edge of the continent

I have spent the better part of the last few days continuing my archaeological dig through belongings that have grown burdensome. There is the requisite junk to discard, of course, but each layer I unearth reveals evidence of a life stalled out some time ago: drawings left undone, courses never completed, writing that died halfway across the page. There are snapshots of smiling people long gone from my life. There are journal entries — hundreds of them — full of neuroses and insecurity and sadness. There are love letters from once promising days of lightness and discovery since turned cloudy and disillusioned. These artifacts piled up in drawers and boxes for years and now spill out around me, all these notebooks and files filled with so much promise unrealized.

I feel like a malformed phoenix, damaged and unable to ever truly rise from the ashes each time she burns. I look to the new year ahead and wonder: will this year be any different?

Bags and boxes of donations and trash are stacked near the door, ready to be cleared out of my life for good. I looked at it and was again in a dream: I had seen it before as I slept, a vision of me clearing out my home, bringing order to chaos, and finally facing the skeletons rattling mercilessly in my closet. I was not alone — my love was in the apartment, washing dishes in his dress shirt and tie. I was half-dressed and dirty, and mortified that he would see me that way I ran crying to the bedroom. There, I cleared off all the stuff getting in the way of the bed in one clean movement and sobbed uncontrollably when I turned to the closet and found that he had already seen it: everything I had ever hidden away was gone and replaced by his clothing hung neatly on the rod. I was certain he would leave after seeing me so very hideous and low; instead, he handed me a towel and lead me to the bathroom to clean up. He grinned and said he wasn’t going anywhere. The boxes by the door were gone.

I had forgotten about that dream.

I still love the man so neatly dressed at my dream-sink, gently laughing away my fears and undressing me for my bath. He will never be mine, not in the way I long for him to be, and I know this; I have known it. Yet I could not walk away, could not tear myself from this note of warmth and beauty with a mind so fierce and finely honed and a heart so deeply wounded and distrustful. He let me in and in I fell, Alice in Wonderland, down the rabbit hole. There was never enough time for all the words sent and spoken to cover the distance between us; when together, not nearly enough to take in his dancing eyes and his touch. Despite confessions whispered at midnight in the quiet shadows of the park — confessions of a decision questioned and of visions dreamed — I know better than to hope.

So I have walked away. I am a bit down on love right now, to be sure.

I colored my hair — it’s kind of stripey, but in a good way. I fed my plants as they were on the brink of death yet again. I endured another painfully silent holiday dinner with my family. I am a bit bleary but trudging on: I recognize that any spiritual or emotional unburdening will require far more than trash bags and a broom to achieve.

Much love.

cheers–
anna

The holidays aren’t over for another week or so but I had to stop in the middle of the shopping and wrapping and baking-baking-baking to acknowledge all the wonderful people in my life — if I don’t do it now, I will end up bawling my eyes out right here at my desk and that, frankly, will never do. There are thoughtful gestures of goodwill pouring in from all sorts of interesting places and wonderful conversations with people I just don’t get around to spending enough time with during the year… I laughed more today at a lunch with three terrific gals from the office than I have a very, very long time.

Some people appear to lead a singularly charmed life, filled with great luck and fortunate circumstances. I’m starting to think that I live such a life as far as the good people who cross my path are concerned. I do not know what I have done to deserve any of them, but I know cannot be thankful enough.

I need a hanky.

The Monster Cookie Baking Marathon ™ took place in my sister’s kitchen four days ago and its effects linger still, long after the cookies themselves were consumed by grateful, hungry friends and coworkers. Eight hours of measuring, mixing, shaping, and baking just wore me down — I’m achy from my neck to my heels, and my sinuses blew up after I inadvertantly inhaled a few teaspoonsful of ground cloves and cinnamon. It seemed like such a benign activity — who knew? (I was referring to baking, dear readers, not to the snorting of common pantry spices). Anyway, it appeared harmless up until the moment I was seduced by Betty Crocker ’s legion of sirens, who whispered in my ear that I, too, can bake gorgeous mountains of cookies worthy of a Martha Stewart cover. This is me we’re talking about, folks: the very same girl who routinely produces baked goods similar in taste and texture to a doorstop.

But these cookies were, well, lovely… photogenic, even. Repeatedly. Every batch. And they tasted good. Somewhere due south, there are hordes of disgruntled demons ordering parkas and thick woolen socks from LL Bean. Despite my fatigue and complete disinterest in eating any of my magical confections, I continue to bake up a storm in order to take advantage of this beautiful, ill-fated fluke. Place your orders now, my friends: this is a limited-time offer, never to return.

Books crowd the shelves, old clothing awaits a comeback, and a disturbing volume of paper spills out of makeshift files while unpacked boxes of personal effects — a dusty time capsule of my life circa two moves ago — lurk in the darkest corners of my closets. For someone who owns little in terms of personal possessions, I still manage to accumulate an alarming amount of superfluous stuff that continues to shadow me from one zip code to the next. After emptying a couple of shoeboxes and discovering not a single use for anything I had stored in them, I knew it was time to weed out my belongings.

Tonight I swam in a paper sea, baffled by the logic that went into keeping this and the sentiment that compelled me to hang onto that. It was satisfying to whittle away at the oppressive weight of all I had lugged around with me through the years, but my efforts were abandoned after uncovering a gem: a stack of old letters from friends and former loves. Many good people have slipped in and out of my life over the years and rediscovering their clever, charming notes hit me with varying measures of delight and regret. Nestled among the cards and envelopes was a letter that altered the course of my life — here was a relic of a love supreme, well creased and slightly fuzzy at the edges. Reliving the discovery and joy of those lovely, heady days and the path to their bittersweet demise left me dizzy, lost in times and places left behind. I bypassed the recycling bin and tucked the note away for a little while longer; I guess I am not as ready to let go of everything as I had thought.