I hate the weather.
I talk about and blame nearly everything on the weather lately— all the moods, bullshit, inclement anything— it’s just the weather.
In the land of near perpetual sunshine— I’m taking the cold very personally.
I turned 22 last week, which is simultaneously something and also nothing at all.
I had a lot of feelings, mostly because I realized and remembered how much everything has changed.
A friend reminded me today that everything is always changing— but right now, it all feels very potent and more real.
Mostly because I’m not a child anymore.
And I was a child when I came to college.
And suddenly I’m not.
The other day, I went for a long hike in the rain with my father— we walked for about three hours and looked at the creek, which is full of clear, green water. My dad is full aphorisms and stories.
“This is real.” My dad said of the rain.
This is real.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of “love yourself.” Which is one of those frustrating and vague things that people who are vexingly successful both at love and work like to say.
“Love yourself.”
Bullshit. It means so little.
Here is all I know:
On Saturday night, make a pot of beans.
This is how you love yourself.
You make the pot of beans with some garlic and onions, and then all week, whenever you are hungry, or don’t want to spend money, or are tired— there are beans to eat— all week long.
This is the only thing I really know at this point.
Make some beans.
This is how you love yourself.
I love you.
xoxo
m
