On this day, two years ago, we’d made our way to Vík, Iceland.
A night later, we’d see the Northern Lights for the first time.
On this day, last year, we sat at home, wrapping our minds around quarantine and social distancing, with barely an inkling of just how much the world was about to change.
Today, I’ve spent the day plugging away on my laptop, and so has Graham. He’s outside now, trimming back a hazelnut bush in our front yard. In his pajamas. And I’m still on my laptop. Also in my pajamas. No itchy business casual attire for me, here in my house with only my cat to critique my lack of style.
I wonder where we would be right now if not for the pandemic. I’m sure I’m not alone. And I’m not impatient. Safety and health are never far from my mind, and I will wait this thing out in my house in my pajamas for as long as it takes. I’m grateful that we’ve not gotten sick, that our families are safe and healthy, that we have money coming in and a comfortable place to live and pretty much all of the creature comforts anyone could ask for. I am so grateful, in fact, that I sometimes feel overwhelmed and undeserving. How lucky we are. I never forget.
But I do sometimes find my mind wandering. To places we’ve been. To places we’ll go. Right now, I’ve mind-traveled to Japan, where I’m enjoying a big bowl of miso ramen with corn and butter on the island of Hokkaido.
One day, we’ll get there for real. For now, though, pajamas and home and the familiar clack of my laptop keyboard it is. And that’s okay.
I spent most of yesterday staring at my computer screen, absolutely distracted by the gorgeous weather outside. Sunshine, a light breeze, warm air – the kind of gentle reawakening you expect after a long winter.
I try to be pretty disciplined in my work day. It’s crucial to me, actually, since I work for myself, that I set deadlines and stick to them, that I schedule my time and take that schedule seriously, and that I hold myself accountable to getting tasks done. Otherwise, I WILL just read books, take naps, daydream, and spend time with friends. (All good things, to be clear. But the writing still has to get done.)
Yesterday, though, I just had to get outside and play. An impromptu visit from a friend got me out of my pajamas and into the outside, and I’m not mad about it.
We walked around the back garden for a bit as the sun was just starting to set behind the willow tree.
Everywhere, there are little signs of spring.
It’s exhilarating to see the earth coming alive again.
And just as we were about to head out for a quick drink and a bite to eat (outdoors, of course), we spotted it:
This lovely little crocus is the first flower to bloom in our yard this season. More will follow, but I’m glad we happened upon this little beauty leading the way for them.
I love winter and snow, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not excited for spring.
I carry it with me, this bag of bones, of broken down building blocks. These I have gathered, these moldering bits of a million little memories, times and places and people, thousands over the course of a life, tucked away for safekeeping. It drags behind me, clatters and clacks in a diabolical cacophony. Always I carry this calcified collection, but only a few can see, and those few know the weight of it themselves. They carry their own bones in sacks, dangling from weary hands. Why is not the question. It is when. When to open it? And which. Which to choose? And how. How to fit that one fragile bit into the puzzle just so. Oh yes, the burden is heavy, and every day it grows. But for those who carry the bags, curate the bones and create new skeletons, there is no greater treasure.
I suppose the poem I posted last week for Women’s History Month would have been perfect for today, International Women’s Day. And honestly, I don’t really have much to add.
But I’ll say this:
I am grateful for the brave, strong, smart, powerful women who’ve made this world a better place for me and all of the women who will come after me.
In my life, I am thankful to be surrounded by women who build me up, who support me, who laugh and cry with me, who make my every day just a little brighter.
I am proud of them, and so, so happy to live in their light, in their radiance, in their love.
If they never change THE world (and they’re brilliant, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they did), I want them to know that they’ve changed MY world.
My friends, you incredible women, know that I love you, always, always, always.
And to the women out there reading this:
You are strong, brave, smart, creative, powerful, capable, and worthy. You have the right to take up space. You deserve love, kindness, respect, and a seat at every table. You are enough. You are fundamental. The world is more whole because you are in it. Speak, stand, create change, move mountains, shine. Make your dreams real. I am with you, for you, and forever cheering you on.
To you, the women, the warriors and weavers and witches and wanderers, the brave and bold who came before, I promise this:
My light will magnify your light. I will shine because you reached for the sky and grabbed the sun and moon and stars to fight the darkness.
Your words, your courage, your heart, your home – the one you made with your own hands – will live on in me.
I will stand and speak. My voice will carry as yours, over the mountains you climbed, across the sands of time and the pillars and platforms you built. I won’t make myself small just to fit into the corners of a world made and sustained by mothers.
I cradle your wisdom in my soul because you carved a place for it. I will keep that place sacred and whole. I will nurture the fire you lit and pass the eternal torch.
Leonine you are, we say, but today, only light – winds, clouds, gray, mild sunshine, and a breezy chill in the air. Perhaps you’re saving energy, waiting for better prey – a colder, wetter, wilder moment, a time to truly roar, to give a little more of your royal self. You’ll pounce then, claws and jaws and teeth and trouble, and surprise us all.
The two of us sat together on top of a giant round hay bale, the largest in the field this year, staring out at the stars. In the chill of a mid-February night and the light of the full Snow Moon, we could see our breath hanging in the air in front of us.
“The dark. The quiet. The…nothing. There’s just nothing to do,” he said.
“I’m used to it, I guess,” I answered.
“I will never get used to it,” he said.
“It’s not that bad. I think you’re blowing things out of proportion.”
“No. You just don’t know the difference.”
“That’s mean,” I said.
“You guys don’t even have a movie theater.”
He’d moved at the beginning of the school year. His parents had dragged him halfway across the country when his dad took a new job, all the way from sunny, funky Austin to the lonely, scrappy mountains of Russell County. We’d met on the first day of school, but only because we had to.
“I’m supposed to give you a tour,” I’d explained, my backpack slung over one shoulder. “It won’t take long.”
“Thanks,” he’d said. “I kind of figured.”
We’d walked up and down the three main hallways and the side wings of the red brick block of a high school. I’d asked about his classes, invited him to sit with me and my friends at lunch. I’d offered to meet him after school and show him around town, or, at least, what little town there was to show. He’d said yes.
It had been almost a half a year since then.
“It’ll start to get warm soon,” I said. “The redbuds are really pretty in spring.”
“Those are trees, right?”
“Yes. The next town over has a festival when they start to bloom. We should go.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” I said back. I squeezed his hand.
I’d introduced him to the hay bales on the winter solstice. He’d spent the entire Christmas season lamenting the chintzy 1970s decorations sprinkled along Main Street.
“They’re sort of charming,” I’d said. “Like looking into another time.”
“I spent last Christmas in Germany,” he’d said. “I wish you could see the Christmas markets there.”
“Maybe someday,” I’d answered. “Why aren’t you traveling this year?”
“My dad’s too busy.”
“Come to my house tonight,” I’d offered. “My mom’s making steaks, and I’ve got a surprise for you after.”
I don’t know what sort of surprise he’d expected, but he didn’t seem impressed by the rolling pasture and enormous hay bales.
I’d always walked out to the fields on cold, clear nights. I liked the silence, the peace. And in the winter, I loved the brightness of the stars against the dark, empty landscape. I’d thought maybe he would, too. I didn’t know much about what it was like living in a big city, but I knew it never got dark enough to see the stars.
“This is my own personal light show,” I’d told him. “I wouldn’t bring just anybody out here to see it.”
He’d laughed, and said, “So you think I’m special?”
We’d kissed then, for the first time. “I like you,” I’d told him. “You’re a jerk, but I think you’re pretty cool.”
“I like you, too,” he’d said.
I wanted that night to live in my memory, always.
“I like you,” I told him now. “And I like this.”
“I like you,” he said, from somewhere far away. “It always looks the same out here.”
“Not at all! The constellations are changing all the time.” I pointed up, showed him Orion and the Big Dipper. “Some nights,” I added, “you can see the milky way.” Did he truly not notice? “Once, I saw the Northern Lights. They almost never come this far south.”
“I saw them when I went camping in Alaska.”
“I’ve never been to Alaska.”
“You’ve never been anywhere.”
“I’ve been to Nashville. And to Myrtle Beach.”
He harrumphed, released my hand, and hopped down.
“I’m going home,” he said. “It’s cold and I’m bored.”
“Well, excuse me. Sorry I’m not interesting enough for you.” I took a deep breath, let it out. “You’re being a snob.”
He turned around and looked up at me. “Don’t be like that,” he said.
It usually ended this way. Him, walking away from me to go play whatever latest video game he got online, or to video chat with his friends back in Texas, or to tinker with his computer. Me, on the verge of tears, clenching my jaw to keep from yelling at him, feeling like a dumb small-town hick.
“I’m not being like anything,” I said. “I just wanted to share this with you.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go home, okay?” He started to walk down the hill.
Strictly speaking, the farmer next door didn’t like having trespassers on his land, but because he knew me, he usually let it slide. Our two families had been sharing this little valley for five generations. He wouldn’t start trouble over two stupid kids sitting around on top of hay bales in the dark.
“I thought it might make things better,” I said. “I mean, for you.”
“What?”
“I thought you might feel better, if you could see what makes this place special.” I hopped down and walked over to him. I caught his hand again, held it up between us in both of mine. “I know it’s not big or loud or anything, but this is something you can only do out in the country. There’s nowhere else in the world quite like this.”
“You’re hopeless,” he said, but he pulled me in and kissed me quick on the lips. “Someday you’ll get out of here, and you’ll understand why I hate it.”
“This is my home,” I told him. “It doesn’t matter where I go. I’ll always be from here.”
“Wait and see,” he said. “You’re too good for this place.”
He turned and walked away. From the bottom of the hill, he called up to me, “Are you coming?”
“No,” I answered. “I’ll stay.”
“Well, see you tomorrow, then.”
I stood right where he left me, planted in that one spot. I looked out ahead at the dark expanse of field and pasture, and at the rolling mountains in the distance, illuminated by the silvery cast of the full moon.
************
Thank you for reading! This is the second of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2021 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Home.
Here’s January’s story, if you’d like to read it: The Roads
And if you want to join in the fun, here’s more information. I hope you do! But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here. 😊
The next story will be posted on Friday, March 26th.
I’d meant to have my short story for this month posted today, and, well, it’s just not quite finished. But it’s almost there! So, check back on Sunday. And in the meantime, here’s a cute picture of Annie in a Friday mood.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 