courageousness

Don’t be afraid of yourself

Don’t shrink
Don’t stop growing
Not for anyone

At the end of the day
a fear of being too much
is really just a fear of being not enough
A fear of being too much
is just doing every desperate thing you can
in hopes you don’t have to experience
what it would be like to be not enough
See what I mean now
they are the same

This was a letter to you
until I realized it was also a letter to me
We are so different
until we are so similar

It's only for a few months

Some days have no sweetness to them. You can douse them in honey and they will still be black coffee and raw kale. The days you put the TV on mute in the background just so everything doesn't feel so static.

Some nights there is only unrest. Only tossing between ache and numbness. Ricocheting between stillness and hysteria. They bolted my balcony door shut and tell me it’s only for a few months. I have nightmares about what would happen if there was a fire – how could I jump if I needed to? They say that type of situation is unlikely, but they don’t know how flammable my life is.

The girl on my shoulder, I let her have the floor for a minute and immediately regret it. She starts shrieking in my ear for all the times I stayed level-headed when I could have detonated. She tells me she shot herself in the foot each time I swallowed my anger – she can’t wear shoes anymore. She tells me I almost killed her turning the scraps into gifts and handing them back to people like an offering. I try to interrupt her and she goes into a fit. Stop making excuses for treating everyone else with more humanity than yourself.

I want to throw myself into the puddle right here in this pothole. Strip down my wet clothes in the middle of the street, drop them at your feet, and walk away. I could hang sheets and shirts from windowsills and watch the storms shred them. I need a road trip where I can stop in diners to dump the crumbs of myself on empty plates. The crumbs that collected in a messy pile in the back of the toaster tray. The bits of me that I forgot about, lost track of time with, and let char.

When the mailman walks by, I want to slip my notebooks in his bag and let him deliver them to strangers. I hope he delivers one to you, and if you don’t cry, I will. I want to put my hands on a plane and crash them into the side of a mountain. I want to leave my skin out to dry and half-heartedly go back to check on it and then pretend to be surprised when it’s gone. I want to sit in the back corner of a coffee shop and put my life on time-lapse. I want the moment you come in and sit down at the table to slip by in a blur of espresso and almond milk.

These are all metaphors for the ways I don’t want you to know me anymore.

Sometimes you want something to make sense so desperately that you trip a switch in your brain. Sometimes you can lose yourself trying not to be unlosable. Sometimes you need to run away from where you think the answer is to find out there is no answer.

I think about the time I ran away from home on the coldest night of the year. It was too cold to cry and the only way my muscles wouldn’t freeze was to keep running. I could feel my pulse everywhere. I made it 3 miles before my dad picked me up in the car. I think about that every time it starts getting colder out. Except now it’s your heartbeat that I feel in my feet. You told me to write about that. I don’t think this is what you meant.