I can't promise you anything

something dog-eared and underlined

green everything, on 35mm film

Bluets, by Maggie Nelson, sits beneath a steaming mug of ginger tea, the contents of which are still too hot to drink, but not too hot to hold. And yesterday, just after my therapist asked me how I was doing, I noticed her attempt to cover up a yawn with the back of her hand, while I carried on responding, wishing I could grab hold of something other than the messiness of talking about nothing in particular.

After our session was over, I closed my computer and made more tea and moved on with my day, while the all-too familiar feeling of not wanting to talk or answer questions, had me revisiting the past few hours: I thought yes, this must have everything to do with me, and couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her as a person living a life I know very little about.

The three books that I’ve had on hold at the library for a few months now, all became available at once. Luckily, there is this new feature where you can push back the date that you’d like to (physically or digitally) gain access to said book. The book I’ll be reading first, is Dolly Alderton’s new novel, Good Material, and out of the two remaining, I’ve pushed back my to-be-borrowed date on The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine, to be delivered at the end of next week, by which time I’ll have (ideally) finished Good Material (and the third book will be bookmarked for later).

Bluets is not a library book. I can’t remember when I purchased it, but it must have been a while ago (since I have grown so used to its presence on my bedside table). And it’s not that I haven’t wanted to read it, it’s just one of those things where you own a book for a while before you get around to picking it up, and then the more books you add to your want-to-read list, the harder it is to make time for that one at the bottom of the stack. It is, however, a shorter book, only 95 pages of numbered prose and nuanced thought and sharp edges about the color blue. I have a feeling it’s one of those books that I’ll have to read a few times in order to fully grasp the meaning of—maybe keeping it on hand as a reference, a quick dose of inspiration. Something dog-eared and underlined to tuck into your bag as you go about your daily-life.

Though I can see the deep blue of the water and the watercolor blue of the sky, the world outside is mostly a vibrant green. A green than can only be this green in spring when the daffodils are showing off to the deer that roam and eat and roam and sleep, nestling themselves between the giant oaks or in the middle of the sloping hillside. It’s when the pink emerges alongside the yellow and everything is new and exciting and full of promise. It’s a place to begin again or reevaluate what’s right in front of you. It’s whatever you want to bring along with and everything that you’re ok with letting go of and leaving behind.

When I think of this time of year (specifically in the northern hemisphere), I think of compost and worms and bulbs and color and nothing but green green green. I think of home and home-cooked meals and the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Of what I don’t yet know. Of the stillness that sits in between it all, patiently waiting for you to let out your breath and go ok, I am going to give this a try.

With a coffee in hand, I walk across the lawn, pausing to look back at the path I made; beads of water running off of each blade of grass as my feet take me from one end to the other, and when I open the door with my free hand, the cats are right there, doing their best to scoot around my legs, eager to roam and hunt and watch and do whatever else cats do. And because they have about an hour before their decided ‘outside time’ begins, small, impatient meows fill the room as I go turn on the kettle and pour myself more ginger tea, my inner critic running rampant…

She has moments throughout the day where she chooses to read, which can only mean one thing: she has too much time on her hands and isn’t doing enough. Oh, you’ve only checked your email once this morning? Check it again, and at least pretend like you’re doing something useful, and while you’re at it, maybe try changing around the SEO keywords on your website, or reaching out to more people or adding more tasks to your to-do list. Honestly, are you even listening to me? If only you would pay more attention, doing what I told you to do, then maybe you wouldn’t feel like you’re in a constant state of free fall (because there is always more work that needs to be done, you’re just choosing not to do it). Instead, you’re choosing to pick up that book and read while you drink your coffee—try to just try a little harder and care a little more and be everywhere at once, and then maybe you'll get to where you want to go. Until then, I don’t want to hear a peep out of you (and so on. As you can tell, she’s relentless and exhausting and has a tendency to take up way too much space, often ignoring me when I ask her to leave. And so I ask again, and this time she listens).

The cats have now given up on going outside and are purring loudly, one asleep on the kitchen island, and the other right next to my computer (after three failed attempts to be directly on my computer). I’m thinking about breakfast and how it will probably take awhile before I feel comfortable enough to go ok, let me step away for a little bit or to work on something else or to go for a walk or to make a cute little figurine out of clay. To be able to take myself seriously when I say that I’m off to write, and not too seriously as my fingers hover just above the keys and the white of the empty page stares back at me.

The rain is now coming down hard and the house is dark and I’m cradling the base of my neck with my palm as I chip away at something that isn’t miraculous or incredible, it’s just something I’m trying and experimenting with and am choosing to put my trust in a little bit more than I did yesterday, until many more days have gone by and I no longer feel so judgmental of whatever this is. And for the first time, I know I can be patient and consistent and playful—I’m so glad you’re finally here, it says, but just so you know, I can’t promise you anything.

Next week, I’m writing a piece of tiny fiction. This weekend, I’m sending off this personal essay. Something that, until a few days ago, I held exceedingly high expectations for. I wanted it to say everything without it being too much, and to briefly touch on the personal, before taking the narrative outside of this rainy day, and into something more expansive and interesting (and more and more).

At times, I can be too eager to prove a point. To seek out validation for a specific experience, or for myself—I want everyone to agree so that I can give it a stamp of approval before moving onto the next thing. But when going down that route, rarely do I feel satisfied after hitting send, because hitting send doesn’t always mean you’ve reached the conclusion, especially when you consider how you’d conclude something that was never meant to reach a full stop. When it was just mean’t to be a thought that you chose to follow for a little while, observing and capturing aspects of it, but never attempting to make sense of it as a whole.

The cats are now back inside after a brief session in the rain. One sits atop the couch, and the other one is lounging in the corner, licking his mucky paws, while the heavy raindrops continue to patter against the roof; I type and they prepare for their nap and the moss dangles from the thin branches of the tree just outside the window. The day, once again, folding into itself.

I don’t want to always be in such a hurry to fix and fix and mend and try to make it all better, when I am not even sure what better is. When I’m only just beginning to make note of what works for me and what doesn’t and that maybe there can be some comfort in knowing that I’ll always be starting from here. From the stillness that sits in between it all.

With love,
Chloe

EPILOGUE

At the end of last year, I knew I wanted to reestablish my relationship with writing, challenge myself to become a better and more confident writer, make connections that support, uplift, and inspire, and leave plenty of room for changing my mind or trying something completely different to what I was doing before.

And I knew that at some point I wanted to turn on paid subscriptions, but at the time, I had no idea how I wanted them to take shape. But, as I wrote more and shared more and wanted to spend more and more time here, I thought yes, I like the way this feels, and I would like to make paid subscriptions an option. As way for you to further engage with and support the efforts behind this publication.

So, as of today, paid subscriptions have been turned on. I’ll include a brief overview of how I’ve decided to break these offerings down (this information will also live within my about page).

• $0/monthly—two personal essays and one piece of tiny fiction every month

• $5/monthly—two personal essays, one piece of tiny fiction, and one thought digest every month (plus the occasional spontaneous project)

• $60/annually—everything that’s part of $5/monthly, just a year upfront

• $111/founding—all of the above, and my endless gratitude :)

For everything else…

Alongside writing for freshly squeezed, I also teach workshops and create Notion templates (specifically for those that have busy, anxious, creative minds), and when you subscribe to this newsletter, you’ll gain access to the Notion template that I use to organize all of my creative projects and ideas.

Website ~ chloealmeda.com
All Notion Offerings ~ chloealmeda.com/offerings
Workshops ~ chloealmeda.com/workshops
About ~ chloealmeda.substack.com/about