This afternoon, after finishing my work, I left the house to carry out a small errand, mostly so I could have that lovely feeling of returning, a little chilled, to a warm house, where I could proceed to have a coffee and wrap myself around a book, and think with a contented sigh, I really earned this, didn’t I? 

(Oct. 23)

I’m not sure what to write about today. Maybe something about the dream pair of boots that arrived today, finally in the right size after three tries (yeah, yeah, I know, it’s terrible for the environment), or about having an elusively good hair day, or about the big black wool turtleneck that I’ve worn three times this week as fall quickly ends, or perhaps spending the day cozy inside having a work date while smoke and ash hung so shockingly thick in the sky that dusk arrived at 2pm—or how about this: at the end of the day receiving a text from my dear friend who’d just delivered her baby girl, strength and tiredness and elation shining in her new mama eyes. Her baby has the most perfect round nose, and I thought, What would it be like to have a tiny cherub like that?

(Oct. 22)

There—that calm of sifting spices into matching jars, cleanly labeled, creating order where there once was plastic-bagged-chaos. On the phone, my sister, Are you busy right now? Do you want to talk? And then, two hours later, I’m sorry for taking up so much of your night, but what she doesn’t realize is that I’d rather talk to her than do most anything else. The people I am closest to are seven years older and seven years younger—there is some metaphor in there, I’m sure, about seven being a holy number and all that. When my sister was born two days after my seventh birthday, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not have to share a birthday with her. Now we both agree we wouldn’t mind having a day to call ours alone. When we are together we can’t get anything done; a week to talk doesn’t seem like enough. The other month we had a phone call that lasted for only fifteen minutes. A few days later she called me back, making up for, she said, that pitifully short conversation. It lasted three hours.

(Oct. 21)

I’m afraid that by focusing so much on delight people will get the wrong idea about me, or think my life is exceptionally idyllic (there is a strange assumption I’ve encountered that if you live in Colorado your life must be perfect). I have both the blessing and curse of being able to see beauty even when I’m suffering—a blessing because, well, beauty is necessary, of course it is, but a curse because beauty can be alienating, and you find yourself thinking, How can I truly be depressed if I am still able to feel a jolt of gratitude for the sliver of light caressing my lover’s face? But in the short week I’ve been doing this practice—and this is why I started, for the hope of reaching this point—the hole in which I’ve been wallowing for months suddenly doesn’t feel as deep or wide. It’s not that zeroing in on delight suddenly erases despondency, but it has suddenly given parameters to my turmoil, and I’ve found myself increasingly able to live alongside the discomfort rather than being wholly engulfed by it.

(Oct. 20)