between two versions of myself
and a list-making workshop that I'll be teaching in February
Let’s take this conversation down a long and winding path, barely wide enough for the two of us.
You know, it’s the one that leads to nowhere and everywhere. Past the sheep in the road and the green rolling hills. Past the freeway signs, flat tires, and quiet nights—nights where it’s just you and the darkness and the road and the damp smell of the rain that splatters against cracked asphalt.
It’s a movie made in the 1960’s. It’s a dream, a mirage, and the fictional book you dream of writing. It’s the round yellow moon casting your shadow against the path behind you. It’s turning to see the shadow of your arms swinging and your feet stepping against the hard earth; you wonder about smiling, and if the shadow version of yourself would be quick enough to catch it?
It’s a movie made in the 1960’s, and it cuts to you in a green sundress, twirling until your head suddenly spins to a stop, your laughter catching in your throat by a thought—a thought that maybe this joy isn’t ok? Do I need to ask someone if it is? No, you say. Carry on with what you were doing. Carry on with your arms spread wider than you’ve ever spread them, fingertips brushing against the invisible ripples in time.
We’ll take this conversation to a bench that overlooks the Atlantic ocean.
An ocean you’ve spent very little time with. An ocean that breaks and crashes against a familiar shoreline, but not the kind of familiar that feels like your home home, but maybe the kind of familiar that feels like this could be your home one day, far away, so far that when I stretch my feet out in front of me, I notice that they’re bare, with dirt caked in between my toes. I ask you where my shoes are, you tell me that I was never wearing shoes.
I don’t know if this is a good idea, I say, as I lean over the edge. But you keep reminding me that I’m safe. That nothing like that can happen here and so I dip my head down further, feeling the spray of the waves against my face. Beaming, I grab your hand and we jump—because you promised we’d be safe! I yelled, through the wind and into nothing, curling over ourselves as the water grabs hold of our small bodies, now so insignificant against the backdrop of the mighty rocks and the swooping birds. What a thing to be safe here, I think. I know, she thinks. I know.
It’s a 1960’s movie and I’m somewhere else entirely, and before I have time to think about where I am, someone grabs my hand and we start running. Running through the small, cobbled streets. Running, and now my dog is beside me, which makes me worry that this is a bad dream, because he’s here, and something bad always happens to him in my dreams, which has me waking up screaming and screaming until I am held. Sometimes I remember and sometimes it fades quickly as the blanket and the darkness pulls me back under.
But sometimes an idea takes root in my mind and it’s 3:30am and I don’t know where to go from here. I ask you if I should call my mom, but of course you tell me not to, because that would be an unnecessary worry, and so I grab hold of that hand again and begin running and running until the buildings take shape around me and I’m terrified of something but I couldn’t tell you what or why and I wish I wasn’t always in such a hurry to go back to wherever I was.
I’m lonely, and I’m beginning to wonder where you went?
I don’t hear an answer when I call, and I want to yell unkind things at myself for wandering off again. For turning away before I’ve have a chance to see what’s right in front of me—what has always been here waiting for a pause in my breath or step or thought, but the pause doesn’t come, or at least not in the way that counts, and soon, this moment is swallowed up my another, and I am somewhere else entirely. Wishing I could either remember or forget.
And then I do remember something.
I remember that I can never find you when I am running through my mind this quickly, skipping and worrying and controlling, but never pausing. In my body, yes, I always pause to rest my body, but not in my mind. I don’t pause in my mind and I worry that that pushes me further from you, and I don’t think worrying will help, and so I try not to, but I’m still moving, legs crossing and uncrossing, and I wonder how good I’ve gotten at keeping this movement behind my eyes very still whenever you look at me. Whenever you ask me how I’ve been doing. And instead of leaping forward or back like my thoughts tell me to, I say that I’ve been doing well, thank you.
This is a lot, I know. I wish I could tell you that this is only temporary, but you see, this is where I go sometimes. And when I eventually do pause and look down and retrace my steps back to you, I am exhausted, and so I ask you why I can’t just stay and rest awhile? And you tell me I can, but also that I am still safe even while I am running and twirling and worrying. But no, I’m not running. I am at this desk. A desk that can often feel like it is anywhere but in the quiet of my home with my dog sleeping soundly in the other room.
Do you know why you will be safe? She asks. I say I don’t (though I have a feeling I do). No matter what, she says, I feel what you’re feeling, and I know that you are going to be ok. In fact, I have proof. I have proof, and I’m always happy to share it with you if you need reminding? But I don’t think you do. I think you already know.
It’s a 1960’s movie and I’m reading a book in a cafe that is nestled in the outskirts of a small village. The waitress asks if I’d like more tea, I say yes I would, thank you, as my eyes sink back down to the pages in front of me. The pages that I wrote because these things are possible. Because magical, wonderful things can come out of a mind that never stops moving. That is always on the run. That is never resting, except when she clenches her fists and stomps her feet and goes ok, I can do this. I can pause for long enough to say thank you.
Thank you for nudging me in the ways that I need most. For reminding me that I am safe to explore my surroundings, and that I can trust myself in my creative pursuits.
Love,
Chloe
Epilogue.
I really can’t believe I am sending this on the same day that I wrote it. Scandalous!
This piece is an unpredictable, messy, and chaotic conversation between two versions of myself. The one that runs with fear and creates with joy, and the one that stays and keeps the tea warm and house clean.
Maybe all of this was to help remind me that even when my brain isn’t staying put or doing as I wished it would, there is always room for patience and understanding and learning to work with what you have. And to be kind to what you have. To be kind to yourself and to all the versions of yourself, all of which are there to remind you that you’re doing an amazing job already. That maybe you don’t have to try so hard and over every little thing.
Or something like that, anyway.
A quick note.
I am very excited to announce that I’ll be teaching a workshop through The Sanctuary on Saturday, February 10, at 11am PST. Working with Rachel Saunders, founder of this inspiring community, has been on my wish list for many, many years, so to say this is happening in real life, and not just in my dreams, is a dream come true.
This live, one hour workshop, will be centered around the art of list-making.
List making is a practice that I have been using (alongside morning pages) for many years. It’s something that I’ve relied on to track my moods and better understand what I might need in order to do the things I love. And to not only do them, but to do them with more trust and understanding of where I might be coming from on any given day, and ultimately, weeding out the harshness and judgement that can come from looking at yourself so closely.
You can visit this page to find out more.
On accessing your paid subscriptions…
01. With a buttondown account, you’ll be able to access your Freshly Squeezed account at any time (just make sure that the email you use to make the account or login with, is the same as the one you used to subscribe to this newsletter)
Once logged in, go to the ‘subscriptions’ section in your menu, and select the subscription you’d like to make changes to
02. If you paid for an annual or founding recurring subscription while Freshly Squeezed was hosted on Substack, it will remain available to you for as long as you’d like to keep it active
If you would like to change or cancel it, please login to your Buttondown account to do so
*All newsletter FAQ’s can be found here