Things that help me

making my bed.

reading;

scribbling in the margins.

making pancakes,

even more than actually eating them.

painting.

burrowing into a rainbow striped

baby blanket that my grandmother made me.

brushing my teeth.

limiting screen time.

reading, and rereading,

and rewatching and rehearing.

wearing ridiculous clothing ensembles

like a fleece and a bikini

or tights and a sports bra.

painting,

taping things to the wall,

writing down my questions

and pacing in figure eights.

reading out loud,

washing dishes and touching soap suds

while music plays.

pursuing connection with myself

without forgetting our hurting world.

remembering intently our world.

looking closer,

instead of looking away.

listening further,

instead of finding distractions.

examining everything

as if it holds important clues

while taking longer and longer

pauses

and deeper

full

breaths.

the ones that make lips quiver

and chests quake

and take hands on hearts to still.

I am hearing

I am seeing

I am creating

I feel moved by

I am challenged by

I am telling myself

I am talking to God about

Patterns I observe

Names I’m holding close

the contents of my

forming

noticing wall

extending floor to ceiling;

rather carpet to eighth floor creaks.

the place where my attention has turned

and returned

and wanders freely,

and on purpose.