The Trifecta of Healing: Boredom, Loneliness & Patience

Boredom is good for us. Play. Rest. Time for our brains to do all that imagining. Time to go inside ourselves.

But for me, personally? Ick.

Here’s the sitch (my 90s kid cred, roll with it).

I can’t work right now, and I should be applying for new jobs but I don’t know what I’ll be up for or when. My physical activity is limited. Normally I work off anxiety with physical exercise, which is currently limited to Qi Gong and rambling walks.


There’s plenty I had laid out for myself during these months of recovery — and I am notably doing so much better than projected — but I’m having trouble making myself sit still long enough to do any of it. I wanted to crochet presents, edit my novel, learn to play You Are the Moon on keyboard. Instead I wander. I watch Jessica Jones. I get up in the middle of episodes or paragraphs to just walk.

Am I finding out what I really care about, while the pressure is off? I don’t think so. I think without a set schedule, I’m at the whims of my house mates, often lonely and restless. I wanted to be walking all summer, and now I am, because the air has finally cooled. It’s all in the timing.

My restlessness comes from feeling like I don’t get to choose when or how I’m alone, but I can choose this place. Today I choose to walk, and write.

Tomorrow I will choose again.


I’m discovering some strange things about loneliness. When I was a kid, I would read for hours every day, curl up in a tree or a fort, in a closet nest, on my bed. I still do that on days off. But without anything to play hooky from, less satisfying. Unless someone is coming over, hard to care about cleaning my room.

Maybe it’s not about being alone. I get this illusion of connectivity, through twitter and Facebook and my phone. I feel lonelier with the illusion of connectivity while physically alone. For a writer, I’m a very physical person, needing affection, and the closeness and human smells of very specific people. And having my phone in line of sight actually reduces my attention span, according to several studies. I can feel it. My phone is also how I took these pictures, and I’m writing on the much more user friendly WordPress mobile app. So it’s a matter of balance — combating the feeling of being available but unwanted in the way cell phones are so good at making me feel.


What I need is patience.

Patience to see what shape this feeling takes when it blossoms. Patience in love, so I don’t crush or over water what I believe could be an oak tree.


Patience in work, while I relearn my body, and allow the healing to happen. Patience because not only does my body tire easily, but it feels like right now my mind does too.


Patience with my heart and mind, while I process the depth and breadth of my feelings, instead of trying to sort them and get them over with. Staring into the hearts of trees, the ripples on the water, present but still not wanting to sit with myself, it’s clear we have different ways of avoiding feelings. While I had been frustrated until recently about a friend refusing to face his feelings, I think I put my feelings on an agenda like a business item, and am surprised when I’m still feeling them, and still need to talk. We already made a decision in the meeting — why are we still here, heart?

Ah, patience.


The mosquitoes got me. Worth it.

And the need for patience feels so much more clear when I have nothing I have to do. Hundreds of books to read, a dozen shows to watch, projects to finish or edit or start, my brother’s graduate school application to edit, but everything unscheduled, often waiting on someone else. Without work and my time scheduled for me, waiting becomes a new kind of meditation. So I’m just…here. And just here is a hard place to be.

But it’s worth being grateful for being here. As people have time and reach out to me, I’m realizing that while I have often been lonely and restless due to a lack of control, planning more than one activity or hang out in a day sounds exhausting. I still need a lot of time to rest and do me-things. I’m applying to start massage school in a month, and I’ll have plenty of work before I’m ready.


For now, I breathe through this.


P.S. I’d love to know the classification of my new mushroom friend.


NaPoWriMo Day 22: Where the Wild Things Grow + If a Poet Were a Spider

Where the Wild Things Grow

Into the woods where the wild things grow

trees and vines form mystical patterns.

The feet can carry you far from home

and the mind is always free to roam.


The sunlight plays on spider webs,

their precise organization exposed.

Through bramble and blackberry tramp alone

so the mind is free to wander.


Where the fences rise and the signs say turn back,

No Trespassing, sit your rump on a stump

and watch the lark flit through tricks.

The mind is always free to roam.

spider threads


If a Poet Were a Spider

I live in my artform
catch food with this verse
and need nothing more. 



NaPoWriMo Day 10: RadPress Ad

Beans and leaves start in the ground,

in roots and branches and buds,

dry on a shelf, find their way through grinders

and into steaming cups.


Green tea comes in many shades,

gunpowder and genmaicha,

and white tea comes in peach.

Smoky, earthy, hot and cold,

in quick sure hands, a smile and a nod.

A dollar in the tip jar helps a friend.


Simple syrup sweetens cups,

plant milk tops them up.

Or drink clear and clean

and waking up, the steam a dream,

a prayer a charm, a place to write

or laugh and play, to strum a ukelele,

stay productive or escape the day.

The shadows of the trees move

over skin and patio in dapples of

warmth and shade.


The prompt was to write an advertisement. I was utterly stumped until I looked down at my delicious herbal coffee with oatstraw and no caffeine in the coffee collective where I sometimes volunteer and frequently write, and voila. I think I’m going to give them a more polished version of the above to use in whatever way they like. I’m quite pleased.

NaPoWriMo Day 4: Melody for a Spring Evening

Prompt: Lune or lune-chain


Melody for a Spring Evening


Quiet eyes look

outward to woodland in these,

the fading hours.


Porch lights rise.

One lone lightning bug hovers.

Tea gone cold.


Muscles await morning

to tighten, sore. For now

we are tired.


Invented codes smooth

language with convention, to avoid

these stumbling misunderstandings.


I want you.

You could have me. But,

no one speaks.


Words fail us,

not in poems, but life

clouds your intentions.


Eyes and hands

smoke signal what words deny

in fading hours.


Woodland critters call.

Spring is in our bones,

as in theirs.


My eyes find.

Sensuous cord of spine unfurls.

Your hands on


me, wake me.

Dance like squirrels, like spiderwort,

like lightning bug.