february 1st

clinging to time's coattails | calendar letter #4

sweet one,

it seems too early, still too gray to smell flowers—but I think the perfume is just budding under the rain. it won’t be long now.

this year has a walk of its own—already into the second month and I haven’t begun thinking about how I’d like to spend it. I feel, for the moment, I’m hanging onto its coattails so as to not be left behind one month later than everyone else. what are you hoping for?

after a blissful burst of new year, my spirits have dipped a bit. a look out the window, you can almost see uncertainty hovering over the city like a somber fog. open the door a crack, and you’ll hear neighborhoods of held breath. my unfailing optimism tells me this won’t last forever, but it is no comfort for how long it feels right now. 

a new habit of writing in the dark. the pressurized weight of hours ticking by. my body feels so sea creature. it might explain why the only place I feel better is at the bottom of a hot shower. when my fingers refuse to unprune, I’ll remember Mary Oliver’s advice—letting the cave-dwelling sea creature of my body love what it loves. I want to log out of my thinking; throw a curtain over every mirror in the house, and plead with my stress to disperse its deluge. allow some calm surf in between. a patch of breathing room; tall, summer-scented grass. so green, I want my hands to come away stained. meet me there?

I am thinking of:

• things I want to do are cluttering up like dishes in the sink. how can I save this poem. finish a craft for my valentine. find a car that could carry me across the country. before I do, take said car and drive up the coast with my dog. all the windows down, both our noses tasting the breeze.

• the old cheap houses account I keep stalking. brick fireplace and oak floors. as if one day, I could save a gorgeous ruin. as if one day, I could own a house.

• not scolding myself for sleeping in. 

I am craving:

• running my brain through the dishwasher.

• ironing out the creases in my nervous system.

• grilled cheese and tomato soup.

I am listening to:

• sink water crackle over the thirsty plant’s soil.

• the candle burn down to its softest library voice.

I don’t want to leave you with a bouquet of my stress, but I don’t want to tie a bow of platitudes around it either. what I might say, then, is I know that you and I make excellent company while watching for the sky to clear. I’m grateful for an assortment of teas to offer you. you are the fastest at finding puzzle corner pieces. we can pass the time without wringing our hands. we can pause as often as we want for one long breath.

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
sea creature fund (venmo): schuylerpeck