Brushing it off and saying “it’s just one of those days” is a disservice to yourself. It’s a cheat out of giving yourself permission to experience real pain, real emotions, real sadness. Whether or not you understand where it’s coming from doesn’t necessarily matter- and it doesn’t make it any less.
The rain has ceased momentarily in Phnom Penh, the outside heathered, fogged as an Autumn evening in Washington- a sliver of verdant trees visible through the window.
I sit on an oversized bed, crisp white sheets with the methodic swirl of the fan above me. Shrill cries of children playing outside, putter of motos skittering across the wet ground, a sporadic mewl of the cat somewhere on the premises of the villa next door. It has been a fatigued yet sanguine past six days in the city reconnecting with the place I once called home.
Watching someone you love and respect work on something passionately with focus, drive, and serious intent makes you want them to achieve the success they’re reaching for that much more. In this case it’s been one of my best friends, partner in crime, and influencer Nick Casanova.
There are days when it feels like everything has been flecked with rose gold and hazel and honey. They are rare and they’re when I feel my heart in my throat and even sleep deprived and synapses slow, everything feels delicious.
Inappropriate and sometimes downright aggressive encounters are not rare in the life of women today. All women, to varying degrees, experience some form of misogyny, disrespect, or overstepping of boundaries just too consistently.
When I think of my mother, my mama, my friend- thousands of memories and emotions come rushing to the forefront of my mind. A woman exceptional, the stream of her presence is almost unbreakable and her place in many a history so strong it’s almost as if she’s sitting next to me. Those memories- they play like an old film reel, fleeting and sometimes grainy, sometimes highly defined- on a soft loop as I stare at the wall like a cat with nothing to do.
I imagine the heavy thrum I hear when inside an airplane being similar to that of what a baby experiences in the womb.
It’s 8:11am, Pacific Standard Time, and I’ve been awake for roughly four hours and 11 minutes. I’m sitting at my mom’s little red dining room table with a can of La Croix near one hand next to my trusty Moleskine planner and a steaming cup of Morning Boost tea in the other as little streams of light make their way in through her Swiss dot curtains.
I met Aimee on an eyewear curation project in Hong Kong, 2014.
We hit it off immediately. Between our affinity for delicious foods, quirky business, and all things aesthetically pleasing- we became friends and partners in a city foreign to me.
We’ve managed to stay in touch over the months and she reached out to me a bit ago asking about something I know my way around: sandwiches.
She manages to spin gold out of everything she touches and this piece was no exception.
Take a read, then go enjoy a sandwich.
“Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.”
It’s one of those quotes that I feel like I’ve been told more times than any normal person should be told, but again- that’s probably just me overanalyzing once again.
I haven’t completed a blog entry in some time now, I’ve started plenty, but none seem to encompass the roller coaster of a ride my life seems to be on right now. This one probably won’t either but I might as well try.