I was thinking since we’re cruising into March next week, it was time for me to have a little check in. I’m also thinking through some possible topics for a more cohesive post, and I’m not ready to commit yet. Maybe next week. 

So, it’s been 2 months, and this will be post #7. 

I’ve written over 5,000 words viewed by close to 500 pairs of eyes, and I haven’t missed a Wednesday yet, even when confronted with intestinal distress. 

I’ve tried a handful of new things: 

• Starting a blog
• Jumping at the trampoline park with wild abandon
• Crying at Yoga
• Taking a social media fast
• Writing a comparative literature essay about a pop culture phenomenon

That last one was actually not a first. I studied film in college, and I could analyze the Foucault out of a movie with my hands tied behind my back. (That one’s for my nerds. For all others, apologies). 

Something I started a few years ago, but worth mentioning, is I set a goal of how many books I want to read each year, and I promise myself that at least 50% of the books will be by authors who are Black, Asian, Indigenous, or otherwise not white. And Black History month MUST have Black authors. This year, I read Make Me Rain: poems & prose by Nikki Giovanni and The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Both of these were things I pulled off a shelf at random, but it’s kind of amazing how sometimes the right book finds you at the right time. Make Me Rain is filled with eulogies for Nikki Giovanni’s loved ones which are stark, beautiful celebrations of those who loved her into being. The other half of the book contains reflections and rage about racism and the first Trump presidency. She passed away before this second one, but her words are still fierce and relevant today. The Message is also fantastic, a meditation about writing and meaning, and how despite all of the forces at work to divide us, stories can still create a space where we can unite. It is a perfect motivator for anyone who has ever asked themselves why they feel compelled to write. 

I am also in the midst of this other life first. I’m not working a “real job” at the moment, and I have never allowed myself to do such a thing on purpose before. I’ve been unemployed, but not by choice, and only briefly. More the norm for me has been working 2 or more jobs at once. I have been side-hustling since the 90s. 

I came across an article the other day about Gen Z kids micro-dosing retirement in little self-funded sabbaticals. I’m a bit old for this trend according to what I have read. But I am a middle-aged mom of an elementary school girl, and I honestly can’t imagine a better time to take a step away from work. As a working mother, there is literally not a moment of the day that is truly yours. Not having a full-time job has allowed me an average of 30-60 minutes a day of deciding what I want to do with no other objective than my own happiness. The rest of the day is definitely spoken for. Still. And it makes me wonder sometimes if I am doing it wrong? 

So, the firsts are going well, each has been a positive experience in its own way. 

The grief is going meh. It’s a day by day thing, I guess. It’s not that I have been devastated in a can’t-function way. What I have learned so far is that my grief is a back door to a suite of feelings and memories I haven’t sat in for a long time or ever. There are many rooms I had ignored or forgotten about, and I find myself wandering in them every now and again, and not quite realizing how I got there. It’s not altogether unpleasant. But it’s not always where I want to be, either. 

The best way to map those spaces so far has been writing, so I will continue to see you on the page as I look forward to more daylight, less snow on the ground, and all those outdoorsy things coming soon.