Hello, loyal followers and subscribers! And by that, I mean my mom. Hi, Mom! I love you and miss you. Thanks for being my number one fan.
Anyways, apologies for the unexpected hiatus. I did not intend to take a summer vacation from writing. But trust, I have been writing. Just nothing public. I’ve been writing short stories, poetry, journal entries, shopping lists, invitation cards, emails, and cover letters.
I’ve been absorbing enough sunshine in my skin to last me all winter. I’ve been standing in my kitchen, performing the sacrificial rituals of splitting tomatoes, squishing blueberries, and weeping as I slice through onions. I’ve been floating atop canyons and mountains under the cobalt blue water, feeling the fluid stability of ancient waters holding my body as I breathe in and out. I’ve been peaking through my eyelids in the darkest hours of night to glimpse the shimmering galaxies splayed across the blackish-bluish sky. I’ve been waking up to the rhythmic tap of raindrops on my tent, unzipping the flap, and scanning the dew-covered spider silk amidst the komorebi for fairies. For it is in these dense forests, in the space between cities and wilderness, that they appear. I wonder if they are charmed or offended when we dress up as them in our flowing skirts and dresses, skin sparkling with glitter, flowers tucked in our hair, chests bare to the glaring summer sun. I’ve been laughing, crying, laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the precious yet precarious nature of life. All the things you do in your 20s when you live in the Pacific Northwest.
Though I haven’t put my creative works out to the public for the summer, make no mistake, I have been creative. One of my biggest creative projects was moving. I moved into a big house with my five closest friends. We’ve seen each other through all phases and stages of life. From childhood sleepovers, awkward preteen phases, and high school drama (we were theater geeks), to navigating the salty seas of young adulthood. These friendships have lasted longer than any romantic relationship, any job, any lease we’ve been through. Now, we share a home together, and it has been one of the grandest creative projects of my life. How do we puzzle piece all our furniture together? Where does our art go? What goes in the dishwasher? Which kitchen drawer should have the silverware? When do we water the garden? Whose laundry day is it?
We’ve lived here for two months, and we’re just getting settled in. The stack of unpacked boxes keeps moving from room to room, unsure where the final home of its contents will end up. And just because I didn’t feel like moving was enough chaos, I quit my job. I left my secure and stable position as a teacher– a role I grew to thrive in and adore– to start my career as a professional writer. It was nerve wracking and anxiety inducing, and still is. I pushed out a nervous laugh every time someone asked where I was going next. “I don’t know yet! Why? Are you hiring?” I’d tease. They usually smiled and said, “Good luck!” with undertones that said, “You’re gonna need it.”
So, here I am. Floating through space. Existing in this in-between time where I don’t know how it’s all going to work out, so I have to cling to this liferaft of blind faith that it’s already working out. Having a job I was good at, a title I could claim, was all false reassurance. It gave me a false sense of security that I knew what I was doing with my life. As if my existence could be simplified to a job title. But isn’t it nice to have an answer when someone asks what you do? Isn’t it soothing to have people smile and nod when you tell them what your job is? So they can better understand you and, by proxy, you can better understand yourself?
To quote Tibetan Buddhist Chögyam Trungpa, “The bad news is you’re falling… The good news is, there’s no ground.”
Regardless of where I live, who my friends are, what my job is, I am always me. These are just decorations to the essence of who I really am. And who I really am is indescribable. Once you think you know, it changes again. I’m not rushing to know, to find out what’s next. I’m taking long walks. I’m falling asleep early and waking up late. I’m reading a thick book very slowly. I’m wandering the farmer’s market. I’m watching the clouds go by. Sooner than later, things will move fast again, and I’ll long for the time when I could flow through my days at my own pace. So I will be here for now as long as I can.
The ground never stops moving here. The earth that was supposed to be so stable and hold us for all our lives never stops moving here. I plant my feet, the sand consumes them. I pick them up, it pushes back and forth against me. The reflection of the clouds is perfectly clear, until it isn’t, and the swirling brown surf washes it all away. Like someone threw a bucket of water on a wet painting. Nothing could be closer to walking on the sky.
Time is distorted here. I haven’t walked for more than a song or two, and yet my friends are smaller than ants on the picnic blanket I left perched on the sand dunes. Sound travels different here, too. There’s people all around, but their voices and footsteps are drowned out by the roaring of waves. Like a herd of wild horses thundering over the hillside, only to collapse and dissipate into sea foam at the crest.
I walk in the liminal space where the waters of earth’s womb cleanse her human shores. Nothing stays the same here, and nothing ever should. Nothing stays the same anywhere if you look long enough. The unending change is just more visible on the coast. The ocean bellows an ancient hymn of change.
I left my job at the end of last week. It was planned, expected, a date on the calendar that approached closer and closer with every rise and fall of the moon. It’s been four years of dedicated service, of being the first to arrive and the last to leave, of rapport with children not because I had to but because I couldn’t contain my heart from loving them with all that I was. After four years of growing in one spot, I felt my roots get crowded around the edges of my container. They longed to dig deeper, reach wider, and I knew I would grow in ways I never thought I could if I gave myself the opportunity to. So, I left. I left with my last paycheck and a binder full of my favorite children’s illustrations. I didn’t even have a plan or a summer bonus to fall back on.
Growing up, things changed a lot for me. Different houses, different families, different friends. My life feels like a back-to-back sequences of beginnings and endings with little time to adjust to stability in between. My inherent optimism came in handy here. No matter how uncomfortable or scary the change was, I greeted it with a smile and welcomed it into my life. Even when I hated it. Even when I wished things wouldn’t change. Even when I wished things would change in a different way.
Maybe this is why I am so drawn to the beach. It is the birthplace of change. It affirms what I already knew to be true: change is the only constant. It is powerful and terrifying and unstoppable. But it is glorious. And it just Is. We don’t have to do anything for it to Be. Just witness it.
And, so, I am reveling in this liminal space.
I’m opening the windows and turning up the song.
I’m not getting enough sleep and I’m sleeping too long.
I’m singing down the sidewalk and skipping out the door.
I’m kissing after midnight and twirling on the dance floor.
I’m drinking too much coffee and screaming at the sky.
I’m laughing with the Great Unknown until she makes me cry.
When I turned 18, my mom took me to see a psychic. We made a whole weekend out of it, drove two hours to the nearest city, stayed in an artsy air bnb, brought my brother and our dog. My mom heard about this psychic from her friend who used to do her hair for a t.v. show where she gave live readings.
Most people are either firm believers or die-hard skeptics of psychics. I try to strike a healthy balance between the two. There is a right amount of skepticism to have for those who claim to know the future and what lies beyond the human realm. There are scammers out there, people who prey on your grief and trauma and charge hundreds of dollars to appeal to your cognitive biases. But also there are people who try therapy and support groups and the charcuterie of spirituality humanity has to offer, and nothing resonates except a psychic reading. Still, I always leave the door open in case I meet a real-life Oda Mae Brown.
Regardless of if the psychic-in-question is “legit”–meaning they can see the future, read auras, talk to spirits, or whatever powers they claim to have–does it matter as long as it works? Does it really matter as long as the client is satisfied? If someone finds closure, feels relief, answers the previously unanswerable, then they got what they came for. Is that so wrong?
The psychic I saw when I turned 18 didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. She gave me some hard truths, some false truths, and some Great Unknown truths.
A few weeks prior to the session, I bought a matching necklace and earrings from the local thrift store. They were locked up in a glass case that doubled as a counter separating the volunteers from the shoppers. The necklace had raw turquoise patterned with purple glass and blue pearl beads across a flimsy wire. A toggle clasp shaped like a silver rose marked the ends. The dangling earrings matched. I imagined someone had these tucked away in their jewelry box, like a dragon sits on its treasure. The woman who owned it made it herself and would wear them to special occasions in her youth. But as the years went on, those occasions became few and far between. When she died, there was no family or next of kin to inherit her precious gems. They went ignored at an estate sale until a group of volunteers came and brought them to the thrift store where they laid still under this glass case.
Obviously, the volunteers didn’t know what they had, otherwise they wouldn’t have priced the set at $12. I bought them and it was the fanciest thing I wore every day. It stood out against my casual high school attire of red Converse and band t-shirts.
I hadn’t taken the necklace off since buying it, so it came with me to the psychic reading by default. The first thing the psychic did was ask for a personal item to connect with me. I unclasped my necklace and handed it to her. She stroked it with eyes closed the way one would pet a cat from head to tail. The beads clinked against the rings on each of her fingers. She described to me a vision of stained glass windows, maybe a church, but an ancient church full of real holiness. Not any of the manufactured cookie-cutter religion I was accustomed to. But I hadn’t stepped foot in a church for at least a month, and that was the first time I went to church in years.
I went for my friend’s funeral, and it was not a beautiful or ancient church. It was modern and it was dull and dark. There were no windows, but high ceilings with mud-brown walls and harsh fluorescent lights that lit the pews of people in attendance for a 17-year-old’s funeral whose body had only laid lifeless for a week. Funerals are rarely a happy occasion, but this one was infuriating because it was so preventable. She should not have died the way she did. But I guess that’s why they call it an accident. An accident with fatal, irreversible consequences. And if my friend had written a will, I can almost guarantee you she wouldn’t have wanted her funeral in this church. The church that ignored her cries for help her whole life. The church that excused pedophiles and abusers with a regular tithes. The church of hypocrisy, the church of scandals, the church with no windows and false gods. This could not be the church the psychic was channeling through my necklace.
No, the church she channeled through my necklace must have been somewhere in Italy. An ancient cathedral marked by polished wooden pews, columns and archways holding the building together like bones in a body. Stained glass that filtered the morning sun through every color and cast beams of light around intricate mosaics spiraling out of the center of the floor. Giant candles standing with pride at the sides of a golden throne with dripping wax dried along the stairs. The musky smell of incense wafting through the air. Marble statues of the saints and prophets carved by hand, welcoming worshipers into their house. Ornate bells in the highest tower attached by a rope so old you’re afraid it will crack in your hand just by grasping it. Ancient churches built in the name of the spirit that connects us all, that brings communities together not out of fear but out of true love for our fellow humans and all inhabitants of earth and beyond. This must have been the place she meant.
But I have never been to this church. I am not so sure it even exists outside my imagination. I told the psychic about the last time I went into a church, about my friend and her funeral. She asked how she died, and I explained the story the same way my friend’s obituary was written: cold and matter-of-fact. She drowned in the cab of a truck that sank into the river after accepting a ride from her drunk friend. I couldn’t think about it too hard, because if I did all my sadness and all my anger and all my grief would have overcome me. It would have blinded me from any other feeling, and I was afraid I would drown in it if I fully let it in. The psychic just nodded, continued stroking my necklace, and warned me never to get in a truck.
I had come out of two car accidents luckily unscathed prior to my friend’s accident. I already had some fear around driving, but the psychic’s words just solidified it. I tried to avoid accepting any rides in a truck, but it was almost impossible and often rude of me to do so. Shakily, I stepped into trucks time and time again, pushed the worry out of my mind that something bad was about to happen. And you know what? I was okay. Every. Single. Time. But that psychic’s words had power. Even though she was wrong, and my logical brain knew to take it with a grain of salt, every time I stepped into a truck I thought about how I was not heeding her warning. The fear and anxiety ate at me.
The second thing she asked me was what I was doing after high school. At this point, I thought I had a pretty solid, well-laid-out plan. You know, the way most teenagers know exactly what they’re doing with their life and how it’s going to turn out. With pride, I recited my plan to attend my state university where I’d already been accepted and live close to my boyfriend who was already a sophomore there.
“No you’re not,” the psychic said bluntly. She didn’t miss a beat. She couldn’t have spoken the words faster than I could get them out of my mouth. I exhaled a nervous laugh. Quiet. I didn’t know what to say. Most people responded with congratulations, that they were happy for me, that I had their full support and they were excited for this next leg of my journey. Now I think those people were just being polite. What this psychic did was give me the truth, and I thank her for that. I don’t know if her psychic abilities had anything to do with it at all. She could just read my body language, my tone of voice. She saw right through me in a way even my brother and mother didn’t see. Or if they did, they never told me. I felt like she ripped the sheet off my head and exposed my real identity.
The truth was, I didn’t want to go to my state university, even though I got accepted. I wanted to go away. Far away. Far away from my peers, the small-town culture with small-minded people, the same music on the radio, the same mindless chatter, the same life plan that everyone had laid out before them. I didn’t want to live close to my high school boyfriend. I was just afraid to live far away from him. I didn’t want to be with him forever, I was just afraid to break up with him. Fear, fear, and more fear kept me making choice smack-dab in the middle of my comfort zone. Because that was safe.
But what this psychic did was show me what I already knew. That my comfort zone was not comfortable, it was suffocating. That I would never grow into my full potential, be the person I wanted to be, unless I took risks and leaps and bounds and made mistakes and kept trying over and over again. I don’t think she had to be psychic to tell me that. She was just something no one else in my life was: honest.
She told me I would go far away, and that was true. I didn’t go across the world or even across the country, but I went farther than most of my peers did. I moved to a new city where I didn’t know anybody and all my family was 500-1,000 miles away. She told me I would go on a road trip with my brother, which hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.
She told me I would break up with my boyfriend, which was also true. I didn’t want to hear it, I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t even break up with him right away. I peeled that band-aid off so slowly and painfully because I didn’t want her to be right. But her words had already infiltrated my subconscious. No matter how hard I tried to ignore or deny it, she had already spoken it into existence.
The last thing she told me was that words have power. Magic is real, though it does not show up in the same fantastical way we hear about it in storybooks. She said that when we use language, we are casting spells. Literally spelling things into existence. Manifesting them into reality. In big and small ways. But since our thoughts create our reality, and our thoughts are largely made up of words (at least mine are), then what we think and what we say becomes who we are and the world we live in.
This was certainly true in her line of work. She used her words to predict some things in my life, but really she was just persuading and affirming me to make choices I already knew to be true in my heart. Her words helped me speak it into existence.
But it was my words that broke up with my boyfriend. My essays that got me into the college that I actually wanted to go to. My emails that granted me scholarships to attend an out-of-state school. My phone calls that got me a place to live. My words that made me friends and connections, brought me new places, showed me new things. My words had power. And they still do.
This is why writing is my favorite form of witchcraft.
It’s been three years without you, and after three years with you, I feel I can finally write about us. I’ve known you for a lifetime, and it’ll probably take a lifetime to forget.
Where did our love story begin? Was it in 1st grade when you moved here and everyone was so excited to have a new boy in class? And by here, I mean there, because you’re still there, and I left a long time ago. Everyone loved you because you were tall, outgoing, and friendly to everyone you met. You were the kid who somehow became the teacher’s pet while breaking all the rules behind their back. Was it when you were cast as the Ugly Duckling in the school play, and we all knew you were anything but? I played a skunk—the real ugly duckling—who taught your character that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought because your real friends would love you no matter what. I spent the remainder of our relationship trying to teach you that exact thing.
Was it in 2nd grade when you had a crush on my best friend and brought her back a necklace from your family vacation? She gushed to me about the inside jokes you two shared on the bus, and I laughed away my jealousy, a tradition I carried on into adulthood.
Was it in 3rd grade when you had a crush on another one of my best friends, and she bragged to everyone about how smitten she was that she got to go to your house and watch scary movies when your parents weren’t home?
Was it in 4th grade when by some miracle the teacher sat us next to each other and you debated that if the prefix “re” means “again” and suffix “spect” means “look,” then “respect” means “look again”? I thought that was the most intelligent thing anyone had said all year.
Was it in 5th grade when your first girlfriend was my best friend? We cast a spell under the full moon to get you to fall in love with her, and I hid in a hotel closet while she whispered all the details of your first kiss to me. I teased her about how steamy and sweaty it must have been in your parents’ hot tub, another way to laugh through my jealousy.
Was it in 6th grade when you had a crush on one of the new girls that moved to town? Was it in 7th grade when you moved on to her twin sister?
Was it in 8th grade when I broke up with my first boyfriend and you offered your condolences and texted me all summer to hang out at the beach?
Was it in 9th grade when you kissed me at the homecoming dance and ran away, only to text me the next day to confess you still had feelings for the twin sister you dated the year before? You hoped we could still be friends and that I would be able to forgive and forget while I was held hostage every day after school at play practice watching you two flirt. You felt bad, I know. But you didn’t know how to make it right while still satiating your teenage boy hedonism. So you told me to slap you. I didn’t want to, but you insisted, and all the rage and jealousy I had been laughing away since 1st grade bubbled up, and I hit you hard across the face. I cried, you cried, we laughed it off, and after that, we had an understanding.
Was it in 10th grade when you dated the twin sister on and off and asked me for relationship advice? Was it during one of your breaks when we lost our virginity to each other, and I started dating someone else a week later? How did it feel to finally want me the one time I wasn’t available?
Was it in 11th grade when you dated my best friend again, the one you gave necklaces to in 1st grade, and you both complained to me in private about how much you wanted out of the relationship?
Was it in 12th grade when you dated the twin sister again, and I cornered her at the homecoming dance and warned her to be honest with you and not break your heart? My intuition must have picked up on something, because though she was at least three inches taller than me, she cowered before me and burst into tears as soon as she walked away. She confessed that night that she had been cheating on you, and you broke up. You thanked me for that later.
For me, this was all foreplay for the day our love really began. It was the new moon in Gemini, your natal moon placement. I hadn’t had a cherry coke in so long. It came in a little pink can that cost 99 cents. The cola was as red as the artificial dye in my hair. I don’t drink soda, and I wouldn’t have unless you bought it for me. I don’t like the biting sweet of soda. The carbonation sits in my guts wrong. But that day, soda was appropriate; you were the biting sweet I needed to jolt me back to life. You filled my stomach with tiny bubbles that excited me all day. I loved you long before that moment, and I knew I would love you forever. After all we had been through together, we drove to the river and shared a joint, dangling our feet over the edge of the universe. In another life, you and I would nurture this love as long as our hearts were still beating. In another life, we would never let the other be alone.
This was the first entry in the journal you read later that year where I complained about how hard it was living with you. I agreed to live with you before I learned that you grew up with a maid and you never learned to cook or clean for yourself. Maybe if you had read the first entry and you knew how infatuated I was with you for the majority of my life, you wouldn’t have blown up our relationship over one journal entry. I wrote the only thing keeping me in our relationship was our lease, which was partially true. The other thing keeping me was fear—fear of what your absence might reveal about me. Because if you left, was I truly unworthy of love?
The day you bought me the cherry coke, I knew I had it bad. We were about to graduate high school, and everything we had been through seemed so small and childlike compared to this moment. All those years growing up were like movements in a symphony building toward this magnificent crescendo.
The night before graduation, I cheated on my boyfriend with you in the hot tub where you had your first kiss with my best friend in 5th grade. I saw the texts from my boyfriend asking where I was, apologizing if he had done anything lately to make me distant. I swallowed my guilt and stuffed it somewhere in my body I knew I wouldn’t find for years. Because it was you! You were worth burning bridges for. You were worth destroying years of earned trust and built intimacy. Because I always wanted you, but you never wanted me. I was the “cool girl” for too long. I had played the “girl next door” role so well. Hell, your mom loved me before you did. She still calls me on my birthday. But now that you finally saw how beautiful I was, how glorious I was, how radiant and vibrant and purposeful I could make your life. I couldn’t let you slip away now.
You took acid before you gave your graduation speech as class president and rambled about chairs for a long time. My boyfriend sat in the audience with his family and a bouquet of flowers, ignorant of the fact we were kissing in the band room before any of this happened. The ceremony ended, everyone scattered, and I broke up with my boyfriend in the car on the way home. I left him in a grocery store parking lot and blasted Freedom by George Michael as I sped off. He really is the victim in this story, and I hope he finds true love that never treats him the way I did.
We went to our respected graduation parties, and you called me to come over where we kissed on your bed under the red light. You got a text from your best friend, exclaiming he was going to “break some knees.” You diffused the situation and told him we would come over right away to see what was wrong. Apparently, your best friend’s girlfriend, who was also my friend, got drunk with her friends. Really drunk. And one of the friends she was with was the twin sister who you dated and broke up with so much. They were drinking with an older man–and by older I mean ten years, but when you’re 18 years old, it’s highly inappropriate for a 28-year-old man to invite you to his house for drinks. He took advantage of them, or tried to; I’m not sure of the whole story. They were so drunk and blubbering that I could hardly make out a word they said.
But the twin sister, your ex, sat on a park bench at 11 o’clock at night with her arms and legs crossed, glaring at me. I asked if she was okay. She gave a slow, silent nod. She asked if I was with you. I said yes. She scoffed, rolled her eyes, and blinked back tears. Unbeknownst to me, the two of you had hooked up a few weeks ago. You must have been making your rounds saying your goodbyes to all the loves that once were before you bought me the cherry coke. She texted you furiously after that night claiming to be pregnant and that it was yours and she was getting an abortion; she just wanted you to feel guilty about it. And you did feel guilty. You felt horrible. She tapped into your absolute worst nightmare, preyed on the Achilles heel of your fear. I told you she was probably lying, and you said she was probably lying, but even the fact there was the slightest chance she wasn’t lying turned your stomach into knots. She came clean years later and admitted she was lying, which felt like a weight off your shoulders. But I just couldn’t imagine how in the world I was so jealous of someone who was so insecure they felt they had to come up with a heinous lie like that just to put a wedge in the relationship she couldn’t have.
We spent the summer together adventuring through new cities along the riverside. We soaked up as many moments as we could being in love. And in love we were. I must admit, I look for that love in your eyes in every person I meet.
We moved in together in a small ground floor apartment next door to your best friend and your best friend’s girlfriend, who was also my friend. We kissed, we cleaned, we smoked weed. We danced, we fought, we made up. We fought more, you moved out, the pandemic happened. We didn’t know anyone else in the city, we were lonely, we got back together. You moved to the neighboring city, we texted every day, called often, and saw each other every weekend. We spent time with each other’s families over the holidays. We established a routine that kept us in limbo between the comforts of childhood and the daunting expectations of adulthood.
When did our love story end? Was it when I made twice the effort to drive an hour to see you on the weekends because you had car trouble, you couldn’t afford gas, you had too much homework, or whatever excuse it was that particular week? Was it when you told me not to worry about your roommate that had a crush on you, but she was the first person you slept with after you broke up with me over the phone? That’s when I knew it was over. I was crushed. No amount of negotiation or apologies or kisses filled with empty promises could take that back. I spent weeks sobbing in my closet listening to sad music in my headphones. I don’t know how long I would have stayed with you if you hadn’t broken up with me. I would have stayed with you and taught you empathy and patience and humility and basic hygiene and how to cook. I would have been the Oedipus complex you were subconsciously searching for, and likely still are. I would have stayed with you forever, even though you didn’t deserve it.
Was it when I dated your best friend after he broke up with his girlfriend, who was also my friend, in a rage of vengeance? You had always gone after my friends since we were six years old. And the first time you got a taste of your own medicine—phew! You couldn’t take it! I think it obliterated a part of your ego that can never be recovered. You dropped out of college and moved back home because I think you realized that without me, you had no business being here. I think without me, you felt your life had no real direction. You moved back to our hometown and dated my best friend, the one you had your first kiss with in the hot tub. She deserved better, and I hope that’s how it ended. She was starting her own business and had been an independent adult longer than she ever should have been, a journey you were just learning how to navigate.
Was it when I wrote you a heartfelt letter apologizing for everything and asking if we could still be friends, only to have the slit-open envelope returned to me in the mail?
Was it after you broke up with her, I broke up with him, and you texted me on New Year’s Eve 30 minutes to midnight gushing about how sorry you were that I gave you everything you ever wanted but you still wanted more? You said we could meet up for a cup of coffee if I was ever in town, but when I was in town, you had to ask permission from your new girlfriend to see me. You must have not gotten that permission, because you never saw me, and last I heard, you’re still with her. You’re living with her apparently.
I have this vision of me and all my friends you ever dated getting together at the restaurant where you and your girlfriend work. We would make friends with your girlfriend, because obviously if you’re dating her, we have a lot in common. We would compare notes, swap stories, and give her an outlet to express how she’s happy with you but her heart knows something is off. Women have this innate intuition in our bones, even if we choose to ignore it. I hope you’re truly happy. Because you deserve true happiness. But my intuition says you’re not.
I used to think you were the one that got away. That in another life, you and I were meant to be. That if I was only more of this or only more of that, then someday you would look at me and realize I was the perfect girl. But I was the perfect girl. I still am! Always have been, always will be. And I get better every day. Now that I know that, no one can take that away from me. And I’m starting to think that I’m the one that got away. You know I am, even if you can’t admit it to yourself yet. Your mom definitely knows it. That’s why she calls me on my birthday.
The Writer's Oracle 