When I moved into my studio apartment last year, I didn’t have enough space for a dining table nor a desk. Instead, the large kitchen counter served as my everything station: meal prep, dining table, workstation.
When we moved into our new apartment this August, we bought a second-hand table from a lovely couple and set it up underneath the ceiling lamp fixture. It felt so nice to be able to sit across from one another as we ate, instead of only side-by-side at the bar or in front of the TV.
The corner behind the table, though, has been in transition since our move: first, it was a place to hold the boxes we had yet to unpack; then, a place to set up the blow-up mattress when we had a little guest; next, we brought in the empty metal shelving unit from outside to hold my computer and some books and knitting things so they wouldn’t take up so much space on the dining table (even though they still often did).
Last week, as I was hunched over, leaning and squinting to see my laptop screen, frustrated with the wobble and incessant tap-tap-tap of my old Apple keyboard whenever I typed anything, Patrick finally convinced me to just do it: get a desk, a monitor, the works.
So that night I perused Amazon and found a cute new Bluetooth keyboard and mouse and a standing desk. On Saturday, the desk arrived, and within 30 minutes our space had transformed.
From this……to this!
I still need to get a monitor and a desk chair, and maybe some more art to fill the blank wall above, but it feels SO GOOD to have a defined space to put everything.
Light sears through the edges of the blackout curtain, illuminating the room. The noise machine whirs and rises, then quiets — wave sounds. Our new air purifier hums softly, clearing allergens as we sleep. Phoebe lies between us, curled into the crook of your elbow, her nose breathing air out onto my face as we make eye contact.
I love these weekend mornings when I wake up before you and we have nowhere to be, nowhere to rush to. “Hurkle durkl’ing,” we call it. I sliced about it last year.
I pull out my phone to type this, still wrapped up in the full-cup-feeling after drinks and dinner with three friends last night. The four of us squeezed at a small round table at Café La Trova, sharing bites and venting, sipping our drinks and laughing. Four hours, watching a Friday night in Little Havana unfold. Live music playing loud, making us lean forward to yell, then yelling again after the inevitable “What??”
These ladies are a big part of what has made this place home for me since moving here four years ago, even though Miami fits like a shirt I don’t really like, not my style, with the tag sticking out. When I’m with them, I know I was meant to be here — at least for now.
Because Lizzie is moving away in a couple of months, building a new home in a new state. And two of us hope to leave within the next few years.
I fill my cup, and fill it again, holding onto this moment and these strong, brave, beautiful women who I can’t imagine my life without.
I roll out my yoga mat and begin to reach skyward, leaning to one side as I stretch my arm overhead. I fold down, bending my knees and rolling back up slowly, vertebrate by vertebrate.
When I stretch up a second time, I hear the pitter patter of her paws, the sound dampening as I lean to the other side, which means she’s on the mat with me now.
As I fold down, I see her stretching, too. Downward dog, her front legs long and her rear sticking up. As I roll up, she changes position, stretching out her back legs now as she pulls herself forward, nose sticking up in the air.
I get down on my knees, sitting on my heels to stretch the bottoms of my feet. I roll out my right wrist, and she nibbles at my fingers. I roll out the left and she starts her simple 2-stretch routine again: first the front legs, then the back.
I transition to child’s pose and the nibbles continue.
When I move to cat-cow, she’s on her 2-stretch routine again.
She rolls onto her back as I change positions, interrupting my routine for some belly rubs. I shake my head and grab my phone, the first words of the slice already forming in my head, faster than my fingers can open the Jetpack app and keep up.
Now she sits as I type this short slice again. I go to take a photo—and she moves!
“No, get back here!” I grab her. I need this photo to illustrate the slice! “Sit. Lay down.”
But she does one better: her downward-dog stretch. I snap it. Thank goodness for live photos.
I have very vivid dreams. Very strange dreams, yet very vivid.
“Last night I dreamt that we went to visit an apartment in Amsterdam that had two huge labrador retrievers, and there was this whole other side with an indoor balcony and a pool and arcade games! Oh, and it was also attached to a school, so if you turned one corner in the house, it would become the hallway of the entrance with kids walking around,” I tell you. “We were going to rent it for the summer because I was supposed to work at my summer camp, even though that’s in Massachusetts… anyway! Later, everyone from TikTok who was looking at the apartment was ravenous for it, and the guy who owned it ended up being killed?? But somehow his agent gave us the key code… anyway, his whole family was gone, even his two curly-headed sons. But then fast forward years later, and they were trying to woo my student to exact revenge!”
Every time I share one of these dreams with you, you laugh, marveling at the strange inner workings of my brain.
“You’re my favorite weirdo,” you tell me. And you’re mine.
Last night I woke up from a no-less-vivid but much-more-intense dream.
It started out in Miami, but some lush green area outside of the center, where one of the teachers at our school had just moved to. The buildings looked old, castle or university vibes, like they belonged in England. I went into one and joined a spin class, then waited for everyone to arrive so class could begin. A girl from my middle school arrived, said some odd things that didn’t make sense, and then sort of blasted off into the ceiling. From there, the dream turned into an adventure: a live-action advent calendar. (I know.) I opened the presents, which each had presents within, and realized, “Hey, this toy would be good for my niece and nephew, and this one is good for Phoebe.”
“That’s the point,” my sister Tillie (in the dream), said. A rush of love filled me as I realized she had set up this level of the advent calendar for me so that I could essentially regift the gifts to everyone in my life.
The advent-adventure led us to Málaga, only it was like Roosevelt Island, long and skinny, with water on both sides, and had some skyscrapers like a mini-Manhattan. We flew over, I pointed out where Emma lived, and then touched down. We stopped at a grocery store, and noticed Trump and Vance sitting with their wives at a table outside in the parking lot. We walked over and it was like they were playing themselves on SNL:
“I’m the con man,” Trump said, smug and proud.
“And I’m the head of the mafia,” said Vance.
They all giggled, the women acting like, “oh, you guys,” and you and I shared a look, disgusted. Let’s get out of here.
We hopped in the car, and I looked back at the table. Just beyond them, I saw it: a VW Bus! In blue!
“Look, babe, it’s a blue VW Bus!”
As you looked, we saw a wave starting to rise up on the other side of the road.
“That looks really big, no?” I asked.
It was. It came crashing down, causing an accident on the road.
Shit, shit, shit. “Let’s go!” I cried.
You hit the gas and headed north, waves coming up and crashing down from our side as well. I hoped our old car would hold up. I held my arms over my head just in case. Things were flying around in the sky, raining down at us in opposite intervals to the waves.
“Go, go, go!”
Somehow, we miraculously avoided damage, but I don’t know how the scene ended, because of course, I woke up.
“You won’t believe the dream I just had,” I started forming the words in my head. But I kept my mouth shut because I noticed the clock: 4:15. Ugh.
I got up to go to the bathroom, came back to bed, then scribbled blindly the key details of the dream in my bedside notebook. I got under the covers, pulled my eye mask down, and held your hand.
Then I tossed, and turned, and tossed and turned again.
Another insomnia morning. Better get up and just write this slice!
It’s actually pretty amazing that I can write legibly in the dark! My notes upon return from the bathroom, describing the vivid dream.
Another morning of me lying in bed, heavy with exhaustion, hugging a pillow to my chest. I wake up desperate to pee, go to the bathroom, come back, see Phoebe is in my spot.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, lifting her up and placing her back in her bed beneath the night stand.
I peek at the clock.
5:00.
Maybe I can fall back asleep for that last hour before my alarm shakes me awake.
Hopeless hoping.
I lie in bed and feel my emotions running through my body. I’m still frustrated from the past few days, irritated over things small and big. A customer service phone call where I tried my best to be kind, but got quite exasperated by the end. The behavior of our fifth graders, the switch that’s been flipped developmentally at this point in the year, the countdown we inevitably start to tick through in our heads. A tough therapy session over the weekend that gave me some realizations I’m grieving, some that I’m angry with.
I’m angry, I’m irritated, everything inside of me feels tight.
And I certainly won’t be able to fall back asleep like this.
I tap my thighs lightly, let the veil of rapid eye movement begin under my lids, start the words she’s told me to say even if it’s not that bad:
“I’m panicking. I’m panicking. I’m panicking.”
My heart rate slows.
“I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry.”
My heart softens.
“I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.”
I roll onto my side, hugging the pillow tighter. Maybe in this position I’ll find those last few sweet minutes of sleep.
My stomach grumbles.
It’s no use.
I kick off the comforter, grab my phone and my water, and decide to set a 6-minute timer like Amanda and some others before her and write this slice. I’m left with just enough time to try her one-minute post-writing clean-up.
“Reading this makes me want to stop using my phone,” sighs A, “but then I don’t know, because my phone is so fun!”
We’re reading an excerpt from the end of Kelly Yang’s book Finally Heard: “Essential Research on Social Media and Kids.” We finished watching Yang’s hilarious and informative video yesterday, and are adding more to our notes, like how 95% of teens ages 13-17 and 40% of kids ages 8-12 use social media. We’ve learned about oxytocin and the dopamine loop, the upward comparison that leads so many — especially young girls — to have anxiety and depression, and the meaning of the word “vulnerability.”
But that duality that A feels is so real.
**
It got me thinking about all my own mixed feelings around technology and the absolute chokehold it has on us today. I’m disgusted by my daily screen time some days, feel the real highs and lows of sending funny memes and doomscrolling, and yet…
With WhatsApp, I can chat and listen to voice notes from my best friends who live across the world — Ariel in Tel Aviv, Giada in Madrid, Emma in Málaga, Reeta in Manchester.
With FaceTime, I can see my niece and nephew hold my newest niece, Lucy, for the first time, experience their first fight about it: “You got to hold her already, it’s my turn!” “No, it’s mine!”
With Instagram, I can find inspiring knitting patterns and teaching ideas, see videos from a friend’s wedding that I couldn’t attend at the last minute.
With WordPress, I can write and read in community with so many incredible writers, including 18 (!!!!!) from my school.
How do we find the balance in this duality? Lauren’s slice got me thinking more about the positives, the excitement that comes with the ability to connect with our friends and family even when we’re far.
**
Our data visualization maps, plus student quotes and notes.
I started putting up the documentation for our project last week. Data visualization of the “collapsed distance” we learned about: a map of Miami, with all of the students’ locations pinned, white strings connecting them to each other based on who they speak to via devices when they’re at home, and turquoise strings connecting all of them back to our school. Ale helped us put it together and came up with the reflection question students answered after.
“No matter where you are, you can still stay in contact,” M wrote.
E realized: “We’re far from each other but we’re still connected.”
I don’t have all the answers to A’s dilemma, but I guess part of finding that balance is remembering the original reason we’re all using our devices: to stay tied to one another.
I never watch commercials anymore, as I haven’t had cable TV since moving out of my parents’ house. Only at doctor’s offices, like my dentist, playing episodes of Friends while the hygienist cleans my teeth, or like now, this tiny waiting room at the hospital while I wait for my annual physical and they have the History Channel on (a bit aggressive for 8:25am, no?).
Anyway, maybe it’s because I never watch them that now when I do, I’m hyperaware of all the messaging they are throwing at us. The most common message? Buy this product to solve the problems that WE caused you!
For example…
A beautiful field, fruit trees glistening with dew-dropped berries, zooming out to reveal… the label of a multivitamin bottle! Because why not just get your nutrients from a capsule, rather than actual fruit and veggies?
A weight loss smoothie, chocolate and vanilla flavored, a measuring tape tightening as the patient miraculously sheds so many pounds (and often doesn’t even look like the same person!). Because the food we sell is fattening, so here’s another product to buy to combat that! A vicious cycle!
A small child drinking a similar smoothie, but this time to help them gain weight and height. “Is your child not growing like their peers? Drink X!” Again, because our food lacks the nutrients kids need to grow and stay healthy, so mask the nutrients in something they’re sure to find yummy!
(This commercial came right after one for sugary cereal, by the way.)
A woman sharing all the woes that befell her because she was a smoker. “Smoking gave me gum disease and made me lose all my teeth. Quit today,” she says. I’m not even gonna go into this one.
The irony is not lost on me that these are playing at doctor’s and dentist’s offices…
I don’t have anything wise to say. And my name was just called! So here ends slice number 4.
I got off the phone with Kim and stepped into the kitchen. The oven was on.
“I thought you were going to eat with me,” I said.
“Sorry, love, I didn’t know how long you’d be on the phone,” Patrick replied sheepishly.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, looking at the clock. 12:55. I swiped on my phone to see when the call had started: 12:22. “I didn’t think it would take that long either.”
“I haven’t put anything in, I can still turn it off.”
I groaned. And then proceeded to list off all the things I still needed to do — make lunch (which is a whole ordeal since I’m still in the early re-introduction phase of this elimination diet and need whatever I cook to yield leftovers for school lunches) and meal prep, do some copywriting, lesson plan, fold my clothes — and whine about how my neck still hurt from the whiplash I experienced when we went zip-lining last weekend.
“Just take it one step at a time,” Patrick hugged me. “What can you do right now?”
“Make lunch?” I mumbled against his chest.
It’s laughable to me now, looking back at the moment with a fuller belly and a few more things ticked off on my “done list.”
For the last 26 days I’ve been reading Oliver Burkeman’s Meditations for Mortals: Four Weeks to Embrace Your Limitations and Make Time for What Counts. Burkeman essentially starts this book of, not really meditations, but rather short chapters that are “food for thought,” from the reality that human life is finite and imperfect and evades our attempts to control it at every turn. Like we’re in a “little one-person kayak… at the mercy of the current” (11). He posits that if we can just accept this reality and let go, we’ll be able to actually spend our very limited time on this Earth doing what brings us real joy.
My hangry outburst was the perfect example of my futile attempt to control my life and tackle my insurmountable to do list.
Burkeman quotes Marie Curie: “One never notices what has been done; one can see only what remains to be done” (20).
In my frustration at what remained to be done, I’d diminished the fact that I had already: repotted all of the plants in the apartment that had been infested with fungus gnats (gross) and cleaned the bathroom (which needed it) and washed my hair (which, if you’re a curly girl or have long, thick hair, you know is always a whole ordeal).
But that’s what we do. Burkeman describes a “productivity debt,” where many people feel they must “return to a zero balance by the time evening comes. If they fail — or worse, don’t even try — it’s as though they haven’t quite justified their existence on the planet. If this describes you, there’s a good chance that like me you belong to the gloomy bunch psychologists label ‘insecure overachievers’” (20).
I’m laughing again as I type this, remembering a text exchange with Ana yesterday. She was telling me how exhausted she was.
“Did Elena sleep?” I asked.
“She’ll nap at noon and I really want to sleep, but also the house is a MESS.”
Her dilemma reminded me of another quote in Burkeman’s book, this time from Sheldon B. Kopp: “You are free to do whatever you like. You need only face the consequences” (14).
We don’t really have to clean the house, or do the laundry, or lesson plan, or water the plants. We have the “freedom to examine the trade-offs — because there will always be trade-offs — and then to opt for whichever trade-off you like” (19).
Ana ended up sleeping those 2 hours that Elena napped. And me? I’m taking it one step at a time, knowing that there will always be more things to do, because that’s the nature of the game.
For now, I’ll ask myself, what else can I add to my “done list” for today? Perhaps taking our pup on a walk with my love? Sounds like a worthy use of my limited time on this planet.
Writing With Abandon 