hard to know

It's hard to know how much to worry at the moment.
When I say everything is shit, I don't think it's hyperbole.
Sleep is a rare commodity. I spend hours awake each night with the 3 a.m. worries, wondering what will get us first? The climate? The pandemic? The evil-mongering baddies?

*
(I'm guessing the insomnia hits at 3 a.m. because I made a pact with myself never to look at the clock in the middle of the night).
But you know what I mean.
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Trying to take proper precautions and do more yoga and make more positive changes and spread a little humanity where I can. I thanked a guy out picking up litter today. Made conversation with the super talkative co-op clerk (he compared corgi butts to wool pants). Didn't rage at the guy bringing an obviously neurodivergent and yelling kid into the workspace.
*
The small things may be all we have right now, but they are something.

scribbles of my life

I've been organizing old journals and diaries, back to when I was a teenager.
Re-reading moments of tumult. Laughing at my own sass.
I don't know this person. In my mind, she is someone else.
Time to get reacquainted.

o hai

Been doing lots of fun things lately.
Lots to share and very soon.

soul sister

Of the dozens of books I read last year, "Educated," by Tara Westover has had the most profound impact on me. She writes of growing up homeschooled and uber-religious in rural America, with a paranoid, reckless father and mystical, enabling mother, amid violence and mindfuckery and enduring feelings of guilt and shame.
It could have been my life, minus the abusive sibling.
I had to read slowly, overcome at times with sadness or panic.
I bought it secondhand a few weeks ago and finally dug up my teen-aged journals.
Seeded in among the chirpy prayer requests and musings about My Future are kernels of truth I'd forgotten about.
Westover's work makes me see a way to write my own story.
More to come.