Thirty-One: Weeks Twenty-Nine & Thirty

Days one hundred and ninety-seven through two hundred and ten

Photo by Saurabh Johri on Unsplash

Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them here.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Seven (November 9th)
When I was a child, my grandparents lived in a log cabin my Poppa built. I loved many things about that house. It had a second floor, and I loved playing on the stairs. A tire swing out front provided endless entertainment for my brother, our cousin, and me. Poppa’s herd of cows roamed the open acres bordered by neighboring orange groves. But the thing I most adored about the log cabin was the weeping willow at the lake’s edge. At least, I think there was a lake. Memories aren’t always reliable. Regardless, that tree sparked a lifelong love affair with willows. I became enamored with the drooping, swaying branches. “Weeping” never felt like the proper adjective. I like to think of them instead as whispering willows. The slightest breeze carries secrets among the leaves, causing them to shimmer with knowledge and anticipation. 

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Eight (November 10th)
I wish I knew the Muffin Man. 

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Nine (November 11th)
I’ve been noticing bougainvilleas more often lately. I read a poem that mentioned them, and I’ve seen them everywhere since then. The bright magenta bracts offer pops of joy amidst the usual mellow greens. Surprise smiles crop up in their presence. 

Day Two Hundred (November 12th)
Am I a difficult person to love?

Day Two Hundred and One (November 13th)
wind blows through the trees
my breath keeps time with the dance 
a downtempo sky

Day Two Hundred and Two (November 14th)
Some days the rain is so thin
it’s nothing more than a mist 
within which we lose ourselves 
or else find the hidden things
beneath our skin 

Day Two Hundred and Three (November 15th)
Rainy days feel like a kind of pause in the world. The sun rises but doesn’t travel through the sky. The morning is grey. The afternoon is grey. The evening is grey. And all the while, raindrops fall. Their steady cadence is the only indication that any time passes at all.

Day Two Hundred and Four (November 16th)
Not every thought is worth the breath required to make it real.

Day Two Hundred and Five (November 17th)
The great horned owl is back. I hadn’t heard him in a while, and I missed his haunting night song. The dark feels deeper when he sings. 

Day Two Hundred and Six (November 18th)
The spaces between things—
the unobserved intricacies

Day Two Hundred and Seven (November 19th)
Moonfish gliding
through the blues,
trailing vermillion iridescence
in their wake. Silence
beneath the waves
highlighted in silver shadows.

Day Two Hundred and Eight (November 20th)
Light grows out of nothing,
undulating in the empty 
spaces before dripping
back into the dark.

Day Two Hundred and Nine (November 21st)
This is one of those days when I question why on earth I thought it was a good idea to write every day for a year. I am uninspired. I have nothing interesting to say.

I am also bleeding and channeling my hormonal rage at this project. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel less bored and annoyed. 

Day Two Hundred and Ten (November 22nd)
Still bleeding. 
Still bored.
Still annoyed.

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