lately, I am okay.

Today I dozed until 6:30 before deciding to run. I finally slipped off my bunk because I reminded myself I did not want to run later in the afternoon. This desire to "get it over with" has driven most of my actions lately, which is a terrible way to approach anything but in moments of necessity, works. I felt anxious and tired before I began and it was one of my hardest runs. I'm wondering if you can call week three of twenty of half-marathon training a slump? Or a hump? Something to that effect. My body knows the rhythm now, I'm not the flailing, awkward, short of breath jogger I was two weeks ago today, but I'm also tired, sore, and my knees hurt. I collapsed into this continuous thought, you don't have to push yourself today, just get it done. Four miles felt much longer than three. I finished out of breath, discouraged, and convinced with a dull resignation of my worst time, only to find I had ran my fastest four miles. I feel like that's what life looks like for me right now.

I have a habit of making general statements without alluding to any actuality behind them. A professor of mine (how wicked is it to realize I have professors and can refer to them as such? I feel like a typical college student slash blogger whom I surely admired at fourteen years old) critiqued an essay of mine and said, it's beautiful but murky. Write something concrete, that's the general consensus I receive from all my professors - whether the paper is good, bad, or somewhere in between, there's always a familiar thread of, what is it you're trying to get at? I circle around things. For whatever reason, I have trouble being specific. Specificity is dangerous because it seems like a nail in the coffin. I hate loose ends but cannot seem to tie up any of my own.

This manifests in a very particular way of responding to the world: I find myself regularly fully convinced of the worst, in all aspects of my life - be it friendships, relationships (the two are separate, though both are up in the air for me), school, work, making things, etc and onwards - only to be reminded, surprised, or rebuked* that what I thought was x was really only y. That is, things were not as bad as they seem. Yet, what if. Damn the what if's.

Part of the difficulty for me in assuming that the world is not ending (again, a colloquialism used only as a variable) is I am afraid to believe something good exists when there is an equal possibility that this friendship could be ending, my paper might be horrific, I could have disappointed my boss, I didn't run a fast mile. Another difficulty, and this may be more of a tangent than anything, is that I often cannot reconcile my need for affirmation (as a way to receive love) with a ravenous fear of being left, and therefore demanding confirmation of the opposite. Perhaps I'll go into that later.

I finished my run, sweaty and out of breath (both good feelings post run), and walked back under deep sunlight. Already it feels like summer here and I'm living into this familiar rhythm of longer days in an unfamiliar-but-growing-known place. One example: I'm writing a blog post instead of writing an essay on Dante that I've been procrastinating. I have twenty or so articles up currently I want to read, not to mention the three books I've ordered in the last two weeks (in this order: philosophy, poetry, theology - this is where my mind goes lately). I went to class, though I wanted to skip to write aforementioned essay (which I still need to complete). I debated back and forth whether or not to bus to Fremont before Logic to study, but was startled by something and couldn't stand to sit in my dorm, so packed my bag to get off campus. I didn't study or write my essay (a familiar pattern). Rather, I had ginger thai coleslaw, two cups of black coffee, and a coconut chocolate chip scone, not to mention two hours to myself. Flying Apron does gluten free and vegan so well I think of converting each time I visit, and then I remember I have Kerrygold cheese and Ezekial bread in my fridge. Also, burgers.

I'm doing better at being alone, and by that I mean I am not lonely. This is a stretch, I am often, mostly, and usually lonely, but I'm able to be alone without being overwhelmed. In fact, I think I feel the least lonely when I am alone, and that's a complete reversal of how I felt all last year. Part of it is only because I'm surrendering to finitude in most expressions, and thus reaping a growing sense of peace. Come what may, and also, Take off your shoes, this is holy ground. This is a constant decision, or perhaps practice is a better word. For looking at fluidity as natural occurrence, I only need see my reflection in the mirror: physically, mentally, emotionally, I am not the same Hannah I was a year ago, what an inane but absolutely truthful statement. How can I demand others remain the same? How can I demand today looks exactly as it did a year ago? (Thank God it doesn't)

Another tangent: I think part of loving people well is bound up in this action, that we love them as they grow and expand, and do not grieve when they move on or change or become a different expression or manifestation or revelation of themselves. Revelation, because we are privileged to know and stay and care in new ways. Privileged, because it requires intention, open palms, courage. I'm learning this with my family especially as I am apart from them, and in immediacy, with friends this last year, who have shuffled and shifted in and out of my life. I am just beginning to understand, and by understand I mean put a hand to the full texture, of how deeply all relationships are gifts, to cherish, steward, and care for well - not demand, not necessitate, not expect (as if expectation was always incorrect - how many layers to everything!)

Isn't it strange that after a year away from blogging (whatever that means), I'm still tempted to end with something wise? I'm convinced that trying to be wise or poetic or profound is one of the stupidest things I can do, trying to be an expression of something rather than being the thing itself. Here is a picture of a garden I did not plant. Let's speak simply and honestly and eschew "trying" in all forms. "Stay away from anything / that obscures the place it is in. / There are no unsacred places; / there are only sacred places / and desecrated places." I'm going to go write that essay now.

*I believe it's good to have friends who speak gentle truths to you harshly. Harshness is needed after twenty reminders or affirmations are demanded, which is something I am guilty of but trying to move away from.

a boy you once loved.

Once there was a boy you liked who you never kissed or even held hands. Why? Because why. Because a myriad of rules and a million reasons not to and if you did, the impetuous to do it right. Lunch once, that was the most of it, though you drove together. He drove you. You had no license. For one reason, you prayed thanksgiving. It took five minutes to get from your house to Church, and there was a specific structure for each ride. The first two minutes, a gradual relearning of the others voice, of hearing words directed only to you. By minute three, someone would laugh and that would loosen your insides. You would uncurl your hands. The last two minutes you prayed that you could spend a lifetime making him laugh. You hoped for different things then. You were a smaller soul, no, not better, not worse, just not fully grown.

Once, when your Church was a Church and your family a family, he drove you and your sister to a movie at midnight. The Hobbit. You remember this watching the movie at your grandma's house with your sister and the man who will become your uncle. These details matter. Back to that night. He carpooled with four other boys, who crammed in the backseat with your sister. She flushed and stayed quiet. You felt a sliver of sharpness for her but would not give up your seat beside the boy. One boy in the back you disliked. He disliked you. It didn't matter. They left you waiting in line for the movie while they went out and bought snacks. Several boys, not men, made a motion to join you and your sister, but you barred your arms like your space was a door only you could open. They left, the boys came back. Two more boys, your friends, boys you used to sing with and dream simple dreams with, came, and with them, your insides unloosened all the way. The boys you didn't know went into one theater, the three boys and another you loved like brothers, though you didn't know it then, went into another with you and your sister. She was quiet then, not shy, but shut away.

You sat by the three boys who you once loved, yes, all three of them, but the one who drove you the one whose mouth you still watched and eyes you glanced under hoping he carried you in them. Maybe he will make a move, your sister said. You laughed it off and it was like popcorn, salty and smooth and gone with only the taste behind, but still, you hoped. The theater was full and humming like a hive. You sat on the right side, in a curved row. You sat between two boys, almost men, not quite, as they talked to you, and what a glorious day to be alive. To be surrounded by these people you loved and everything was simple and everything kind, even if you did not know it then. There was much you did not know, and they were deeper things than holding hands. The movie began and you tilted your heads toward him and inched your hand on the arm rest and once, the faintest heat of his skin brushed yours. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Afterwards, you said goodbye. Sometimes you hugged the boys you loved like brothers, but not tonight. The boy you once loved and knew as well as your own family drove the three boys you did not know and the one you did not like, home. Then he drove you and your sister and his brother back. Your sister and his brother sat in the back. You sat in the front beside him and held the taste of the evening in your mouth, refusing to swallow. You would suck on the sweetness of this evening for weeks. Your tongue still knows the texture. It was three in the morning and the freeways were silent and smooth and sloping forever into the distance into a deep blackness like a road that could go on without end and the only way to find out was to drive. The streetlights were silver. The lines were slivers. You laughed and called it eerie and he laughed back, more an answer. This wasn't a time of questions, though you did not know it then.

Thank you, you said, when he dropped you off to a silent house with the porch light still on. I love you, you wanted to say and never did. He waved and drove off. You shut the door. You did not sleep until near dawn. And why. The boy you once loved grew into a man and you a woman and with only the memories of each others names printed like ticket stubs and theaters you cannot enter together anymore. You did not know it then.

What I will do the rest of the summer.

I will read through the entire archives of The New Yorker. Or at least try. Devour whole entire pages of fiction and poetry and prose and truth. I will try to hear their voices without adding my own. I will not go hungry.

I will eat fresh peaches once a week. Soft ones. Hard ones. Sweet ones with the juices running on your arms brown from the sun. My arms are not brown. I do not tan. I am pale, freckled on my face if I'm lucky. I will eat peaches, even if they have no taste.

I will go swimming again. I will wear my black bikini. I will shriek with something called confidence when I go under the cold clearness of the waves. I will not shrink. Maybe a little. I will open my eyes underwater and pray for a fish to nibble my toes and when it does with its mouth sucking and small like sand, I will be still.

I will walk to a dairy queen and get a large icecream cone, just plain vanilla, and eat it outside. Even if there are mosquitoes. In my mind, the night is blue soot and tastes like smoke. There are red benches in front of our local icecream shop. I sat on them when I was little. I will sit again.

I will wake up in time to catch the sun. This is a difficult process. Too early and the sky is like silt in your eyes. Too late and you miss the smudging. I will wrap myself in a blanket and sit on the front stoop and see the sun burn the sky open if I time it right.

I will eat alone in a nice restaurant all by myself. I will wear my little black dress, my favorite one. Maybe fancy underwear. I will ask for a table on the roof, overlooking the street with the well-dressed people hurrying towards their definition of home. There will be yellow lights strung on vines as the evening dims. I will order sparkling water and drink it like wine. Eat oily pasta slowly, tear into soft crusted bread. Treat myself to dessert. Love myself and let it look like nurturing.

I will spend all day reading books in my favorite coffee shop. Or visit four cafes and order something different at each. A book each building. Here a cappuccino with Homekeeping. The table by the window, a cold press, The Maytrees. So it goes. The last I will stay in the corner chair until closing.

I will go berry picking and bring nothing home besides the stains on my fingers. I will not practice patience. I will reach until thorns remind impermanence. Blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries. In my grandpa's backyard is a boysenberry tree. I will search the patch until I can name by memory.