We Bought a House

Packing up my gremlins, too

In the morning, while she made breakfast, the children stood in the window in the kitchen, hypnotized by the drops of rain on the glass. Ella’s white-blond hair, mussed with sleep, was the brightest thing in the room.

-Anne Lamott, Blue Shoe

“We have to pack all this stuff!” I said one day recently to the kids. “We have to move all these ants with us.” My daughter cracked a smile. My kids are my best audience; they catch the silliness all the time. Is this sad? Should I arrange for fellow adults to also catch the show? MAYBE. For now my best audience members are the two dragonflies that flit about my days. I told a friend this year, “My children get the best of me.” I don’t know if this is wise or advisable, but it is TRUE.

I met a lovely person this week who asked me, “So what do you write?” I said: “It’s kind of uncategorizable but I write about myself. A LOT. Personal essays, I guess.”

If personal essay means writing about your grocery lists and all the shit you’re not doing!

I mean, I also write fiction and I said this, but . . . I spend A LOT of time just writing about my life and thoughts. Hello, journal! Hello, letters! Hello newsletter: weird little wonder-filled creature.

I met this person at a party and thought about them the next day, especially as they brought up wanting to write memoir. After complaining about not knowing anyone to properly circle with, did the winds sweep this friend under my door?

The big news around here is that we bought a house. The next day we saw the people who sold us said house, at that very party. It’s not every week you get to see folks to whom you just gave gobs of money cutting it up on the dance floor. It was all terribly sweet, one of those glorious summer evenings where the fireflies are in your heart as well as in the bushes. (And I guess we’re staying in this town??)

We jammed a camping weekend into a month we should have been plotting and prepping and packing. Because writing is my crutch, my vitamins, my magic wand, I’m going to share pictures. I should be doing a million other things including bringing a fork to the new house so there’s even one utensil there, but I’m going to show you pictures instead.

It was my first trip to the thumb of Michigan! My introduction to this illustrious midland mecca was someone running into/over a dog and driving on. This happened on a road to the campsite and was a terrible omen, a horrific event. The dog was alive; shaking in its owner’s arms. It wasn’t a gory scene, more of a fast-paced side clip, but STILL. A shuddering beast, no matter the form, is incredibly jarring.

This is neither a funny anecdote nor a kind way to start a post, sorry! But I had to tell you because it felt like an important part of the trip. Like: it’s all so precious and fragile. And it was a real shot across the bow, like: You are now entering the backwoods of Michigan. Prepare yourselves.

When Nicky dropped the children off that night, he poked his head in long enough to say that everything had gone fine. The children ran into her arms. Harry smelled as sweet and pungent as sawdust, Ella as deliciously odd as puppy breath. The touch of their skin, the smells, made her whole again, like an animal lost in the wilds that finds its mother.

-Anne Lamott, Blue Shoe

I’m reading Blue Shoe by Anne Lamott and really enjoying it. In some ways, it’s probably bad for me, because I’m trying to tighten up a specific plot and this book teaches me very little about picking up the pace. At the same time, it’s so textured and lovely. Like with Anne Tyler’s work, the characters are endearing and relatable (that old anti-feminist slur). It’s a welcome reminder of what I enjoy most, which is less to be wowed by intricately-woven events and more to be moved and to laugh; to sit by the fire of a writer’s mind and intelligence (and hopefully heart) and feel the flickering heat.

Speaking of sitting next to the writer, I’m feeling a little sheepish about my last post, especially if we’ve ever traded work. I’m not trying to shade anyone specifically - I’m just trying to explain some of the gremlins who live with me in my writing cave.¹ Gremlins are cute and terrible and real. I’m trying to find snacks for them so they nibble my toes less. For some blessed reason, writing about my dark “secrets” helps neutralize them, but it is a strange thing to do. Hello! Would you like to come behind this curtain and peep a hot mess? Step right up.

I feel like that post was a dispatch from the messy middle. Like, I’m desiring a more easeful relationship to bringing things out into the world but still have to sift through some challenging habits and see what their purpose has been. I also think it’s weird that I extend so much grace to others in terms of creativity, but have parts who are freakish and punishing when it comes to finishing things. (These parts are probably some younger versions who need a little updating. Noted!)

Anyway, that’s the deal here. It has frankly not been chaotic enough, in terms of packing at our “old” house. Three out of four people have yelled our heads off (I’m sure the fourth is close behind but their halo is showing right now), but the big push is slowwwwwly coming - or I hope it is. We have to get from here to there and I’m still a little fuzzy on how we’ll accomplish that. We have so many books it’s an actual joke. I caught myself eyeing a friend’s this week thinking, Let’s just give that away. No regrets! The time of logic is leaving. A stronghold of panic descends.

I didn’t buy these Golden Girls-as-saints pics at the thrift store and need a medal for my restraint

what we’ve been up to instead of packing

My wish for you this week: sunlight on your skin, soft wind in your teeth, a friend who knows the song in your heart. May they sing it back to you when you’re jolted out of it, or tell you a hearty tale while putting you to bed.

If you know the secret to staying grounded and whole while moving, please send! Otherwise you can find me crying behind a bottle of Mrs. Meyers or laying on the ground of our new backyard in a grateful heap.

1. I have had the urge to reach out to people who have been “actually helpful” and tell them so. As I write this sentence, it feels like maybe a good idea - a gratitude journal, or a backwards amends. You were nice and I like you.

You can’t footnote a footnote (let’s be honest, that’s a good thing) but Tim saw a business once called Actually Clean. That means Actually Helpful is up for grabs as someone’s editing business! Go get ‘em.

As I make jokes about Actually Helpful professional editors, I have to shout out Amy Shearn who IS helpful and has a post about writing workshops - how they help (and things to watch out for) that nagged me previously as I wrote about collaboration . . . I didn’t link to it in my last post but am unable to resist this week.

Let us find the helpers. May they actually help!

“Self-service” = lookin good!

so gross