thought digest №1: unresolved
in those quiet moments when the world has gone still (too still) and you begin to question everything
These digests are, and will continue to be, a collection of unresolved thoughts, broken-off ideas, gentle moments or reminders, lessons I’m continuing to learn, and anything else that might be worth noting between now and then. Nothing fully formed. No tidy bows or complete endings. Just a place to begin.
I’ll put emphasis on the unresolved, since doing anything in the short-form, has always been somewhat of a challenge, but also something I’m intrigued by and would like to feel more comfortable operating within. Ultimately, I see it as a way to process and reflect without holding on too tightly (which seems to be a theme as of late).
1. He trots alongside me while the early morning sun dusts my eyelashes with what looks like stardust, and when he stops to sniff something, I take a mental picture so I can remember how close the sun felt and how I would very much like to do this more often (but maybe with all three of us). Anyways, I see it as an invitation to walk a little further and stay a little longer—so we do.
2. Curling myself up in front of the heater in between activities, with my book in my hands and my tea right beside me. In about 5-minutes, I’ll get too warm, or the heater will turn off, and I’ll finish whatever paragraph I was reading before going back to my desk (reminding myself that I never used to take breaks. Breaks are helpful).
3. I’m pulling up to my first ever in-person therapy appointment. After many dead-ends, a good friend recommended her just before covid, so up until now, I’ve been seeing her weekly (or twice monthly), through a computer screen. She has always made me feel comfortable and safe, and I didn’t ever think to ask if I could see her in-person, but after some new therapy methods were brought up, she asked if I would like to try coming in for them. I didn’t hesitate then because I didn’t think it would feel any different, but now that I’m here waiting in my car, I’m nervous. Really nervous. Nervous about her seeing me and noticing the weird things I do with my hands when I talk or how eye contact is hard sometimes and if she’ll notice that I like to steer the conversation away from uncomfortable things.
I’m glad I went, and maybe she does notice more things about me (and maybe that’s a good thing). I’d like to try it again because she had ginger tea and I felt safe on her couch and I felt safe to be myself. I was also able to notice my progress more—it feels new and weird and good.
4. More often than not, when I sit down in my car, I think: how amazing is it that I even have a car? That I can continue to pay for it? I wonder if I’ll ever get over the newness of it all (I hope not). And how amazing is it that I can take myself to the bookstore to pick up the novel that I put in an order for last November, back when everything felt different and I had know idea where I’d be headed now? And to think that maybe I’m beginning to feel ok with not ever knowing.
5. The first signs of tulips are emerging from the frosty earth to remind us of beginning something new, or tending to something that’s already there, or letting something go and realizing that it’s ok to not hold on so tightly. To not always strive for excellence, but rather, something simple: like you pausing to admire your hard work before slowly making your way to the next thing.
6. Reading before bed when the lights are warm and low and your eyes are soft against the pages of your book and you flip ahead to see how far you think you might be able to make it before you fall asleep. That (rare) moment: when sleep comes to you more easily and you aren’t worried about the things you were worried about earlier, and tomorrow will be tomorrow but for now you’re just going to turn over and pull the covers up to your chin, the coolness of the pillow against your cheek being the last thing you remember before falling asleep.
7. Sometimes, I find myself getting up in the middle of the night to check his heartbeat, relief flooding over me as I pause to pet his soft fur and listen to his gentle breathing. And while I know that there is no way to move through this stage without grief, there is some comfort in knowing that all he knows is how we care for him and who his favorite people are. Of our walks and his food and his blue toy that’s like a puzzle, and how I’ll inevitably have to help him retrieve the treat from inside the toy, his face bending over the project, waiting. Ever hopeful. Of how he’ll always be the dog, our dog.
How I can know all of this and try and try but will sometimes fail to remember that after he dies, we’ll have to find a way to be ok. And how there is the inevitability that at some point, we’ll be asked to move along without him, and then I’ll remember that so much of the joy we’ll continue to find, will likely be because of him and all the ways that he has taught us to be more present with each other, and more patient with ourselves.
8. I think about our dog a lot (even in my sleep, as noted above). He’s a difficult dog to own. He’s very protective (amongst many other things), and even though I wish my friends could see how goofy and loving he can be, most of them have never met him. I don’t really know how that makes me feel, mostly that I want everyone to be comfortable and safe and taken care of, including him, and I guess because of that, we choose to keep his life mostly separate.
Maybe I’ll learn to trust that sometimes it’s less about explaining and explaining and trying to fit all the pieces together, and more about saying: this is a complicated situation and here’s what we’re comfortable with right now, then allowing others to make up their own mind (instead of reading their facial expressions for any sign of discomfort, all while silently screaming abort! abort!).
9. Sitting on the front porch during those first few hours of the day when the sun is warming your face and your legs and your toes. Sometimes, you’ll bring your computer with you so you can work or write, or your book so you can read. But today it’s nothing because the bird activity and the sound of the wind through the trees soothes your anxious thoughts. The thoughts that have been relentlessly looping and looping. The thoughts that are now using this 5-minute break to do something else entirely. I lean back a little further and close my eyes, thinking of nothing but this moment.
10. For now, my plan is to: allow myself to feel whatever emotion I’m feeling (a not-so-novel idea, but difficult nonetheless), then stepping back slowly slowly so it begins to lose interest in my reactions, and loosens its grip. Coming to the temporary conclusion that: the more power I give it (through my consistent and lasting anger or frustration toward it), will only make it want to hold on tighter, or something like that.
Sometimes, the bettering of myself feels like some never-ending project, consisting primarily of cryptic pass or fail exams. And sometimes, the exams are replaced by my favorite book and a lovely picnic, and I decide that instead of enjoying myself, I’ll question and critique everything until I get to the bottom of this oncoming feeling of happiness. To counter: the progress I have seen, especially within these past few years, gives me reason enough to keep at it. And to keep reminding myself that the end goal can be a combination of many things, all of which I can forever be changing my mind on.
11. I’m sitting in one of the chairs (again) on the front porch. They’re new and the wood shines in the sun and the deep blue cushion is soft as I lean back and close my eyes. It’s the moment after the moment I was overthinking everything, but now it seems distant and irrelevant because I know that I’ll get done whatever I need to get done, and that if I don’t, I’ll still probably be ok. But for now, I’m waiting for the small meow to come from across the yard, as one of the (many) friendly neighborhood cats, comes to rub up against my fingertips as my arm hangs off the side of the chair and my eyes are still closed and the smell coming off of the ground is something like spring.
12. Every month I receive a letter from Rora Blue. I know which one it is from the shape of the envelope. I’m not the only one who gets them, and I know she writes each one by hand and you wouldn’t believe how effortlessly the handwriting moves across the page and how somehow she always knows exactly what to say. I’m in awe, and I get the feeling that my younger self would be pleased that I’m part of this exchange. This way of staying in touch.
A few summers ago, I had a picnic with Rora. And a few winters before that, she spoke at an event I put on. We don’t text very much, but I like to think that we don’t need to, and not because of the letters, but because it’s just one of those things where I can go ok, we haven’t talked in awhile, but maybe she’d like to meet up this coming summer? And maybe she’ll say yes. Or maybe not. Either way, it doesn’t seem to change anything.
13. For Christmas, my friend gave me a stamp that tells you which books are a part of my library. When I arrived back home in the new year, one of the first things I did was stamp all of my books, officially declaring them a member of our home. And whenever I am gifted a new book, or purchase one for myself, I am always eager to grab my ink pad and my stamp and some tea, sitting down by candlelight so I can make something of a ritual out of it.
14. Side by side we walked, Kourtney sharing something about the annoyances of having to be on birth control (a conversation prompted by my lack of period), and me eagerly nodding in agreement. It seems impossible to fit my friend Kourtney into this small space that I’ve carved out for this walk-retelling, and so I won’t—instead, I’ll make plans to carve out a much bigger space. But for the purpose of this moment, we’ll begin here where our steps are in sync and our arms are tucked deep into our pockets, bodies pressing against the wind and faces turning toward the sun. At this point in time, we’ve done much of our adult lives together (in fact, I just paused to text her a happy 8-year anniversary!).
As we walk, we talk about the friendships that we have found to be most challenging, and the ones, for one reason or another, we choose to hold onto. And how we haven’t always felt like we’ve known how to fit in or to be a good friend. It’s easy to talk about these things since I know she understands, but the feeling of it continues to confuse and frustrate me.
I want to be better but I also don’t want to strive for excellence (keeping to a theme, I see). I want to recognize when a friendship no longer feels good. When I don’t know what will happen next and to say ok to the not-knowing. To go look, look at the friendships you have in your life right now. No, not the ones that make you feel like you need to be something different, but the ones that you tend to because it feels right. The ones that nudge you closer and closer to the person you want to be, without ever making you feel unworthy or less than.
We’re now making our way back, wind in our faces, ears being blasted by the cold. With Kourtney, I don’t feel like I’m holding myself back or acting in a performance of what I think I should be in order to be loved, and so on. We can just talk and talk and have no beginning or end. Just one never-ending conversation where we’re a bunch of thoughts and ideas and insecurities and joys that don’t yet make sense, but they feel safe and like themselves, and that’s all that I need to exist between us as our cars come into view and we say see you soon (knowing we always will).
15. Yes yes, I’m learning to trust myself. It’s something I think about daily. Something I chip away at. Something I like to try and keep free of expectations and lofty goals. And even though some days I wish I were further along, I know I’m making progress and I know I’ll continue to make progress. Especially in those quiet moments when the world has gone still (too still) and you begin to question everything.
EPILOGUE
Moving forward, the idea is to have these thought digests be part of the paid subscription (which will be turned on come March 24), while the twice-monthly personal essay, and once-monthly tiny fiction, will continue to be available for all subscribers—but more on that next time.
For now, I really hope you enjoyed today’s digest, and I’ll be sure to let you know how the next one goes. I haven’t decided how often I’ll send them out—I really like the idea of it being a weekly thing, but I’ll first have to see what I am able to collect and put together within that timeframe, and without too much overthinking or holding of impossible expectations.
Thank you for reading. I am so grateful that you’re here.
xx Chloe
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love you and the unresolved thoughts you share here. THANK YOU.