a letter to myself and others.

I remind myself to take deep breaths while the dogs scamper around, getting soaked and muddy, ignoring my calls.

I struggle.
I struggle with writing coherent posts, with writing serious posts, with writing, with breathing.
I struggle with my students and their sore hip flexors and their unyielding stubbornness.
I struggle to swallow the swears from my sailor mouth after dropping creamy makeup on the only God forsaken white tank top in the house because I'm late, dammit-- it took me long enough to find this one.

It is a physical struggle for me to reach over a few inches and turn the radio dial. The song reminds me of him, and I am slowing making it a habit to push him out of my brain.
It's a struggle to wake up, to stand up, to walk.

- - - -

I want you to know that I'm proud of your efforts. Those favors you didn't have to do, but did. The essays you wrote in the early morning light, after working a long shift. The baby you rocked. The laundry you folded.
The party you planned, the flight you took. The flowers you bought on Valentine's Day because he left. The research and studying you did, and the advice you give.
The emails you send.

I am so proud of you. Life's a bitch sometimes, and I'm proud of you for staying. I won't judge when you tell the driver that cut you off to go to hell, or when you're the one cutting someone off. I encourage you to yell SHIT! when the makeup drops on the fabric, or when the three dogs trip you in the kitchen. I want you to be mad at the ants in your homemade dessert, and I want you to watch those reality TV shows late at night.

I want you to be zen, to be rested, to exercise. But I'm proud of you for being here, for living. You go ahead and struggle, Love, push through the sidewalk snow to work, get goosebumps, get mad at mother nature.

I want you to have that glass of wine, that bar of really good organic chocolate, the pair of slightly uncomfortable, slightly too expensive shoes.

I put too many miles on my car and wake up too late and don't take a shower until one in the afternoon. I miss a day of my medication and feel like shit. I use my credit card for everything and owe my friends money because I didn't have cash to pay the tow truck man when I parked in a not-parking space. I turn my music up too loud when I'm teaching. I have a quick temper and am usually annoyingly paranoid.

I want you to travel the world, to learn a new language, to read countless books in an old library until closing. I want you to ride your bike to the market and buy fresh bread from the smiling, hard-working woman and pay $3 for a dixie cup of watery lemonade because the dirty kid selling it has bright eyes.

But know that I'm proud of you if you don't. Be kind, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle, Plato said. Try to be kind.
No, you might not spend years dedicating your life to curing disease. You might. either way, I'm proud to know you; words are special like that, they connect and tie without introductions. If you are reading this, we've met.

That paper is going to get done, and if it doesn't, it doesn't. The hours will pass and the bitterness from his memory will go with it. You will love again. The flowers will grow back. The dishes can wait another day. The grass stains will come out. The baby will stop crying.

I don't know why I felt compelled to write this, or if it got lost in translation from heart to brain to fingers to internet. I don't mind if this is the first sentence you read because you're like me and, sometimes, you just want to skip to the end. It's okay. I want this to be your best day ever, and for tomorrow to be better. Do what you want, be honest and try hard. Repeat the pattern.