10 Unexpected Moments (& Ghosts)

things happen, & then they disappear

When we have become a laughing stock or when no one wants to know us any more, we can reactivate our dormant appreciation of our surroundings and find meaning in nothing greater or smaller than sewing on a few buttons in the late evening or choosing a new fabric for a chair. —Reasons to Be Hopeful, The School of Life

1. I’m on Substack’s Notes function and see a former student of mine speak exuberantly about some writing classes that they’ve taken. Immediately, I’m reminded of the refund that they asked for from me. Never mind all of the student successes and exciting stories we’ve received for the Academy; we all know about the negativity bias, don’t we? A black-hole pit in my stomach spirals down, down, down. I’ve never done anything worthwhile. I’m a chronic failure. I only embarrass myself. For the next few days, I continue to feel less-than and anxious.

2. C makes fish for dinner that, for whatever reason, I didn’t expect to be exciting when I saw it in its uncooked state. I’ve been seeing the same filets in the fridge every time I open the refrigerator door and they’ve always looked the same to me: gray and grim to the point of inducing apprehension. But the fish—pan-fried from a Julia Child recipe and covered in capers—is so delectable that I wiggle in delight. I tell him again and again that it’s one of my new favorites.

3. I receive a purple padded envelope that I don’t recall expecting. When I open it, I discover that it has a Zip-Loc bag inside containing items from Jim’s memorial, which neither C nor I could get to when it happened (though I watched the livestream and cried). (The post embedded below is the one in which I wrote about Jim and his death.) The package is from Maggie. Two of the items are matching pinback buttons that depict Jim making a slightly silly face: one for me and one for C. I wish he hadn’t died.

4. While watching the livestream beginning of Jim’s memorial (also known as his celebration of life), one of Jim’s friends appears on the screen. He walks to the front of the room and says that Jim had a few words that he wanted to have read. I am expecting something profound—something about mortality, or maybe cancer. He reads: Hi, everyone. Thanks for being here. I’d be there with you, but I’m a bit ashen right now. Then he walks off the stage while I choke on my laughter and tears. It is perfect.

5. Some of C’s blood test results come back and scare the hell out of me. I can’t bear the idea of not having him in my life, but all I know about this life is that I will lose everything.

6. Summer seems to be everywhere except in San Francisco. C texts me from his excursion to the pharmacy: It’s 65 degrees, he says, and it’s freezing. Meanwhile, my in-laws are gleaming with sweat with a 110-degree heat index in New Orleans. Even though I am sensitive to temperature and the sun, I’m fond of summer, which promises hedonism and sloppy kisses and watermelon, not to mention the dry-farmed tomatoes that my friends and I love. I tell myself that even though it doesn’t feel like summer, I need to relish the longer days.

7. During a joint event with the Roxie Theater and the literary journal Zzyzva, hosted by my friends Ingrid Rojas Contreras and R.O. Kwon, I watch Secretary (2002) on the big screen for the second time in my life. I love the joyous ending, but there’s so much about the Lee Holloway character’s sadder moments that remind me too much of myself. The conversation afterward is largely about desire. The echoes that the movie leaves with me are not that of desire.

8. I light a Nette chai milk candle. The smell eases my shoulders. I think of my hands cupped around a chai latte, waiting for my friend to arrive at the cafe.

9. C texts me a photo: all of his fingertips are wrapped in Band-Aids. His papery fingernails, a consequence of the chronic graft vs. host that resulted from his bone marrow transplant, endured two shots in each cuticle. I tell him that he looks like a felon who shaves off his fingerprints. “It really hurt,” he texts back.

10. After a few days of terribly adrenalized nights and high amounts of flinching, I say to C, “It’s amazing that something that someone did to me when I was a child has had such a profound effect on my life, even forty-one years later.” “I know,” he says. “I’ve known since I first met you.” The fact of the harm is stark. The challenge is to live with it.

…and now for the paywall, because I’m sharing information about our Fireside Chat for the month, which is for paid subscribers only. But I thought—while I’m here, I’m going to let you all know about the ever-growing home of freebies for paid subscribers, which currently includes:

• Journal Prompts for Every Journal-Keeper e-book 📝

• The Chloe Benjamin desktop wallpaper 🖥️

• The Keep Going, You're Doing Great desktop 🖥️

• Journal Prompts Through the Storm: Prompts for Your Journaling Practice Through Difficult Times e-book📓

• The Very Best Notion Hub for Writers 🔥

• Journal-Keeping for Memoir Writers Guide 📚

• You've Hit a Chronic Illness Flare. Here's What to Do About Your Writing Practice Guide 📚

• 5-Minute Journaling: Some Creative Journal Prompts for Reflection and Exploration e-book 📋

Plus: supporting the Substack helps me to keep the lights on and supports my career. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, consider joining today; if you are, keep scrolling to learn about the month’s Fireside Chat and get access to the freebies.