A review of April

I start off the month at a crafting + brunch soiree while meeting new people and eating blood orange tiramisu. I wear a tea green suit and feel great about it.

I go for many runs throughout the month, relishing both sweat and raindrops on my skin. I run when the temperature tips past 80 degrees one weekend and welcome the heat (a very out-of-character response for me). I run when it drizzles and it honestly makes me so happy. Both feel euphoric, especially when the song hits just right. I find myself singing and dancing sometimes, a level of abandon that is good for me.

April flies by. It’s Sunday and then it’s somehow Thursday. It’s a month of adjusting. Adjusting everything. I can’t seem to sort out a new morning routine. My sleep is all over the place. I fall asleep at 8:30 sometimes, feeling overtired. I forget to listen to my guided meditations and to stretch. I get more headaches. I put less time toward this writing space and it aches. Joey’s care feels a bit unpredictable. While being such a trooper, I can tell he’s finding the adjustment challenging, too. I over-accommodate for this, sacrificing my own social life to not add to being way from home even more.

But I remain above water. I’m able to give myself kindness. To remember these things take time. Big changes, that is. I ride the wave, noticing I’m embodying a much greater sense of ease than I have with changes in the past. I mark this is as significant growth, impressed that all of my meditative practices are taking hold.

I read a number of books I check out from the library, my favorite being When We Were Sisters. I start returning to my yoga mat. I keep doing the New York Times crossword on my commute. I listen to this lovely playlist in the background. I notice that the reduced TV intake has taken hold and become a habit. I don’t crave the numbing out it once provided.

I sit at Daughter on a Friday evening with a friend. It’s the first balmy spring night and I wear just a t-shirt. We eat olives and pillowy bread over glasses of wine. We discuss starting a miracle practice together and this evening marks our agreement.

My writing practice slips throughout the month. This feels okay. After two months of writing religiously, I feel like the format of my writing has been integrated into my thinking. It also takes a different shape. I spend the month putting my limiting beliefs and blocks at the front. Saying them out loud. Making a point to write them whenever they come up. I start to notice what continues to come up and to really get at the root of what holds me back. It flares flames of embarrassment, frustration, and new forms of knowing.

I visit the farmer’s market almost every Saturday. I don’t buy anything aside from variations of bouquets. I pack a coffee and stroll the park with Joey, flowers flopping to and fro in my backpack.

Joey comes to work with me for the first time. In a city (without a car), this feels like (and is!) a huge accomplishment. We’ve been practicing riding the subway for months (he was quite frightened by it), slowly working up his confidence and the duration of our rides. When it comes to bringing him in, he does so well I am overwhelmed. He is a welcomed presence at the office, trotting over to everyone’s desks to say hello. He makes himself comfortable on the office couches and sprawls out (paws up) for naps.

Speaking of, I feel more settled at work. I both welcome the structure and miss the freedom I had before. I both loath the commute and welcome the company of others at my office. People are kind and the pace is nice. I feel more confident in the decision and start to lean in more.

Spring this month feels beautiful. More so than any other year of living here. Perhaps it’s the first year I’ve had the capacity to really look, to wander through the park and streets with eyes wide open. I watch as the trees bud and then bloom. I see the cherry blossoms come to their vibrant hues of pink and then to brilliant green. I see the entire cycle in rapt attention.

My dearest friend and I start regularly spending Friday evenings together. It becomes a highlight of my week. The activity varies depending on what we need, but there is always food involved. Once, Chipotle. Another time, homemade dumpling soup. Then artisan pizzas. A few times we visit the Mexican bakery nearby. We ask hard and thoughtful questions. It startles me how she sees me and how I’m learning to see her.

As the month comes to a close, I feel the sense that another wave of change is on its way. I feel unsure (and curious!) as to how that will present itself, but instead just note the feeling.

On the last day of the month, I visit the Met. I sit in the European Sculpture room for the duration of my visit. I never remember the path to get there, as it’s tucked deep into the first floor. The ceiling and west wall are entirely made of windows. Its brightness amid low-lit rooms is satisfyingly jarring.

Afterwards, I walk over 20 blocks in the rain, weaving throughout Central Park. I am convinced there are few other times when the park is so lovely.

I spend the evening pulling three Tarot cards — looking to the past, present, and future. I make a list of loose goals for May while having a glass of bourbon. I note the astrological forecast. I feel content. Not great, particularly, but like I’m in an important moment of changing and evolving. Like life is quiet and routined, but my inner world is fertile with certain thinking and patterns dying off to make way for something new. I’m meeting May in a grounded place. Cheers, friends.