A.H. Kim's Blog, page 4

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 15

Today’s prompt:

What’s the funniest thing that happened to you last year? Write a paragraph from the point of view of an inanimate object that bore witness to it. Could be your hat. Could be your wedding ring, a streetlamp or the plant in the corner of the bar. Use as much sensory/sensual language as possible to describe the memory from that object’s perspective.

Bad Connection

Hi Ann, it’s me, Ivanka. Can you hear me? The connection’s really bad.

I’m alone down here at the bottom of the Trader Joe’s bag. The bag that has Goodwill written on it in black Sharpie. What’s Goodwill, by the way?

The air smells strange. Like dirty laundry and car exhaust and wood shavings. I liked it better when I sat on your closet shelf between those cute Kate Spade kitten heels and soft suede Tod’s loafers. The scent of French lilac shelf liner and Bounce fabric softener always made me feel safe and snug.

It’s been almost a year since you took me off that shelf and put me into this bag. I’m not sure why. Did I do something wrong? If so, I’m really sorry.

We had so many fun times together, remember? That charity gala with Tyler Florence and the Slanted Door guy. You looked elegant in that Calvin Klein pale gray dress and matching bolero jacket. Or that women’s leadership conference where Michelle Obama spoke. You were classic in that Nanette Lepore navy boucle dress and pink pashmina. Or that college reunion where you were nervous about seeing your ex-boyfriend. You looked timeless in that vintage black silk sheath and strand of Mikimoto pearls.

Everyone always complimented you on how I provided a “pop of color.” That’s what you first noticed about me, remember? The bright magenta leather and shiny gold accents. Not to mention the stiletto heels. So different from the boring black pumps you used to favor before me.

Wherever we went together, people would say, “I love your boots!” I thought you loved me too. No, I know you loved me. We used to be BFFs – best footwear friends. But then something happened. Something changed. I just don’t know what.

I remember you were always a little embarrassed talking about me. I’d hear you tell people, “They’re actually by Ivanka Trump, can you believe it?” I figure you didn’t want to brag or make people feel bad about their ordinary shoes. I get it.

There was that one time when your boss asked about me, and you acted all weird and said, “Oh, I don’t know. I got them such a long time ago. They’re probably Nine West or something.”

Nine West? Seriously? Were you talking about me?

Now that I think about it, that was the last time I remember sitting on the shelf in your closet. Between my old pals Kate and Tod. The next day, I met Trader Joe.

I miss the smell of lilacs.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 14

Today’s prompt:

Write a love note to yourself. Write it from someone else’s point of view. It can be a real person or a made-up person. Start with the line: Dear [your name], If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are ______. 

Write about what they see in you, what they find beautiful. I call this practice “In the Voice of Someone Who Loves You.”

A Brother’s Love

People who know me will be unsurprised that I couldn’t do today’s prompt. I don’t like being the center of attention. I don’t like seeing photos of myself or hearing my voice on the answering machine. I can’t imagine writing about how others see me.

Anyway, I’ve already received the love note that the prompt describes. It’s from a real person, the voice of someone who loved me very much telling me how he sees me. It’s the final few paragraphs of a blog entry my brother wrote several years ago thanking the people who supported him during a difficult year. I reprint it here with the caution that this is not how I see myself – but how blessed am I to have been so seen and so loved by another?

***

Finally, I want to thank my sister Annie. The family joke is that we refer to her as "Saint Annie" because she is so good. Growing up, she was the perfect child, and little has changed since then. Annie flew in from San Francisco one year ago to accompany me in driving my wife to prison. She didn't want me to drive home alone. That night, she was there to catch me when I finally fell off my emotional precipice.

This past year, she came every 3 months and stayed for days. She would play with the girls and cook and clean and shop and joke, and allowed the kids to forget, if only for a few days, that mommy wasn't home. All the while of course, she had a full life back in San Francisco as a full-time attorney, mother of 2 boys, wife, mentor, active member of a breast cancer survivor group, and much more. But, busy as she was, she always came like clockwork, and she will be here again this week, right on time. She established and maintains this blog site. And she does all of this without fanfare, without pity, and always with hope.

With apologies to Annie for plagiarizing myself, I want to end by reprinting part of a letter I recently wrote to her. (Actually, it's an approximation since I didn't save the letter.)

Our lives are not always the epic novels that we would like them to be. In reality, they are more like a collection of short stories that share a common theme, like a 'Winesburg, Ohio' or 'The Dubliners.' One of my favorite stories from our childhood is the story of how you came to be.

Mom only wanted to have one child. Being the youngest of 800 children, she only knew her parents as old people. As a youth, tuberculosis had nearly killed her, and her first pregnancy was especially difficult and was complicated by a breech birth. But she had survived, and she had given birth to a son. She had fulfilled her duty. She was done.

Then one day, she saw me getting into a confrontation with another boy. She watched, unseen, as the other boy and I were about to come to blows. Then suddenly, the other boy's sister arrived. Now it was 2 against 1, and sheepishly, I backed down. Afterwards, mom thought how sad it was that I had no one to defend me, how sad it would be that I would be all alone when they were gone. I needed a companion, she concluded. And that's how you came to be.

Of course, you are more than just my companion. We have both gone on to create families of our own, taken on responsibilities and built careers. And yet, I have never forgotten mom's initial intention. Now, I find myself in another struggle, but I am not afraid, and I will not back down this time, because now, I am not alone. I have my sister with me, and it is 2 against 1.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 13

Today’s prompt:

I invite you to reflect on a new beginning that was meaningful for you. You might think about a literal beginning: new job, relationship, state of being (pre-child to parent, singledom to marriage). You might think about a new conviction, habit, or a crucial choice you made: when you decided to stop apologizing all the time, that summer you actually started meditating, or the day you stopped drinking. Tell the story of your new beginning. What did it make room for? Why was it important? How did your new beginning lead you to where you are today?

Lifetime of Yes

There used to be this Maybelline mascara commercial back in the 1980s. It featured two attractive young models – I believe they were supposed to be sisters – who proclaimed that they were “opposites, right down to our lashes.” (Cue: bold, smoky eye vs. tasteful, natural eye.)

The Maybelline sisters had centuries of literary role models to draw from. Elinor and Marianne (Sense and Sensibility). Meg and Jo (Little Women). Stella and Blanche (Streetcar Named Desire). Mary and Laura (the Little House books). The practical older sister living quietly (and somewhat judgmentally) in the shadow of her impetuous and much more fun younger sister.

And so it was in my family. I was the older, studious sister; the corporate lawyer and mother of two. She was the younger, glamorous sister; the New York City fashion editor with the Carrie Bradshaw bachelorette lifestyle.

“I’m going to Paris Fashion Week,” she informed me from her sleek Nokia cellphone. “They’re putting me up at the Four Seasons George V. Come join me. You can stay in my suite. All you need to do is pay for airfare.”

“Thanks, hon,” I said, jostling the fussy infant in my arms while packing the next day’s Ziplock of Cheerios for my preschooler. “But I’ve only got two weeks of vacation left at work, and I need to save those up for visiting my in-laws at Christmas.”

Years passed.

“I’m going to Milan,” she typed on her space-age Blackberry. “They’re giving me my own car and driver. Come join me. You can eat your weight in incredible pasta. All you need to do is pay for airfare.”

“Thanks, hon,” I said, wiping down the kitchen table after dinner while checking my kindergartener’s math homework for mistakes. “But I’ve got a hearing coming up in one of my cases, and I really can’t afford to let my clients down.”

Years passed.

“OK,” she said on my voicemail, “I already know what your answer is, but what the hell. I’m going to the shoe show in Las Vegas. Less than an hour flight from San Francisco. I’m staying at The Wynn, a new hotel right on the Strip. We’ll see a show. Go shopping. Get a massage. Think about it.”

My husband and kids were asleep. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was still bald from having just completed four months of chemotherapy. The color in my cheeks was starting to come back. The scars on my chest had finally finished healing.

Sure,” I wrote back. “I’ll meet you in Vegas.”

I don’t know who was more surprised – me or my sister – when we saw one another in The Wynn’s tropical garden lobby. But I do know we had so much fun that week-end that I signed up to meet her the following fall for Paris Fashion Week.

Imagine the most perfect week in Paris. Visiting the Louvre – check. Enjoying dinner at Le Grand Colbert (the bistro from Something’s Gotta Give) – check. Sitting second row center at the Valentino show across from Kanye West – check. Having your photo taken by the legendary New York Times photographer Bill Cunningham – check.

None of these things would have happened if I hadn’t said yes. And I wouldn’t have said yes if I hadn’t just come off the absolutely worst year of my life.

Shonda Rhimes, the brilliant creator of Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How to Get Away with Murder, had a best-selling book a couple years ago called Year of Yes. I’ve read the book, and it’s awesome. But honestly, I think Shonda’s sold us all short.

A year of yes? Sure, that’s a good start.

But a lifetime of yes? That’s what it’s all about.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 12

Today’s prompt:

Write about your blessings. About what it was like to wake up today, about the people you love, about the songs that have lifted your spirits. Write about the wind in the trees, or of rebirth in spring, or of freedom. Write about whatever gives you life, which—especially in troubled times, we remember—is so precious.

Second Chances

For the past couple years, ever since my brother died, I’ve made it a practice to fly from San Francisco to Northern Virginia every two months or so to visit my parents. My 85-year-old father always picks me up at Dulles airport even though I tell him I can take a Lyft. It used to be that my mother would have one of my favorite Korean dishes waiting for me at home – spicy soft tofu stew, tender braised short ribs, savory sliced rice cake soup – but in the past year, her health has declined, and she hasn’t felt up to cooking. Now, we mostly order in.

One of the blessings of these past two years is that I’ve had plenty of time to ask my father about his life and to hear his stories. Most of them are sad stories, although Dad never exhibits any self-pity. Stories of growing up as a second-class citizen during the Japanese occupation of Korea. Of losing his father at a young age. Of having his high school education interrupted and his life turned upside down by the Korean War. Of being sent to the Vietnam War the same week that I was born.

Out of the many stories Dad has told me, though, one is particularly memorable.

My father had been the head of a MASH (mobile army surgical hospital) in Vietnam. Day after day, he was responsible for overseeing a team of doctors and nurses who tended to bodies ripped apart by bullets and bombs. Most of the casualties were young. The US government paid Korean soldiers for fighting in the war, and in a country still suffering from desperate poverty, serving in the military was one sure way to put food on the table.

There was a lot of down time in between waves of the injured and dying. During those down times, my father wrote letters to my mother about how much he missed home. About how sorry he was to leave her alone with a four-year-old and newborn. About the tragedy of these young men shooting at one another – in some cases, South Korean against North Korean – and for what purpose?

Little did my father know that his letters, like all outgoing mail, were being monitored for pro-Communist sympathies. And what could be more pro-Communist than questioning the purpose of the war?

Military command sent an officer to the MASH unit to inform my father that he would be sent to the front lines immediately. It was a certain death sentence. Moments before my father could be called into the office to receive the news, a fresh wave of injured arrived. My father leapt to service, directing his doctors and nurses to do their jobs while he himself performed surgery on dozens of patients.

When all the soldiers had been attended to, my father was told to report to the main office. He walked into the confined space, surprised to see his unit commander joined by an unfamiliar officer.

“Who is this man?” the officer asked.

“This is the man you came to talk to,” the unit commander said. “The man who just saved that group of injured soldiers.”

The officer looked my father up and down. The fate of this skinny 30-year-old man was in his hands. The officer shrugged and shook his head. He decided to change his mind.

By now, word had leaked out in the MASH unit about what was happening in the office. Doctors were ashen. Nurses were crying. When my father walked out of the main office and into the group living tent, he asked everyone what was wrong. He was oblivious.

My father received a second chance at life that day. That second chance came about because a tragedy – dozens of poor young men grievously injured in war – intersected with pure whim.

I’m sure there’s a lesson I can draw from my father’s story, particularly today as people around the world celebrate Easter and Passover. But I’m not a priest or rabbi, and that’s not the reason I started writing this anyway. Today’s prompt is about blessings, and I can think of no better blessings than my beloved parents, the sharing of stories, and the second chances we all get every day…even if we don’t realize it at the time.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 11

Today’s prompt:
Reflect on a moment where you did something that left you feeling nourished and sated. Where hours passed, yet you didn’t even know it. When you were right where you needed to be. Maybe it’s a memory of spending time with a loved one, or a long discarded childhood activity—dancing, drawing, shooting hoops in the driveway. Maybe it’s a more recent hobby—kneading sourdough or, like me, making elaborate cheese plates. Write about this experience. Write about being nourished and what it means to you. 

It's Not About the Food

“Where do you want to go for your birthday lunch next week?” I asked.

It was late December, and there was a festive zing in the air. Sparkly lights lined Market Street. Giant red ornaments gleamed in front of the 101 California office building. The scent of fresh-cut spruce and mulled-cider spices was everywhere.

“You know what I’d really like?” Steve said. “Cioppino at Tadich Grill. And an ice-cold martini.”

We all nodded. Cioppino would be just the thing on a cold winter’s day. And a martini? Sheer perfection.

The birthday club was well into its second decade. Four friends from the office who take one another out for a nice lunch on our respective birthdays. I formed the club almost twenty years ago when I learned that my friend (and then-boss) had no lunch plans on his special day. As people retired or moved on, the club recruited new members. I’m the last of the originals.

“Too bad we have to come back to the office afterward,” Peter sighed. Our company has a strict “no drinking at lunch” policy.

“Who says?” Steve asked, a glint in his eye.

“Great idea,” I said, reading his thoughts. And so it was settled. Steve and I would take a half-vacation day after his birthday lunch. Peter said he had an afternoon meeting he couldn’t skip.

The final member of our birthday club was already on vacation, so Steve convinced his young daughter Zoe to round out the foursome.

Walking into the Tadich Grill always feels like stepping back in time. The no-nonsense staff in their starched white jackets. The white linen-covered tables tucked into wood-paneled alcoves. The golden glow of the pendant lights reflecting off the ochre-painted walls.

The maître d’ seated us at the table in the front window, the weak light of winter filtering through the plate glass and blanketing us in warmth. The waiter approached us with the menus, but Steve waved them away.

“We already know what we want,” he said. We teased Steve about his impatience, attributing it to his advanced age. Never mind that he’s only nine months older than me.

The waiter brought the two martinis and set them before me and Steve. We laughingly chided Peter for his failure to properly prioritize, and Peter admitted to having serious regrets. Next time, he would learn from his elders. Steve and I clinked our cocktails in celebration, with Peter and Zoe lifting their water glasses in pale imitation.

When the waiter brought the steaming bowls of cioppino to our table, our convivial conversation paused for a moment. The classic stew was overloaded with mussels, clams, scallops, shrimp and Dungeness crab. The four of us tied on our plastic bibs, which reduces everyone to looking like overgrown toddlers, and we laughed at one another and ourselves until our stomachs hurt. And then we dug right in.

“What’s that for?” Zoe asked, pointing at the thick slices of garlic toast that came with the cioppino.

Steve grabbed a slice of toast, ripped off a chunk, and dipped the ragged end into the rich tomatoey broth, redolent of fennel and garlic. He passed the chunk to his daughter, whose eyes grew round as the savory combination of flavors hit her tongue. We all basked in the purity of Zoe’s delight. And then we grabbed our own slices of garlic toast and started dunking.

Our table looked like a war zone by the end of the meal. Dozens of seafood shells and shrimp tails. Crumpled plastic bibs. Greasy garlic toast crumbs. And two empty martini glasses.

An author friend recently posted on his Facebook page: what do you look forward to doing once the stay at home order is lifted? So many answers come to mind. Visit my parents. Hug my son who lives across the country. Get a massage. Soak in a hot tub.

But if I’m being honest, there’s one thing I want to do most of all.

We don’t even need to order martinis.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY TEN

Today’s prompt:

Write about a time where you were dead wrong about someone.

That’s Doctor Goat Boy to You

We sat in front of the TV watching the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. It was my dad, my mom, and me. We’d heard about a boy from a small town in California who’d been admitted to Harvard despite never having gone to a real school. He grew up on a farm raising goats. Like the rest of America, we were curious to gawk at this novelty sideshow.

“Oh, he looks so cute,” my mom sighed in Korean as the lanky boy walked on set.

“He’s going to be your classmate,” my dad said proudly as the boy shook Johnny Carson’s hand and sat down next to Betty White. My dad’s pride had been over the top ever since we opened my Harvard admittance letter.

“I’m sure he’s a dolt,” I thought with the arrogance of the sheltered, high-achieving, and insecure teenager that I was.

***

We sat in the Rotunda of the Freshman Union. It was my roommate, some New York City friends, and me. We saw the boy from some hick town in California who’d appeared on Carson despite never having made a movie or TV show. Like the rest of our college freshman classmates, we were eager to tear down this celebrity interloper.

“Oh, he looks lost,” one friend sneered as the lanky student walked past.

“He’s going to fail out in a semester – two, at the most,” another one said as the student set down his tray at the next table. My New York City friends’ swagger was over the top, even though they had no reason for it.

“Yeah, he’s had his fifteen minutes of fame,” I added with the half-hearted confidence of a Pittsburgher trying to fake it among New Yorkers.

***

We sat in front of our computer watching the latest numbers of dead and infected in San Francisco. It was my husband, my son, and me. We watched the doctor who had gone from being Obama’s AIDS advisor to head of San Francisco’s Public Health Department. Like the rest of our beloved city, we were desperate for a glimmer of hope.

“Oh, he really knows what he’s doing,” my husband says.

“He’s going to shut this shit down,” my son says as the gaunt man on the screen talks about trying to control the spread of the virus among the homeless, the working class, the non-English-speaking population.

“Yeah, did you know,” I begin.

“Yes, we know he’s your classmate,” my husband and son cry in unison. “From Harvard.” They draw out the syllables in mock-Boston accents. Park the car in Harvard Yard.

“Your friends used to call him Goat Boy,” my son says.

I watch the gaunt man with his serious face. The man who’s working day and night to save us from disaster. The man I underestimated from the start.

“Hey, show a little respect,” I say. “That’s Doctor Goat Boy to you.”

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY NINE

Today’s prompt:

Choose a line from a book—you can grab the nearest one and flip it open to a random page, or pick an old favorite you’ve memorized by heart. Whatever grabs your attention; whatever intrigues. Use it as the opening sentence for today’s journal entry, and let the words flow from there. 

Love Floats

“Keep passing the open windows.”

My brother and I said those words to one another countless times: at the close of our letters and emails, before we ended our long-distance phone calls, when we hugged each other good-bye. It was our favorite line from one of our favorite books (The Hotel New Hampshire) by one of our favorite writers (John Irving).

I believe we would have adored the book even if the main characters weren’t named John and Franny. Like the fictitious siblings, my brother (John) and I (Annie) were very close. An ex-boyfriend once said my brother and I were “unusually close,” using a tone that implied some sort of perversion. In the book, John and Franny do end up engaging in some perverted acts. My brother and I were very close, but in a wholly unperverted way.

“I am not a poet,” the narrator says. “I was not even the writer in our family.” And so it was for us. My brother John was the writer. He was the one who majored in English and kept journals and dreamt of moving to New York City to write the great American novel. I had no such delusions.

Thus, it came as something of a surprise when, in my late 40s, I was inspired to try my hand at writing. I was an innocent wandering in the literary wilderness. When I finished the first draft of my first novel, I knew whose opinion mattered most to me: my brother’s. I felt nervous, almost embarrassed, to share my childish words with him. I worried he might be critical, maybe even cruel, but he couldn’t have been more supportive. His generous praise lifted me up like a cloud.

That book went nowhere.

I had better luck with my second novel, a domestic thriller very loosely inspired by our life experiences. I received expressions of interest to my queries. An agent offered representation. And finally, a publishing contract. My brother was with me every step of the way. He was my biggest fan.

Shortly after I inked my book deal, my brother was dead by suicide. The two events are completely unrelated, but they’ll forever be connected in my heart. His pride, our joy, my grief.

At the end of the second-to-last chapter of The Hotel New Hampshire, the narrator quotes from a poem by Donald Justice:

How shall I speak of doom, and ours in special,

But as of something altogether common?

By this point in the book, the fictitious family has experienced adventure, loss, comedy, and tragedy. The story is nearing its end. The narrator concludes:

Add doom to the list, then. Especially in families, doom is “altogether common.” Sorrow floats; love, too; and – in the long run—doom. It floats, too.

I think about these words, and my brother especially, as I prepare to release my debut novel in the midst of a global pandemic. I wonder what my wise and witty brother would make of it all. Doom is indeed altogether common. And so, too, sorrow.

But that’s not what I think my brother would say.

What he would say is this:

Love floats.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY EIGHT

Today’s prompt: 

Pick five time periods, ages, or moments from your life—they can be spread out or all clustered together. Don't think too hard about your choices, just write down the first one that comes to mind and move to the next.
Example:
1. First grade.
2. Jr. high.
3. Sleeping in a Buick (age 17).
4. Stripping in Texas (age 20).
5. Getting sober (age 25).

With me so far? Feeling admiration for my life choices? Great! 

Next pick a song to pair with each moment. Again, try not to think too hard. Let it be a gut thing. Example: Jr. High— "Mother" by Danzig . 

Now write a quick and dirty paragraph about each one. Then take the one that feels most interesting to you and expand it.

Quick and Dirty Haikus

Kindergarten: London Bridge is Falling Down (traditional)

Lorain, Ohio

Milk bottles sound like wind chimes

Playing with new friends

Elementary school: Nights on Broadway (Bee Gees)

Pink gingham bedroom

Bee Gees on the radio

Reading through the night

Middle school: Venus and Mars are Alright Tonight (Paul McCartney and Wings)

Passing notes at school

No one else likes this album

Just me and Julie

High school: Super Freak (Rick James)

White dress, feathered hair

That band really rocked the prom

Must have sucked for them

College: Beats and Rhymes (UTFO)

Hip-hop goes old school

Not what you’d expect of me

Full of surprises

The Long Winter

We saw it in the JC Penney’s showroom: the princess bedroom. Plywood furniture painted in Marie Antoinette white and gold. Canopy bed with pink gingham bedspread and eyelet trim. Locked pleather diary and fuchsia feather-plumed pen. I wanted the whole package, but my parents could only afford a few pieces. We improvised the rest.

In fourth grade, my parents bought me Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series. Nine paperback books in pale yellow covers. I liked reading Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary and Roald Dahl. Funny books with funny characters. The Little House books seemed boring, but they looked pretty lined up on my bookshelf next to my Holly Hobbie figurine.

Winters in Buffalo are cold. And dark. And long. The winter of 1975 was all of these. A full year had passed since my parents bought me the Little House books, and I still hadn’t touched a single volume. But school was cancelled…again. I was desperate for some distraction.

As snow swirled all around my house, Ma taught me how to make headcheese and roast a pig’s tail. As icicles formed outside my bedroom window, Almanzo taught me how to grow a milk-fed pumpkin. And as the temperature slowly rose from below-zero to almost-thawing, Laura taught me how to behave with handsome suitors who come to call.

That winter, I read the entire Little House series in bed while listening to WKBW on my transistor radio. Most people wouldn’t associate the Bee Gees with calico bonnets, plagues of locusts, or evening buggy rides with a beau. But to this day, whenever I hear those crazy falsetto voices celebrating the Nights on Broadway, I’m transported back to that pink gingham bedroom, those pale yellow volumes, and the pioneer girl who taught me what it meant to be American.

(Note: Yes, I know: Nights on Broadway is not on the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, but I couldn’t resist the juxtaposition of the two images. Besides, I don’t own the Bee Gees’ Main Course album.)

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY SEVEN

Today’s prompt:

Write a letter to your younger self. Thank them, praise them, scold them, comfort them—engage in whatever way you feel led with one or many versions of your younger self. Whatever comes to mind. 

Now, let’s shift to exploring your older self. What would you want to say? To ask? To request? Tell your older self what you are doing now in service of them. Tell them what the ideal situation might look like when you finally meet—where might you be living, what type of work might you be doing, who you might be spending time and space with. 

Letter to My Younger Self

To Annie at 3: That moment when you’re outside in the snow with Daddy and you put your tiny cold hand in his. You’re surprised by how soft and warm it feels. That’ll be your first memory and one you’ll revisit countless times. Enjoy.

To Annie at 7: That moment when Mrs. Whitelaw finishes reading Charlotte’s Web to your second grade class. You’re achingly sad that it’s over. That’ll be your favorite book forever. Say thank you.

To Annie at 12: That moment when your middle school teacher reads your story aloud. You’re embarrassed when she pronounces you “a future writer.” That’ll be a prediction you want to believe but won’t. Believe.

To Annie at 21: That moment when you peruse the college course catalog and linger over the creative writing classes. You’re tempted to enroll, remembering your middle school teacher, but you feel afraid and decide it’s not practical. That’ll be a choice you’ll regret. Be brave.

Letter to My Future Self

Be brave. Believe. Say thank you.

Enjoy.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY SIX

Today’s prompt:

Okay, close your eyes. Maybe lie down so you’re cozy? A blanket is nice. Okay. What do you see? At first, it’s dark in there. But if you really look, you will start to see pictures. Maybe it’s a bear with claws, or an ice cream cone, or a memory. Like, cuddling your mom. Maybe it’s words, like LOVE or DANCING. Sometimes it’s just tickly lights. Whatever you see, write about it. Really explain it until it becomes a story. I like to draw what I see, too. 

Wild and Precious Life

This morning, when I saw today’s prompt, I felt both dread and excitement. Dread because it sounded a little like meditation, which I’m terrible at. Excitement because it gave me permission to go into my bedroom, lie down, and close my eyes, which I’m awesome at.

It’s 7:30 in the evening. I’ve finally logged off my work computer. It’s been 12 hours since I logged on. As a lawyer, I spend most of my waking hours answering questions, reviewing documents, fixing problems. It’s exhausting. I’m looking forward to lying down in my bed and closing my eyes.

The moment I hit the bed, dread enters the room.

“I’m bad at meditating,” I think.

“Quiet your mind,” my mind says.

“Uh, do you not see the irony?” I think.

“Quiet your mind,” my mind repeats.

“It feels so good to be lying down,” I think.

Excitement enters the room. My spine settles into the mattress. The ache eases from my neck. The day’s pressures lift from my body.

“Don’t fall asleep,” my mind says.

“What?” I think.

“Don’t fall asleep,” my mind repeats.

“Wait, are you judging me?” I think.

“I’ve just seen this movie a thousand times before,” my mind says. “You’re ‘closing my eyes for just a moment,’ and then before you know it, the alarm clock is buzzing off the hook, and your contact lenses are super-glued to your eyes.”

“So, you are judging me,” I think.

My mind is quiet.

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

“What do you see?” my mind asks softly.

“Wait, this isn’t dread talking. Who is this?” I ask.

My mind is quiet.

“This is excitement, right?” I ask.

Quiet.

I don’t see anything with my eyes closed. Just blackness and emptiness and void. And then, occasionally, a random flash. A ghostly-green bubble here. A golden lightning bolt there. Tiny constellations of silver dots everywhere.

Suddenly, I remember my friend telling me about her trip to see the Northern Lights. She told me how, after several days of disappointment, she had reconciled herself to not seeing anything. The tour guides had warned her that nothing was a guarantee. It was all up to nature – a luck of the draw.

On the last night of the tour, just when she was about to give up hope, she saw them: the swirling miracle of colors in the sky. She ran to the cabins to alert her tour-mates. And they all shared in the miracle with her.

My mind returns to the present. To the bed beneath my body. To the air filling my lungs. To the aroma of the dinner that awaits me momentarily. And I’m reminded of the words of Mary Oliver, the words that always bring tears to my eyes, no matter how many times I read them:

I don't know exactly what a prayer is

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?