Alpacas, I discovered recently, chew in a very wide and exaggerated way. They really articulate their chewing. Chomp. I love that my dog eats like an alpaca. I feed her a constant stream of dog snacks everyday just to watch her chew.
I love the sound of the first popsicle truck of summer.
A good sprinkling system. I once ran through a sprinkler in full business drag after a meeting.
Donuts, oranges, frisbees—pretty much anything round. The concept of roundness which the Chinese use interchangeably with wholeness.
I love the days when I feel if not whole, less fucked up. I love being less fucked up—not always everything it takes to get there.
Cats. Dogs. Manatees. Kangaroos. Alpacas. And, especially, dolphins. I swam with dolphins once. It blew my socks off. In dark moments my mind returns to the image of a smiling pod swimming below me, much like Wordsworth when he talked about feeling melancholy then dancing with the daffodils.
Pie.
Fried chicken when it’s raining.
That exquisite moment in a theatre just before the curtain goes up and a talented actor speaks his first line.
The first lines of anything.
Books.
Putting books on hold at the library. Getting a notice they’re ready is the best good news. Picking the books up—taking them home is like Christmas.
Beyoncé.
The comic Maria Bamford. The podcast, The Hilarious World of Depression. As I listen, managing a huh of a laugh with the covers pulled over my head.
Radical acceptance. Falling down to the bedrock and staying there as long as I need to. Again and again.
The tulips in La Conner.
Family.
Friends who are like family.
The friend next door who makes me red Kool-Aid when I’m anxious.
A friendly remark from a stranger because she likes my tie-dye shirt.
Anything that keeps me here and lightens my load.
Being a woman.
Being my age.
Every birthday cake that signals not only my survival, but my innate reasons for joy.
Joy.
This poem.
