November 8, 2022

September and October, from November: Presence

Two full months have jolted and staggered past. I’m writing to you from a jumpy Amtrak train en route to New York for the first time since I moved away. I wanted to share some updates and to check in. How is life? Did you vote today? I finally got my living room set and can now entertain company. I am excited to scan beach photos in New York, but for now here is an iPhone photo of one of many sunsets I’ve enjoyed over the last two months.

September 2022, Ocracoke Island, NC

For September, I largely took a break from writing, but I wrote a few poems while at the beach, including this one.

ducks on the sound

this week the rip current
warning blares loud on the
highway signs: unsafe (number
four) swimmers; the first week
I have had the chance to throw
myself into the ocean in years.
in its bitterness, I wonder if the sea
is doing that thing each of us
has to do, sometimes:
to say, please listen to me

when the passenger door shuts
I alone immediately start speaking to
my mother for the first time in years
and I say I get it, now
and I say I understand
and I say I’m sorry
and I say I’ve been sorry forever, but I’m still sorry
and I say but I still wish you were here

time has made this route more circuitous
and yet it’s the same salt on my upper lip.
a wide pelican breathes out and I swear
when I stretch from eight hours
behind the wheel my wings do the same
thing. there’s a wave in the sky and
it’s turning and I think of the one on
your arm and the one in my heart,
wherever it’s taken, it churns, it churns

I am starting to pick out the trees on
a horizon that saw me circling in a self-
serving spiral now six years back. the
stars and horses I didn’t get to see. this
time I’m more alone than ever. this time
I watch two ducks settle abreast out
in the near waves. it’s shallow here.
when we sail back we’ll be a couple of
pounds lighter, when we sail back
I’ll be more seashell than vessel

---

October was hairier. Cold weather came to the south, somewhat gently. My primary care doctor texted me sometime in September, and when I told her I’d moved, she asked, “Do you feel better living there?” I didn’t reply because there is not a concrete answer (but also because I’m sad she isn’t my doctor anymore).

The move itself was very jarring, but it’s meant a million other adjustments I didn’t anticipate. A month before moving I started working remotely for the first time in earnest, and started waking up around 6am to do it (to varying degrees of success). I also hung onto my old job, which morphed into a different job: late nights managing a database while listening to the audiobook version of Ten Steps to Nanette. I moved to Virginia without a car, so I’ve had to adjust to getting around by borrowing a family car when it’s not in use. I’ve been massively helped by loved ones in terms of building a home, but sometimes I can only focus on things like how my couch was delivered two months after purchase (a supposedly easy thing I’ll never do again). Lastly, while I’ve gotten to spend great quality time with Luna, Sam’s dog, I have yet to make good on my promise to myself to adopt my own dog. One way to look at it is that a lot of my New York problems followed me when I moved. Another way to look at it is, I’ve stayed myself, no matter what.

I have felt very susceptible to “destination happiness” lately. Esteemed scholar Glennon Doyle made me aware of this term in Untamed. It refers to a specific kind of magical thinking that says you’ll be happier, or a better person, if you change your surroundings somehow. This can apply to new cities, new jobs, new relationships, new anything. Glennon describes the final, gutting realization thusly: “no matter where you go, there you are.”

Now I’m here. I mean, right now I’m en route to New York to see friends and scan film, but when I come home, I’ll be going south again. I very much carted all of my dirty laundry to Virginia, and it’s still my job to get it clean. What destination happiness has tried to steal is my ability to be present and clear-headed. The aim is not to settle, but to say, here I am, this is the moment that’s happening right now.

I’ve only been able to pin that feeling down in a few places, lately: driving on the highway listening to 96.5 (the classic rock radio station), walking around with my niece’s hands gripping my fingers (fingies), writing my morning pages (these often become afternoon/evening pages; we are doing what we can here, folks), on a walk through the neighborhood, in the bathtub in a bathroom that I share with nobody, in bed with my love. I am working on embodying presence in all aspects of my life. It’s not always easy, but finding these moments of presence have made the surrounding moments of chaos all the more navigable.

I also tried to write a poem every day during October. Here is a short one I like a lot.

10/16

a scratchy old crooning voice
the soft melody of a long low
raincloud settling in overhead

among minor keys and the
suggestion of tenderness an
unmistakable allspice scent
brings itself along. the

world struggles to keep its
eyes open as the sun forsakes
us for longer and longer
everyday; the ice crystals

are starting to collect; for
no reason at all I dreamed
it snowed here; for no
reason at all you believed me

---

If the antidote to destination happiness is presence, I’ve set tangible goals for myself to achieve in November. I’ve been doing miniature self-challenges leading up to National Novel Writing Month, and I’ve already made solid progress in the last week. If I keep it up I will finish by the end of the year. I’ll be making solid plans for graduate school applications over the next week or so. Sometime after that, I’ll be looking for another part-time job. The difference between being present and being despondent is simply getting up and doing the damn thing every day.

On top of that: for the love of god, there’s no reason for me to be despondent. The other day we snuck onto the parking lot where there are four, count ‘em four, No Dogs Allowed signs. In broad daylight, we threw the tennis ball to Luna, the world’s most perfect black lab, and she did that exemplary thing all dogs do when they run up on a tennis ball on the ground, she accordioned in on herself with a grandiose crunching of the leaves, and then she brought it back and she let me take it from her grip. That’s presence. That’s it.

More stuff:

• Here is a playlist I made for November, and here is a playlist I made for the manuscript project I’ve been working on.

• My pal Catherine has a new Substack, Lit Chat, which I’m thrilled to report is about books, which I should get around to reading instead of just downloading to my kindle and forgetting about.

• I recommend you go out and get Ross Gay’s new book, Inciting Joy, and if you are able, go and see him in your city, or do what I did and drive two hours to see him because he is a damn joy.

• Speaking of joys: here is a poem I loved reading today.

• Please note: if I send a poem or a photo via an email newsletter, it is wise to assume it is a working draft and not necessarily publish-ready. An image of grass I took at the state park this past weekend doesn’t want to upload to this email via Amtrak wifi, but I’ll have more images soon.

The skyline has just appeared in my Amtrak passenger window. I am sending anyone reading this email a world of love and a reminder to love yourself exactly how you are.

x

E