Sometimes a piece of paper needs to be cut exactly in half and scissors aren’t readily available. There is another method that can potentially get the job done.
The edges of the page can be carefully matched up, corner to corner, in near perfect alignment.
A beautiful crease can then be made right down the middle. The fold is created exactly in the center, and it’s almost as if the line is evidence of some kind of satisfying achievement. The last step before the main event.
Then, the moment arrives. The goal and intention has always been to divide the original in two, knowing that the method is not ideal.
Carefully, with close attention to detail, the tearing apart begins.
That exact nerve wracking moment when the paper fibers initially begin releasing from each other with the hope of creating two equal shares feels very similar to what some teachers and educational professionals have felt while preparing for pandemic hybrid learning.
The pressure has been intense. The expectations all around us and of ourselves has amplified that pressure. We have made decisions that involve everything in terms of halves; half days, half of classes, two cohorts, two platforms for delivering instruction, dividing supplies in half, and dividing our time and attention in half.
Just like the outcome of a piece of torn paper, it’s going to turn out the way it’s going to turn out, no matter how much thought and planning was put into it. Each separate part is NOT going to turn out exactly the same as the other cleanly and the fear of judgement about the final result is real.
The hope is this: Just as some people who may not feel right about wasting perfectly good pieces of paper that have been torn in some way, or are uneven, we can still find value in it before we think of throwing it all out when it’s over.
Some may want to simply forget when this moment in time of crisis teaching and distance/hybrid learning approaches the end.
This is also the same moment to acknowledge everything that has been done behind the scenes to try to make it work, and that many pieces and parts although very different in many ways, are worth holding on to moving forward.
What is going to hold value for us now as we move forward? What are we going to let go of and what will we hold on to?
For as long as I can remember, I have been pretty uncomfortable when it comes to starting a conversation. I have always needed a scaffold. Someone to go first. An outspoken and more confident friend or family member who brings comic relief to the room. An adult beverage or an actual conversation piece like an interesting accessory or a delicious appetizer. I need someone to model it for me. What does speaking with confidence look like or sound like in a completely new (or not so new) setting?
In the name of self- reflection, something that is crucial for truly being an anti-racist and culturally responsive educator, I looked deeper into a part of my own history. I studied the part of my cultural identity map that is tricky; the part that brings up all the feelings.
I had never really named it, but a big source of my awkwardness and discomfort in some social situations is rooted in my Racial, Ethnic, and Cultural (REC) identity. (Tatum, 1997)
I am third generation Filipino American. Both sets of my grandparents immigrated to the U.S. from the Philippines in 1950 and 1957.
My Dad and my Grandma made the journey when he was 5. My mom was born in The States two years after my Grandma and Grandpa had made their voyage.
My parents were raised in San Francisco and grew up as English Only speakers. My mom’s parents chose not to teach the native tongue of the homeland to their children with the hope of making it easier for them to assimilate to American culture. My dad felt conflicted at a young age with the beginnings of a bilingual life, so English ended up being his primary language.
Mom and dad found each other as teenagers in the big city, living a legendary life as two young Filipino Americans who formed lifelong friendships. Their groups of friends were a diverse mix that included Filipinos like them, White, Black, and Asian folx. My dad and his hobbyist musician friends even named their band Shades of Soul. I still love hearing the stories about that era.
In ‘78, my parents moved to the burbs to Vallejo, California, and had me in 1980.
I had already learned so much about what the words minority and majority meant and felt like at this point even though no one had named it for me yet.
For about two years prior to grade one, I was in a room full of kids and teachers in my preschool and Kindergarten classes with people who for the most part, didn’t look like me. The learning environments felt safe and nurturing enough, aside from the occasional classmate asking me (maybe telling me?) if I was Chinese. The community was mostly a reflection of my Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kid dolls, and 1980’s sitcoms. Representation of Filipinos around this particular time was limited.
My parents thought about what would be best for my educational future when they decided to enroll me in private Catholic school starting in first grade. I walked into my new class to meet a room full of young Filipino American kids. They were dressed in the same school uniforms as mine, like mirrors all around me, reflecting the same look; brown skin and dark hair. Out of the class of about 25, only 3 or 4 kids were not Filipino.
I was actually part of the racial majority this time.
The relief and sense of belonging didn’t last long, however. I was quickly considered the minority again, but this time by definition of the language that I didn’t speak.
I was amidst Filipino-American peers who were smart, family-oriented, whose parents were well-off enough to afford private Catholic school, AND bilingual.
However, I was missing a couple of invisible checkboxes that were required in order to really fit into the dominant culture, especially in any social circles outside of the classroom.
I would attend birthday parties in which my classmate’s parents would come up to me and automatically speak Tagalog, expecting me to understand and respond. When they saw my deer-in-the-headlights expression, the look of confusion and disappointment on their faces created the ultimate awkward moment. Some would be so bold to as to ask me (after quickly switching back to English), “Why didn’t your mom and dad teach you?!”.
The awkward cycle of confusion mixed with a precise amount of shame repeated itself at different times in my life. Although my parents and I had attended many functions and gatherings in which we were fully immersed in the language, it is just one part of my heritage that I still have very limited knowledge of to this day.
I learned to assimilate within my own culture. Nod. Smile. Listen. Participate and be engaged to the best of my ability. Repeat. It became my communication playlist by default not only in a room full of bilingual Filipinos, but in many other contexts too.
On some occasions, the times that I would find the more confident version of my voice, I would find out later that I had been called “white washed”.
Sometimes, in a room full of non-Filipino folx, I would for some, instantly become a product of assumptions, fielding questions about a HUGE extended family that I didn’t have, stereotypical things that me and my family didn’t do, the rarity of me being an only child, and of course the assumption that I was bilingual.
Sometimes when it seemed to not have added up for people, they would ask me if I was of mixed race.
Mellow and quiet “Zen Jenn” has been a part of my identity for many years in certain situations. I would cue up the playlist because it felt safer. Nod, smile, listen. Contribute when comfortable in a “positive vibes” kind of way, and quietly let go of the statements that were based on other people’s assumptions. I would take notice of awkward reactions and just move on.
Now it is necessary to circle back.
Moving forward, I am reminded of what is so important, yet so challenging, especially within educational systems:
When an assumption is quickly made about a person (or student) in the room (or classroom), it can potentially put the real narrative on mute, sometimes for the long-term.
How someone identifies across racial, gender, and cultural lines, and any of the experiences that are part of their journey are the ultimate conversation starters. They help us learn from each other, and they are worth any initial fear of discomfort.
I am proud of my cultural identity, especially the parts that are complex. My grandparents and parents made difficult choices to help support the future generations in the family, even though some may not have agreed. I have finally figured out how to share the part of my cultural identity map that seemed hard to explain before, because of my own assumption of people not getting it, or not being able to relate.
The current state of the world is an open invitation to replace assumptions with the true narratives. We can change our own personal playlists. Reflect, rehearse, unmute all, and listen.
What stories and scaffolds can we build to empower everyone to be a part of the conversation?
Tatum, Beverly Daniel. Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria And Other Conversations about Race. New York, Basic Books, 1997, 2017
There’s something both highly obsessive and therapeutic about packaging up my daughter’s birthday favors and treats every year. For the 9th time, I stayed up late on one of the last days of September long after she and everyone else in the house had gone to bed. Even in the state of the world in the year 2020, with no in-person birthday parties and no pressure to make a class set of 25 (non-edible) treats, the tradition lived on, just in a slightly different way. I still found myself at the annual 11:38 p.m. Friday Night Crafting Party for One.
In my opinion, a 10th birthday during a global pandemic was all the more reason to NOT break tradition. We went with mask-friendly headbands and teeny tiny stuffed animal heads, both items Amazon purchases. I also sprung for pre-packaged international snacks from Cost Plus World Market.
The motherly micromanagement of putting together birthday swag is most definitely why I do this every year. The placement of the little presents on a bed of multi-colored decorative shredded gift wrap paper really makes me happy. Simply folding down the tops of flowery paper bags with a satisfyingly crisp crease and sealing it with a sticker brings special meaning to my life. My daughter has over 5 years of legible handwriting under her belt and although I always intend on having her hand write most of the tags and little messages, I ended up taking over. In her preschool and primary grade years, it was a great opportunity for her to practice fine motor, counting, and 1:1 correspondence skills by letting her fill the bags. Now that she is a decade old, I officially reclaimed that job too, because she had other things to tend to (sleeping?) and I needed the feeling of having control over SOMETHING, especially in these times.
The favor bags held a little more purpose this year, as the birthday celebration itself was obviously super different. We opted to drive around the neighborhood and hand deliver the packages so she could have quick socially distant visits with friends. No big production of a drive thru birthday parade (our street is way too busy for that anyway), and no awkward invitations for anything that resembled a party or gathering.
It was the most low key and controlled birthday celebration we had ever experienced in the history of her 10 birthday parties. We enjoyed it. We had mother daughter time, she had friend time, and there was no post-party mess to clean up or any disappointment of a big celebration being over. She claims that she never wants to have another party again. Sounds a bit extreme, but it will definitely work for now.
You would think that by now I would have realized that birthday goodie bags and handmade party decor aren’t the most important part of the celebration. This year however, they served as one small reason to reconnect with other humans in person, even just for a few minutes since it had been such a long time.
Therefore, the decision is final. I will continue this crafty birthday bag ritual until she’s 50.
The murder of George Floyd and the beginning of another historical life changing world event, a racial justice movement, occurred within the last 9 teaching days of the 2019-2020 school year.
The students in my third grade class and their parents may or may not have been expecting acknowledgement or a comment from their teacher about this turning point in our country. We were days away from the “celebration” of the end of an exhausting and traumatic year that was interrupted by the Covid-19 global pandemic.
Thoughts and words were shared within the classroom and the school communities during the last days of an unprecedented school year. Final goodbyes were said. Virtual hugs were given. Life went on into the transition to summer vacation.
The words that we share, read and hear, the ones that we choose to say or not to say make an impact. It may last for as long as a topic is trending. The impact of words might have the power and potential to resonate with us for however long we individually “survive” through this time in history.
The following are collections of some words that may have impacted and influenced educators in different ways over the last decade or so.
The last list, along with so many other words and names not mentioned yet, hold the power to change the narrative for educators and students.
What if these words and topics were addressed and used more frequently in structured and respectful conversations in the school setting, even at the elementary level?
What impact could these words and ideas have during weekly lesson planning, staff meetings, parent communication, and data analysis?
Would the conversations be uncomfortable?
How would students benefit from the use of these words and topics in their learning spaces?
Some teachers may agree that the topics from the first 3 word lists have always held a higher priority than the last one prior to May 25th, 2020. How important are they now, given the current state of the world?
Summer vacation during the time of Covid-19 invited many educators to get comfortably uncomfortable and take the journey of digging deep into the truths of racism.
What is one of the biggest and most important truths?
Having the choice to learn about racism is a privilege.
After the choice is made, words can either be used to try to keep things as “normal” as possible, or they can dramatically change the narrative.
Actions do speak louder, but the words are the place to start.
My toddler son made a couple of big kid transitions during the past two months while sheltering at home. He outgrew his afternoon nap. He doesn’t need a stroller or anyone to carry him anymore during long neighborhood family walks.
These milestones were never on the calendar, marked neatly in a box labeled with a specific date and time. They just happened. He definitely didn’t plan ahead for them either, (however, in the potty-training department, I wish he would). The attention span and thought pattern of a 3 year old probably doesn’t include the concept of what’s going to happen five minutes from now. When we attempt to tell him to wait because something is going to happen in two minutes, it’s sometimes a risky move; an invitation for a potential meltdown.
With everything that has been going on in our world over the last months, thinking with a toddler mindset can be beneficial sometimes. Some of the most stressful moments that I’ve experienced during the Covid-19 pandemic stemmed from unproductive thoughts about something far into the future that I have no control over. It was either that, or I was looking back too far, sulking over silly things that I miss; ways of life and memories that are no longer a reality.
Last year, when my father passed away, I wrote a post about looking to the future only ten days at a time, to help heal and grow through the grieving process. Now a new adjustment is necessary. Five minutes. The future that may exist in the next five minutes seems easy enough to handle, especially when the answers that I want aren’t there, and it may be quite a while until they come.
It’s also a very grim and humbling experience to remember that so many people have fought until the end for the next, (or last) five minutes of their lives. Struggles and challenges have taken on such an intense and whole new meaning for everyone: health, life, food, finances, safety. If a “struggle” involves not having an exact plan for something that is a non-emergency or non essential situation, waiting for five minutes at a clip is good with me.
My son lives his life and makes his toddler moves based on what’s right there in front of him. He sometimes refers to the past using phrases such as “earlier” or “last earlier”, when he wants to talk about something that may have occurred a week ago, or even pre-pandemic. At this point, many of us are questioning what day it is anyway, so making less references to the past could be a good thing.
The word “tomorrow” isn’t a high frequency word for my son yet either. Wouldn’t it be interesting to view life this way, even for a small chunk of the day? If tomorrow wasn’t on your radar, but the next five minutes of your future were guaranteed, how would you spend the time? I’m going to ask myself this question the next time I’m stuck in an unproductive thought or worry. Most likely that will be sometime tomorrow, being that today is Sunday.
How do you try to keep yourself focused on the present moment during a global pandemic?
Finally. I have channeled the inner YouTuber that exists in the depths of my soul but was too busy or afraid to summon until now. I started a personal blog as a hobby two summers ago. I created an unlisted YouTube channel out of necessity about two weeks ago.
“Hey Guys!”, as the elite YouTubers and vloggers would say with such enthusiasm. Welcome to the world of remote learning. This place is strange. On Friday, March 13th, I was not so cordially invited to the world of distance learning due to the Covid-19 pandemic. Other educators across the nation, around the world, and in my own living room, because my husband is also a teacher, have had no choice but to deliver instruction and learning guidance to our students using online platforms.
The college course for teaching elementary students remotely during a pandemic was never offered in the credential programs. Strangely, I have a distant memory of sitting in a Saturday Seminar teacher course at Saint Mary’s College in 2005. One of the keynote speakers mentioned something called YouTube. It was described as some form of online communication. I jotted it down somewhere but didn’t spell it right. I think I scribbled down, “You Too”. I was half listening at the time.
It is now April, 2020. I made the official decision to upload some of my teaching content on YouTube as a supplement to the other components of my remote learning model. The virtual audience for this new platform is the most important following I’ve ever had. They are the 8 and 9 year olds whose physical classroom setting and teacher were suddenly taken from them this year and they won’t be getting them back as a third grader. It’s been life-changing and heartbreaking. I wanted to give each of the kids an opportunity to still see and hear their teacher somehow.
It felt awkward at first, filming and essentially talking to myself, but it has evolved into a fun and creative outlet for me as well. I purchased a cheap ring light and a microphone. I taught myself how to edit video clips and add music and some cheesy time-lapse effects and transitions. In these trying times, I’ve actually found something that’s motivating and fun, and I thank my “followers” for this.
Imagine my delight when I found out that one of my students watched my writing videos and in turn, wrote a beautiful personal narrative based on the strategies and tips that I had demonstrated. Someone was listening! If not the student, their sweet and helpful parent who may have learned something too. I remember what that felt like within the four walls of the classroom and I’m still mourning the loss of those powerful teacher-student moments when information clicked for all parties involved.
This is a challenging period in everyone’s lives, but as I try to convey to my students often, we should keep learning, keep creating, keep documenting this historical time, and try our best to keep having fun. I’m not sure how many of my students realize it, but they’re all motivating me to do the same.
Almost exactly one year ago today, I was about two-thirds of the way into a 12 hour flight to Beijing; the first stop on a family trip to Thailand. School was very much in session, so as a teacher and a mom, I had all the plans in place. I prepped for a 10 day substitute teacher for my third graders. I also made sure I followed the rules and guidelines to apply for and set up my daughter’s independent study for learning abroad while she was on vacation halfway around the world with her mom, grandmother, and extended family members.
My husband and two-year-old son stayed home and held down the fort. My father was still alive. He stayed back too, mostly at peace with the ladies of his life embarking on this big life-changing travel adventure.
Now it’s March 18th, 2020. Since then, dad passed away nine months ago. Other family members and friends have also become ill or died. And of course, most recently, and unrelated to the loss of those loved ones and purely by strange coincidence, the COVID-19 pandemic hit.
I’ve spent the last four days scrambling, collaborating with colleagues, and piecing together “remote learning” plans for another group of third graders who I’ve had to leave, this time with no real date of return, due to school closures.
Over the course of the last 365 days, my family and I have been through a journey of travel and grief; life changes, hope, and social distancing. I’ve lost track of how many versions of “The New Normal” I have lived through to this point since March of last year.
I still bring myself back to that Air China flight from SFO to Beijing. I was scared and anxious. I didn’t know what to expect. Things that happened around me were already so different from what I was used to, and I hadn’t even set foot on new land yet. I had to adapt right then and there.
Currently, I continue to move freely about this airplane cabin of life, confined to my own home, hours on end. Fear of the outside. New ways of navigating the interior, and forced to adapt. There’s nothing to do but make the most of the situation, meet basic human needs, find entertainment value in things, and keep the blood circulating. Eventually, I’m hoping that I and everyone else will land.
A year ago, I had one of the most beautiful life experiences that ended up helping me through some of the most difficult ones down the road, and I am thankful everyday for that time in my life. Even though at one point I was anxious, and wasn’t sure it was going to end, I wouldn’t have gotten there without that long flight.
I like to think that the Instagram posts of date nights with my husband are largely sponsored by my mom and the kindness of her heart and free childcare. I apparently missed the train on monetizing my social media presence, but the gift of time is a real thing. I’m just as accepting and grateful to enjoy opportunities for “extra time” to have fun and reset the soul.
My husband and I took a quick overnight getaway to Santa Rosa one weekend, an hour away from where we live. The place where we chose to rest our head was called The Astro Motel. It’s a gem that was recently renovated into a beautiful mid century modern themed roadside inn. We were in vintage aesthetic design heaven during our entire stay. All of the interior and exterior color, decor, and authentic pieces from the 1950’s and1960s made my heart happy.
Our little trip also included an unnecessary 4 minute Uber ride to a brewery that was pretty much just around the corner. We enjoyed live music, beer, a food truck dinner, Saturday brunch, and an unplanned couple of hours of antiquing. I was inspired by creative people, small businesses, and a part of the Bay Area I know very little about. I’m glad that I could enjoy it exclusively with my husband because it’s nice to have a break from having conversations in the presence of little ears.
The weekend getaway brought on the same type of renewed energy that our precious phones or devices obtain when they’re left plugged in overnight to achieve the coveted 100% charge.
Sometimes the bonus minutes that are gifted to us in life allow us to focus on less things all at once. Those moments hold so much value. Maybe it’s seven extra minutes of awake time in the morning that was traded out for another round of snooze, allowing less of a rush out the door. Other times, it’s a rare random half hour when the house is empty or quiet and there’s time to actually gather thoughts, read, write, or do something creative. Twenty four hours or so of uninterrupted one on one time with your spouse is also a pretty nice token of time to treasure.
So this is another thank you to anyone who has ever helped others or helped yourself with the gift of time, the extra minutes, an extended stay, or even more time with a beloved borrowed library book by means of a renewal. The truth is, the time we have has an unknown limit, but when we feel like we have some to spare, we should enjoy it.
My grandma on my Dad’s side lived in San Francisco during my early childhood. For many years, she was a hairdresser at Emporium Capwell who enjoyed recreational shopping trips that were powered by a generous employee discount. She was a saver and a shopper and a collector of many things. I loved visiting her house in the city because it was a unique and visually interesting experience. She lived on the second floor flat of a 3 unit building on Duboce Street. It was filled with an eclectic and colorful archive of items that she proudly displayed. I distinctly remember a large piece of wall art that had two blue peacocks adorned in rhinestones standing face to face in front of some ornate building. It was funky and fuzzy and very fun to stare at. In the living room she had mannequin heads that wore wigs of various styles. I assumed that they served as references to her in-home haircut and styling appointments. No table was left without a cloth or doily, many of which were of the crochet and bright-colored nature. She had other things stacked and organized according to systems that only she could understand.
When I was about 11 years old, a little while after she officially retired from Emporium, she moved out of the city and moved in with my parents and me. She became an official member of suburbia. I was excited to welcome her into our home. She was warm, funny, and kind. I learned more about her quirky collecting nature and witnessed how she managed her belongings within a living space that was definitely more limiting than her place in San Francisco. She scaled back, but she still utilized various types of containers to store her many beloved treasures. She took the city bus around Vallejo so that she could bargain-hunt while everyone else in the house was at school or work. She tucked things away into the compact spaces in her little bedroom (formerly my childhood bedroom), and catalogued scraps of paper mementos into envelopes and perfume boxes.
Grandma was also a social butterfly in her close knit circle of friends within the Filipino community. She regularly attended many gatherings and events and I loved seeing her get dressed up for dances and celebrations. She owned traditional formal Filipino dresses, ternos with high butterfly sleeves, and Maria Clara gowns with beautiful coordinating skirts and shawls. She also had other endless outfit options for whatever the specific occasion called for, whether it was a big outdoor picnic luncheon at a park, or a formal holiday party fundraiser event.
The costume jewelry and accessories that went with all of her looks were truly something special too. She owned hundreds of necklaces and earrings. Bracelets and watches were endless. A couple years after Grandma passed away, my husband and I held a garage sale and we sold a good amount of her accessories (after I hand-picked and held on to my favorites). Yet, I’m STILL currently discovering MORE hidden collections today in and around my childhood home.
Uncovering the Great Grandma Collection has recharged my motivation and goals of buying less fast fashion or mass-produced clothing and accessories. It’s much more interesting to imagine the stories behind someone’s previously loved items. It’s also fun to know that I can sustain the life of that object for at least a little while longer and add another bit of history to it. If I could meet Grandma again, our shopping philosophies and ideas of home decor and organization wouldn’t match up. But I’m glad that I can enjoy the outcomes of some of her past shopping trips (at the most thrifty price; $Free.99). I’m thankful and honored that I can unlock a new layer of excitement for some of the items that sparked her interest and self-expression decades ago.
She was quirky. She was chic. She wanted to archive the small moments and big milestones of her life, so she labeled the envelopes of her mementos with short descriptions that were scrawled in grandma cursive. What better way to learn even more about her and honor her by incorporating some grandma flair into my own life, and document it the way that she would have wanted to? Thank you for shopping and saving, Grandma. Your style and your stories will come back again, and they will live beyond the collection of envelopes, bags, and containers that I love to rediscover.
December brought on a big wave of house reorganization and another much needed reminder of the People Not Things philosophy. The story remains pretty much the same since I started this blog.
I still have too much stuff.
I have more than enough. I went “shopping” in cabinets, closets, and the garage. I rearranged and recreated new living spaces all around the house. I transformed my living room with less than 3 simple furniture moves and now I have a new and noticeably better open space that also sometimes doubles as a behind-the-scenes home gym.
The inventory is constant. I just hadn’t stopped and evaluated it since the summer. My kids discovered new old toys; awkward additions to their brand new Christmas gifts. I was reminded of how much blank paper I have in the house. Unopened printer ink cartridges that I forgot about sweetened the deal.
I still believe that I have enough craft supplies to entertain the most bored child who ever walks through the front door. I came up ahead and “made money” with gift cards that were freed from the junk drawer. Free crafts and caffeine might make for an epic rainy day experience. If it happens to be a high UV day, the family and I will be thoroughly protected from the sun AND from germs for many years with the amount of sunblock and hand sanitizer that I found.
The rediscovery of all this great stuff came with a price, even though I didn’t make any new purchases. I easily spent hours sorting through piles, bags, and papers. My kids had their share of screen time sessions (when they weren’t playing with their old new toys) as I wrangled clothing, shoes, and USB charging cords.
I learned the same lesson all over again. Every item or group of items in my house requires varying amounts of time and attention. Reusable grocery bags sometimes delay the departure to the store by about two minutes due to the trip back inside the house or to the other car to get them. On a cold day, three to four warm winter coat options are nice to have, but storage and maintenance, along with the decision-making process could easily add up to the equivalent of total coat-wearing minutes altogether.
The one item that holds the most value after this recent decluttering session is one of the new board games that my daughter got for Christmas. She asked me to learn and play the game with her at the height of the “stuff shuffle”, and I was a bit stressed. Initially, I didn’t have enough patience to focus because I was devoting my time and my thoughts to the things that needed to be put away. It was a poor showing of being present.
Luckily, my board gamer husband and YouTube stepped in, and we all learned to play and enjoy it around the family table. I then realized that the neatly stacked pile of other board games (new and vintage), that are rarely played deserve time and attention. Playing Plastic Bin Tetris for an hour in the garage to either put something away or apprehend an item isn’t as fun.
I’m once again trying to slow down the stream of incoming items that arrive here. I am aware of the inventory. I have a lot of stuff. I have the people. The amount of time and energy however, are unknown and limited. Some of the clutter will outlive some of the people. It’s a morbid thought, but it’s real.
So instead of cleaning the cleaning supplies tomorrow, I’m going to enjoy all the things that will never fit into a basket or a box on a shelf in the cabinet: Eye contact. Hugs. Holding tight and laughing. Sending a genuine text to say thank you. Tastes and smells, and certain sounds that keep me grounded. Letting go and breathing.
I’ll never be able to store these things away and rediscover them later in their original form. But there’s time for all of it now. I’m sure of it.