onward, just a little further (you’re doing great)

knowing relief is around the corner | love letter #8

my dear friend,

have I survived the dust of your mailbox? if you’ve found me here, beside student loan reminders and a coupon for 3% off a body spray, I thank you. I’m refraining from apologizing for the quiet between us and instead just want to express my gratitude for you keeping me around. <3 

during my absence, I’ve been treading water through quite the tidal wave: my long-haul move to Michigan and subsequent 5-day road trip across the country, learning that my Papa Paul had fallen ill, unloading a uHaul and then setting off to help my boyfriend move up to southern Michigan from Nashville, a quick trip to Grand Rapids, my Papa Paul’s death, and the release (and launch party) of my book, You Look Like Hell. (as a dark wink from the universe, that title surely takes on new meaning after these last few weeks than it did when I first thought of it.)

suffice it to say, what I imagined would be, undoubtedly, a strenuous trek toward ultimate relief spiraled into a chapter of all-consuming chaos. thankfully, the image of what I set out after, a vague silhouette of relief, has hovered above the water with me. birdsong in the morning. warm summer rain on the sidewalk. unscrewing stress from my shoulders. 

that relief and joy will stay around. I can take my time getting there. it’ll wait for me. like becoming lost in the woods and identifying familiar foliage, I know it grows here. it won’t take long to spot. a perfumed wall of honeysuckle down the street. dappled glow of morning on the grass. a white crane and its harp-curved neck. the start of summer, the empty calendar brimming with possibility. for now, my body has taken the shape of a tired schooner. are you set adrift on the water, too? waiting patiently, fingers crossed and aching? another difficult headline. a skyline choked with smoke. windless sails. a dizzy helm. I make dinner and hear my heart’s wooden floorboards creak. 

oh, sweet vessel, onward just a little further.

if you have a moment to yourself today, take it. with one hand resting on your stomach and the other held softly to your chest, mind the sound of your slow breath. a strong wind in the sails of your lungs. know you have been doing the best that you can. it is not an easy thing to keep your gaze hopeful when, right now, the scene is nothing but thunderheads. whisper to your body, “gentle vessel, float onward a little further.” 

good things are coming. breathe with me again. that relief, that joy, just right around the corner. have I mentioned lately that it’s what you deserve? rest not earned through grit or perseverance, but recovering from time spent away from it; a place where you have always belonged. releasing the grip of our white knuckles. feeling our feet safely reach solid ground.

another day closer. <3

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
rainy day fund (venmo): schuylerpeck