Has warmth waited on your doorstep to greet you yet? The songbirds are slowly returning. Can you hear them where you are?
Red-winged blackbirds, larks, and chickadees. A jay’s flash of bright blue pierces through the overcast. They’ve been so excited to see you; singing your name back and forth from the treetops. There you are, I’ve missed you. Have you cut your hair? I was hoping I’d see you again. Boughs of feathers; the cardinals calling cheer, cheer, cheer. On my morning walks, a curtain of song stitches overhead.
I want to hold your hands in mine. It’s here, it’s coming. We’re making it through.
The winter, in its highs and lows, cursing broken furnaces and reveling in that quiet glow of white snowbanks in the dead of night, creaks to a close and brings a flood of grief with it. For all of its pastel palettes and floral scents, nothing about spring has been gentle either.
My anxiety crescendos and I slink away from social plans. Work hits several shaky potholes, I’m not sure where I’ll live next, a book release twists my nervous system, and when my dog falls ill, the two of us skimp on sleep for several weeks. “This feels like a clear example of, ‘when it rains, it pours.’” My therapist notes. Sure, but what else can you do but clutch an umbrella?
Purple light leaks through the kitchen window by 6PM. The air smells like waking soil. Something in my chest loosens, then hesitates. Spring, I’ve realized once again, is about being brave.
In this long stretch of night, where have you found a safe place? You don’t need to take me there, just tell me the way it’s carried you. A soft patch of earth by the pond promises a tree to lean your head against, fresh air to cool your lungs; ducks and swans and geese who don’t know about renewing tabs on your car or tax deadlines.
A dark spot under the covers offers quiet; a thick fabric between you and the world, maybe the same hiding spot for a sleeping pet cat where you can rest together.
A table at the coffee shop gives you something to treat yourself with; reminds you there’s a world that goes on, that kids will still find something to laugh about, that chocolate croissants remain delicious.
I sit down in the shower, curl my knees into my chest, notice my creativity swirl and bloom, but feel exhausted by the time I make it to an empty page. I’m eager to talk about things sucking less; to play tag with a new idea out in an open field. I beat Pokemon Let’s Go Pikachu. I hand-stitch cloth napkins and paint lava lamp ghosts with bright oranges and yellows. I will wait and wait and wait, feeling overwhelmed, but keeping hope grit between my teeth.
Maybe winter feels difficult because it’s hard to picture my place in it. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. (I have a sour feeling all my winter/spring writing is quickly becoming survival songs, and truthfully, maybe I just need to accept that.) But it’s as if those last few cold nights hold a stronger gravity than the rest of the year. The trees are without their waving welcome. The snowbanks shrug in their sloping indifference. Nothing outside wants to be touched. The rabbits go hiding. The squirrels, the deer rush by as if not wanting to be seen.
And when I can’t go roll around in the dirt or sleep under the quiet chirp of stars or throw my naked body into chilled lake waves or hike until my breath thins in the pink happy of my lungs, all my thinking folds in on itself; a saucy heap of nightmare lasagna. I can’t post another newsletter until I do a total art overhaul and maybe change the title name. If I take a break from writing, I’ll completely fall off. Have I fallen off already? How can I want new friends, yet feel nauseous whenever it’s my turn to text back? Why can’t I seem to get enough sleep or time alone?
Yes, that final lap until spring may be killing my hamstrings, but I’m handing off plenty of blame to the winter when rushing myself out of burnout doesn’t seem to be the answer either.
My friend, I am writing to you again with one problem and finding its shape changes, its weight gets lighter once put to paper. When it rains, it pours, but you don’t hope standing out in puddles will keep you dry. I promise one of these days, the lesson will stick.
I cannot squeegee off the overcast or coax buds back onto the trees, but I’m dedicating this Saturday to catching up on sleep. My dog is finally feeling better. If sewing a basket full of cloth napkins and writing in between is the pace for a while, so be it. Daffodil buds stick a green tongue out from the garden bed and a giddiness races through me. The warmest night this week, I slept with a window cracked open, smelling the morning rainclouds before the sidewalks ever tasted a drop.
Soon, bare feet racing in the sand. Soon, a checklist with fewer to-do’s, but only after my heartbeat returns to a relaxed tempo. Soon, clothes that hug closer to my body, daring to flirt a little skin. Whistling back to the birds how much I missed them too. Soon, a sky that welcomes me back under it.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
sewing machine fund (Venmo): schuylerpeck
If you’re interested in supporting my writing or reading more:
book link 1: The Ghosts’ Share of Rent (now available!!)
book link 2: You Look Like Hell
book link 3: To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart
instagram: hiitssky
I remember reading your poetry years ago on instagram. So happy to see you‘re now also in the Substack space :)
“I sit down in the shower, curl my knees into my chest, notice my creativity swirl and bloom, but feel exhausted by the time I make it to an empty page.” I really felt this. It’s very much been a when it rains it pours kind of season for me too. Your letters always feel so precious, so I’m glad amidst it all you were able to share one with us 🫶🏽