The Happiest of Tables

On Hugs, Metamorphosis, and Making Space

A doodle of my teen. She dyed her hair blue and the flashlight is to guide her into high school next fall.

After my vaccine took effect, I thought I might celebrate by hugging a close friend or a beloved bookseller. Someone in my city. Someone I would have hugged on sight in the pre-COVID world. But I didn’t rush out to embrace anyone on my all-clear date. When my parents arrived for a visit earlier this month, they became my first post-vaccine hugs. I threw my arms around them and we held on to each other for a while.

This part of normal feels great. But I’m balanced on the edge—able to do more, but still feeling the thrum of fear. My list of what feels safe is small. And right now, I’m comfortable with that. With perching here. 

Of course, we aren’t post-pandemic by any means, but the metamorphosis from cocoon to emergence is beginning for those of us who have been fortunate enough to receive this protection. I’m leaning into this uncomfortable in-between, where I’m starting to recognize I have wings, but they’re sticky and bent. I have no intention of flying anytime soon. I want to hang out here for as long as I can in the messy awkwardness. 

Every interaction, every hug, every step into the world feels momentous, and I’m not ready to lose that. To shift from appreciation—a hug!—into expectation (I’d better give her a hug because we always hug). And I’m definitely not ready to pick up the reins of my old life. To force myself out of my comfort zone as often as I used to.

In the before times, routine rubbed the edges off what scared me. It might not feel okay to my worried mind to sit in stopped traffic on a bridge during rush hour, but I often put myself in that position to meet a commitment on the other side of the river during busy commuting times. Someone was counting on me.

I never factored in my pain levels, my lack of energy, or the toll anxiety takes on my body and mind. Doing more, doing things despite how I felt, going anyway, felt important to prove myself to . . . myself?

Now, with the admitted luxury of this small life, where I am not rushing from one place to another, where routine is centered on home, I have no interest in getting back to that kind of busy normal. I used to have anxiety flares multiple times every day. I used to rush-rush-rush and veer away from deeper consideration, push myself even when nobody asked me to. Often this behavior would result in huge crashes—emotional and physical ones.

The other day, my youngest daughter and I were in the car with my dad when he admired the clouds. She peered out the window and said, “Someday, Grandpa, when you pass away, you’ll live up there. In the clouds.”

My father laughed and said he’d watch out for her and send her smiles that she could feel. My daughter promised to die someday, too, so she could join him. And just like that, we acknowledged death on a car ride, three generations together ruminating about loss and a cloudy afterlife, and then the conversation moved on. To flowers, I think. So much is in bloom.  

I want life to look like this from now on. Real and honest, often to the point of being funny. I want a routine six-minute drive to have the potential to turn profound. I want the opportunity to be present for these unexpected moments of deep connection. 

Which brings me to the happiest of tables. 

My gift to myself for selling my debut novel: a rainbow two-top picnic table so friends can feel happy and welcome in the front yard.

For years, I daydreamed about picking out a special treat when I sold my debut novel. A piece of jewelry, perhaps, or a pair of colorful shoes I could wear on book tour. Neither of these things felt appropriate when I signed with Lanternfish Press earlier this year. I’m barefoot most days! The only jewelry I wear is my wedding ring and a battered aluminum bracelet that connects me to a close friend dealing with a major health issue. 

Inspired by the Unicorn Bake Shop, I decided to commission a small two-top picnic table for the front yard. The Happy Little Tables company is local and the owner Matt offered to match our front door color and pair it with a bright rainbow top. It’s everything I dreamed of. The colors and craftsmanship, but also the invitation it offers.

Come, sit with me. 

A member of my writing community who has been dealing with long-haul COVID died by suicide earlier this month. This table, this invitation, feels even more important in the wake of that loss. 

Sit with me. I have made space for you. 

I may never go to all the book events like I used to, camera in hand, rallying for the occasion no matter how exhausted or antisocial (or sick!) I felt. I can’t even imagine overriding my body’s needs the way I used to or risking exposing anyone to one of my constant winter colds. Or being in a crowd.

But I can imagine listening to myself. Setting better boundaries and putting my health at the top of the list. Keeping my schedule manageable. I think I can do those things and also continue to make space for friends and literary community members in my heart and yard. To offer them a seat at the happiest little table around. 

I can do this. I don’t have to do everything.

Your Bright Side invitation: Reach out to a friend. Make space for that person however you can—and however feels safe for you. An in-person visit, a phone call, a letter, a text, whatever you can manage. It doesn’t have to be an elaborate or time-consuming gesture. Especially as things are opening up again, we need to continue the deep connections that have gotten us through these challenging times.

Feel free to leave a comment! I started this newsletter to create an intimate but accessible conversation space about creativity, grief, and the societal reset that the pandemic has offered creatives like us. I’d love to hear your thoughts. You can reply to this email to have a conversation just with me, or you can comment on the post to connect with other readers too. Whatever feels comfortable to you.