It’s been two weeks since I last posted, and I’ve missed you terribly. The truth (part one) is, I didn’t know what to say. I’ve been heartbroken in so many various and sundry ways, and silence felt like the only possible response. The truth (part two) is, I haven’t wanted to reach out. I’ve wanted to stay very quiet, and very still, to possibly be so still and so quiet that I would not feel all the layers of hurt that have curled themselves up around my heart. But I know I can’t stay silent forever, and I know that now is as good as two days from now. So here we are. I want to tell you a bit about what’s been happening, some of which you know, and some of which you don’t.
And I made us a juice to get through. It’s wintery and light, packed with immune system boosting vitamin C and fresh ginger, and hydrating cucumber. It’s quick and delicious and you only need a blender to make it. It’s colors and zinginess have given me hope in the midst of much darkness. So. Juice-equipped, let’s talk.
Here’s what you don’t know:
Today, the mother of one of my dearest friends in the world will be laid to rest. As you read this, I might be standing in a rain-soaked cemetery in Mill Valley, or sitting shiva in a betrayingly bright apartment in San Francisco, or continuing to sort out the pieces of my grief in this loss from my grief in the losses that came before.
It’s been a strange year thus far, in that I’ve been so caught up in work that the things I typically tend to most anxiously—friendships, dating, exercise, staying current with The Good Wife—have fallen by the wayside. Which is not at all to say that I no longer care about these core elements of my being (Jeffrey Dean Morgan is insanely hot; I shall never forsake him), but that the tension that usually surrounds them, the questioning, the self-doubt, the relentless uncertainty, all of that has fallen away. A welcome kind of stillness has settled around me by way of exhaustion.
I’m familiar with this myopia—it’s something I saw in my parents almost every day of my childhood from age 11 on, as they navigated the waters of being work-from-home business owners. At 13, while they discussed account management over dinner, I begged them to give us thirty minutes of each day untouched by business concerns. Even still, I noticed this same fierce penchant for entrepreneurship in myself as I grew up. I loved the challenge of building something out of nothing, I loved the rigor of standing unarmored in the world and demanding of myself that I find a way to make things work. I flinch to admit it, but I loved the risk, the danger, of being made so vulnerable.
I cry on planes. Every time I leave a place that has changed me. When I forgot my laptop at the security checkpoint of LAX. Over completely non-emotional reruns of CHOPPED. When I start regurgitating my litany of past loves via poetry that need not be written. And, yes, whenever I consider the liminal, unterritoried sky space I’m hurtling through in the quasi-equivalent of a tin can, feeling my minuscule humanity in the gargantuan mouth of the universe. I cry.
If you know me at all, I doubt this surprises you. But did you know that, in 2011, a Virgin Atlantic airline survey found that 55% of travelers reported they experienced “heightened emotions while flying”—and 41% of men surveyed confessed they had “buried themselves in blankets to hide tears in their eyes from other passengers.” Swap blankets for sunglasses, and I’ll confess to having hidden as such many a time. And to loving it.
Read more and get the recipe + a surprise announcement here!