The truth is, I’ve been wanting to write but I’ve struggled naming or placing my feelings aside from fragmented bits of information. The extent of my articulating feels like watching ink run down a page, so…

There’s that.

There’s a finality to writing things down that can even make the most over-sharer shy away from finalizing things.

Both of my babies will be in care outside of walls I am in, five days a week, for the first time ever in a matter of days.

As I enter into the second quarter of all of this newness, I realize I feel as though my roots are planting and perhaps that’s why I’m feeling avoidant.

Historically, I don’t root well, and here I am feeling myself stretch and grow and root and allowing my bones to settle even while transforming and it just feels…

Final.

You know?

And it’s not a bad thing, it’s a new thing. One I love, in fact. This life that I’m building feels messy as fuck, I feel messy as fuck, a version of me that is too pressed, too tired, too whatever to be the version I like best, but I reckon she’ll come around. Regardless, it feels good, and it feels right, even when it feels hard.

I’ve started allowing myself curiosity and joy these days, at least I am attempting to. There is a part of me, someone that really loves life and experiencing all of it, that is swallowed by work. Work that I love and that fulfills me, but that is also consuming, and there’s not a lot I can do about that right now. So in the few hours I have per week that are work-less, I find myself panicking on what or whom or where to give myself. Do I write? Do I read? Do I insist on nothing besides a bath and bed? Do I work more? Do I plan? Do I do?

Doing is what I’m good at, but instead of doing, I recently allowed myself joy and curiosity in the form of human connection and interacting face-to-face with a new-to-me-individual and-

I was curious, and I was joyful.

xxx

Market season begins in 7 weeks (whut), the babies will be away from me, starting their own new chapter, and my hope is that everyone continues to root and allow their bones to settle. The fact that springtime aligns with the newness and the stretching and the blossoming and the curiosity and joy, is not lost on me, and is a metaphor of sorts I like very much.

Pictured is my adaptation of favorite spring salad that is versatile, and I make quite often. Sometimes there is bacon, sometimes there is not. Sometimes I butter-poach, or roast radishes, other times I thinly slice them raw. There is always boiled potatoes, slightly dressed still warm. There are always blanched green beans, and there is always egg-

Sometimes jammy, other times hard-boiled.

I prefer it with lots of fresh dill, and a particularly tart and garlicky vinaigrette, but do as you wish.

My love,

A