resolve.

When I was in middle and high school, I would spend hours cutting up magazines: words written in thick or loopy fonts, photographs and images used for stories, recipes I wanted to try when I cooked my own food one day, bullet-pointed cures for acne and steps for what to do when you encounter your crush at the grocery store. I tore the pages off, cut out the words, and pasted them into an ever-growing volume of inspiration that still sits at my mom’s house. I got such joy from this activity — one of those things where I’d lose track of time for hours, emerge from my room twenty minutes past dinnertime. I didn’t have many hobbies growing up (and still don’t), but magazine-collaging would definitely have been one of them.

Sometimes, come December, I’d take my favorite clippings and put them on a poster board. These were my new year resolutions, the words and images and feelings I hoped to embody in the coming months. I’d match colors, mix fonts, and find words like “bold” and “do your thing” that would direct my coming year. I’d post it in my room and, truthfully, often forget about it. These posters became pieces of art that blended in with the rest rather than spaces to check-in about how I showed up in the world.

I was a teenager, consumed with boys and friendship drama and figuring things out, so it makes sense that I wasn’t totally focused on self-improvement or radical change in the early 2000s. But this year, I decided to do it again. I sat down with copies of magazines that had been piling up under an end table for months, turned on a James Bay Spotify station, and began cutting up the glossy paper.

I made a vision board. And I made resolutions.

In my heart of hearts, I know that January 1st isn’t different than December 31st. I know that New Year’s Resolutions hardly ever stick past the first week, and that people use this arbitrary date to have a fresh start or to turn a new leaf or to finally begin a new chapter. To lose the weight. To read the news. To save money. You can find article after article about this, about how making grandiose resolutions is, essentially, a waste of time because it likely won’t last.

And yet, I make resolutions of some sort every year. Some are more successful (in 2014, I made a resolution to get out of the city every month and I adventured twelve times) than others (I’ve had a goal of running a half-marathon since 2012). So far, nothing has drastically changed from 2016 to 2017 except the date on my iPhone. Yet January 1st is a clean slate in my planner and, year after year, feels like a good time to reassess where I’m at and what I want to change. Flipping the calendar to a new page feels like I can do so, too.

And this year, maybe more so than others, I need that.

Because 2016 has been filled with a lot of shit. It’s been filled with so much horse shit! There, I said it. It’s been terrible for the world — we are still in a war; there’s been a steady increase of horrific violence; and climate change isn’t going anywhere just because D. Trump says it doesn’t exist. For the country — racism and homophobia and sexism have a new, loud platform; Prince and the Brady Bunch mom and the Growing Pains dad died; and that last point about D. Trump very much applies here, too. It’s been a rough 2016 for me, too. I named aloud and struggled with depression, I had all sorts of doubts about my career path, and I was thrust into romantic drama and, subsequently, heartache.

I’ve seen the news stories, the listicles, the memes, which echo the overwhelming cry from humans around the globe. And I'm adding my voice, too: 

“2016 was awful. Let it be over, already.”

But December 31st, 2016 was not much different than January, 1st, 2017. While we can hope that 2017 will be better than what 2016 threw at us, we don’t know that. Donald Trump is still our president-elect. Aleppo is still burning. My heart is still a little sore. Maybe it will be enough to not see 2016 staring back at us every time we look at our calendars, phones, or email history. Maybe writing a new date on checks, job applications, or essays will be the small boost we need to help us move through the shit, the anger, and the pain that 2016 brought to us. We all deserve a chance to reset, recalibrate, and focus on a new beginning. We deserve an opportunity to wipe our hands of 2016, if we need or want to. We can’t, unfortunately, ignore it or pretend it didn’t happen — it will always be a part of our collective story as humans — but we can prepare our hands (and hearts) to hold the new, messy year ahead of us. 

I wrote my resolutions on index cards and stuck them on the wall, right next to my bedroom door, with sparkly gold Washi tape. Some are new (getting a 4.0 in my first term of graduate school), some are old (I still have hopes for that half-marathon). Some will be easy (taking time to adventure each month), and some will take a lot of work (reading 52 books!). Some are action-oriented (cultivate a daily writing practice), and some are hopes for how I will exist in the world (speaking up whenever my gut tells me to, even when it’s hard). And right next to those resolutions are my 2017 collage — a vision or inspiration board, perhaps. It’s a reminder of where I’ve come from and the resolve I have to keep moving forward.

I desperately need this kind of resolve to move forward — not despite 2016, but because of it. I need to believe that the world can be better, that I can accomplish goals for self-care, work, political engagement, and school. My resolve feels clearer when I think of my resolutions for 2017 in this light. How can I use my voice and words to speak up for what I believe in, and to denounce what I do not? How can I put the privilege I have and the money I make, into causes and organizations which contribute to the world I want to live in? How can I spend my quiet hours doing something that feeds my soul, so I can be recharged each day when I enter this big, messy world?

Despite the facts and research and articles, there’s something beautiful about this public declaration of newness and of change. Maybe I will read ten books this year. Maybe another year will pass where I will not run a half-marathon. Maybe I will not speak up at times when I should. But I need to believe that I will, and then offer myself grace if I don't. I need to believe that I can fully live into my intentions, that I can do as much as I can to make my corner of this world a little bit better each day. While I hope that 2017 will bring a new light and hope for our world, for now, I’ll just start with my vision board and resolutions. 

So, what is your resolve for 2017?

bright spots.

Today was supposed to be the day I was going to move from this bed on the floor to a real bed. It was supposed to be the day I was going to become the owner of my first real couch, and real bookshelf, and real mustard-colored chair. It was going to be the day where I finally moved books from boxes, and decorations from bins, and made Apartment 909 feel like home. But today is, now, just another day because after two hours on the phone with IKEA, my furniture isn’t coming. They lost my couch. They can’t deliver an incomplete order. They’re sorry.

No one wants to hear this. No one wants to hear that the furniture they paid for and have waited for isn't coming. No one wants to hear that the delivery day for which they took off work is now wide open, and a day in the near future, where they have to work, will now be filled with furniture delivery. Even in the midst of much shittier, heartbreaking things happening in the world and our lives, no one wants to hear this.

Once I got a hold of a real-life human, I think I handled the situation okay-ish. I asked the right questions, and didn’t yell, and only frustrated-cried a little bit. As I was being transferred to another real-life human, I apologized to Ashley for crying and being frustrated and not using the friendliest tone, and told her that I know this isn’t her fault. She laughed and said, “Girl, don’t worry. I lost my shit at Chick-fil-A the other day because they were out of the salad I wanted. Things suck sometimes.”

Once I got a hold of the other real-life human, I think I handled the situation alright-ish. I confirmed things that had been promised in my contract, and still didn’t yell, and only frustrated-cried a little bit more. When Maddie was helping me set up my new delivery date, we discovered she used to live right across the street from my new apartment. And as we were wrapping up the call, she asked, “Do you like sushi? There’s a really great place just right down the road. It’s called Blue Fin.”

And I guess why all of this matters is that while listening to the looped phone muzak while on hold, and finally eating my oatmeal that’s been sitting in the microwave since 9:30 am, and calling my mom and saying the F-word to her too many times, and sitting in the middle of the floor in my apartment, surrounded by bins of extra blankets and bags of books and a half-opened box of new sheets, I’m saying a little prayer for Ashley and Maddie. Bless their souls for being at the end of the phone line — phone lines with hundreds of people calling with questions and frustrations and tears every single day. For listening to, and creating space for, and being present with their callers’ complaints and words and feelings. Even if they think that callers like me are annoying or wrong or awful humans, they're still there. They still answer the phone and, I have to believe, try their hardest to make things better. They offer bright spots — today, in the form of Chick-fil-A salads and sushi recommendations — in hard situations.

I wanted to make this home feel more like home today, and I’m still going to do that. Who declared you need furniture to feel at home in a space? Today is the day for making this floor-bed a little more comfortable, for adding some photos of my favorite faces to frames, and for figuring out how to work my new laundry machine down the hall. Today is the day for finding the bright spots.

(And today is also the day for Blue Fin sushi for dinner, because Maddie said so.)

these leaves.

I've seen a lot of things on the news and in my newsfeed that have made me cringe or cry or both in the last week. Humans are messy (good grief, we're the messiest -- we need some Clorox wipes or a bath or something) and so are the things we do or say or post, and the things that we choose not to do or say or post. Sometimes it feels like no one cares about or loves or fights for each other anymore. Sometimes the world is depressing and you're certain that the light at the end of the tunnel is actually, definitely a big-ass train coming straight for all of us. That we're doomed.

So, with this in mind, posting a picture of my feet on the fall leaves, with my big-ass satchel and denim dress didn't seem right. (You've seen hipster Barbie's Instagram account, right? I fear she will use this photo as inspiration for her next post.) It made me feel out of touch with the realities and struggles of the world, too inwardly-turned in the midst of so much turmoil on this Earth. There are much more important things in the world to post about and talk about and raise our voices about than my feet and fall's arrival. I can think of ten off the top of my head right now. I'm sure I could think of another twenty if I really tried.

However. Here it is. My feet, my big-ass satchel, the fall leaves. Instagram Post #617. This post will be one of hundreds that will plaster the social network as the leaves begin to change colors, boots are pulled out of closets, and the Pumpkin Spice Latte makes it's return (which, as a new coffee drinker, I'm stoked to try for the first time). It will show up under #fallfeet and #fallishere and maybe be liked by people from around the world who are scrolling through the hashtags, spending their mental energy finding other people who have taken photos of their feet, their big-ass satchels, and the fall leaves. We live in a messy world, a world where we can mindlessly scroll on Instagram for hours and forget about those ten things that are much more important than the mindless scroll. We live in a messy world, where we can't even open the app for 48 hours because it seems so stupid compared to what's happening outside of the screen. 

So I'm finding middle ground, or trying to, to bridge those two messy realities. This picture is a #feetstagram, yes, but it's also a virtual representation of a pause that we all desperately need. A reminder that it's okay to take a deep breath (and a deep break) from all of the cringe- and cry-worthy things so we can show up to them again. And raise our voices and talk and post about them again. Taking a break (or posting a photo of our feet or our coffee or our face) doesn't mean that we care less or are no longer "good," conscious people or that we're banned from ever being social justice advocates or activists ever again. It means we are human. That we can't always take in everything that the world and the news and our newsfeeds throw at us. That we need to focus our attention on something like Instagram or Buzzfeed quizzes or Gilmore Girls to give ourselves a break.

And yet. It's not fair that some of us get to take a break, when so many humans have literally been running for refuge for days and months and, for some, years; or to take a photo of our feet, when so many of those humans' feet are tired and heavy and sore; or to take a moment to welcome fall outside our homes, when so many humans have not yet found a welcome place to call home. It's not fair, and that's shitty, and that makes me want to cringe and cry some more. But that's the reality of this messy world. And so we do what we can to try to cultivate a life where we're able to show up to the realities of the world as much as we can. Even if that means a photo of our feet.

It happened as I walked across the street to my apartment. I had just been driving in my car from a lunch date with a good friend. I was stuck in unexpected traffic and crabby, and so I (naturally) started replaying the images and articles that I'd come across on the news and in my newsfeed over the last 48 hours. I finally parked my car after 30 minutes of existential crisis. I felt physically exhausted, and I was still supposed to meet someone to go on a run (my first in at least two months) in twenty minutes. I needed a pause. As I walked across the street toward my apartment and stepped onto the curb, I looked down -- and found these leaves.

These leaves caused me -- for the briefest moment -- to see the light at the end of the tunnel as actual light and not a train of impending doom. These leaves reminded me that there are snippets of love and real light in the midst of the cringes and cries that show up on Facebook and CNN. These leaves reminded me to pause and think about all of those who cannot pause, who cannot rest, who cannot find welcome. To whisper a tiny little prayer for them, and for the world, that we may act and speak and care and love others.

To whisper a tiny little prayer for me, for us, that we may care for and love ourselves in the midst of that, too.

august 17.

I've downloaded Timehop, allowing the alerts to greet me as soon as I unlock my phone. I've enabled Facebook's "On This Day," marking the notifications unread until I've scrolled through each memory. I start most days this way: lying in bed after my alarm goes off, scrolling through memory lane. Last year, I Instagrammed the beautiful waterfalls I hiked past while on retreat for my new job. Three years ago, I tweeted about being one week away from hopping on a plane to India. Seven years ago, my best high school friend wrote on my wall to tell me that she would always always always be my friend.

These snippets of the past are kind of like the songs that bring you back to that one night, that one feeling, that one moment in time. But these snippets are always the good stuff -- they're the songs you danced to at that sleepover, the one that played during that kiss, and the one you belted at karaoke. I see the picture of the waterfall and get the same excited butterflies in my stomach that I had as a three-day-old employee. I see the tweet and physically ache for Bangalore and the feeling of hopping on an international flight with my travel pack. I see the post from my friend and immediately screen shot it to her with a few heart emojis, grateful that her promise is still true. These are such good moments.

But what about the rest?

What about the nitty gritty stuff of our hearts and guts that isn't recorded on social media? What about the just-as-real (and maybe even-more-real) stuff of our lives that was around before social media? Timehop and Facebook leave out the stuff that reminds us of the loneliness or the recent breakup or the friendship drama. They don't play the song that we looped on repeat when we said goodbye for the last time, or the one that we had to avoid for awhile, or the one that has always made us tear up a bit. There aren't many Instagrams or tweets that bring up hard stuff, or under-the-surface stuff. This is, of course, by our own choosing -- we purposefully record and remember the butterflies over the breakups, the excitement over the dread, the "life is great" over the "life is great but also really complicated." But still, we feel the real stuff's absence; it's the missing part of our perfectly crafted and curated scroll down memory lane each day.

I needed to look up a date and a memory for an essay-in-progress in an old journal tonight and found that real stuff staring at me from the pages of my bright orange, tulip-covered journal from the summer of 2005. I flipped through pages and found unsent love letters to multiple boys, printed transcripts of AOL Instant Message conversations with those same boys, and my insights into friendship and relationships and school. I found today's date.

August 17, 2005: "I'm ready for school to start. Pumped. I love rain. Last night we went to bed at 5! Time for me to roll out = now (11:22)!"

I read the full entry, giggling alone in my apartment and wondering why I ever thought I should use the phrase "roll out," even if it was just for my eyes only. I returned the journal to its box and pulled out my bright pink, daisy-covered one from the summer of 2006.

August 17, 2006: "He was like 'Where have you been?' and I said 'around.' He was like 'around, huh?' and I said 'Yeah I've sent you a few texts the past few days' and he goes 'yeah' and some other stuff. He said he'd try to call me sometime. I think it was fate."

First, I laughed. (Fate? Really?) And then I kept searching through the pages, unearthing the multicolored hearts and flipping open the elephant with the balloon and holding the engraved feathers, finding the under-the-surface words and feelings from each August 17, the stuff and stories that my Timehop and Facebook wouldn't bring up each year.

August 17, 2008: "I went to a High School Musical 2 party! It was super fun even though I didn't know everyone there very well!"

August 17, 2012: "I explained that I couldn't let him take me out to dinner because I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and am going away. In other words, this is how my heart feels: UGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!"

August 17, 2014: "How on earth will I know if this is the right path for me? Don't I just need to take one step and then see how that goes? What if I change my mind? Then I do. Dreams and plans and timelines can change. They always do."

As I read each entry, I moved past the picture-perfect parts and into the "life is great but also really complicated" ones. There wasn't a filter or spellcheck or missing snippets in this memory lane. It was all there, messy handwriting and weird analogies and rambling monologues and all. 

And now, this one's there too.

August 17, 2015: I had already Instagrammed my three closest gals from our 7 am breakfast date today. I took my first coffee art photo and started writing my "I just started drinking coffee" Instagram post in my head. I snapped a few pictures of my students, capturing the silly icebreakers and the birthday celebrations and the sacred conversations. But there is more to this August 17 than these good, post-worthy snippets. There was the walk home from work -- to a home I've been living in for over a year now, to a bed which is finally unlofted after an epic battle with the mattress and frame. There was the writing about Wicked and watching Ross and Rachel and their new baby on Friends and, now, the reliving of so many August 17s. Good and hard, big and little, and under-the-surface pieces that make up this day.

According to Timehop and Facebook, August 17 has not been a special day in the history of my life. Except that it is. Of course it is. Because life -- good, bad, and real -- happened then and is happening now. August 17 was fun in 2008 and heartbreaking in 2012 and insightful in 2014. And now, in 2015, it's an ode to my journaling, or to anyone's journaling, or to creating an outlet to remember the under-the-surface, "life is great but also really complicated" stuff somehow. It's also a reminder that memories exist outside of those that social media reminds us of, that the unseen and undocumented snippets matter just as much -- if not more -- than those that show up on our screens. And it is a plea to my future self, who will see this on August 17, 2016: sit with and learn from and let all the snippets of your life, from August 17 and all the other days, show up beyond your screen.

Let them live in your heart and guts.

until next time.

I’ve always loved next steps. The action plan, the to do list documenting the action plan, the “so what” that follows every action. I love the orderliness of it, the finished product looming in the distance. Somehow, following up with each action makes everything feel more legitimate: that doing this right now will lead to something else. Something bigger, better, greater. Like, after I’ve read a really good quote in a book, I write it down in my journal so I don’t forget it; just remembering that I’ve read it doesn’t feel like enough. And after I’ve read a really good (or even a really bad) book, I add it to my growing list of all the books I’ve read since ninth grade; just remembering that I’ve read it doesn’t feel like enough. And after I’ve written something that feels good and real, I publish it to this blog; sometimes, just writing for myself doesn’t feel like enough.

With this, comes that. When I do this, I know that happens next.

But I put my first bit of writing online—for friends and family and anyone with Internet access to read—without a plan. I had an idea that meant something to me and some words that had been hangin’ out in my soul for awhile, so putting them “out there” seemed like a logical next step. But that was it; I didn’t know what would come after. I started this blog without a timeline, without a prepared follow-up post, without a HootSuite account with scheduled posts, and without an idea of what the heck I’d write about to fill these virtual pages. 

When I hit “publish” on that first post two weeks ago, I felt unprepared. I didn’t have a next step. I had done what I wanted to do and didn’t have a plan for what happened next. A wave of questions rolled over in my mind: When should I post next? What should I write about? How often is too often to post? What if I don’t have something new to post by the time I think I should post by? Will this blog lose legitimacy if I don’t post on a regular basis? Does this blog even have any legitimacy?

These questions were followed by my next-step-self’s answers. I should probably post at least once each week. That’s what people expect when they read a blog, right? At least one post each week. Otherwise people might forget that I even have a blog. And that’s how often all of my favorite writers post on their blogs. I should be able to come up with something new to post at least once each week. That’s a good goal: once each week.

So, I listened to my answer-self and carved out time within the week to write. I sat at my desk, turned on the instrumental music, stared at the screen, and waited for the week’s words to come. Writing a blog was on my to do list; in bright blue dry erase marker across my whiteboard, it stared me down at eye-level each time I sat to pay a bill or check my email. I desperately wanted to cross it off and complete a next step in this new project. I wanted a follow-up. I wanted Writing Life Letters to have some legitimacy. 

But, underneath it all, I really just wanted it to have meaning. I wanted it to be enough.

That’s at the heart of so much of what we do as humans. Or, at least it’s at the core of what I often do. The questioning and doubting, the attempting to “do” more according to society’s or my own standards, in order to make myself or my work or my writing or my life feel more real and valued. I create tasks, lists, and calendar events that remind me that when I do this, I get closer to that. Each next step becomes part of a bigger plan for my day, week, and life.

But my writing’s meaning doesn’t come from having done it on time. Its value doesn’t rest in how often I post. I did not start writing to follow a certain set of steps. I did not start writing life letters to stick to a strict schedule, to cross each post off of a to do list, or to live up to standards to make myself (and my writing) feel more legitimate. I started writing because I wanted a place to put my thoughts and ideas. Whether those thoughts come once a day or once a week or once a month doesn’t matter. It’s okay that there are no next steps—no new ideas for posts bubbling up from me—after I publish this. 

The meaning and value and enoughness are there; they’ve been there from the moment I sat down to write. They’ll be there the next time I sit down to write too—whenever that may be. 

So, until next time.