I’ve long had an aversion to New Year’s resolutions. I put pressure on myself every day of the year; I don’t need a particular day to say ‘okay now I gotta do better.’ If anything I need to lay off telling myself to do better and do better at telling myself to chill out.

But despite my complaining, I actually ended up coming up with a resolution I like. I didn’t particularly want to have a New Year’s resolution. It snuck up on me. But it’s something I’ve been veering towards lately, so I thought I’d share because maybe others would like it too. 

My New Year’s resolution is: To have a resolution every day. 

It sounds kind of overwhelming, doesn’t it? I don’t mean it that way. It’s more a matter of intent. When I wake up, when I commute from my bed to my office chair, before I start writing, I ask myself: What do I want to get out of today?

It’s fun, because at the end of each day I get to feel like I win. And if I don’t win, I just try again the next day. It’s really the only thing anyone can do: take on each day one at a time.

Last Sunday, I had a strangely specific resolution for the day. I wanted to feel like I could hold the entire Potomac River in my arms. 

Let me explain. The Potomac River begins in the Appalachian Mountains in West Virginia. It borders Maryland and West Virginia, then Maryland and Virginia, as it flows to and past DC into the Chesapeake Bay and the ocean. It travels right past historic Harper’s Ferry West Virginia, where Seth and I were traveling for a holiday cabin getaway later that day. 

I wanted to feel the breadth of the river, to experience the vastness of a simple train ride, so when we arrived in Harper’s Ferry that early evening we could look out upon the same river, sixty miles removed. I had this weird vision of looking up the river at future-me, looking down the river at past-me, and waving hello. There came the supposed feeling of holding the entire river in my hands.

So my plan was to run to the Potomac River in the morning before hopping on a train in the afternoon. Simple.

Well, that didn’t happen. On Sunday morning, when I was running down to the river in some complicated side paths of Rock Creek Park, I somehow got turned around. A path jutted me out of the park into a completely new neighborhood, one far from the river. I wouldn’t be able to reach it in time. So I ran around the National Cathedral instead, hoping to feel some of the same sense of grandeur, failing because I was trying too hard not to be disappointed. 

Anyways. We made it to our train on time and we had a lovely four-day trip. Harper’s Ferry is a beautiful place that feels outside of reality; a preserved historic town, essentially a living museum run by the National Park Service about the events that instigated and shaped the Civil War. It’s a tiny town you can walk from one end to the other in no time but still find yourself sweating from the hills. We booked a tiny cozy cabin, one big room with a bathroom, the big comfy bed taking up most of the room, a nice indoor heater, a screened-in porch. Hanging lanterns, magazines from the 40s, the worst board game ever. We had champagne and eggs and pizza. We walked through the historic cemetery under a full moon at night. We bought historic candy downtown, most of which was very nice, some of which, well, it’s better if it remains historic.  

We walked upon the river the first day, jogged on it the second day, looked out over it the third day. Not once did I think about my disappointment from that Sunday. Who cares? I was seeing the Potomac in all its glory, the Shenandoah, the full moon, and the ghosts and memories of the town and the history it created. 

Our final morning was New Year’s Eve morning. We woke at five o’clock to catch the six-fifty train. We made it to the train station with thirty minutes to spare. So we walked to the river one last time. 

We could hear it before we could see it. Even on the shore, it was pitch black. On close look, you could see lighter grey water rushing through the dark. There was a lamp nearby that flickered in our peripheral vision. And a white light that shone from behind us for a second that didn’t have a source. I was feeling jumpy from espresso on no sleep and an empty stomach. Like my head could float away at any moment. We walked onto the footbridge to be closer to the river. The darkness pressed in on us as we walked. At the end of the footbridge were three red lights, drawing us in. We turned away from the red lights and looked down at the water under our feet. 

A train whistle blew. We jumped and ran back to the station. But it was a ghost whistle. Our train still wasn’t there. It came five minutes later, with headlights so bright it blinded. On the train, the sun didn’t rise for an hour. The river through the window was pitch dark. We may have well been in a tunnel. But it did eventually rise and we arrived in DC. We were home by nine o’clock in the morning. 

I was so tired from waking up early that I didn’t think about that Sunday wish to hold the river in my arms. Besides, it was supposed to rain all day. Yet somehow I stayed awake until that afternoon, at which point I realized actually it wasn’t raining, it was barely a drizzle, and warm, and in fact I could still see both sides of the Potomac River in a single day. 

Off I went. 

This time I didn’t get lost. I got to the river in no time. The light was dull from clouds. The river, to my left, was steel grey and quiet. The canal, to my right, was muddy and piled with broken cattails. Few people were out, but I could hear plenty of cars.

I paused when I saw a pair of ducks in the middle of the canal. They were feeding in the muck. The two ducks dipped their heads down low, sticking their butts up, then returned. They dipped as one in a choreographed dance. Dip, up. Dip and up. It was dirty and grey and muddy and calm. It was home.

-Denise

PS: The podcast I mentioned a couple weeks back is now available to listen to at this link.   Or search “Campaign Season” wherever you listen to podcasts.

PPS: Know anyone who you think would like this? Forward this along! 

So kind of the universe, giving us a reason to embrace the night on the darkest day of the year. I’m talking about The Great Conjunction, when Jupiter and Saturn approached one another for a kiss. 

It happened just after sundown on the solstice and there’s a good chance you heard about it. It was all over the news, apparently. Maybe no one had anything else to do.

I was feeling a little down on the day of the solstice but I went out anyway. I worried I was too late. It was supposed to happen right after sundown; I left an hour later. My weathertweeters tweeted that it would be a cloudy night, the conjunction might be a bust. But a walk was a walk, and that night, I would walk upon bridges with a view. I walked in front of a fire station as the engine was pulling out. It nearly hit me. It pulled out of the driveway and set its sirens to scream. I came upon the first bridge, past a gaggle of tourists looking expectantly southwest. But the clouds had not parted. There were no stars or planets to be seen, only a dim half-moon through moving clouds. 

I went to the next bridge because the clouds could be different over there. Here, people were stretched out all across the bridge, sticking their noses and binoculars through fence posts, readying their cameras but not snapping pictures just yet, the clouds were still too low. Here I paused to wait. The moon was a half-round of babybel cheese. The road curved down below. The police had created a barricade down there, only in one direction. The cars were piling up, confused, honking, probably trying to get home for dinner. I pulled out my phone and my stargazing app so it could tell me where the planets were supposed to be. I took off my gloves. The cold made my skin raw and rigid. 

Then the clouds parted. And there it was. 

The Great Conjunction. A dot of light, and, if you really really squinted, another tiny dot right next to it. (See shitty iPhone photo above).

I looked up and saw through the thinning clouds Mars shining brightly overhead. Mars was all alone, hoping someone would see it. Yet everyone was looking forward over the police barricades. Over what might have been a river long ago. I turned my attention back to the Conjunction. Into the horizon made of dark buildings that look like trees and radio towers and satellites and all the blinking brightness flying and floating by. A satellite passed the Great Conjunction as if it didn’t notice it at all. Two became three, then two again. 

I don’t know why but I kinda teared up. Just the feeling that these dots are their own worlds. These twin touching planets, which in reality sit four hundred and fifty million miles apart, have each other. I imagined someone on Saturn looking out and seeing Earth and Jupiter kiss. Three Earths can fit in Jupiter’s red stormy eye. We are so small. And so are they. Two tiny dots. One even smaller than the other from here, with rings that could fit one billion Earths, rings made of shattered moons. 

Just then I heard someone nearby say, “Are you sure those are the planets? I heard a star duo had a similar plan tonight.”

I was sure. I had this strange feeling that I was looking at the right thing. And, of course, I had my app. 

-Denise

— 

Do you like year-end roundups around NYE? I’m cool with them. It’s kinda nice. Yeah we all went through shit too, but it’s nice to highlight the positives. Here are some of my writing accomplishments from this year: 

“Old Charles”: A flash story published in Flash Fiction Magazine. I later read this story on stage at the Pie Shop with The Inner Loop, which was an incredible experience. I nearly cried on stage and I still don’t know why.

“The Florida Regiment”: My first paid fiction publication, for Mystery Weekly. This was me saying “what if I write a noir story lol.” It was fun. 

“Mount P”: Reprint publication in Vastarien. 

“One Day Closer”: Acceptance from The Forge (forthcoming May 2021 but I already have an author page!) 

“Standing Around the Kitchen Table”: Acceptance from Neutral Spaces Magazine (forthcoming in January or so) 

That’s about it for publications. But most of my accomplishments have been a bit more private. I finished a novel, and three agents have requested a full manuscript of it. I nearly finished a short story collection exploring climate change solutions. I started a second novel and am feeling really good about it. I quit my job to commit to the craft. I started freelancing/contracting and got my first client so eventually I can just do freelance work while I write all the dang time. 

I’m incredibly lucky to have the time, resources, and mental stamina to focus on this. Coronavirus has been hell for so many reasons but I am lucky to have a passion that thrives in solitude, and the weird motivation to write through my pain.

What were your top moments this year? I’d love to hear from you.

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year. But winter has just arrived. Winter has put on its boots and is getting ready to walk all over us. Winter has found the restaurant with outdoor heaters and plastic bubbles and is ready to post up for a while. Winter arrived at the restaurant two minutes before closing time with ten of Winter’s closest friends and thank god they got there just in time, they’re starving, what’s tonight’s special? 

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year, but things won’t get immediately better from there. The cold is just settling in. The northern hemisphere will take awhile to remember the sun. 

Last week was DC’s first “big winter storm” of the season. My local weathertweeters (Capital Weather Gang) posted approximately a million forecasts ahead of time. They posted updates about forthcoming updates. Then the forecasts kept going down. Sixteen inches. Fourteen inches. Ten inches. Potentially zero inches — BUT POTENTIALLY SIXTEEN AGAIN! It was too warm for the great big storm. It was warm enough for the shitty mixed-weather storm. There would be a flood watch. There would be an ice watch. There would be a watch for the flood watch and a watch for the ice watch. My watch has indiglo. This feels important. 

On Wednesday morning, the snow started coming down in thick white dabs. We opened our windows for a better look. The brick alleyway behind our house was coated in an inch. Brick alleyways, brick walls, these things are meant for snow. Then, sure enough, after we had enough snow for a good tease, it started raining, and it didn’t stop, and the wind picked up. 

When you’re stuck at home all day every day forever, you become a creature of habit. I like to run or do yoga in the morning, and walk around town in the evening. I was not about to cancel my evening walk for a little slush-snow-shittiness. I put on thick socks and rain boots. I grabbed a leopard-print umbrella. As soon as I started walking, I realized there was a tiny hole in my right boot. A little dampness seeped in. I was not about to cancel my evening walk for a little dampness. I kept walking; the dampness enveloped my whole foot. The wind turned out my umbrella five times. I was not about to cancel my evening walk for a broken umbrella. Nothing climactic happened here. I finished the walk a little wet and quite cold. The next morning, I went on my morning run. Much of the rain had slicked to ice overnight, but I was not about to cancel my morning run for a little ice. I jogged carefully, very slowly, taking great care to avoid the black spots. Ten minutes in, though, there was a huge giant patch of ice that looked so much like water I decided to go through it. There was no stopping the fall. My left foot went to the right, my right foot followed, my body fell left, I brought out my arms to stop me. I fell on my forearms. Five or so years ago, I slipped on ice during a run and fell straight on my chin, requiring me to get stitches for the first and last time. That didn’t happen this time. I was fine. Not even a bruise. I got up and kept running. I ran weirdly and awkwardly to avoid the ice, perhaps a little twistedly. Near the end, my knee felt a tweak from all the twisting pivots. At this point I gave in. I was not about to injure my knee for an unnecessary morning habit. I walked the rest of the way home. 

Things will get worse before they get better. Actions have consequences. Covid-19 is at its worst looking backward but not looking forward. The earth’s memories of the darkest night will continue to bring cold and shitty storms. 

But the days will get lighter, as will our minds, and soon, we will open our newly vaccinated arms to a nine o’clock sunset, and until then, we will look forward to it. 

-Denise

PS: I have two pieces of good news this week. An old story of mine called “Mount P.” was just reprinted in a cool and creepy anthology called Vastarien, named after a story written by horror writer Thomas Ligotti. Two summers ago, this story was accepted by three different publications almost simultaneously, and I kinda thought this third publication forgot about me until this week. The story is pretty short and kinda weird, which are two things I guess “the market” likes. So if you’d like to purchase the anthology to see other creepy stories and beautiful original artwork, click here. Or, you could read Mount P. where it was previously published here. 

The other good news is that a story I wrote over the summer was just accepted for publication. I wrote it when I was mad at my mom’s former boss. It’s about climate change at a nursing home, and it’ll be published in The Forge literary magazine in May 2021. It’s called “One Day Closer.” 

I’m particularly happy about these developments because both publications pay! I’ve been in a bit of an acceptance slump lately, ever since I started limiting where I submit to journals that either pay something decent-ish or are prestigious in some way. So this is a nice milestone that I crossed twice in one week. (Actually, twice in one day – I learned about both on Monday.) I’m going to use some of the earnings to buy new rain/snow boots so I can stomp around with dry feet. I’m dreaming of yellow Sperrys. 

I was nervous last Sunday night. 

I was nervous about waking up on Monday and having it be the same as Sunday, and Tuesday being the same as Monday, Wednesday the same as Tuesday, Thursday the same, empty, a void… 

It was my first Sunday in the unknown land of unemployment. My first Sunday with a week ahead with no work and nothing to worry about, nothing except for what I brought upon myself. I didn’t realize I was scared, but I did realize I was in a mood. I was sensitive and irritable. I was frustrated about… ah. Nothing. There was nothing worth getting frustrated about. I told myself to stop being frustrated. That didn’t work. 

So instead I went to bed, and then it was Monday morning. A whole day, week, year ahead of me. And I got to work. 

It’s not difficult for me to fill my days. I made a daily schedule and a list of weekly goals. I wrote, wrote some more, read, ran, walked, cleaned, accidentally stumbled my way into some freelance work, edited some things, I don’t even know else at this point, I basically was in a fugue state until Tuesday night. 

Tuesday night: I had to finish a proposal, then had scheduled an interview with a comedian friend of mine who just started a podcast called Campaign Season. I spent forty minutes or so preparing things to say that would be witty, enlightening, and/or brilliant; then twenty minutes telling myself to relax; and then it began. Of course, the questions he ended up asking were none of the ones I had prepared for, so I forgot about all my brilliant witticisms (they were fine), but it was a fun and fruitful conversation. We talked about my time working on climate policy during Trump-world, the dread and nihilism that can come with climate advocacy, and… the time I sorta cursed out an anti-masker. (Sorry mom.) (It’s not available to listen to just yet – I’ll share a link when it is.)

When it was over, my nerves were on fire. I’ve done a fair few public interviews over the years — on both sides of the microphone — so this wasn’t new. But still, my adrenaline was going. There is a very particular state of mind in these situations that requires laser focus: you’re zeroing in on the words coming out of your mouth, while also strategizing about what to say next to keep the conversation going. (I understand this is also how you might define hanging out with your friends, but it’s … not the same? Okay, it’s almost the same.)

Anyway, after we wrapped up, I went on a walk to shake off the adrenaline. It was nighttime, a little cold, so I pulled on my hat and plugged in a podcast. But fifteen minutes into my walk, I realized I hadn’t heard a single word of the podcast. My mind was jabbering. Loudly! My mind was yelling at me, replaying all the things I said, and all the things I wish I’d said. I had to turn it off. I had to listen to … 

nothing. 

I was so nervous on Sunday about facing nothingness. The empty abyss of time. The days stretching into one another, passing by with no forward movement. So I filled up this open space with thing after thing after thing. Even then, after the interview, I felt like I needed to do something productive, so I picked a podcast that also served as background research for my next novel. I was so worried about letting this time go to waste that I almost drove myself crazy. 

I’ve said it before, but the writing life requires a lot of waiting. Right now, three agents are reading my full novel manuscript — by which I mean my novel is one of many on their long list of novels to read. It could be months before I hear back. Then, if someone accepts it, they have to sell it to a publishing house. More waiting. After that, there can be up to two more years before publication. In the meantime, I’m trying to sell short stories, so I’m waiting and waiting and hoping for some good news. 

I wanted to write ‘noticements’ because I believe every moment could be worth noticing. I still believe that… but it’s pretty overwhelming! Turns out there are, like a billion moments in any given day, and each one has potential, and if I’m missing it, what next? 

My moment of mind-yelling adrenaline reminded me I need to become more comfortable with nothingness. With the abyss. With moments of rest. To turn off the podcast and float in silence. 

Sometimes, moments are worth noticing… and sometimes they’re not. 

-Denise

I quit my job this week. 

No, that’s not quite right. You could say I quit four months ago, when I publicly announced I’d be leaving. 

Or maybe in April, when I finalized my end date.

Or maybe last November, when I told my boss I was applying for grad school, and that if I didn’t get in, I’d leave either way to study on my own. 

Or maybe two Augusts ago, when I was walking around Brooklyn and realized, oh my god, I want to write, I want to apply for grad school or take a year off, and I’m really going to do it. 

Point is, if there were an award for longest exit transition from a job ever (excluding retirement),  I’m pretty sure I’d take the gold medal. I’ve been anticipating this for a long time. I’ve been anticipating closure from the past four years of my life. 

I wondered what that would feel like. Closure. 

My last day was on Tuesday, but I scheduled a meeting for Thursday, and had a goodbye virtual happy hour on Friday. Even in the final week, my exit was drawn out. In limbo. No goodbyes yet, no closure. 

After I wrapped up Tuesday, I didn’t have time for closure. I had a virtual writing group to attend, then I passed out at nine o’clock. I was exhausted. The next day, I made myself busy with a host of other things. Life-putting-back-together things. Figuring out health insurance and my 401(k). Writing this and that, reading that and this. Signing up for a writing class. Picking up a library book. Picking out Chanukah gifts. Sending Chanukah gifts. 

My final task for the day was mailing the gifts. I wondered, should I go to UPS, Fedex or the Post Office? The Post Office had closed by the time I was walking around Columbia Heights, and FedEx was closer to me, so there it was. Then I had to choose, express mail? Fragile mail? How long would each take, were my gifts fragile enough to require the extra padding, how rough do the FedEx workers treat the non-fragile packages, do they throw them around like footballs or place them underneath bowling balls? I chose the fragile, non-express option. The FedEx worker who checked me out wore a mask that said “FedEx strong” and a livestrong-esque bracelet that said “Wish.” He looked about twenty but had the confidence of someone aged forty (though I suppose that’s a trait of most twenty-year-olds). Someone walked in with a package ready to go and, even though I got there first, the FedEx worker took this ready-to-go package and sent it off. The benefits of being prepared. I didn’t care, I had nothing to do after this. Someone else walked in and asked, “Do you deliver to P.O. boxes?” FedEx-strong-man said, with pride, “Nope, that’s literally the only thing FedEx doesn’t do.” As if aside from delivering to P.O. boxes, FedEx could save the world. Then he attended to my packages, and that was that. 

Afterwards, I walked. I didn’t have anywhere to go, I just wanted to walk. The sun had barely set, the night was new, everyone was outside because what else was there to do. I walked on sidewalks that sloped downwards and upwards. Curb ramps with bumpy rumble strips. I became intensely focused on equilibrating the feeling of my feet. Every time my right foot stepped on a crack, I needed to even it out with my left. Every time the left came down on a bumpy rumble strip with those little cement balls, the right had to do so on the next. The crack-to-foot location and intensity mattered as well. Top of the left hard, top of the right hard. Back of the right heel, you know how it goes. It’s a weirdly soothing game that borders on mental insanity if you try too hard. Sometimes I don’t even realize I am playing it until I find myself jumping to reach a rumble strip with the correct foot, when I have to tell myself to calm down, that it’s okay if the feeling in the feet is slightly different, it all evens out in the end. 

This is when I realized I had closure. 

Closure is not some big, cinematic thing. It is simply the realization that your mind can be occupied by something different. That your previous worries are gone. And that’s that. 

For the first time in a long time, I had the mental space to focus on the feeling of my feet. 

-Denise

14th Street NW

Thanksgiving morning. I’m in a Carolinian cabin filled with Scottish tartans and pipes and a fireplace and two stuffed ducks. Dozens of squirrel-sized chairs are placed lovingly on all the available empty spaces: on dressers, on the china cabinet, on the bedside table. If people disappeared and this house were left to the elements, the squirrels of the woods would civilize themselves so they could sit obediently on the small chairs and celebrate squirrel-Thanksgiving.

The roads to get here are so twisty they made Seth vomit sixteen times, in four sets of four, because he likes symmetry. A cop pulled us over when Seth stuck his head out the side of the car to vomit on a precarious winding cliffside drive. She said she didn’t want him to get decapitated. We told her he couldn’t help it, he needed to, well you know, she said whatever and drove off.

*

That was last night, it’s Thanksgiving morning now, well afternoon, and his stomach has settled, and food preparations are underway. But I’m on the phone and stressed out. My friend can’t find my cat. My cat needs to take her hyperthyroid pill so she doesn’t vomit everywhere, which she also likes to do in sets of four. But my friend who’s watching her can’t find her. I ask her to look under the couch, but no. I tell her to waft treats under the kitchen sink, where the cat sometimes crawls into a hole in the side of the wall or maybe goes to Narnia, who can say, but no. I’m pacing past the squirrel-sized chairs, pulling at my hair, wondering if this was the time the cat finally snuck out the door while we weren’t looking.

Then I glance out the window and see smoke. It’s billowing. This is no fireplace smoke, this is smoke with a vengeance, smoke that will keep building. I say ‘gotta go’ and rush over to look.

The power line outside our highlands home is in flames. A tree has broken where it stood. Its trunk is on the power line. The line is on fire and now spitting fireballs. Two fireballs crack into the air. Then our power goes out.

*

Nothing bad happens. Time stops, the fire stops. The transformer shuts down the power line. We call 911, it takes the power guys an hour to reach us, but they arrive, and they know what to do. They wrap a rope around the fallen trunk, hold it in place, and chainsaw the rest of it bit by bit. They have thick white mustaches. They have pulleys and cranes and a little white box where they can float themselves up to the top. They pull the tree off the branch and navigate with the adeptness of the most popular kid at the arcade.

They replace the power line with no problem. Our lights come on, the oven turns on, our clocks turn back on, time starts again. My friend finds the cat. It’s Thanksgiving day and the powerline men should be home watching football and eating cheese whiz, but they are here, saving the day for us, the outsiders who cheer every time the powerline men saw off a new chunk of wood, we who have never seen a downed power line in our lives, who giggle at squirrel-sized chairs, and if nothing else, we are grateful.

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This week, we packed our entire apartment into heavy-duty trash bags and stacked them in the middle of the living room. Our entire lives were in a pile of garbage.

The bed bug guys were coming. 

On Monday morning at six thirty, I sat in the middle of the garbage bag pile and felt a weird anticipation. I knew it was going to be a bad day. But that everything would soon be better. 

It was, in fact, a very bad day. Worse than expected. We had spent all weekend cleaning the apartment, putting everything into bags, scrubbing every inch of the carpet. We had broken two vacuums trying to clean up the diatomaceous earth we put down earlier (the dust clogged and broke the motors). We had purchased a shop vac on Craigslist; it sufficed to spread the dust around the air — so much that it set off the smoke alarm — but nothing more. We had to pick up all the dust by hand and clean up the remnants with a rented carpet cleaner named Rug Doctor.  

There was more to do Monday morning before the bed bug guys came. We had to take apart the bed, clean the bedroom rug, and put all the last-minute things away — anything left out would be covered in pesticides. We hurried to finish then I had to rush off. I had to return the Rug Doctor to the nearby grocery store then get to work in time to run a virtual staff meeting (I would be the only one at the office, and only because I needed to get out of the apartment). 

I marched out of the apartment with the carpet cleaner rolling behind me like a suitcase. I hadn’t eaten anything yet so with my other hand I peeled open a granola bar. I walked up the brick alley behind our house, praying the bricks wouldn’t break the wheels. Seth called as I walked; I picked up, and I forget what he called about, because my phone turned off in the middle of our conversation. “IPhone disabled, try again in five minutes.” I got to the grocery store; of course there was a line at customer service. I had to hug myself to keep still; with my phone disabled I had no source of diversion other than to realize how stressed I was. As soon as I handed off the carpet cleaner I ran outside. My phone was working again; good, because I needed it to rent a bikeshare to get to the office. At this point the sun was too warm for my outfit; I stuffed my jacket into my backpack, rented a bike, and took off. I made it to the office just in time to run the meeting. For the next three hours, I talked and talked. 

I have only a few days left at my job before I take a year off to focus on writing. That means I have a few days to pass on everything that I’ve learned in the past four years. A college education’s worth of time and knowledge. To condense it all into presentations and resource documents. It’s not like I wasn’t prepared. I’ve known my end date for eight months now. But I didn’t plan for bed bugs. 

While cleaning up Monday morning, I didn’t think. While biking, I didn’t think. While running the meeting, I didn’t think. My adrenaline had taken over. I just did, did, did. When it was over, when I had time to sit back in silence, I nearly collapsed in fatigue from the mental strain of the day. I spent the next couple hours working in a horizontal position before I worked up the energy to bike home. 

Here’s the moment I want to remember: The bike ride home. 

The cool air on my eyes as I let myself roll down a hill. The lifting sensation that this stress would soon end. I would have closed my eyes if not for the cars. I felt very aware of my brain floating in my skull; I felt as if it were swimming in a pool, plunged into the chilly evening air. 

It would soon be over. The nightmare of living in a garbage heap, of worrying myself silly over bugs. We would soon be able to curl up on the couch with the cat and a candle. We would put our home back together. All I knew in that moment: relief. 

*

The feeling of relief is interesting to me. Interesting in how much it really is a lack of any one thing: It’s what rushes in when the stress rushes out. In fact it relies on stress. After all the stress of Election Night, when Biden’s victory was announced, I felt relief. After this terrible day, terrible even though I knew it would be terrible, at the end of it I felt nothing but joy. It’s a realization that, for the first time, a thing that had weighed on you had now lifted. It is a return to equilibrium but somehow this equilibrium is better than before. 

The best massage I had in my entire life was in Guatemala, the day after a two-day hike to the top of a volcano. My friend and I hiked ten miles straight up with our camping gear on our backs, then ten miles straight down. I learned about every leg muscle in my body: they all screamed for attention. The next day we got massages and it hurt so bad but in the best way possible. 

Flash forward to a couple years later, the next time I got a massage… I had to schedule it several weeks in advance, and by the time the appointment came around, I was feeling fine, I wasn’t sore at all. And the massage was fine, it was relaxing, it was nice. But my body didn’t scream in relief. I wondered: how could I plan for a stressful day? How could I know ahead of time when I would most need it? 

At the end of the day, I’m left with an appreciation for stress, because at some point, stress must end, and what’s left afterwards — the emptiness, the lack — has a meaning worth noticing. 

-Denise

PS: Did any moment stand out to you this week? Do you have a story about stress and relief? Leave a comment or shoot me a reply, I’d love to hear from you! 

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At three in the morning, I was unable to sleep, reading Stephen King’s IT in bed in the dark.

I am thirty years old, aka not a baby, but reading this book, I was scared. My blood was pulsing. My nerves were tingling. It’s not real. It’s not real. Without turning the lights on, I got out of bed to to go the bathroom, calm myself down and splash water on my face.

Yet when I walked in the hallway by the light of my phone, I was deeply aware of the empty spaces of darkness around me. They shimmered with movement. The air shifted. If I looked down at my feet, my peripheral vision would wiggle. Anything could be there. A murderous clown. The demon soul of a small town. It’s just a book. But I could not let my gaze linger on the dark spaces of the hallway; if I concentrated for too long, a disembodied hand would surely reach out and grab me. I walked quickly, but not so quickly as to give in to a run, and did what I needed to do, trying not to think.

When I got back to the bedroom, Seth was sleeping soundly. I touched his shoulder to make sure he was still alive. 

He was. 

Then there it was: a movement at the door. 

Footsteps padding on the carpet… in my direction. The floor exhaling. The air skittering. And a thwap of motion, a thrusting through the air, right towards me!

My cat jumped onto the bed. 

She purred like a motor and curled up on my calves. She stood back up and repositioned herself; she rested her head on my left ankle. Her purrs vibrated through the quilt. 

I nearly cried. I had missed her so much. 

Let me back up. 

It had been weeks since we’d let the cat sleep in the bed. Last month, we had bed bugs. It was a whole thing, I’ll probably write more about it some other time. But we had some bed bugs and we didn’t allow the cat on the bed, or anything that hadn’t come fresh out of the high-heat dryer, until we were sure they were gone. 

Essentially, for all of October, our home was upended. During quarantine. We didn’t feel comfortable in our own home, and we had nowhere else to go. I decided during this time to try writing horror, to process and turn these awful feelings into something useful. This meant I should read horror, too. So I started reading Stephen King’s IT. I remember being so thoroughly frightened by The Shining in high school I nearly threw the book across my bedroom. How can words on a page bring your heart to a quick beat, make you catch your breath? I wanted to remember that feeling. I wanted to be terrified by something other than real life. And I wanted to recreate it. I didn’t realize that the feelings would be so hard to eliminate in the middle of the night. 

The worst part about the bed bugs wasn’t the bed bugs. It was the fear. The fear that a couple tiny bugs could lead to a major infestation. The fear that we would be trapped in our house with these bugs, that all our plans to travel would be ruined, that we’d bring the bugs to our friends, that we’d never be able to sublet, that nothing would be the same. But none of that happened. Everything is fine. We did what we needed to do, and now we’ve been declared bed bug-free (and we’re getting professional treatment on Monday just in case). 

I tried to keep my spirits up, but this ordeal really wore me out. On top of… well, everything else. Election stress. Climate change fears. I needed a home base. I needed a private place of normalcy. 

When we let the cat back on the bed, it was a relief. My furry lovebug, my miniature elephant, my rock; she was with me, and I knew everything would be okay. The dark corners of the hallway were just dark corners. The sounds of the night were just the earth moving and breathing as it whirled around the sun. 

The movements of nighttime are terrifying not for what they are, but what they represent. The unknown. The unseen. It all has to do with the stories you tell yourself. You can tell a story of fear, or of wonder. 

Still… I think I’ll read IT by day. 

-Denise

PS: Please enjoy this photo series of Ellie getting a headrub from Seth:

SIGN UP FOR NOTICEMENTS

It all feels very personal, doesn’t it?

We’ve been carrying the weight of the election for weeks, for months. We’ve been carrying more than one body can hold, more than an election can provide. The pandemic. The isolation. The deaths. We wanted a salve. We wanted an end. We did everything we weren’t supposed to do: we drank too much and stayed up too late to stress over a needle flowing back and forth like grass in a breeze. We wanted to forget everything at the same time as we watched this needle, hypnotized by its movements; we wanted it to put us asleep so we could wake up on the other side and it would all be over. 

Now we’ve woken up, and the world is still craggy and imperfect. The needle is broken. The pandemic is still here. Election night created a thousand parallel universes and I feel as if my conscious self has flown apart to join them. The cynical self never wants to think about politics again. The lizard-brain self would like to take a week-long nap. The most optimistic self is glad for what happened, because maybe it means people will understand that we’re not in the clear, and that now more than ever we need strong movements — and I don’t mean ‘screw that racist guy’ movements, but Green New Deal movements, healthcare-for-all movements, movements that inspire millions of new people to get involved. Although, the nervous self of me realizes that I have no real clue how to impact electoral politics, how to change the mind of hundreds of thousands of people, so maybe everything I think about that is still wrong. 

Here’s what’s been getting me through the pandemic, the election, everything: small moments. Putting the computer away, going outside, and opening my eyes. Noticing things outside of myself:

• when the brightness of Mars matches the ambulance lights in Adams Morgan;
• when a mother mouse shepherds her babies on a life-or-death journey across a sidewalk;
• when the yellow leaves in Rock Creek Park drop like rain.

I spend a good part of my days writing fiction. I love it, but it’s a pretty isolating vocation.  I work on a story for days, weeks, or months; I submit a million different places; I hear back months later with rejections that keep getting kinder, and once in a blue moon an acceptance; I wait months between acceptance and publication before I can share with the world, and even then, sometimes the piece is behind a paywall. In the time between when I write a story and when I’m able to share it, years have passed. 

So I’ve been looking for a way to write in a way that engages more immediately with my community. That’s why I’m starting up an email newsletter. Once a week, I want to write about something immediate, something real, something I can share with whoever wants to read it. I’m calling it “noticements” because it’s just about moments where I notice… anything. 

Mostly I am doing this for me. I don’t have a grand theory of change here. I want to stay sane.

But I also hope that in writing this, I can encourage others to pay attention as well. To their inner selves, to the political landscape, to the mouse that’s just trying to stay alive.

CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE TO “NOTICEMENTS.”

A broken mirror on pavement. Even though the mirror was on the same plane as the pavement, the focus of the reflection appeared further away. Cameras can only focus on one plane at a time.

You can also invite your friends to read with you.